The Warriors broke first, and either turned and ran or poured out across the Square to join the milling crowd in the centre. The Faerie laughed and applauded and put aside their weapons. The elves had always had a soft spot for human music, and they cared more for the joy of joining their voices to the song than chasing after a defeated enemy. The singing and the music finally crashed to a halt as though they’d planned it that way, and the audience cheered and applauded till their throats were raw and their hands ached. Morrison grinned and bowed, exhausted and drenched with sweat, but feeling the power of the music still moving within him, as though asking what it should do next. Oberon and Titania and Puck came forward to bow to him, and Morrison wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, and grinned at them.
“Do I hear a request for an encore?”
—
In a deserted house on an empty road, Suzanne Dubois sat alone by the downstairs window, keeping a weary eye on the desolate scene outside. She tried not to move, and breathed as shallowly as she could. Even the smallest movement sent jagged shocks of pain shooting through her broken arm, some bad enough to make her grey out for a moment. She’d thought at first the arm had just been sprained or badly bruised in the collapse of the Cavern club, but as the shock wore off and the pain grew steadily worse, it got harder and harder to believe that. She tried, she really tried, because the thought of a broken arm on top of everything else was just too much to bear, but now even that small comfort was denied her.
The arm itself was hidden by the long sleeve of her dress. The material was torn and ragged and stained with blood, but she hadn’t pulled it back to look at her arm. She didn’t think she could handle that just yet. She wished Polly would hurry up and come downstairs. She’d gone up to the next floor to see if the extra height would give her a better view out over the town. All you could see from the ground floor were the surrounding shelled and burnt-out houses, the empty canal, and sometimes a column of soldiers streaming past, on their way to devastate some other part of the town. There hadn’t been any soldiers for some time now, but Suzanne had no doubt they’d be back eventually. This was just a lull in the storm, and lulls inevitably ended in fresh violence. Pain gnawed at her arm again, and she concentrated on breathing more shallowly, so as not to jog it.
She felt cold and tired and very alone. Polly was still upstairs, and Sean Morrison had disappeared some time during the night, when she and Polly were still asleep. She supposed she shouldn’t really have been surprised. Sean had never been reliable. That was part of his charm. But even so, sneaking out like that was a new low, even for him. Not that James Hart had proved any better. He’d promised to come back when he found a safe haven for them, but that was hours ago, and there was still no sign of him. Anything could have happened to him. Anything.
She sighed, and then had to grit her teeth as fresh pain surged through her arm. She was cold, but sweat was pouring down her face. Not a good sign. She felt increasingly dizzy, on the edge of fainting, but she wouldn’t give in to it. She couldn’t afford to pass out. Anything might happen while she was helpless. She wasn’t used to feeling helpless. Usually she was the one that other people came to with their problems, and she would read the Cards, and See what to do. She’d always prided herself on being able to find an answer for every problem, sooner or later. She’d also prided herself on being able to look out for herself; reliant on no one for anything. Now the town she’d helped for so long was torn apart far beyond her ability to put things right, and she was trapped in a deserted house with a broken arm and a rising fever. She wished Polly would hurry up and come down. She felt a little better when Polly was with her. She smiled sourly. For years Polly had leaned on her for help to get through her fractured life, and now here she was, relying on Polly. Funny how the world turns. Funny. What was taking her so long up there? Suzanne felt like calling to her to hurry up, but she didn’t. That would be giving in to her fear and her weakness, and she had a strong feeling that if she gave in to them even once, she’d never be able to regain control. But what the hell was Polly doing up there all this time?
On the next floor up, Polly Cousins stood before a jagged hole in the wall, looking out into the night and hugging herself tightly to keep from falling apart. She was miles from the safety and security of her own house, surrounded by threats on all sides, and panic attacks were ripping through her in waves. She wanted to scream or run or do something; but there was nothing she could do, nowhere to run, and she knew if she started screaming she wouldn’t be able to stop. She was shaking in every limb, her vision greying in and out, and it was all she could do to keep from passing out. She had to hang on, Suzanne needed her, but that thought only made things worse. It was hard enough trying to cope with her own problems, without knowing that someone else was depending on her. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t ready to handle this kind of pressure. Not yet.
She crouched down on the floor, and rocked back and forth on her haunches. She was hugging herself so tightly now she could hardly breathe. Why wasn’t James back yet? He’d promised he wouldn’t be long. She’d feel stronger if he was there; more able to cope. Morrison leaving while she was asleep hadn’t helped either. But she’d always known she couldn’t rely on him. She’d thought she could rely on Suzanne and James, but Suzanne couldn’t even look after herself, and James hadn’t come back. Something must have happened to him; something bad. He wouldn’t have just gone off and left her. He wouldn’t.
She took one deep breath after another, trying to calm herself, but the extra oxygen just made her feel even more light-headed. She had to get it under control. She couldn’t go down again until she had. She couldn’t let Suzanne see her like this. Suzanne was depending on her. The thoughts flashed back and forth through her mind, like birds unable to settle on a shaking branch. She made herself stand up straight again, and looked through the gap in the wall in the hope there would be something there to distract her. At the far end of the street, a column of soldiers was heading straight for her. She almost stopped breathing. The soldiers hurried down the street, looking straight ahead, and went past the house without even looking at it. They turned a corner and were gone, and as quickly as that the street was empty again.
Polly looked carefully in all directions, but there was no sign of any more soldiers. It occurred to her that there hadn’t been any for some time now. The war in Shadows Fall seemed to have passed her by. Perhaps it was over. She wondered who’d won, and then shook her head. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was getting some kind of medical help, for Suzanne and herself. She could use a little something, to settle her nerves. She walked round the room in a circle, over and over again. The simple repetition was comforting. She could still feel herself coming apart at the seams, but it was a familiar feeling, and she knew how to cope. She had to keep busy, so busy she didn’t have time to think. She walked a little faster. It didn’t matter what she did, as long as she was doing something. Her breathing began to slow and her head began to clear. After a while she felt stronger, and went down the stairs to rejoin Suzanne.
She was half-way down the stairs when she heard someone moving about in the hall. She froze where she was, listening. It couldn’t be Suzanne; she was too weak and in too much pain to be wandering about. But it couldn’t be one of the soldiers either. She’d watched them all pass the house by without even a glance. Unless that was what she was supposed to think. She looked about her for something she could use to defend herself, but there was nothing to hand. She wasn’t sure she’d have been able to use it if there was.
Her next thought was to retreat back up the stairs and hide, but she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t just abandon Suzanne. Suzanne had never abandoned her, through all the bad years. Polly crept down the stairs, one at a time, her hands clenched into fists. She’d decide what to do when she saw who it was. If all else failed, she’d say she was alone in the house, and hope Suzanne had enough sense to stay quiet. She rounded the corner of the stairs, and Jam
es Hart grinned up at her.
“Ah, there you are. I thought I heard someone moving about. Get yourself down here. I’ve got some good news.”
She didn’t know whether to hit him or hug him, and in the end she settled for following him down the hall and into the room where Suzanne was waiting. She looked round as they came in, and Hart shot a quick glance at Polly as he took in Suzanne’s deteriorating condition. All the colour had gone from her face, and she looked like death warmed over and allowed to congeal. Hart sat down opposite her and tried to look relaxed and confident.
“There’s a church just a few blocks away, acting as a sanctuary. There are people there trying to help. The soldiers are leaving churches alone, for some reason. The place I found has a doctor and some medical supplies. I think we ought to get you to them. How do you feel about travelling, Suzanne?”
“I’ll manage,” Suzanne said flatly. “We can’t stay here.”
She got to her feet in a series of small movements, grimacing at the pain but refusing to cry out. Polly hovered at her elbow, ready to help, but knowing Suzanne well enough to stay back until asked. Suzanne didn’t like people fussing over her, even when she needed it. She stood stiffly for a moment, holding her broken arm flat against her side, and then nodded curtly to Hart and Polly that she was ready to go. Suzanne didn’t believe in being beaten by anything, least of all her own weakness. Hart exchanged another glance with Polly, shrugged slightly, and then led the way slowly out of the room and into the hall. None of them saw the sheet of paper with Morrison’s song, which had fallen to the floor out of sight.
“What happened to Sean?” said Hart.
“Made off while we were asleep,” said Polly.
There was enough repressed anger in her voice to keep Hart from pursuing the matter any further. They left the house and stepped cautiously out into the empty street. Hart locked the door behind them. No point in attracting looters. There was the smell of smoke on the air, and the crimson glare of flames in the distance, but the street was eerily quiet. It was easy to imagine they were the only living things left in Shadows Fall. Hart led the way down the street, keeping the pace slow so as not to tire Suzanne out too quickly.
“I have a strong feeling something important has happened,” he said quietly, as much to distract Suzanne’s attention as anything. “The fighting seems to have stopped for the moment, and from what I overheard on a radio at the church, the invaders have run into something that scared the hell out of them. Most of them are just milling about. Some are even retreating, heading for the town boundaries as though half the devils in hell were chasing them. The trouble isn’t over by any means, but for the first time I feel like we’re in with a fighting chance. Somewhere along the line, the soldiers got their ass kicked in no uncertain manner.”
And then he broke off, and the three of them came to a sudden halt as a dozen soldiers stepped out of the shadows to block their way. Hart looked behind him, but there were soldiers there too. They looked tired and grim, but they held their guns steady. One of the soldiers before him stepped forward. He wasn’t an officer, but his attitude made it clear he was in charge. He looked Hart over, and then the two women, taking his time. Finally he sniffed once, and locked eyes with Hart.
“It isn’t over yet,” he said coldly. “We’re experiencing a few difficulties, that’s all. Nothing we can’t handle. We’re regrouping, and soon this cesspit of a town will pay for all the trouble it’s caused us. None of this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to be an easy target. Civilians, unbelievers. We were just going to walk in and occupy the town. But no, you had to fight back, and now thousands of Warriors are dead. Thousands of good men dead, because of you.” He looked back at his men. “Shoot them.”
He stepped back out of the way, and as suddenly as that the soldiers were raising their guns and aiming them at Hart and Polly and Suzanne. Hart moved forward to stand between the soldiers and the two women, knowing even as he did so that there was nothing he could do. Polly started some quick speech of apology or appeal, but no one was listening. Suzanne just glared at the soldiers and didn’t even flinch away from the guns. And then the rifles all spoke at once, and the street was full of thunder.
Time slowed right down. Everyone was still as a statue, and the air was thick as syrup. The bullets hung on the air like fat ugly insects. Hart felt as though he could reach out and move them around, like beads on an invisible abacus. Power churned in him, filling him to bursting. It was power beyond limits, beyond good and evil, power naked and intense. Time’s power. He looked at Polly and Suzanne beside him, frozen in a moment of fear, with death only inches away, and a sudden anger flared up within him. He lashed out, and the bullets and the men who fired them were swept away in a moment.
Time crashed back into motion, and the soldiers blew apart in a cloud of blood and tattered flesh. Polly and Suzanne screamed. Blood and flesh pattered to the ground like a horrid rain, hitting the ground with soft slapping sounds. Hart looked around him, and everywhere was an abattoir. He was surprised how little he cared. The soldiers had tried to kill him and Polly and Suzanne, and now they were dead instead. He realized Polly was looking at him with a shocked, dawning recognition, and he reached out a hand to her, to reassure her. She flinched away from him. Suzanne was looking at him as though he was a stranger. Perhaps he was. He didn’t feel much like himself, just at the moment. He nodded to them both, to show he understood, and then set off down the street towards the church. He tried to avoid treading in the blood, but there was too much of it. After a moment, Polly and Suzanne followed him.
—
Father Callahan drove his car through the silent streets, heading deeper into Hell. He’d known these streets from before the invasion, but he didn’t know them now. Everywhere he looked he saw ruined buildings, burnt-out cars, and bodies hanging from street lights or just left to lie where they had fallen. No crucifixions here. The Warriors must have been in a hurry. But still, every time he saw a new victim of the invasion, a part of his mind insisted You did this. You’re responsible. He drove on, keeping his speed down, partly so he could steer around the bodies in the road, but mostly because he wouldn’t allow himself to look away from what he’d brought to Shadows Fall. The town the Church had put in his charge. At first he prayed for the victims, and then he damned the Warriors, and finally he just drove, numbed by the sheer extent of the horror. Only one thing kept him going: the thought that Saint Augustine would know what to do.
And together they would teach the Warriors of the Cross the true meaning of the wrath of God.
He tried the hospital first. You could never tell where Augustine might turn up next, but he’d worked at Manderlay hospital as a doctor before he became a Saint, and he still spent a lot of time there, doing what he could. There’s always demand for a miracle worker in a hospital, and with everything that had happened no doubt the hospital needed him now more than ever. Callahan found the place easily enough, but had to stop and park some distance away. Ambulances and cars with hastily painted red crosses were streaming in from all over, and he didn’t want to block their path. He strode quickly through Manderlay’s crowded grounds, rehearsing in his mind what he was going to say, and then he forgot all that as he took in the new hell of the hospital.
Men and women were pouring in and out of the old-fashioned double doors, some in white coats smeared with other people’s blood, some carrying or leading injured friends and relatives. Inside the casualty department Callahan found a bedlam of milling people and deafening noise; a mixture of desperate calls and screams and naked pain that was almost unbearable. There were people on stretchers and trolleys, sitting slumped in chairs or just left to lie on blankets on the floor. There was blood and burns and the stench of too much disinfectant trying to cover something worse. Here and there, friends and relatives sat with the injured, holding their hands and looking lost and helpless. There was just one doctor and three nurses, stepping carefully between the injured, giving each
patient a brief examination and a number, according to how urgent the case was. Sometimes all they could do was close the eyes, cover the face with a blanket, and move on.
Callahan kept out of their way. There was nothing he could do to help, except perhaps offer the comfort of the last rites, and he didn’t feel qualified to do that at the moment. Not until he had made his peace with God. He made his way slowly through the noise and confusion of the packed hospital corridors, asking quietly but persistently where he might find Saint Augustine. And finally he found him in the main operating theatre, healing the injured by the laying on of hands.
There was no one to help him, no nurse to hand him instruments or mop his brow, only the endless stream of patients brought in and wheeled out by exhausted, grey-faced porters. Callahan stood just inside the theatre doors, watching quietly, out of everyone’s way. He watched Augustine place his bare hands on an open wound, and saw the ragged edges crawl together and heal in seconds. Each miracle took a little more out of the Saint, and his face was already painfully gaunt. He’d always been a big man, but now his bloodied hospital gown hung loosely about him, like a shroud. He looked like he’d been on a hunger strike. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and the bones in his face stood out against the taut skin. He looked like an Old Testament prophet fresh in from the desert.
Two porters brought in the next patient and dumped him on the operating table. Augustine pulled back the bloodstained sheet covering him and blood spilled out, running over the edge of the table. The man had been gutted, ripped open from sternum to groin. Augustine plunged his hands into the gaping wound and moved quickly from organ to organ, repairing damage at a touch. His eyes narrowed as he worked, and light flickered briefly over his head, a neon halo come and gone in a moment. Finally he withdrew his hands, and sealed the wound with a gesture. The porters snatched the man away the moment Augustine finished, and dumped another in his place.
Shadows Fall Page 43