Then everything just went away.
***
Saxton patted Tremblay’s shoulder and wiped his bloody hands on a towel. He glanced to Wells and nodded for him to step outside. The two went into the hallway where Mirov was waiting.
“He’s stable for now,” Wells said first. “He’s lost a lot of blood and his right lung is collapsed. We’ll need someone to keep watch over him. Every fifteen minutes or so, we’ll have to release the pressure on his chest.”
“I will stay with him.” Mirov nodded. “I don’t feel I’m much use elsewhere right now.”
“There’s no way to be sure where the priest has gotten off to.” Saxton banged his heel against the wall. He reached for the cigarette case in his breast pocket. “I don’t understand why consuming the brain fluids infected him, but neither of us.”
“Because we’re old, Alex,” Wells face soured as he said it. “I don’t like admitting that one bit. I believe we presented it with three potential hosts, and it took the one it felt was most likely to survive. The younger, clean living priest was a more hospitable environment.”
“It chose? How’s that, James?”
“I think this thing exists on an atomic level.” Wells smoothed back a stray hair. “I think it was it was in both cups and the eye, simultaneously. Every piece of it is a whole.”
“It could be in more than one host, you mean?” Saxton asked.
“Yes. I believe so.”
“I administered your fake test.” Mirov leaned on the wall. “They all passed if that gives you any comfort.”
Wells rolled his eyes. “The eye-shine thing?”
Saxton nodded reluctantly. “We need a real plan.”
Wells held up Miss Jones’ notes. “Trudy was onto something. I need some supplies, but I think I have a way to test everyone successfully. In the meantime, I brought this.” Wells hefted the elephant gun.
“Excellent!” Saxton smiled genuinely. “I’m going to go see the telegraph operator since we can now confirm it is the priest. I’ll meet you in the lounge car.”
Mirov stepped between them and opened the compartment where Tremblay rested. “And I’ll stay here and keep an eye on our scientist. He’s in good hands with me, gentleman. No need to worry.” He ducked inside and nodded at Saxton and Wells before closing the door.
The inspector waited for their footsteps to leave, and then he turned his attention to the young man on the bunk. He was bandaged heavily and the bed was sticky with blood from Wells’ impromptu surgery, but he was alive. Mirov leaned against the bed and pulled a long brass cartridge from his pocket. He eyed the nearly half-inch bullet appreciatively and dropped it back into his vest pocket.
“Never leave your weapon unguarded, Doctor. Mirov taught me that.” The Mirov-puppet sat next to Tremblay and stroked his golden curls, plucking out a piece of glass and dropping it to the carpet. He pried the man’s eyelids open and gazed into their comatose stare. “What will you teach me, Archibald?”
His own eyes started to glow brightly.
Chapter Eighteen
The wine glass shattered against the wall, its crystal shards twinkling in the light as they rained down over Marion Petrovski’s desk like falling stars. He rested his elbows on the sandalwood top and groaned as he massaged his temples. Irina’s rant continued in French, even though she knew he barely understood the language. The angrier she got, the more she slipped back into her father’s Ukrainian which infuriated Marion even further. The damn poodle threw in his two cents with baying yips of agreement.
Irina flopped onto the divan and scooped up Bae, pulling the pooch tight against her and drawing her legs up onto the cushion.
“It is childish pride,” she continued in English. “You’re going to get yourself and many others killed to protect a secret you don’t even know. Just admit it, admit to everyone so that it hears you.”
“Pride? It is the National Democracy, you ignorant cow.” The glass stem rolled on the desktop; the light caught perfectly on the broken point. Marion licked his lips greedily. “To tell the world that Polish minds crafted this super metal, and that Polish hands control it, will sway political alliances towards our goal of independence. At the very least, it will give us the power to push out the szołdry for good, maybe the damn Russians too.”
“With metal?”
“With the future! A future controlled by me!” He stood sharply, and the chair flipped over with a bang that startled Bae and sent him into another fit of frivolous yapping. “This metal will drive industries and innovations, and only I can provide that. Once we push out the foreign influence and place Dmowski in the new presidency, he will elect me as Minister of Industry. I will decide who gets my metal and how it is used.”
He stalked the floor, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He paused, pulling a sparkling splinter of the broken crystal from behind his ear. He held it up to the light, watching the colors move through the tiny fragment. His other hand stayed behind his back, twisting the broken stem between his short fingers.
“You found it, you pompous ass.” Irina pushed Bae to the divan and started to rise.
Marion lunged forward and pushed her back to the cushion. Her head thumped against the wood paneling. Bae snarled and jumped at Marion, who swatted the toy poodle away. It yelped and somersaulted through the air, crashing into the dressing mirror. Marion lurched over Irina like a vulture. A bead of blood rolled down her long alabaster neck from the point of the stem pressed against her pulsing artery.
“You really shouldn’t have mentioned that. If anyone found out about those ruins, the Canadians could claim the site has historic value and take it from us. Poland needs this metal. I will not allow anyone to interfere with our goals. Besides, there are prettier faces with quieter tongues. This marriage no longer suits my needs.” He twisted the stem slowly, drawing more blood. “I planned on pushing you off the train and saying you’d left me. This will be much more satisfying.”
***
“The brakemen are dead, Alex. We really need an assistant if I’m going to have to keep running up and down this damn train,” Wells huffed. His face was paler than normal.
He watched the papers swirl in the wind around the telegraph room. He pulled the engineer’s coat tighter against the bitter cold. Saxton leaned against the wall, shaking his head.
“I assume the telegraph operator didn’t slip and fall out of that open window.”
“No, I would say he was probably thrown out. There’s blood on the sill.” Saxton gestured in that direction. “We should interview the passengers in the lounge and see if any of them remember someone coming up here.”
“Someone other than you?” Wells shut the window somberly.
“That sounds a lot like an accusation, James.” Saxton turned to square himself with Wells and raised his eyebrows. “Is that the case?”
“Who’s to say the brain serum didn’t possess both of you?”
“Preposterous.” Saxton shook his head.
“Is it, old chum? Trudy’s theory about the memories was based on studies of flatworms, if you recall. Flatworm can divide themselves into two different animals. You were the only one that knew my plan involved the brakemen releasing the cars, and now they’re dead.”
“Coincidence. Or perhaps this thing had a plan of its own that required their deaths. I haven’t had the time to go back there and kill anyone. Besides that, it’s a bloody train. You were in the boxcar getting your rifle. I would have had to pass you.”
“The cars are too cold to guess at the times of death. When I was in the engine, you could have killed Trudy and then the brakemen. You left Chuck for dead and then rushed back to the telegraph.”
Saxton pursed his lips. “Who the hell is Chuck?”
“The fireman, not that it matters.” Wells rubbed his weary eyes with his hand. “I really didn’t think it would get to one of us. We should have been more careful with the experiments.”
Saxton slugged Wells in t
he jaw. “You need to listen to yourself.”
The doctor stumbled backwards and pushed his dislodged dentures back into his mouth.
“Bastard!” Wells kicked Saxton’s right knee.
The professor caught himself from collapsing. The kick grated the remains of the Zulu projectile inside his knee and pain fogged his vision long enough for Wells to clutch him by the collar and elbow. Wells twisted and tossed the lanky professor to the floor.
Saxton’s polished shoes battered the overhead light, breaking the bulbs and casting the room into near darkness. Saxton rolled over and charged the geriatric doctor, driving him into the edge of the desk. Wells found the broken telegraph and clapped it against the side of Saxton’s head. The professor fell against the window, shattering it with his face.
“Bollocks!” He kicked Wells in the stomach, doubling him over with a huff. Saxton caught Wells around the neck in a side chancery and squeezed hard, gripping his own sleeve for leverage on the choke.
“Settle yourself, James,” Saxton pleaded.
“Piss off.” Wells reached under Saxton and punched him in the groin, buckling his knees and allowing the venerable doctor to escape the chokehold. He twisted a weathered fist in Saxton’s lapel and punched him in the face repeatedly.
Saxton’s powerful hands clasped around Wells’ throat, and he drove him against the wall. With a growl, he tightened his grip on Wells’ windpipe. Then came the bang, followed by the howl of pain. Saxton stumbled, hopping clumsily and then fell to his backside.
“You shot me, you bell-end!”
Wells worked the 9mm-short from his pocket. “Of course I did, you murderer.”
“I’m not a murderer.” Saxton clutched his ankle and laid back, elevating his foot. He spoke through gritted teeth, “You shot off my toe.”
“You had ten, so quit your whinging. You punched me when you realized I knew what you were.” Wells moved around him cautiously, keeping the barrel pointed at his old friend.
“I punched you when I realized you were about to do something stupid.” He pointed at his leaking shoe. “Like shoot me in the foot, you cock.”
“It’s just a flesh wound.”
Saxton growled angrily and slammed his fists onto the floorboard before gripping his thigh to hold the leg elevated.
“After we left the cargo car, you went with the Countess. You probably already got to the Count, absorbed his knowledge. Then you went to get Trudy, the brakemen, and Chuck.”
“And then I told the Mounties all about myself being an alien lifeform who may or may not be the devil? When did you become a nitwit, James?” He sighed and let his head hit the floor. “I’m much too old to keep my leg up like this for long. If I killed four people, I would have blood on my suit. I haven’t changed, so how do you explain that? Where’s the priest in all of this? You saw him stab Tremblay yourself.”
“You’re right.” Wells nodded. “He could have killed them all. Maybe I’m right about it occupying multiple bodies. Perhaps you share some sort of psychic link.”
“I’m going to link my foot with your ass if you don’t come to your damn senses.”
The wood splintered next to Saxton’s head as the pistol cracked again.
“It took my Trudy, and now it’s taken you. How sad is my life that I give a damn about Alexander Saxton? If you’re not going to tell me where the priest is, then I can just kill you now, I suppose.”
“I came to tell you about Jones’ death and then you told me your stupid plan. I couldn’t—” The car shuddered violently and the wheels screamed against the rails.
“We’re stopping,” Wells said as he steadied himself.
“The Mounties. The ones I telegraphed because I’m not the bloody killer!”
“I wish that were true, old friend.” Wells leveled the pistol at the bridge of Alex’s nose.
***
Tremblay’s body stared at the door with blank, white eyes. Blood poured from the orifices of his head, and Mirov rose slowly, straightening his shirt. The conductor wheezed more than screamed at the sight. His knuckles turned white as he squeezed the door handle tighter.
“I really do wish you had knocked first,” Mirov said softly.
“I… I just… there’s something going on.” The conductor put his hands on his pudgy knees and coughed twice. “Something horrible.”
“Yes, it seems Mr. Tremblay’s wounds were more severe than the doctor thought.”
“No… I mean, yes. That’s not what I… there’s been a shooting. In the crew car. I heard the shot. The madman’s got a gun.”
Mirov smiled at the man. “Yes, he does.” He drew the revolver in a flash and fired.
The conductor’s head whipped back, and he staggered into the corridor before sliding down the wall and slumping over. A shrill scream echoed down the aisle. Mirov rolled his eyes and fired another shot into the man’s heart before stepping into the hallway. He found a young woman near the gangway. He gave her his best smile and held his hands up calmingly.
“This man was infected. He just killed the man in this compartment. I’ve taken care of it, my dear. The Dominion Police are here to keep you safe, just go back to the lounger and remain calm.”
The woman stood still, panting desperately to catch her breath.
“To hell with it all, then.” Mirov took aim and pumped two slugs into her torso.
Mirov spun the pistol around his finger by the trigger guard. The woman squirmed on the floor. Her voice reduced to squeaks and wheezing as she drowned in her blood. Mirov strolled towards her casually, whistling the national anthem. He was getting better at it, but still couldn’t get it quite right. Then came another whistling that interrupted his own jaunty tune and turned to a metallic scream. The train vibrated violently with the locking of the brakes. Mirov checked the watch in his breast pocket.
“We shouldn’t be stopping right now.” He fired his last two shots into the lady’s head and blew the smoke away from the barrel. “What have those damn Brits done now?”
***
The doorjamb splintered as the latch broke through it. Pietro held up the long blade and licked the blood from it with glee. His eyes flashed around the room, taking in the details. Marion Petrovski rose slowly. Irina whimpered in a heap on the divan before him. The dog was finally silent, bleeding out amidst the wreckage of the mirror.
Marion held up the broken stem of the wine glass and let it fall to the carpet. “Calm down, Father. You’re a holy man. You don’t want to do this, Pietro.”
“Pietro?” He laughed hysterically. “He is no longer with us.”
“It really did infect you,” Irina sobbed.
“Infected? No, my sweet Irina. I have become so much more than I ever was before.” Pietro stepped into the private quarters fully. “I have become Leviathan, masticator of the putrescent spirit of man.”
“That sounds quite wonderful.” Marion walked backwards, patting the air in a calming gesture. “My father says I must maintain religious council, and I think a Leviathan is much grander than a mere priest. This is wonderful news, my friend.”
“You requested so many times that I pray with you, Irina. Now I must ask that you prey with me.” He pointed the blade at Marion without taking his eyes off the Countess. “This cockroach has fulfilled his purpose and delivered you to me. You are to be my sacred whore.” He stepped closer, moving her hair away from her eyes. “You are Lamashtu, the Mother of Sorrows. Our union will break the final seal and unleash the Master’s glory upon this cesspool.”
Marion whirled quickly while Pietro was distracted and threw himself at his desk. He fumbled with the tiny knob-handle and ripped the narrow drawer open. He closed his hand around his prize and spun back around, aiming the long black and pearl Colt 1902 at—nothing at all. Pietro was gone.
And so was Irina.
***
The passengers in the lounge car shivered against the biting wind blowing through the open door. A crimson wave of uniforms marched throug
h and corralled them to one side—shouting for them to settle down and keep quiet. The Mounties kept their rifles pointed down, but against their shoulders, ready to fire. The passengers, now more afraid of rescue than infection, huddled together for safety. The police left a gap in their numbers. The man who walked through it made their collective skin prickle and their knees shake harder than the cold ever could.
His broad shoulders, wrapped in the heavy bearskin coat, narrowly fit through the doorway. The white-brown fur of the massive collar framed a stone-hard, pockmarked face. He removed the black papakha from his bald head, and the skin steamed lightly as the frigid winds blew across it. He smiled, and somewhere in the back of the room was a whimper. His teeth were bright and square, pressed together in a mortician’s grin.
He set the hat on a small table, and the man behind him closed the door. He let the smaller man take his coat and stepped closer to the crowd. Eyes a shade lighter than coal surveyed the passengers beneath thick, black brows. He placed his fists on his hips and let his chest swell with a deep breath.
“My name is Captain Kazan.”
Chapter Nineteen
Wells chanced a look at the door. The windows were frosting over as the temperature sank further and all he could see of their rescuers were vague shapes. Everything was foggy internally too. The creature was ahead of him at every juncture. His plan to rescue the others was shot, and Trudy was dead. The creature’s memories were swirling around inside his head, mixing with his own and making it impossible to focus. He worked against the exhaustion, confusion, and grief to make something coherent of the mess.
“I drank the whiskey from your flask, tincture and all.” Saxton rolled to all fours and tried to stand up, only to stumble and fall against the desk. “Bollocks.”
“You did.” Wells rubbed his jaw. “And you couldn’t have killed the brakemen after I told you about it. Unless you told Pietro to do it. Telepathy is no less insane than the rest of this ride. In fact, it might be the most logical form of communication this thing possesses.”
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