by Adrian Cole
They tied his hands behind him, the nylon biting into his flesh. One led him by the wire halter, the second kept the gun at his head, while the third followed a few steps behind, gun trained on his spine. Slowly they left the penthouse.
Outside they went to the stairs. It was a long, slow journey down, but none of the gunmen put a foot wrong. Bannerman was no fool. Heroics would be a waste of time in his position.
They took him along a landing and through a door that led into a long room, filled with computers. Apart from a few scattered technicians, the place was deserted. Beyond it, through the sheet glass windows, the storm fumed on, the lightning regular, lighting up whole blocks in its glare.
Bannerman was thrust down into a chair, more nylon used to tie him to it. “Now what?” he grunted. His hands were going numb, the circulation struggling.
“We wait,” said one of the gunmen. All three of them found themselves other seats, sitting back patiently, ignoring the blasts of thunder behind them. One of them picked up a magazine that was on a table beside one of the workstations and idly flicked through it. Another went to a coffee machine and punched its buttons. The third kept a gun trained on Bannerman. There would always be one gun on him, he realised.
I need three minutes, that’s all. Three minutes away from them. After that they can shoot until they’ve emptied their guns. It won’t help them. But they’ve been told that. Ho knew the situation. He’s been too careful. And these guys don’t blink. They miss nothing.
The gunman with the coffee went to the window and looked out at the storm, the massed clouds that obscured the tops of the buildings, pressing down into the canyons below. “That’s one mother of a storm,” he said, sipping his coffee. But he said it with little emotion, as though the frenzied elements were irrelevant to his own situation.
The man with the magazine tossed it aside and stood up lazily, joining his companion at the window. “Yeah,” he drawled, reaching for the coffee cup.
Another bolt of light shafted down from the black belly of the storm and there was a tremendous detonation, like a bomb going off. The lights flickered, but the gaze of the gunman watching Bannerman didn’t. His frigid expression said, don’t even think about it, bud.
By the window, the two others turned their backs on the storm, dismissing it. But, as if in fury, it unleashed more lightning, the hurricane force wind racing along the canyon of buildings. A web of splinters appeared across the huge glass window, but only for a second. Then it burst inwards, spraying glass in a stiletto shower. The two gunmen were picked up like rag dolls and flung across the computer room, bodies riddled with shards of knife-like glass. Darkness clamped down as the lights failed.
Bannerman had a split-second in which to act, the eyes of his watcher briefly turning to see what had happened. The gun wavered. Bannerman’s boot rammed hard into the man’s groin; the chair shot backward on its wheels, ramming into the desk. The gun went off, but glass showered the gunman. He crashed out of the chair, firing again. But he couldn’t get to his feet. Livid pain raged in his groin and he bent over double, gasping for air.
Bannerman had kicked his own chair away from the desk, using his feet to propel it down the aisle between more banked computers. He heard another gunshot. But, whether he liked it or not, he had begun the transformation.
The two gunmen who had been flung inwards by the imploding window also struggled to their feet, fuelled by their training, a terrible determination. One’s gun hand was too torn to be of any use, but the other recovered his weapon and lurched through the darkness, firing in the general direction of where Bannerman had been. There was a movement under the desks. The gunman bent down and pumped three quick rounds into the space, grinning at the grunt of pain.
Kicking aside chairs and a table, he stood over his victim. It was the third gunman. Swearing, he swung off down the nearest aisle. Bannerman could not have got far. He heard another movement. The technicians had fled as soon as the window blew: it could only be Bannerman.
The gunman edged forward. Another shifting shadow. He fired twice. Easing forward, he listened. Behind him, a shadow rose up, silent as a striking snake. Its wide hands fastened on the neck of the gunman. He let off another shot, which whanged into the ceiling.
Cyberwolf snapped his neck like a twig.
The last gunman was trying to staunch the flow of blood to both hands, limping towards a door, his whole body a mess, his clothes shredded. He never made it. Cyberwolf took him out as swiftly and clinically as he had the other.
Torches flashed at the far end of the long room. Cyberwolf paused briefly. Time to get clear. Ho had to be stopped. That blood sample must not be used.
Cyberwolf headed for the broken window, which gaped like a huge, fanged mouth on the night. Outside, the wildness of the storm showed no sign of abating. Cyberwolf looked up and down the aisles of the room. Several men were approaching from both directions. He’d never get past them and didn’t want a war with them. He’d have to go out and find another way in.
He leaned over the lip of the drop, holding on precariously to a loose sheet of glass. As he was gauging the drop, lightning speared down from above. Light flared, his whole world filling with it. The glass sheet slipped away and with it his support. He tumbled out into the light, spinning end over end, the sound of the storm diminishing.
* * * *
Mears found himself looking at a white panel, the last page of the graphic novel. Cyberwolf, too, had entered the oblivion of the storm. Yet Mears still did not remember a storm in any of the original stories. Well, not of any significance. In the Mire-Beast yarn, the plane had landed under cover of a storm, but it hadn’t crashed.
Overhead, thunder reminded him that a very real storm was still rampant. He put the graphic novel down and stood up slowly.
Even now the archivist had not reappeared. Mears called out, his voice sounding strained. The portraits watched him, as though disdaining his anxiety. He went to the door and leaned out. The lights were still on in the library, but there was no sign of the archivist.
PART TWO
PULP CITY
In my early dealings with Reverence, I mistakenly took him to be aloof, even rather supercilious, a man who looked down on his fellows, for with such an intellect as his, it did not seem unnatural. However, as I came to know him better, I understood that while God had bestowed upon him such a rare gift, he had deprived him of other, more emotional traits. That is not to say that he had no feelings, as many believed, but he simply did not demonstrate them, fearing, I think, that they would weaken him and afford his many enemies a weapon with which to diminish his considerable powers. He often mocked my own emotional displays, though in truth, I think he enjoyed their proximity. Without them, he would truly have been a man apart.
— extract from Dr. Jameson’s Journals,
Complete Adventures of Palgrave Reverence.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shuddermen
A gentle cough behind Mears startled him. He swung round, half expecting to see one of the figures in the portraits solidifying, regarding him with its Victorian air of hauteur. He was relieved to see the archivist.
“I am sorry to have abandoned you,” the man said, gathering the cups and saucers with the same care and deliberation with which he had brought them. “Did you have an opportunity to read the material?”
“Yes, I wanted to ask you about it. It’s odd but none of these seem to be as I remember them. Are these all limited edition reprints?”
“In a way, I suppose they are, Mr. Mears.” The old man went back into the annex with the tray.
Mears looked at the items on the table. Outside, more thunder crashed.
“I suppose you’ll want to be on your way,” said the archivist, returning.
“We don’t seem to have achieved much —”
“The move? Don’t worry about that, Mr. Mears. All in good time. More important things to do. And I wouldn’t say you haven’t achieved anything. Not at all. L
et me show you out. Here, follow me.”
Mears found himself oddly compliant. He allowed the archivist to lead him to a door that he had not previously noticed. The old man opened it with another large key and went out into a narrow corridor and steps that led down to an empty area, walls flaking, old ceiling sagging dangerously, as if on the point of collapse. The smell of damp was overpowering and at the end of the passage a paneled door rattled violently as though an army were trying to force entry.
“I’m afraid the storm shows no sign of abating,” said the old man. It was only then that Mears realised the archivist had been carrying his coat: the old man held it out for him and he slipped it on automatically, buttoning it up and pulling the collar tight. The old man unlocked the door and opened it remarkably easily, though the wind must have been trying to rip it from his grip.
Mears went to it, scowling out at the pelting rain, wind-whipped and stinging. The street was awash, the gutters running like streams overflowing. But he had a powerful urge to go, to leave the bizarre library for the time being. There was always tomorrow. As he turned to nod goodbye to the archivist, the old man handed him a small envelope.
“Find them,” he said. “They need each other’s strength.”
Mears took the envelope automatically and slipped it inside his inner coat pocket. “Thanks. But find who?”
A fist of wind thumped him and he staggered, holding on to the doorway. The noise of the storm had become deafening again, rain lashing in. Whatever else the old man said was swept away in another gust. Then he was waving, eyes squinting almost shut against the wind as he closed the door.
Bemused, Mears found himself once more out in the night. Instinctively he ducked and ran for the small gate to the street. He was through it and across the street into the relative shelter of the buildings opposite in moments. “Find who?” he repeated under his breath to himself. He could only imagine that the old boy was referring to something in the material he had been reading. But there was no time to deliberate. He needed to find the tube and the way to his cramped but warm flat.
He set out along the route he had come by, but there were a number of streetlights out and long stretches of pavement were pitch black. Lightning flashed and highlighted the way, but he had to keep his head down against the driving rain. If anything, it had intensified while he had been in the library. Ten minutes later he realised he had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Peering about him, he didn’t recognise the street. It was far too narrow. He retraced his steps, as he thought, but again must have chosen a wrong turn. Looking up, he saw the name of the street: Burr’s Lane. It meant nothing.
Across the road, slipping from an alleyway, a slouched figure moved on to the pavement. It was wrapped tightly in a long coat, a hat pulled over its eyes, shielding them from the rain. Mears zigzagged across the street to intercept it, knowing he had no choice than to ask directions. The man lifted his head, one hand holding tightly to his hat brim, his eyes fixing Mears as he approached.
Mears started as he looked into those eyes. They were dulled, unfocussed, though not the bleary eyes of a drunk or a drug addict. Something else about them, an almost lifeless quality, repelled him. The man’s mouth half opened, something flicking inside it. Mears immediately pulled up short and turned, but he was aware that someone else was coming down the street from behind him. One glance showed him that it was another figure, clad much like the first. It was moving sluggishly but in his direction.
He heard a hiss, whether a voice or not he couldn’t tell. He abruptly veered off across the road. Another glance revealed that both figures had turned his way. They were quickening their pace, though there was something awkward about it. Mears ran into a sidestreet, heedless of where it led, panic goading him on. Time enough to find the right way back later. Avoiding his pursuit had become paramount.
To his horror he saw another figure approaching, the same drab garb, hat pulled down. Intent on cutting him off. Who in God’s name? His mind raced. In desperation he looked around for another way out, a sidestreet or an alley. There were none. He was going to have to push past. It ought to have been easy enough, but now more of the figures appeared, all identical. In front and behind, he was trapped. Although they moved almost lazily, he sensed that they had spread themselves out deliberately in case he tried to make a run for it.
He stood now in the centre of the street, a rabbit trapped in the beam of a headlight. The clamminess of terror gripped him. He had never been in a fight in his life. And he hadn’t taken any serious exercise for years. But he must break this paralyzing grip and find a weak link in the closing circle.
Lightning crackled overhead, forking down into the city like white tongues of a celestial serpent. In the glare, the street lit up garishly, the figures thrown into sudden relief. Mears felt the heat of the lightning as it struck the ground ahead of him, accompanied by a cannonade of thunder that flung him forward on his face. As he fell, the light opened out in front of his eyes like a lake, its intensity blinding. Instead of hitting the road’s surface, he continued his fall, sound drifting away behind and above him. Something seemed to tear at his sides, something frustrated by the light, then he was dropping into silence, the light shrinking to a pinpoint, then out.
* * * *
Rain brought him round. He shook his head, droplets of water spraying from it. He pushed himself up from the street, where he had fallen face down. For a moment he was bemused, then remembered the figures. He got to his knees, finding himself ignominiously in a wide pool of rainwater. Looking around, he saw no one. Streetlights glowed dimly, but nothing moved, other than the steady seep of rain. The storm appeared to have passed, the rain its tail. Maybe the lightning had frightened them off, or better still, blasted them. He must have come within inches of being hit himself.
He got to his feet, brushing some of the water from his saturated trousers. Then, quickly, he made for the safer shadows of the pavement, flattening himself to the wall, searching up and down the street for any sign of movement. As he did so, he frowned in puzzlement. Although the whole scene was shadow-hung and the visibility poor, it didn’t look anything like it had earlier. Maybe it was the storm.
At any rate, he moved down the street, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He reached a crossroads, but the only buildings were old warehouses and abandoned factories. Something about their construction, their leaning roofs, seemed out of kilter. Evidently he was well off course.
The sound of the rain now was like a breath, rather than the sharp hissing of the storm, and above the sound he heard a door bang shut somewhere up ahead. Then another figure was coming down the street, but mercifully not one of the grim shapes he had encountered earlier. It scuttled down the street opposite him, ignoring him as best it could.
“Hey!” he called out to it. “I’m looking for the tube —”
The figure, little bigger than a child, darted him a nervous glance, revealing a weasel-like face, its eyes gleaming nervously as if afraid of him. “Better get indoors,” it called. “Shuddermen about.”
“Where’s the tube?” Mears repeated as the figure moved off.
It didn’t answer, but waved an arm, indicating that he go on ahead.
Shuddermen? What the hell is he talking about? Mears asked himself. What kind of place was this? But there was no way he was going back to look for the library. He started off up the street again.
It seemed to go on endlessly, though the grim figures that had tried to accost him did not reappear. Neither did anyone else, though at last he saw light spilling out from an alleyway, a sign of life at least. He made for it, looking around him at the high walls and occasionally empty windows, relics of an age now long passed.
The alley was narrow, but brightly lit up, the source of the light apparently a pub half way down it. Mears could hear voices and laughter, the combined mirth and raucousness reassuring after his ordeal. And no doubt a fire of some kind, where he could dry off. He looked at his watch, but his fall h
ad jarred it enough to wreck its timing.
At the low door to the pub, he paused, looking in. The place was full, thick with smoke, its occupants standing shoulder to shoulder in the glow, glasses passing backwards and forwards in a regular flow. The entire population of the area seemed to be crammed in here, but for once, Mears was glad of it. He squeezed his way inside, pushing past men and women alike. They parted for him automatically, otherwise paying him little heed.
He got to the bar and leaned on it, realising how tired he had become. There were two barmen, both unusually big men, though Mears imagined they might have problems clearing the place at closing time. He caught the attention of one, who came over to him.
“What’s it to be, squire? Pint of ale?”
“Yes, best bitter.”
The barman looked at him askance. He started pouring something behind the counter and Mears realised there were no beer pumps, which struck him as odd. But the barman thumped a pewter tankard down, foam flowing from its rim. “Nothing better in the house than that,” the barman beamed.
Mears took out his wallet and pulled a five-pound note from it. The barman took it, scowling at it as if he’s never seen its like, but grunted and shoved it into his pocket. Mears was about to protest. Five pounds for a pint! But the barman had already turned to serve another batch of customers. There seemed little point in complaining. He needed the drink.
He lifted the quaint tankard, a novel touch, and sipped at the beer. It was ice cold and unusually heady. He felt his head swim. It was good! Damn good. What the hell was it? He took a longer draught and set it down. Now he needed that fire. As he put his wallet back inside his pocket, he felt the envelope that the archivist had given him. He took it out and looked at it.
It was a quality envelope, which somehow seemed in keeping with the old boy. Mears thumbed its flap open and took out the single sheet of vellum. The writing had been done with what might well have been a quill pen. He leaned towards the gas lamp that hung from the beam overhead and read the sheet over a few times.