Fear the Darkness

by Mitchel Scanlon

  She shook her head, then nodded to the crates full of weapons and equipment.

  "I don't know," she said. "Maybe it's nothing. Right now, we got more important things to do than worry about it. Go get Symonds and the others and tell them it's safe to come out. It's time to arm up. We got a Sector House that's under the control of a hostile psychic entity. Our Sector House, and I don't know about you, but I'd say it's about time we took it back."

  SEVENTEEN

  TAKING IT BACK

  Souls. Screaming souls. From all across the sector they flowed to him in their thousands. Hidden in the dark places of Sector House 12, Uriel felt great surges of energy run through him as he absorbed the essences of victim after victim. He was engorged, empowered. So many souls, that for a moment his hunger was silenced. The raging void within him stood on the verge of fulfilment. He was approaching satiation, and with it the next phase drew closer. Soon the cycle would be completed. He felt strange stirrings within his body. Inside him a dozen points of shadow coalesced within his flesh and began to grow larger. Soon. He was nearing completion. Soon, he sensed, he would begin a new transformation.

  But even with triumph beckoning, Uriel was not content. Something troubled him: a thought, worrying him like an insect gnawing at the flesh of some great beast. A danger. An impediment. A frustration.

  The psi-bitch.

  At the thought of her he felt a flush of anger. She was a threat to him, a rock in his path. Alone of the teeming minds around him, she had the power to undo his work and forestall his great design. Time after time he had attempted to kill her and time after time he had been thwarted. Now things would be different. This time, finally, he would destroy her.

  He stretched out his limbs to the wider sector, feeling ten thousand puppets jerk their heads towards him as he pulled their strings tight. From the darkness he called out to them, his voice a whisper in ten thousand minds, ten thousand blood-stained disciples, an army of killers who lived only to do his bidding.

  He called to them. Out through the streets and intervening buildings, he sent a message. Across the sector, in housing blocks and con-apts and rooming houses, ten thousand killers paused in the midst of murder and made their way down to the streets. They gathered in the open spaces, in the plazas and precincts, waiting patiently while the whispering voice inside them relayed new instructions. At last, their orders received, they turned en masse toward the centre of the sector and made their way toward Sector House 12. A slave army marched inexorably to the rhythm of his will, a hive-mind, driven by a single imperative. Ten thousand killers pushed onward by a simple and clear command: the psi-bitch must die!

  "Symonds, this is Maddicks on level five. We've got two more crazies in custody - that seems to be the last of them on this floor. Reporting level five as swept and clear. Over."

  "Symonds, this is Tierney. We have reached Custody Command on basement sub-level two. There's been one hell of a bloodbath down here. The whole place is full of corpses. Looks like the prisoners and warders tried to kill each other, then the survivors killed themselves. Reporting basement sub-level two as swept and clear. Over."

  "Symonds, this is Gottlieb on level fourteen. No survivors here. One crazy in custody. Reporting level fourteen as swept and clear. Over."

  From the crackle of comms-traffic over her radio, it sounded like they were making progress. Anderson was on level eight, taking it one room at a time, searching for survivors and crazies while, on the other floors of the Sector House, her fellow Judges went through the same procedure. She had left Symonds back at ground level, tasked with the job of handling comms between Anderson and the others as they cleared the Sector House floor by floor. Despite her initial misgivings, Symonds had turned out to be quite an asset. First he had restored communications by adjusting their radios to route their signals through the comms unit on Anderson's bike parked outside. Now he was running the resulting comms-traffic with such calm efficiency it was as if he had been doing it for years.

  "Symonds, this is Jurgens in the Landing Bay on level fifteen. The entire place has been gutted by fire, although it looks like the sprinklers stopped it from spreading. All H-Wagons here are non-operational. Reporting Landing Bay as swept and clear. Over."

  "Roger that, Jurgens," she heard Symonds's voice over the radio. "Request you rendezvous with Judge Gottlieb on stairwell and clear level sixteen. Symonds out."

  "Symonds, this is Schreiber. We've got two survivors in the Judge's barracks on level fifteen. Get some medical attention up here ASAP."

  "Roger that, Schreiber. I'm sending Acc-Judge Thorley up to you with a medi-pack. I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do."

  "Symonds, this is Anderson on level eight. You heard anything more from Central Control about med-teams and backup? Seems like their idea of twenty minutes is a hell of a lot longer than ours."

  "Roger that, Anderson," Symonds answered her. "Just got off the comm with them a few minutes ago. Apparently, the units that were supposed to be coming our way have been diverted. Seems the violence affecting Sector 12 looked to be in danger of spilling over into other Sectors. Central Control pulled all available units back to the edge of the sector to hold the line. There is some good news though, Control says tac-teams will be sent to our location via H-Wagon along with a team of Exorcists. They're still trying to assemble the extra manpower, but Control says they should be with us inside half an hour."

  "Half an hour?" Anderson shook her head. "I seem to remember hearing promises like that before. I don't suppose they also told you the cheque was in the mail?"

  "The cheque?" There was a pause for a moment on the other end of the line as Symonds floundered for understanding. "I don't think I get you."

  "Never mind," she sighed. "It was a dumb joke anyway. I'm reporting level eight as swept and clear. Moving on to level nine next. In the meantime, get back on the line with Central Control and see if you can light a fire under them. Anderson out."

  "Anderson," a voice called out behind her.

  Whitby hurried towards her with another Judge trailing in his wake. "I heard you on the radio saying you were on this level," Whitby said. "I just cleared level twenty. Sector Chief Franklin is dead - looks like Grimes killed him. And guess who I found hiding behind a desk in one of the admin offices on my way down?"

  He nodded towards the other Judge. It was Hass.

  "I've already told you I wasn't 'hiding', Whitby." A muscle twitched almost imperceptibly on Hass's face. "For all I knew you could've been another psychotic Judge on a killing spree. I was in cover in case there was fire fight, that was all." He turned towards her. "Now, Anderson, Whitby tells me you've been directing operations here. I'm sure you've done a fine job, but I must insist you stand aside."

  "Uh-huh." Anderson raised her eyebrows. Typical SJS, she thought. Some things never change. "And I'd be standing aside so you can take command, no doubt?"

  "Naturally." Unconsciously, Hass ran his hand across the front of his uniform to smooth out the creases. "As the ranking SJS Judge present-"

  "You'll be the first guy I come to if I find any Judges taking bribes or fixing parking tickets," Anderson cut him off. "But seeing as we're dealing with a hostile psychic entity, I'd say this is a Psi Division case. What about you, Whitby?"

  "I'm with you," Whitby said beside her. "One hundred per cent."

  "Looks like you're outvoted, Hass," Anderson said.

  "Outvoted?" Hass was livid. "This is Mega-City One, Anderson, not some kind of damn democracy!" He jabbed a finger at Whitby. "You realise this man is under investigation? I could report you for this."

  "You do that, Hass," Anderson waved the threat away. "Right now I want you to-"

  "Anderson!" She heard Symonds over her radio, his voice breathless with excitement. "Grud, you'd better look at this. The streets on the east side of the Sector House... Oh, sweet drokk, I don't believe it."

  Spurred on by the urgency in Symonds's tone, Anderson hurried to the nearest window
with Hass and Whitby behind her. The streets of the sector were no longer deserted. A crowd had gathered and was moving towards the building.

  "Holy drokking Grud," Whitby said hoarsely. "There must be thousands of them."

  Even from this distance, Anderson could see that the members of the crowd wore the same glazed expressions as the crazies in the Sector House. Looking at them, she could see they were armed with an array of improvised and makeshift weapons: kitchen knives, screwdrivers, wrenches, crowbars, shuggy cues, lumps of plascrete, lengths of chain and pieces of broken-off chair and table legs. Seeing wisps of smoke rising from among the crowd, Anderson realised some of them were even carrying flaming torches. They looked for the world like some kind of re-enacted lynch mob from the Tri-D history-doc channels, and they were heading her way.

  All in all, things did not look good.

  "Anderson to all Judges." Even as she began to shout into her radio, she was already moving. "The Sector House is about to come under attack. Drop whatever you're doing and get down to the ground level foyer ASAP. And Symonds? Get on the line to Central Control again and tell them I don't care what their problems are, half-an-hour isn't good enough. I want those reinforcements here now. It looks like we're going to need them."

  EIGHTEEN

  CROWD CONTROL

  "You all know the plan," Anderson said into her radio, keeping one eye on the approaching crowd as it crossed the plaza. "We hit them with Stumm gas first, then we take things from there. Whatever else happens, we have to delay them. If they get past us, it's all over. No matter what, we hold the line. You understand me? We hold the line."

  There was no answer. Looking at the faces of the other Judges as they formed up beside her in a widely spaced line thirty metres outside the front entrance of the Sector House, Anderson could see that they had heard her. Underneath their helmets, their mouths were set with grim expressions of determination. She might only have a little over a dozen Judges to help her hold back an army of psychotics numbering in the thousands, but she had no doubt every one of them would do their duty. Fifteen years at the Academy, and the years they had spent since on the streets made all the difference. They were Judges, and that meant they were used to being outnumbered. Facing a dozen perps or a thousand, it was all the same. The entity could throw as many of its puppets against them as it liked these men and women would never run. They were defending their Sector House. They would hold the line until Anderson ordered them to retreat, they were dead, or hell itself came calling. Though, for all that, she found herself hoping it would not come to either of the last two options.

  "Drokk, but there's a lot of them," Whitby said beside her, fixing a grenade-like Stumm round to the barrel of his Lawgiver. He smiled at her, his manner nervous but resolute. "Not wanting to seem like I'm a pessimist, Anderson, but I have to say it's been good working with you. Thought I should say that now. You know, just in case."

  "Yeah," she said. "I know what you mean. It's been good working with you too, Whitby." She smiled back at him. "You know, just in case."

  The crowd picked up pace as it drew nearer. She could see dozens of individual faces: young and old, men and women, all united, all with the same unsettlingly blank-eyed gaze. It's like they're in a trance, she thought. Like the only thing they're aware of is the entity's voice in their heads. Ever since the crowd had begun its advance on the Sector House, it had been silent. Now, as though in response to some unheard signal, the members of the mob let out a wordless animal shriek of rage as they broke into a sprint and charged towards the thin line of waiting Judges.

  "Hold your fire," Anderson shouted into her radio. "Wait until I give the order."

  The crowd charged in, two hundred metres, one hundred and ninety, one hundred and eighty...

  "Get ready," she yelled. "Aim for just behind the front ranks. Ready!"

  As they got closer the charge became a stampede. Faces that had been blank were now full of screaming hatred. One hundred and fifty metres, one hundred and twenty, one hundred. She gave the order.

  "Fire!"

  "The front doors of the Sector House," she had said earlier. "That's the weak point. That's where they'll attack and that's where we'll have to hold them off."

  They had been standing inside the waiting area in front of check-in, watching through the Sector House doors at the crowd gathering in eerie silence on the other side of the plaza. Upon reaching ground level after having seen the approaching mob, Anderson had expected to have to fight them off immediately. Instead, as though the entity was being careful to bring together all its forces before the assault began in earnest, the crowd marching on the Sector House had paused in the plaza, waiting while its numbers swelled as smaller groups emerged from down the side streets to join the main force.

  "What about the ground floor windows?" Whitby said. "Aren't they weak points as well?"

  "No. Sector House 12 may be old, but it's designed to ward off an assault all the same. The windows are all triple-layered, reinforced plexiplast. They'd need major artillery to even dent them. No, the front entrance is our only problem. And even then, we may be able to bring down the blast shutters."

  "No go on that score," Symonds grimaced. "I tried it the second I saw the crowd approaching. The door controls for the blast shutters are all fused. The EM surge that caused the last power cut must have burned them out. That's not the only bad news. I think we might have a problem with the rest of the building's electrical systems as well. After Tierney checked Custody Command, I accessed the surveillance logs for the cameras in the holding pens area. Looks like the electronic door locks down there opened on their own, releasing all the perps. That's why there was such a bloodbath. If you ask me, I don't think any of it was accidental. I think this entity - whatever it is - can not only cut off the Sector House's power whenever it likes, but by using EM pulses it can even control some of the simpler systems."

  "All right then," Anderson said. "As far as I can tell, our only option is to barricade the front doors and try to hold them off for as long as we can. Then we-"

  "This is madness," Hass said. "There's no way we'll be able to hold them off until reinforcements arrive. We should just grab an H-Wagon and fly the hell out of here."

  "Guess you haven't been listening, Hass," Anderson said. "The Landing Bay's been gutted and all the H-Wagons are out of commission."

  "Then let's break into the vehicle garage," Hass said anxiously. "We get ourselves a Pat-Wagon and just plough through them. We can't just stay here. It's suicide!" Seeing the others staring at him, he got self-conscious. "Don't try and tell me the rest of you haven't been thinking exactly the same thing," he said. "I can't be the only person who realises defending this Sector House is a lost cause."

  "The vehicle garage is a no go, either," Symonds said quietly while the others Judges shifted uneasily, refusing to look Hass in the eye. "I had Tek-Judge Woods check it out. The controls for the blast shutters are fused there same as they are here - but there, the shutters are already down. It means the vehicle garage is locked up tighter than a drum." He looked at Anderson. "It's like the entity's done it all on purpose to cut off all our means of escape, before summoning an army of psychos. It's like it knew exactly what it was doing."

  "Probably did," Anderson agreed. "Whatever the hell this thing is, nobody ever said it was stupid." She shrugged and looked at each Judge in turn. "It doesn't matter. I don't care how smart the entity thinks it is. We'll find a way to beat it. If this job's taught me nothing else, it's that no matter how bad things seem, there's always a solution to a problem. There's always a way out. We just have to find it."

  For a moment there was silence, then Symonds had said, "Yeah, about that. I think maybe I've got an idea..."

  "The Stumm's not holding them!" Whitby yelled. Through the haze of gas, she could see the rearward ranks of the crowd pushing through the gas cloud, trampling underfoot those who were incapacitated by the Stumm.

  "Switch to riot guns." She had to sho
ut even louder now on her radio to be heard over the noise of the crowd. Looking around, Anderson saw the Judges holster their Lawgivers and grab the pump-action riot guns each of them were carrying over their shoulders. "Plastic rounds only. Fire!"

  They opened up with their riot guns, firing soft-nosed plastic shells designed to subdue rioters without killing them. As the first salvo of shots reached their targets, Anderson saw a dozen members of the charging crowd fall, then another dozen as the Judges fired again, and another dozen. And another. Despite a fusillade of non-lethal rounds, the crowd kept coming. Eighty metres had become sixty. Sixty became fifty. Fifty became forty. Thirty-five. Thirty. Twenty-five.

  "Riot foam," she yelled. "The rest of you cover the hoses and pick off anyone who gets missed by the foam."

  At the order, four Judges broke away from the line - two teams of two - who grabbed the heavy hoses lying ready beside them. Aiming the hoses at the crowd, they opened the nozzles, each team unleashing a stream of foam at the nearest members of the crowd. It solidified to the consistency of plascrete on impact. With practiced efficiency, the two teams began to move their hoses in a wide arc, dousing the entire front rank of the crowd in the rapidly hardening foam and stopping them in their tracks. Soon, hundreds of would-be killers were caught in the riot foam, screaming impotently in rage while, beside them, those who had managed to evade the foam's grip were shot down by more plastic bullets fired by Anderson and the others. The crowd's charge faltered, and for a moment it seemed to Anderson that they were winning. Then, far sooner than she would have liked, the stream of foam from the hoses diminished and then died.