‘Probably about as long as four of us would have lasted,’ I said. ‘And to be honest, I don’t care. I’m going to destroy that place. If you don’t fancy it, you can open the door for me and then get out. I don’t mind. But I’m taking that torture chamber down.’
‘Stanly,’ began Daryl, but before he could continue the other door opened of its own accord. I tensed my body, ready for more fighting, but I wasn’t ready enough. Something came through the door and struck me in the face. I tumbled sideways through the air, hit the wall and fell to the floor, forcing myself to get up before I could register the pain properly.
I turned and faced my attacker and my stomach knotted, my skin rippling with disgust.
It was about the size of a bull, and a sickly yellow colour, with six chunky legs and a mass of tentacles writhing on its arched back. It must have been one of those that hit me because my face stung like it had been whipped. The tentacles were disgusting, but it was the face that made my blood ice over. It was massive and flat, its wide mouth crazy with teeth, and covered with what seemed like thousands of eyes, all different colours, all blinking out of sync with one another. The combined sound of all those eyes blinking was sloppy and wet, and when you added that to the rustling made by the tentacles, it added up to about the vilest thing I’d seen since . . .
Smiley Joe.
I’d just started to wonder why the thing wasn’t coming at me when someone walked out from behind it: a tall, heavy-set man in a brown suit, with cropped hair and a mean green-eyed face. Beyond him, in the corner of an identical staging area, was the kid I’d seen at Blue Harvest, slumped unconscious, still wearing his green coat. ‘Hello, Stanly,’ said the man. ‘My name is Morter Smith.’ He offered a thin, vampiric smile. ‘Get him,’ he said.
‘Daryl, Skank, RUN!’ I yelled.
The beast leapt towards me and lunged with its tentacles, but I curved around it and positioned a crate between the two of us for protection. The thing was quick though, it spun around and thundered back towards me, extending tentacles to grip my crate and fling it aside. Skank was firing with his gun but either he kept missing or this thing wasn’t worried about bullets. Daryl ran towards it but it batted him away with a tentacle and I winced as he struck the wall. ‘I said run!’ I yelled.
‘We’re not leaving you with that!’ said Skank.
‘Bloody right!’ said Daryl, getting back to his feet. His hackles rose and he bared his teeth, preparing to rejoin the melee.
‘No!’ I yelled. ‘Get out of here! Help the others! They’re in trouble! I can handle this!’
‘I—’
‘HELP THE OTHERS!’ Adrenaline flooded my body and I lashed out with my mind, lifting Skank and Daryl up and depositing them firmly on the other side of the big door. I yanked it closed a split second before Daryl could jump back through, and allowed myself a micro-sigh of relief before another tentacle came snaking towards me. I dodged and flew up to the ceiling, momentarily out of reach of the revolting thing, and tried to concentrate on it, to grip it and throw it or bash it against the wall, but it was too quick and forced me to dodge again, this time by going down. I ducked, only just missing its mouth, rolled underneath and rocketed between its many legs, picking up crates and lobbing them at it from every side. The creature deflected them almost playfully with those bastard tentacles. I flew as fast as I could to the other end of the room, spun and dropped down onto my feet so I could have a quick break from flying and concentrate. Breathe. Breathe. I stared at the advancing monster, focused and hurled it at the wall.
At least, that was my intention. But the beast didn’t move. It just shrieked and kept coming.
What the hell . . .
Telekinesis didn’t work on Smiley Joe, remember?
No. NO! No way no way no way this is not FAIR . . .
It worked on the monster dog though! You got its eyes!
And Sharon . . . the Worm . . .
You just need to concentrate . . .
Unfortunately it was pretty difficult to concentrate properly with this pile of hellspawn coming at me, tentacles writhing, teeth snapping. I dodged again, picked up another crate and hit the thing in the face. It screamed its awful scream but it didn’t stop, it just came at me with a renewed vengeance, and the whole time Smith was just standing, watching, not even laughing, just watching.
This was a trap . . .
This thing is going to kill you.
Nothing I did worked. Any projectiles were knocked aside with embarrassing ease and I wasn’t able to stay still long enough to get a proper psychic grip. After another failed attack I flew back to the far wall, turned and waited . . . but this time the beast stopped as well, staring at me, tentacles moving like long slimy sea plants. The eyes were definitely the worst part, every one of them horrible, alien, staring, like the eyes of a Martian shark.
It was giving me time.
Why was it giving me time?
Was it giving me a chance?
This is ridiculous. I can throw a truck but I can’t throw this piece of crap?
Damn it, Stanly, CONCENTRATE.
I stared, letting all of the energy buzz and spark and spit inside my brain, thinking of bottles of fizzy drink that had been shaken too much, thinking of overloading electricity sub-stations, of solar flares, thought and thought and thought until it felt as though my eyes were going to burst in their sockets, and I reached out with my powers, with everything that made them mine, that made me me, and wrapped my mind around the body of the beast.
I have it!
YES!
Wrenching a roar from the pit of my stomach I sent the creature sprawling into the wall so hard that it made a pretty impressive dent. It howled again but recovered instantly and came at me, still shrieking. I moved to dodge but this time I was too slow and a tentacle caught me on the side of my head. I slammed into the floor, face down, and warm blood spurted from my nose. It hurt. A lot. Then another tentacle came, like a steel boot in my side, and I felt myself flop through the air and thud against the wall. I hit the floor again, completely winded, and those godawful tentacles wrapped me up and started bouncing me around the room, against the ceiling, the floor, the wall, the ceiling, the floor, the wall, the floor. Then it flung me at the far wall and let me fall to the ground. I spat a huge spray of bitter blood, my body so overwhelmed with pain that I could barely see, but I made myself, forced myself to get to my feet, staggering drunkenly. I picked up a crate with my brain – because physical pain is physical pain it’s nothing to do with your mind your mind is fine your mind is fine yeah maybe half blind with agony but otherwise fine – and threw it, but my aim was off. I was seeing triple. Six Krustys, my brain burbled uselessly as the crate sailed past the creature and broke open against the wall. I stumbled and fell to my knees and realised that I wasn’t totally sure how to get up.
‘Hmm,’ said Smith. ‘That didn’t go very well, did it? Bring him here.’
Almost tenderly, the creature scooped me up with its tentacles and took me over to Smith, holding me up so that we were face to face. A pathetic trophy. I was too bruised and beaten to resist, I just hung limply, very aware that I’d never bled this much before, not even when I’d been shot that time. I tried to focus on the multiple Smiths staring into my eyes. ‘Stanly Bird,’ he said.
I gurgled something.
‘You know,’ said Smith, ‘considering all the trouble you’ve given our soldiers, I’m quite seriously disappointed to finally meet you.’ His voice was harsh, chalky, cold. ‘Everything you knew is over,’ he said, his translucent green eyes flashing but empty. ‘You might as well try to accept that.’ The last thing I saw before everything bled away was a face with a thousand eyes, every one blinking at me . . . and then there was nothing.
PART TWO
?????????
My head hurts.
?????????????????????
What happened?
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Kloe . . .
Chapter Nineteen
PAIN IS LESS . . .
I feel like I can open my eyes.
I open my eyes and get shakily to my feet.
Where . . .
I’m in a white room, featureless, a perfect cube. Maybe fifteen by fifteen feet, no visible way in or out. There is a sound, a heavy humming, like a distant generator. It seems to come from above, although disorientated isn’t a disorientated enough word for how disorientated I am, so it could be coming from anywhere. I could be imagining it. No smell . . . almost an anti-smell, the place is so clean and sterile that there’s just an absence of odour, save my own sweat and the rusty tink of old blood.
I look down at myself. I’m barefoot, and my clothes have been replaced by light blue hospital pyjamas. My legs suddenly feel as though they’re about to give way and I have to steady myself against a wall.
A thousand different-coloured eyes watching . . . and then an impact, and the echo of a cold voice . . .
Why didn’t I fly?
Too weak to fly.
I remember thinking that.
Too weak to do anything.
Too weak to fight.
I’m weak now, and aching all over, my limbs full of fresh, rapidly drying cement. I must be malnourished . . . I have no idea how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t seem to be on my side at the moment. Mouth is dry. Brain seems to be functioning as well as can be expected, but I’m buggered if it can actually make sense of what’s going on. I run my hands through my hair, over my chin. Several days’ worth of stubble. I remember the last time I shaved, it wasn’t that much stubble ago. That must mean I’ve been here since about yesterday? A day and a half at the most? Is that reassuring?
I have no idea.
I move slowly and unsteadily around the room, feeling my way along the walls, searching for anything that could be a hidden exit, weak points, but there is nothing. I remember the last time I was in a similar situation. Smiley Joe was on his way. At least I had company, though . . .
Use your powers, you idiot.
I look up. Can’t reach the ceiling. I turn to the nearest wall and concentrate, fashion a ball of psychic energy, feel it expanding until my vision clouds slightly, and then let it fly invisibly towards the wall. No impact, no sound. It should have dented it at least, surely? Nothing. Bollocks. I look up again. Maybe something in the ceiling, ventilation of some kind? I close my eyes for a second, trying to regain some strength, kick off from the floor, head straight up . . .
Except I don’t. I jump about a foot, then drop down again. My legs abruptly give way and I’m on my back, coughing, groaning.
I can’t fly.
I can’t fly.
What the . . .
It must be exhaustion. That telekinesis really took it out of me. Just exhaustion. If I rest for a while and try again . . .
I already know I’m kidding myself. I can’t fly.
It’s gone.
Does that mean the telekinesis is gone too? Maybe the wall’s just too tough, that’s why there wasn’t a dent or anything, and the flying thing is just exhaustion? I think it but not one part of me believes it. It’s all the same. If one thing isn’t working . . . but I felt it in my head, I felt the energy build up, I felt myself release it and . . .
Did I?
I don’t know . . .
I look desperately around the room again for something, anything to move. Not even a speck of dust. I pull off the hospital shirt and throw it on the floor, wincing as I take in the pile of bruises and cuts that my upper body has become. I look down at the shirt, pathetic and crumpled on the ground, and concentrate as hard as is humanly possible. Filter out the echoing words, my own internal rantings, everything, until my mind is completely clear, an open snowy plain as empty as this room. I lift with my brain . . . and the shirt stays where it is. I try again. Nothing. Over and over again I try to move the shirt, make it rustle, even a tiny bit, but there’s nothing, no effect, not a goddamn thing. Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT. Fear and confusion react like two combustible chemicals and rage bellows through me, fiery and energising. I run at the wall and pound on it with my fists, shouting. ‘Smith! Smith, where are you? What the hell have you done to me? Where am I? Smith! SMITH!’
Silence, apart from my own ragged breathing. As quickly as it came the rage is gone and I’m exhausted, totally spent, and hurting. I collapse and crawl over to the shirt, pull it back on, sit cross-legged. I’m out of ideas, out of options. All I can do is wait for something to happen, for someone to come. Can’t plan a surprise attack. My powers are gone and I’m not physically strong, I never have been. Can’t even make myself strong . . .
I close my eyes and think back to the beginning of all this, searching through the blurry, fragmented mush, vainly trying to make sense of it all, to find something that I missed, something that can help, a tiny shred of comfort. Something to suggest that this whole thing hasn’t been the most gigantic balls-up ever imagined.
All I can manage is we were stupid.
In fact, stupid is the understatement of pretty much forever. We walked merrily into a trap, and now Maguire is dead, and probably Box, and who knows what’s happened to the others?
I remember the fight, feel the echo of savage blows on my body, and I force myself to my feet and try to fly again, jumping and concentrating with everything I’ve got, which admittedly isn’t much. Once again I fall back to the floor, flightless, powerless, useless.
I lean against the wall and try to assemble some thoughts. The beast battered me, that much is certain, but it looks like my captors have patched me up. I’ve been here about a day, I think. I haven’t actually got a clue, but that’s my guess and I’m sticking with it.
What do they want with me?
They’ve taken away your powers. Isn’t it obvious? They want you out of the game.
Then surely they’d have killed me?
‘What do you want?’ I yell. ‘Smith! What do you want with me?’ I didn’t really expect anything to happen, but shouting makes me feel a little better.
This is a lie.
I hug my knees to my chest. At least I know Kloe and Tara are safe . . . or are they? Now I think about it, if the whole assault on the Angel Group was a trap, couldn’t that have been a trap too? Get me well and truly out of the way so they could go after Kloe and Tara? Names and faces and possibilities tangle around one another in my damaged brain, ideas igniting and burning out too fast to consider properly. There was nothing in the note from future me about this, nothing. Why wouldn’t he . . . I . . . have mentioned this? Why would I let myself trundle into a trap like this?
Maybe I need to be here. Maybe this is supposed to happen?
That must be it.
I have to stay calm, think in the here and now. I have to assume that Kloe and Tara are OK because right now there is nothing I can do for them. When – if – I escape I can go to them, but for now I have to bury the faces of possible traitors, the nagging suspicion that Maguire or Box might have been stringing us along. Or Nailah? Lauren, even? Now that I think about it, it could have been anyone, if it was anyone . . .
Is Daryl in on it?
No. No he isn’t.
I know he isn’t.
I ignore myself and stand up again, but even as my eyes dart around the poker-faced walls of my cell, I know it’s pointless. I’m not getting anything done until someone opens a door. If this place even has a door. Maybe they assembled it around me while I was unconscious.
Maybe this is my tomb.
This is not a comforting thought, and I have not-comforting thoughts to spare, so I bag it up with the suspicion and paranoia and throw it out to be collected later. There must be something I can do . . .
A piercing whine of static cuts throug
h the sterile air. I press my hands to my ears, wincing at the intensity of the sound, and now there’s a voice, sexless, amplified so that it echoes around the room like the malevolent ghost of a dead sound wave. ‘Close your eyes.’
‘Why?’ I yell.
It repeats itself. Identical, no intonation. ‘Close your eyes.’
‘Why—’
It doesn’t ask again, and then I understand. The room fills with light, so bright that my retinas are scorched, electrified. I fall to my knees, clutching my face, blinded. I can feel myself turning upside-down. Colours and fragments of myself and the featureless room kaleidoscope in my head, it seems to—
Chapter Twenty
WHEN I WAKE up again I’m attached to the wall, upright, with black metal straps around my wrists and ankles. There is a man standing in front of me. Brown suit, arms folded, staring me straight in the face. I know him. His shape, the narrow green laser orbs in his eye sockets.
‘Smith,’ I say.
He doesn’t nod or smile, doesn’t speak. He just regards me with those eyes. They’re nasty eyes, full of bad deeds and worse intentions, and I’m scared, but I don’t show it. I can’t. Stay nonchalant. He’s got me by the balls, so to speak, but I’m not giving him any more satisfaction than he’s already got. As far as I’m concerned this happens on a regular basis, and it doesn’t worry me. In fact, being strapped to the wall in some surreal Prisoner-esque jail cube is a refreshing change of pace. I hold his gaze and smile brightly. ‘How’s it going?’
He says nothing.
‘Where’s your mate?’
Nothing.
‘The tentacled flat-face eyeball cow thing?’ I offer. ‘Not around any more? Rental period expire? You have to take him back to Pets At Home? Hope they don’t mind him coming back with a few—’
‘Stop talking,’ says Smith. ‘I’m not here for banter.’ So. He obviously has no patience for my particular brand of sparkling wit. Hopefully that’ll come in handy because it’s about the only weapon I have at the moment.
Ace of Spiders Page 26