by Mark Cassell
Victor gave the Witchblade another series of jabs and more fire burned around him. The smell of ozone drifted on the air. Flames sputtered and flared, giving clearance for his retreat.
Katrina rose to her feet. Her eyes reflected darkness.
As the fire dwindled, Victor again slashed back and forth, and again the flames created a temporary barrier. Burning slices of bright yellow seared my vision even from a distance. The man must’ve had his eyes squinted shut in the glare.
Isidore pulled off another couple of shots at two of the closer necromeleons. Both came to a brief standstill. One tripped, stumbled, and continued advancing. The other already regained its pace.
A necromeleon charged, barging the others and ran into the strips of flame. The collection of fire strands shredded the thing as if shoved through a meat slicer. A burst of flame enveloped the pieces of undead flesh and bone as they flew in all directions, trailing fire like meteors. The fiery chunks scattered and scorched the tiles. Each tiny fire sputtered out to leave shrinking pieces—nothing more than ashen lumps of bone. Several quivered as the shadows within burned away. The more intact limbs crackled as the flames devoured the remaining undead life. The stench of burnt flesh clogged the air. Black tentacles of shadow flicked to and fro, the fire eating into them. They shrivelled to nothing. A few pieces of flesh and bone crackled as they greyed to ash.
Now on my feet, I tested my weight. Uncertain, unsteady, I stood nonetheless. My ears screamed in a mute kind of way.
Isidore stood beside me, her gun gripped between steady hands.
“Victor,” I shouted again. “Come on, man!”
He’d almost reached us, and wasn’t any more than ten paces away from reaching the corridor. Once there, it would act as a bottleneck, and the approaching dead men would only be able to come through two abreast. Then, I guessed, we’d run our arses off. Providing I could manage it.
With more zigzags of flame burning before them, the necromeleons charged as one. Those in front, the first to break the barrier, succumbed to the fire. Pieces of meat exploded around Victor and covered him in sputtering flame—harmless to him, fatal to the necromeleons. Each chunk, trailing fire, scattered in a blackened heap.
Behind dwindling fire strands, dead Katrina and her dead friends leapt at Victor. Onto him. And he went down beneath their weight. First he was there, backing up and waving the Witchblade before him, and then he wasn’t.
Not until after he said, “Run, Leo!” did he scream.
CHAPTER 31
Isidore yanked and urged me on, her face as pale as the corridor walls.
“No,” I told her, knocking away her arm. “We can’t leave him.”
“We must,” she yelled into my face, and jostled me towards the doors. “Go.”
And so we ran. Fast. As fast as my legs would allow. Yet, who would be proud of running? Leaving a friend to die beneath the weight of a dozen reanimated corpses. It sickened me. With our footfalls slapping the tiles, echoing as we burst through door after door and room after room, Victor’s screams dwindled. Even when it would have been impossible to physically hear him, I believed I still could.
Soon, it was clear the necromeleons didn’t follow us. I guessed they were otherwise occupied.
“We’ve got to find Goodwin.” I slowed my pace and stopped. My chest heaved and my knee ached like hell.
Isidore’s eyes shone, sharpened with adrenaline, and her breath hissed. She still held her gun in white knuckles.
“How are you feeling?” She nodded at my legs.
I shrugged. “Victor…”
She dropped her gaze and slid her backpack to the ground, tugging at a zip. In a swift movement, she reloaded the gun and poked another magazine into her jeans’ pocket.
Since leaving Victor, each turn had been another extension to the ridiculous labyrinth below Periwick House. Whether room or corridor, each was no different from the last, with weak strip lights casting a familiar gloom over empty gurneys, computer terminals, and other apparatus.
In the room we’d now entered, along one wall, a row of filing cabinets squatted. They reflected years of misuse.
Isidore’s gaze shot past me and into a far corner. Beneath a counter supporting an array of peculiar machines and equipment, a collection of shadows gaped like a black hole. Normal shadows, I assumed. I hoped.
“What is it?” I asked.
“They’re moving.” She raised her gun.
Those shadows warped, albeit slightly, and they burst open. A smudge rushed towards us, its claws a series of rapid clicks against the tiles.
Isidore lowered her weapon.
“Georgie,” I said, and exhaled.
Stopping between us, Polly’s guide dog mewled. I crouched, removed a glove, and offered a reassuring stroke. Perhaps for the pair of us. I pushed my fingers into the dense hair, the warmth beneath reminded me of life. Time disappeared for a while. Only vaguely was I aware of Isidore at the cabinets, nosing through manila envelopes. Victor’s scream echoed in my head, and the image of him disappearing under the bodies of necromeleons replayed in my mind’s eye. No way could he have survived. By now, he would be another member of the walking dead. And he’d had the Witchblade, the only tool which worked against the Fabric. That and fire. If only I had the foresight to make myself some kind of flamethrower. I had to find a means of protection. Isidore had a gun, even if it did little to stop the dead.
Slowly, I straightened and pulled my glove on. A familiar pain flared across my knee. I grunted.
Isidore zipped her rucksack and slung it over a shoulder. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Not without Goodwin,” I said, not knowing what I’d say when we found him. Did I want to save him or strangle him? Georgie stood attentive at my side, and I added, “And Polly.”
“Fair enough.”
“The Operating Room, according to Katrina.”
“All of these rooms could qualify.”
“Yeah.”
We bustled out of there with Georgie in tow, and into another room like any other. I had little faith in finding anyone alive. Dead, yes. Not alive. And as we reached another set of doors, I expected to be faced with more necromeleons. More corpses with shadow-filled eyes, walking, jerking, reaching out with dead hands. Both Goodwin and Polly were most likely dead. I only hoped they weren’t walking.
It wasn’t long before we found Annabel, strung up. She writhed in the shadows like a spindly insect caught in a web.
“That’s our Tulip Moon, right there,” I said to Isidore as she pointed her gun at the woman.
Pinned to the wall by clumps of shadow, Annabel squirmed. A smirk distorted her face. Was there contentment there? This bitch was where she wanted to be. Tangled with the shadows, her dress bunched in places, torn and blood-stained, and revealed a lot of leg and one skinny breast. Her hair hung in clumps and she dribbled saliva. Her eyes reflected the flickering strip lights.
“Good God,” Isidore murmured.
Annabel’s eyes rolled and her back arched as much as the shadows allowed. “Ah, you’ve caught me. Caught me in the act.”
When she spoke it was as though ice slid down my spine. Isidore visibly shivered. At my feet, Georgie growled.
Fingers of darkness flexed around Annabel’s shins, caressing her. She wore only one shoe. Her body moved in slow motion as tiny feelers of shadow walked across her skin.
“You’re here, but too late,” she continued, speech as slurred as her movements. “Too late. It’s already starting.”
“What?” I shouted at her. “What do you mean? Where’s Goodwin?”
She chuckled. Deep, low.
Georgie made a fearful sound which became a series of vicious barks. The poor dog was as uncertain about all this as I was.
I yelled into Annabel’s face: “What have you been playing at?”
Isidore had now grabbed me and gently pulled me away. I wasn’t aware I’d stepped so close to the shadows. Too close. The dark, curling li
mbs seemed to concentrate on restraining the woman. They kept her clamped to the wall, keeping her entertained.
Her eyes sharpened as they fell upon Isidore. A smirk cracked her face. “Little slut!”
Isidore didn’t flinch.
“Stupid slut. Gullible, greedy little bitch.” Spittle flew from her mouth. “Playing a game you thought you could win. Spying on me. On us. Like a little bitch-slut!” She laughed. “My game! I won. I’m here. We’re all here. The Shadows are here. And so will he be.”
“Who?” I said. Did she mean Stanley? She couldn’t be talking about Goodwin.
“He. Him. Don’t know his name. Hasn’t got a name.”
“What are you talking about? Who? Goodwin?”
“Don’t be stupid, little man. Goodwin is as good as dead.” More laughter. “Dead. Like your Victor.”
I wanted to punch her. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to grab her head and smash it against the wall. I wanted to…touch her.
“Yes!” she yelled. “The shadows talk, don’t they?”
I stared at her breast. Repulsed and aroused at the same time. Her nipple stood erect. I shouted, “Stop it!”
Her eyes settled on me, her mouth suggesting too much.
“Stop it,” I said again, shaking my head.
With tight lips, Isidore stepped forward, her gun raised higher.
“Where is Goodwin?” I said between clenched teeth. Blood surged through my head. Rushing to where I didn’t want it to go. The more I thought about it, the harder—and the more difficult—it got. “Where is he?”
“Not telling.”
“Who’s coming?” My fists burned. “Who will be—”
“Nope. Not telling.” And like a child, she closed her mouth, her lips tightening into a thin line, and she moved her head to the side to avert her gaze.
“People have died because of you.” I stepped back. Strangely, I heard my watch, its tick loud, reverberating, as though I held it to my ear.
“More will die.” Again, she laughed, shrill and piercing. It echoed around us in a hollow kind of way as though the shadows in the room absorbed the sound—and the darkness closed in. “So many more will die.”
“Just shoot her!” I snarled, amazing myself. Tick, tick, tick.
Before Isidore could pull the trigger, an arm of shadow shot from the body of darkness and forced its way into Annabel’s mouth. Tick. She gagged, eyes bulging. Tick. Her laugh became a gurgle. Tick. Snot bubbled from her nose. Mucus and blood dribbled down her chin. Tick. Her whole body convulsed as the shadow forced itself deeper. Tick.
Whatever the hell that thing did to her insides, it killed her in seconds.
I no longer heard my watch.
“That saved a bullet,” Isidore said.
I frowned. I had no words for that.
Georgie barked once as though speaking for me.
And again we ran—at least I jog-limped the best I could.
* * *
When we found Polly, things were a lot different. Dressed in a red t-shirt and blue jeans, she sat at a table with her hands placed before her as if waiting for lunch. She did not resemble the woman I’d first met. She was in a staff room of sorts. A place with a little more décor than elsewhere in that labyrinth of corridors and rooms beneath the House. Pictures of the ocean and sunsets lined one wall. Above a sink, pasted to a cupboard door, was an upside-down no smoking sign. On the counter, sat a microwave, a toaster, and a cordless kettle, its lid gaping like a mouth. A fridge crouched beneath the counter, alongside more cupboards. Everything needed a scrub. Cleanliness, it seemed, proved to be in short supply down here. Nonetheless, the place was more inviting than elsewhere. I guessed the faint smell of food had something to do with it.
She said nothing as we charged through the doors. Nor did she flinch. Georgie barked and bounded over to her. And still no reaction. Her blank eyes, along with her blank expression, fixed upon nothing.
“Polly?” I reached the table and rested both fists on the stained surface. I leaned forward a little. “Polly, are you okay?”
Again, no response.
“Victor’s gone. Annabel’s dead, too. Did you know who she was? Did you know she tried to kill us?”
Isidore opened the fridge.
“And where’s Goodwin?” I asked. “Polly, what’s going on?”
Nothing.
Next to a set of condiments was Goodwin’s lighter. Godwin. A Good Friend—the man I’d known had been leading another life beneath Periwick House. I’d bought him the lighter as a small thank you for his generosity towards me. All the while, those poor men and women were being experimented on, driven mad, or dying. For the good of mankind, apparently.
“Polly,” I said into her unseeing eyes, “tell me where we can find Goodwin.”
Polly’s expression remained as it had been the moment we entered the room. My lungs deflated, my head hammering, and after a few more seconds, I grabbed the lighter and Polly’s arm.
“We have to go,” I told her.
Pulling her up, her chair screeched, caught a chipped tile, and clattered to the floor. I winced and hoped it wouldn’t bring any unwanted attention. Particularly from the shadows.
Georgie moved with us, keeping at Polly’s side. Still she said nothing. It was strange to watch her walk as if in a trance. How did this happen? I guided her to an archway leading off along another corridor.
With Isidore close behind, eating a sausage roll, we rounded the corner. We had no idea where we headed. I had to find Goodwin, that’s all I knew. Each new corridor was the same as the last, leading into new rooms and further walkways, some up or down steps. The further we walked, the more my head burned. Hair clung to my forehead and my lungs were tight. With a palm held out as if to stop traffic, I slammed into yet another door. It swung inward. Another room beyond. Everywhere, the same. I held the door for the two ladies and allowed it to swing closed.
By this time, Isidore held Polly’s hand, helping her towards the other end.
“This,” I shouted, “is useless!”
Isidore stopped and glared at me. Polly immediately came to a standstill, and Georgie, too.
“Leo…” Isidore said.
“Seriously, we’re wasting time wandering around.”
“I know, but—”
“From every corner, every corridor,” I said, “I’m expecting the shadows to come alive.”
“Leo, I—”
I stepped forward and leaned close to Polly’s face. My ears rang and my face burned. My hands clenched and unclenched, as though belonging to someone else.
Georgie barked.
My hand shot out and gripped Polly’s shoulder. Knuckles white, fingers arched like claws, the thing didn’t belong to me.
“Where is Goodwin?” I shook her.
“Leo!” Isidore shoved me away.
I stumbled, but still had the woman’s t-shirt bunched in a white fist. Ignoring Isidore, I pushed my face closer into Polly’s blind stare.
“Tell me!”
Isidore screamed my name again. The blood rushing through my head drowned her voice. She tugged me aside, away from Polly. I clung onto the woman’s clothing.
I heard myself yelling, “Where is Goodwin?”
Isidore grabbed my hand and yanked it free from Polly. “Leave her alone!”
I spun and glared at her. My teeth tight, baring them.
“What’s wrong with you?” She demanded, her face turning ugly.
A growl came from somewhere—my first thought was Georgie, and then I realised it came from my throat. My hand twitched and flew upwards, arcing towards Isidore’s furious face. It smacked into the side of her head.
Her eyes blazed. Stunned into reflex, she levelled her gun on me. “Get away from us.”
I wanted to hit her again. And I wanted to hit the stupid blind bitch. Kick the dog too, to shut it up. The damned thing was barking again, but not at us. He faced back where we’d come from.
Three dark shapes
rounded the corner, approaching from the semi-darkness. Men. Each dressed in suit and tie, official-looking—like security—coming at us with square shoulders and firm expressions. One thing though: their faces. They weren’t quite right.
Their eyes contained a blackness. Death.
Necromeleons. All three. Not the shuffling dead as before, the ones which had taken Victor down, these guys were sharp, neat, and determined. Intelligent, perhaps.
The roar in my head had subsided. My jaw relaxed and I stopped growling. I wanted to be sick, to purge my system of whatever flushed my brain. Then I remembered. I’d hit Isidore. Before I could give her a pathetic—and most likely useless—apology, the three Fabric-infested men charged and wrestled us to the floor. So quick, Isidore didn’t have time to shoot anybody.
Pain erupted from every nerve in my body as the world rushed into darkness.
CHAPTER 32
From far away, a jingling sound beat a wave of consciousness into the dark. Footsteps, too. It sounded like I’d been wedged at the bottom of a well, and it was the bucket I heard, its chain rattling at the top of the shaft. I pictured exactly that: me, trapped in a dried-up well, the light at the top broken by the rising bucket, swaying and shrinking to a black dot.
As my eyelids cracked open, brightness flooded my vision. I tried to move. My wrists and ankles wouldn’t budge, and my head swayed on a neck of rubber. Squinting, I saw someone’s hairy, callused hands strap my right wrist into a leather harness, awkwardly twisting it. The cold buckles pinched my skin. I was seated in a chair, with my other arm bound to the armrest, restrained not by rope but coils of shadow. As were my legs. There was a dampness to their touch. They caressed my watch, licking the glass and playing with the strap. It felt like spiders crawled over my arm. I shivered.
I arched my back to allow some leverage, to ease my cramped arm. Whoever stood behind me pressed down on my shoulders. I puzzled at having one arm strapped in a leather harness, held still by clamped fingers. Pale, dead fingers.