Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  Inspecting the tangle of ropes again Nathaniel saw his mistake. With a change of grip and a sharp tug, it unravelled, slithering into the black water like an eel returning to the Thames.

  A gunshot cracked in the darkness, followed by two more.

  “Pull those lines aboard now,” Isaac called, the thrumming of the engine vibrating through the deck. “We can’t afford to get tangled. We can stow them later.”

  Nathaniel gathered in armfuls of wet rope. “What about Rosie?”

  “We can’t wait for her here,” Isaac said. Water churned, bubbling around the stern as the vessel lurched into reverse, pulling away from the makeshift jetty.

  “You can’t leave her,” Nathaniel shouted. “Not after she risked everything helping Simmons.”

  “If we don’t get out into the channel, we’ll all be dead. We’re exposed between the buildings. It’s too narrow to make any speed. They’ll board, or pick us off with pistol fire from a few yards away.”

  Nathaniel froze, uncertain as what to do.

  “You need to choose now, but I’m leaving with Simmons. I’ll find him a doctor, but if you and Maddox are staying, you’d best disembark.”

  Nathaniel looked to where Maddox scanned the fog. Dark shadows shifted between cover as they swarmed forward. Another muffled gunshot rang out between the dilapidated buildings. Maddox discharged two rounds from a heavy pistol Nathaniel hadn’t even seen him draw.

  “Maddox, what do we do?”

  “We leave her.”

  “What?”

  Maddox shouted to the rear of the boat. “Isaac, get us out of here.”

  The engine growled in response as Isaac swung the vessel, drifting around a tight corner. Sway on the deck almost toppled Nathaniel, and he grabbed the low rail to keep from plunging overboard.

  They rounded the last of the buildings, heading out into the dense fog. A shadow darted over the rooftops, as a black-clad shape launched itself into the open amidst a hail of gunfire. The coat billowed behind as they seemed to hang in mid-air before thudding onto the deck.

  The impact jarred and sent the figure toppling and slipping across the damp surface. Nathaniel glimpsed a flash of red hair as Rosie flew past, splinters flying as she shattered the wooden rail. He threw his arm out, desperate to grab anything to arrest her momentum. The sleeve of her coat, slick with the residue from the fog, slid through his fingers. Cloth, buckles and straps rushed past, none catching in his grasp.

  His hand closed on her wrist for a moment—then she was gone. It left him holding a torn red leather glove as bubbles broke the surface and slow ripples spread out on the Thames.

  29

  The cold seized her as the dim light above faded to pure black. Rosie tried not to gasp in shock but failed, a stream of bubbles erupting from the filter on her mask.

  The thick clothing that protected her from the fog, now fought her, impeding her movement and drawing her into the depths. She fumbled with her coat, searching for the belt and a way to release some weight. But her right hand was too numb, the fingers slow and unresponsive in the icy dark.

  The pressure built, squeezing her like a ripe orange. She kicked, trying to slow her descent, but her legs wrapped in the long coat. It was futile. Drips ran down her face like dark tears. The charcoal filters worked well in fog, but she knew it was only a matter of time before the water crept through to steal her breath.

  It had been better when she just followed her base instincts for revenge. Now, even that tasted bitter in her mouth, or was that the Thames?

  Something bit her in the left shoulder, then was off. Her heart stuttered, the sound of pumping blood filled her ears. She’d heard tales of giant eels in the river, feral and vicious—like all creatures tainted by the weed.

  Rosie gasped, and black water leapt into her throat. A fine mist of spittle sprayed inside the mask as she fought to keep her cough reflex from drowning her. She coughed again, this time holding her lips closed to prevent inhaling more of the foul water. The stink of the brackish river—a mixture of sewage and the strange iron taste of the red weed, made her stomach roil.

  Her heart raced, water bubbled under her nostrils as she panted. Desperate, she tipped her head back, gasping to find more air. She gained a moment’s respite, drawing one last breath—then the river gushed over her face as the mask’s seal failed.

  The creature hit her again, and bubbles of precious air burst from her mouth as it drove into her chest. She grasped its spindly body in her gloved left hand, intent on wringing the beast’s neck. Instead, it jerked and fled upward.

  She held on for dear life.

  Cracks of gunfire echoed through the thick fog from the shoreline. The hiss of a bullet cut through the air beside Nathaniel, sending splinters from a wooden crate flashing past his face.

  Yanking the pole, he felt continued pressure and hauled it hand over hand. The additional weight required him to brace his legs against the shattered rail, mere inches from where Rosie had burst through. It creaked ominously, as he reeled his catch towards the surface.

  A red glove surfaced, clamped around the pole and his heart sang in joy. He’d saved her. “Maddox, help me get her on board.”

  Heavy footsteps followed a booming gunshot from the prow. A meaty arm reached down and clasped Rosie by the wrist, hoisting her up through the weed which clung to her, writhing and pulsing.

  Between them, they lowered her to the deck, her body convulsing. Before Nathaniel could react, Rosie tore the fog mask from her face.

  “No,” he shouted, reaching for her, but it was too late. A stream of water gushed over the deck as she hacked and coughed. The mask dropped, hitting Nathaniel’s boot with a soft thud, and rolled into the river.

  The weed thrashed as it tried to break through the protective layers between it and its prey. Nathaniel ripped at the stuff but with little effect. It was tough as old leather.

  “Leave it,” Maddox said. “Out of the way.”

  Nathaniel flinched as a heavy blade crossed his vision, and Maddox sawed at the alien plant with relish.

  Rosie coughed again, disgorging a lungful of black water, then cried out in pain as a strand of red fibres wrapped around her gloveless hand. Her body shifted, inching towards the river as the thing refused to give up its hard-won prize.

  Nathaniel grabbed her coat lapels and braced against the incredible pressure building as the weed fought back. “It’s pulling her in.”

  Maddox sawed through one strand of the vile alien flora with a squelch, only for another to thrust out of the water to grasp onto its fellow. The individual fibres writhed and twisted, forming thick muscle-like tentacles.

  “Faster,” Nathaniel shouted. “It’s gaining strength.”

  Maddox looked up, still cutting through the thinner strands. “They’re getting tougher. I can’t keep up.”

  Nathaniel lurched forward as the weed gave a mighty tug. It was like trying to hoist a grand piano onto a roof. His feet slid further towards the splintered gap. “It’s too strong,” he shouted. “Isaac, get some fuel into the water and ignite it.” He locked his knees rigid, the muscles in his legs solid and screaming with the strain.

  Something flew by, hitting the surface with a splash. A yellow barrel bobbed in the weed-ridden river, dark liquid gurgled from the unstoppered cap.

  “Close your eyes,” Isaac shouted as an arc of red light leapt into the writhing mass.

  The force of the explosion rocked the boat, and an almost animal shriek tore at their ears. The pull on Rosie weakened, then with several wet pops it reduced further and released.

  They floated in a sea of fire, spreading over the weeded surface of the Thames. The weed popped and sizzled as it sank. Knots of muscle that had been drawing Rosie into the river ended in ragged, bubbling masses which slipped overboard with a slurp. The tangle of weed, still attached to her body, twitched then fell immobile, burning and smoking at the severed ends. It was a scene as near to hell as Nathaniel had ever encountered, and h
e would be glad never to see the like again.

  “Get that fire out,” Isaac screamed, pointing at buckets along the deck. The vessel powered away from the blazing inferno lighting the Thames in a hellish glow. Black plumes of greasy smoke rose from the red weed. The smell of oil mixed with the tang of iron and tallow, hanging thick in the night air.

  Floodlights from the city walls oriented onto the river, scanning the area where it still blazed. Shots continued from the shore but now fell short, ploughing furrows into the water’s surface.

  Maddox threw buckets of sand, dousing the last flames while Nathaniel pulled the remaining strands of weed from Rosie’s prone form. Blackened and burnt at the ends, tar-like ichor oozed from them onto the deck. The rest turned from grey to almost translucent at the tips and, in contrast to their earlier strength, the remnants crumbled at his touch, and he threw them overboard.

  Rosie opened her eyes, groaning as she tried to push herself up, slipping on the blood leaking from her gashed left hand. “I’ll need to look at that,” Nathaniel said, “but first we should get you undercover and back into a mask.”

  “Am I really such a sight you have to hide my ghastly features?”

  He tore his eyes from her. “No, it’s not… Just stop talking. You’re overexposed to the fog as it is.”

  Rosie smiled as he lifted her to her feet then supported her as they travelled to the stern and into the canvas tent.

  “You should get out of those wet clothes,” Nathaniel said.

  “Whatever you say, Doctor,” she replied, a twinkle of wicked humour in her eyes.

  Nathaniel fled—his face a mask of crimson.

  30

  They travelled around the loop of the Thames, to a point north-east, beyond the Isle of Dogs.

  “Silvertown,” said Isaac, pointing across the flooded area on the northern shore before them. “That used to be the Victoria and Albert docks before the war, the heart of the Empire’s merchant fleet. They were something to behold in their day. Now, look at it.”

  The fog had burnt off in the morning sun, leaving an inland ocean. Rooftops poked their heads above the surface, but most remained submerged, a modern-day Atlantis, sinking below the waves.

  Nathaniel surveyed the scene. “Where are we headed?” he called back to Isaac.

  “I know folks around St Mark’s who can help Simmons.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” he replied. “How is Rosie doing?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, poking her head out of the canvas tent. She emerged, wrapped in one of the large grey blankets Isaac had rustled up for her earlier and proceeded along the deck towards Nathaniel.

  Her bare feet fell silently on the wooden boards. The blanket reached only to mid-calf, and Nathaniel averted his gaze, but the image remained etched in his mind. She seemed like some strange mixture of a Scottish Highlander, with her shock of dark red curls, and a pirate captain, walking the decks inspecting her crew for shirkers.

  Nathaniel tried his best smile, not confident enough to look her in the eyes.

  “I’m glad to hear it, how’s your chest—your breathing?” he corrected himself. What is it about talking to women? He always became flustered, stuttering or saying things that came out all wrong. Why couldn’t they be more like men? He could speak with them without faltering or feeling a fool.

  Rosie just smiled. “I’m fine, Nathaniel. No signs of wheezing, coughing, bleeding, or red weed erupting through my flesh.” She continued up the boat to stand beside him, joining his gaze northward across the submerged city.

  “Are your clothes dry yet?” Nathaniel said, cursing to himself as soon as the words left his mouth. Of course they weren’t. Otherwise, she’d be wearing them, fool.

  “Not quite,” she replied. “Isaac said it wouldn’t be long though. Apparently, the engine runs hot, and with them packed around the pipes, they are steaming along nicely, much like us.”

  He bit back his urge to mention it was a diesel engine, which reminded him of Simmons.

  “How is Simmons?” he asked instead.

  “He was struggling for a while when he came to an hour ago, but another shot of the morphine seemed to help. We need to get him to St Mark’s. I’m concerned about his eye and any other internal injuries.”

  “The sooner, the better,” Nathaniel agreed. “I did what I could, but I’m no surgeon.”

  She took his hand. “Nathaniel, you did a marvellous job with the resources you had available. You can’t blame yourself. Without your intervention he’d be dead, I have no doubt about it. You saved his life. You should be proud of that. I’m sure Simmons will thank you himself once he’s able.” She smiled up at him. “And I haven’t forgotten your involvement in saving me—”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” he interjected.

  “You’re wrong,” she replied, her voice low. “If it weren’t for you slowing me, I’d have plunged into the water and been beyond the reach of that damned stick you jabbed me with. As you’re the reason I’m still alive, you don’t get to leave without me, agreed?”

  He raised his head from staring into the river meandering past them. “Agreed,” he said.

  “That’s more like it,” Rosie said. She adopted her gruffest imitation of Simmons. “Now get on with it, you blithering idiot, we haven’t got time for melancholy, we’ve work to do.”

  She coughed, her throat still sore from her attempt at drinking the Thames, but it had the desired effect rising a smile and a chuckle from Nathaniel.

  “He says that sort of thing a lot, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is the epitome of a miserable old git, but that, I suppose, is part of his charm.” She laughed. “Isaac, let’s get to St Mark’s and don’t spare the… horses?” She looked to Nathaniel for confirmation. He nodded in approval as the engine roared into action, propelling them inland.

  St Mark’s church rose from an island ahead of them. Its Gothic spire shone as the sun caught it, and Isaac steered them past a huge building where a large sign announced ‘The India-Rubber, Gutta-Percha and Telegraph Works Company, Limited’.

  Within the confines of an old dock to the east stretched the corpse of a massive steamship, collapsed on its side and devoured by rust. Its back was broken, and two vast sections lay half-submerged. Three circular funnels reminded him of large rusty tunnels cutting through the water’s surface, wide enough for Isaac to steer the vessel through if he so desired.

  A few scrapes accompanied their final approach to St Mark’s as the water level lowered. As usual, Isaac drifted and moored the boat next to a wall. “There you go, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Please disembark in an orderly manner, women and children first. No pushing or shoving if you don‘t mind.”

  The large double doors, set in the centre of the church, creaked inwards and a figure emerged from the darkness. Nathaniel thought he saw a rifle in the man’s hand before it disappeared behind the leftmost door.

  “Isaac?” the man called down the three stone steps leading from the doorway. “A long time since we’ve seen you here at St Mark’s, what can we do for you this day?”

  “Reverend,” Isaac responded, tipping his cap. “I’ve got some folks in need of serious medical help.”

  “And they’re not in a position to get into the city, I take it?”

  “That’s right, so I brought ‘em here, hoped you could lend a hand.”

  The man moved towards the boat. “Let me look at them, and we’ll see what I can do.”

  Isaac made his way forward, grasping the man’s forearm and pulling him up onto the deck. “This is Reverend Brown,” he said as he introduced each of them.

  “I’m called Jack,” Brown said with a warm smile. “Only call me Reverend when you have something to confess.” His handshake was firm, speaking of strength of body as well as spirit. Jack stood an inch or two shorter than Nathaniel, but his frame was stocky, a similar build to Maddox. Though the man was a lot older, he must have been formidable in his youth. “So where are
the injured parties?”

  “This way,” Nathaniel said, leading him toward the stern. “His name is Simmons, and he’s lost an eye. I tended to it as best as I could, but I’m not trained in medicine. He may have other internal injuries, and has had two doses of morphine for the pain.”

  “Thank you, Nathaniel,” Jack said. “It’s a good starting point for me from which to work. In here?” he motioned towards the canvas tent. At Nathaniel’s nod, he pulled back the flap at the entrance. “Give me a few minutes to look him over, then I’ll check at that nasty bruising around your throat.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll still have a look after I’ve checked on your friend,” Jack said before dropping the canvas behind him.

  Isaac caught Nathaniel’s eye. “He’s a good man. An ex-military surgeon who tired of all the needless bloodshed and took a calling to the church. Simmons is in safe hands.”

  They moved towards the prow to meet with Rosie and Maddox who were deep in conversation.

  “If Isaac says he’s all right, then I trust him,” Rosie said.

  Maddox shook his head. “I don’t know him and until I do…”

  The sentence trailed off as Nathaniel and Isaac approached.

  “I don’t need you to like him, or even trust him,” Isaac said. “All we need is for him to help Simmons, get him back on his feet.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Maddox said to Rosie. “There are too many people getting involved in our business. All our eggs in one basket. Come on, Rosie, you know better than that.”

  Rosie sighed. “We’ll wait and see what he can do for Simmons, and then I’ll make my decision.”

  “And that’s it, we all bow to your superior intellect?” There was a snarl in the way Maddox spoke the words, but Rosie wasn’t backing down.

  “Look, John, it’s simple. Either stay or go, it makes no difference to me. But I’m staying to help Nathaniel and Simmons do whatever has Josiah so riled up. This has got to be the right choice. It’s taken me too long to realise how twisted he has become, or maybe he always was, I just didn’t see it before.”