Michael turned, glancing back the way he had come. The man, nondescript, casually dressed, opened a toilet and vanished into it. He must be an air-marshal, armed with a Taser, tasked with stopping any ‘shenanigans’ that might occur aboard a long-haul flight such as this. There would be no other reason for those urgent whispers to warn him.
He looked about in the first-class cabin; there was only one empty seat, its tray down, an opened can of Coke sat next to a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, Hastily, taking care to cast about and make sure no-one was watching, Michael made his way across, before fishing into his pocket and retrieving what he needed. A flash of movement from his hand and the deed was done.
The pill he’d dropped into the can wasn’t lethal; it was merely a tranquiliser, designed to knock someone out, to put them to sleep for hours at a time. No, to kill the air-marshal would arouse too much suspicion. The plane might be forced to land too early, before they reached their target.
That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
Michael made his way back towards his own seat, the air-marshal coming back down the corridor now, forcing them to squeeze past each other again.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” the man laughed.
Don’t worry, thought the Brotherhood operative. We will.
He sat down, smiling at the screen before him. They were over France now. Hopefully, in England, the other cogs in the Brotherhood’s vast and well-oiled machine would already be in motion.
***
“G’night, Mary.”
“Seeya, Frank!”
Frank Brown, ‘Brownie’ to his workmates, made his way out of the main operations room of the Heathrow Control Tower. It wasn’t actually night time – in fact, it was still morning. But he’d just worked the night-shift, toiling through the wee hours in his job as air traffic controller, guiding in those late-night flights from Spain and Tenerife, so to his body clock it may as well have been eight or nine at night. He stretched, giving a yawn as he retrieved his things from his locker and pressed the button to the elevator, ready to descend to the ground floor and make his way home.
With a ‘bing’ the doors slid open and Frank had to stop himself from walking forwards and colliding with the figure that was already standing there.
“Bloomin’ ‘eck, Brian, you scared the crap out of me!” he laughed.
Brian, one of Frank’s best friends at work, gave a great grin and slapped him on the shoulder as he exited the lift, ready to begin his day at the coalface.
“Sorry, mate! I’ll be sure to wear my hi-viz next time I use the lift, alright?”
Frank laughed again.
“You’re in a good mood for saying you’re about to start work!”
“What can I say?” the man answered with a smile. “Got out the right side of bed this morning, I guess.”
Something flashed in Brian’s eyes, some flicker of emotion that caused Frank to frown as he entered the lift. The doors closed, that smiling yet disconcerting face suddenly out of sight, and he shrugged. Must’ve just been his tiredness playing tricks on him. Seemed to be affecting his sense of smell, too.
I mean… did the lift usually smell so strongly? It smelt like matches, like burning.
Like sulphur.
Chapter Twelve:
Boos. Jeers. Hisses. The sounds of vehement mockery assailed him, filling the hall as they rose to a crescendo. He had been right.
Parliament thought him off his rocker.
How else could he have phrased things? How else could he have told them about the dangers he’d learned? He staggered backwards, tears stinging his eyes at the fury of the rebuke, the Prime Minister himself looking sadly at him, head shaking in confusion and disappointment in equal measure.
Hurt, desperate and full of anger, Andrews turned to the Woodsman by his side.
“I told you,” he spat. “I told you what to expect, but would you listen? They think I’m a madman! My career, my life; it’s in tatters now, thanks to you.”
Alann raised his hands, placating the irate politician.
“I shall talk to them.”
The warrior strode forwards, taking the Secretary’s place and lifting his head, letting the assembled throng now that he wasn’t cowed by their noise. That he wasn’t a man to be intimidated. He opened his mouth.
“Men and women of Britain,” he began. They didn’t listen, the jeers, the catcalls, simply growing in intensity. The Woodsman frowned and tried again, louder this time, more insistent. “Men and women of Britain! Hear me! What this man speaks is the truth. Your world is under threat. And even now you waste time, arguing amongst yourselves instead of uniting against the common foe.” Still they roared, unable, unwilling to heed him and his warning. “Listen!” he boomed.
But they would not.
Shaking his head in disbelief and wonder, he turned to the people behind him.
Gwenna’s face echoed his feelings.
“They won’t listen,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the din. “They’re like animals, seeking to tear us apart because we say what they don’t wish to hear.”
Another voice called out. It was the Prime Minister himself, his face a mask of annoyance.
“Security; remove these people from the House. This has turned into a farce. And you, Andrews – I’ll be having words with you. Wasting our valuable time.”
The group turned, four armed Policemen coming through the doors to take them away, to lead them from the room. Arbistrath saw them and wrinkled his nose, turning to the Woodsman, but Alann shook his head.
“There’ll be no bloodshed today, Lord Arbistrath. We go with them. We can try again another day. Hopefully one day these people will see sense and believe what we tell them.”
The Policemen took another step forwards.
And the world whited out.
***
Stone regarded the assembled politicians with glowing green eyes. The silence was deafening. But only for an instant, then the uproar began once more, in earnest. The police at Stone’s back, frozen in surprise at this giant’s sudden appearance, then made to lunge forwards, sub-machineguns raised in readiness.
Without even turning to look, Stone raised a hand and clicked his fingers.
The guns turned to ash, which crumbled beneath the officers’ fingers to fall upon the floor. They stopped, stood, staring in disbelief at the empty space their guns used to occupy, before staggering backwards a few steps, looking at each other with fear-filled eyes.
The roar of the politicians grew louder, as men and women expressed their shock, their disbelief and their outrage in the only way they knew how. With hot air.
Andrews stood gawping at the great and powerful figure, then Gwenna and Arbistrath each took a knee. The Woodsman, however, did not. He walked forwards, giving a curt bow, before speaking to the giant.
“We brought your word. They refused to listen. They shout us down, never willing to hear anything that goes against their views.”
Stone smiled.
“They do that,” he told the frustrated Alann. “It’s their way.” He turned his gaze back to the shouting throng. Silence, he commanded.
The very ground shook beneath their feet. Sprinkles of dust fell from the suspended lamps overhead. As the echoes of that single word faded away, silence hung heavy over the chamber, like a thick curtain drawn over to blot out the harsh light of day. Every man and woman stood there, shell-shocked, unable to comprehend what they had just heard.
Even Andrews had to reach out, to steady himself against the wooden bench behind him, his legs gone weak beneath him. How could any mortal man possess a voice of such power? Such authority? He couldn’t speak now, even if the next breath was his last. That voice had told him to be silent.
And he could no more disobey it than a floating feather could disobey the gusting wind.
The titan walked forwards, slowly, gazing about him at the crowd of politicians assembled there. Some of them backed aw
ay. Others sat down. None uttered a word. Within moments, Stone was standing before the Prime Minister himself, towering above the suited man. To his credit, though he gulped, the head of state didn’t back away, instead meeting Stone’s gaze with awestruck and fear-filled eyes.
“Mr Prime Minister,” he addressed the man, his voice no longer filled with such booming power, yet having lost none of its authoritative edge. “What your man Andrews tells you is true. All of it. This world, as you know it, is threatened, by dark forces beyond the power of any fighter jet, any nuclear missile to hold at bay. The only way we can survive is to change. Drastically. First this country. Then the world.”
The politician opened his mouth, making to speak, but no sound came out. With a nod, Stone granted him permission to respond.
“We… I…” The British leader’s usual flowing erudition failed to materialise, stuttering and halting. Nothing in all his years of service, of rising through the ranks, could have prepared him for this. “It’s impossible to believe. You cannot ask that of me. Of us. Talk of other worlds. Of demons and dragons. Of spirits living unseen amongst us. A nightmare apocalypse of a future. It’s nonsense. The ramblings of a madman.”
Stone smiled, his eyes glowing with greater intensity as the Prime Minister quailed, sinking back onto his bench. All about, people began to notice a prickling on their skin; a tiny licking of static that stirred the hairs of the neck and arms. A taste began to make itself known on the tongue.
It tasted like… metal.
“I thought you’d say something like that,” Stone told the man. “It’s a big ask and I’d have been surprised if you’d accepted our words at face value.” He grinned. “So instead of simply taking my word for it… let me show you.” He turned to the room at large. “Let me show you all.”
A flash of lightning. A boom of thunder.
When the stunned police officers finally opened their eyes, blinking furiously, they gazed about in terror.
The House of Commons was empty.
***
Captain Ahmed Shamoon yawned and stretched as the English Channel came into view below. These long flights took it out on him. He wasn’t as young as once he was. Might be time to retire soon, to take that generous pension that Emirates had promised him. No more flying. Just him, his wife, his children. Buy that boat he’d been thinking about. Do some sailing. How long had he had that house on the Isle of Wight, now? Seven years? Been nothing more than a holiday let for most of that. Might be time to think about changing that.
“Stop it,” berated his co-pilot, Hassan, stifling a yawn himself. “Only half hour left; don’t set me off now.”
Ahmed laughed and pressed the button on the intercom.
“Claire? Could we get some coffee in here, please? We’re dead on our feet.”
The door behind them opened with a clunk.
“Blimey, Claire,” remarked the captain without turning. “That was quick.”
“Well,” came a male voice. “I’m well known for my excellent service.”
The two airline men turned with a start at the words.
“Who are you?” demanded Hassan. “You shouldn’t be here.”
His finger reached out, pressed the button that would alert the air-marshal behind that there was trouble afoot. The light glowed. But no help was forthcoming.
“I’m afraid your man is somewhat indisposed right now,” laughed the intruder. But then his face went dark. “Quick question,” he said, eyes darting between the pilot and co-pilot. “How many of you does it take to fly this thing?”
“…One,” replied Hassan. It would be the last thing he ever said.
With a thoughtful nod, the intruder lunged forwards and snapped the co-pilots neck with a loud and sickening crack. Then, to the horrified stare of Captain Shamoon, he dragged the twitching corpse from its seat, throwing it to the floor with a thud, before taking the man’s now unoccupied chair.
“Aaah,” he sighed. “Nice and warm.” He winked at the pilot. “Now, are you going to do what I ask, or am I going to have to find someone else to fly this thing?”
***
“Echo Alpha two-three-seventeen, do you copy? I repeat, Echo Alpha two-three-seventeen, this is London Heathrow, do you copy? Over.”
No response, so she looked up from the display before her and called her boss over.
“Eric? You got a minute?”
Her supervisor sauntered across, a cup of coffee in his hand, leaning over the back of her chair and having to push the bridge of his glasses back up his nose as they threatened to slide off.
“What’s up, Mary?”
“This Emirates flight, two-three-seventeen, due in to the stack in about half an hour or so. They’re off course. Only slightly, but enough. Losing altitude, too. No response on the radio.”
Eric ran worried fingers through his handlebar moustache. This was serious business. Perhaps it was a radio malfunction. But there always existed the slight chance that it was not. One call would put him through to the Royal Air Force and have interceptors in the sky within minutes.
Mary gazed up at him with questioning eyes. He grunted his indecision.
“Give them another try. Then we’ll have to call it in.”
She nodded, pressed the button that activated her radio.
“Echo Alpha two-three-seventeen, this is London Heathrow. You are off-course and heading for restricted airspace. Do you copy? Repeat, this is London Heathrow, do you copy? Over.”
No sooner had she spoken the last word than her screen went black, all the lights of her console dying in an instant. She looked about; the same had happened to all of those of her neighbouring workers, too.
“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Eric, stepping backwards and gazing about in dismay. A figure caught his eye at the end of the room, standing by the open fuse-box that supplied power to the entire system. “Brian! What the hell are you doing? Are you insane?”
Eric stalked forwards as confused cries filled the air, then stopped, peering through his thick glasses. Was Brian… was he smoking? It looked like he was smouldering, his clothes, no, his very skin looked like it was beginning to burn. Holy shit, had he electrocuted himself whilst fiddling with the fuses? No, no it didn’t look like it; he was backing away from the box now, turning, a smile on his face. He was still smoking and, if anything, the clouds of black and reeking smoke began to billow from him with more ferocity than before.
“What… what’s going on, Brian?”
As the smoke began to waft up to encompass his face, Brian’s voice could be heard coming through the cloud, beginning to draw out into a long and sibilant hiss.
“It’s… beginning…”
Before Eric could move, before he could frame a reply, before he could even think, Brian leapt forth from that great and stinking cloud of sulphurous smoke. Though it was no longer Brian. No longer even human.
The Khrda lunged, tearing the supervisor’s head from his shoulders with a single swipe of that black and serrated dagger. With an inhuman shriek of bloodlust, the assassin leapt about the control room, screams of terror filling the air as lifeblood spurted forth by the gallon to paint red the great, slanted windows of the tower.
***
Where were they? Andrews gazed about in astonishment. That by now familiar feeling of being – how did they say it? Translocated? – had faded and they had found themselves somewhere else. They were on a rooftop. Looking over the edge it looked… it looked like London.
It was London.
Though not of this time. But some other time. The sky was a ruddy orange, despite the sun that hung high overhead telling him it was midday. Smoke filled the air, acrid, pungent, stinging the eyes and bringing a tickling cough to the throat. Twisted, rusting vehicles clogged the streets. The Thames, far off in the distance, ran red, like blood. A moaning, an incessant drone from below, and Andrews looked down, the other politicians aping him in turn.
Crowds of people. Though were they people? Not anymore. T
hey moved in great shuffling hordes, forcing their way without care through the twisted spars of jagged metal, through the rubble, the concrete, the glass that barred their way; heedless of any injury to themselves. Should one of their number fall, the others marched on regardless, crushing them underfoot.
It was the Prime Minister that spoke first, his voice trembling.
“What… what is this place? Is this some kind of trick? Some illusion?”
“No, Prime Minister,” came Stone’s voice from behind them. “No trick. No illusion. This is the future. This is London, should you continue to pay no mind to my warnings. A land of the walking, mindless dead; shambling corpses, souls trapped within, aware of everything that’s going on, but unable to do anything about it; for their bodies are now no more than vehicles for dark parasites from beyond.”
Tearing his horrified eyes away from the scene before him, the British leader looked at the titan.
“How could this happen?”
“The Earth stands divided. And as long as it continues to do so, it shall fall. When the enemy comes – and come they will – they will arrive in numbers beyond counting; great carrier vessels of dark iron will fill the sky, releasing their payloads upon the Earth. Gateways will open, from which will pour hellish foot troops and infernal war machines beyond your means to defeat. The enemy will come here and they will do to the Earth what they have done to countless worlds before; they will suck it dry of all that is good, all that is pure. They will drain it of life, till nothing remains. Only horror. Only despair.”
Gasps from the crowded members of Parliament, as a flock of creatures descended from the hellish, orange sky. Like gargoyles, they were, with hideous, leering faces and flapping bat-wings. They swooped, shrieking with hunger, down towards the rooftop, the gathered mortals shrinking away in fear as they came.
But at the last second, a shadow blotted out the sun; a vast creature, like a wrinkled worm the size of a subway train, erupted from the side of a shattered office-building, lunging out to swallow the flying gargoyles in its great, fang-lined maw. Those gargoyles fortunate enough to escape being devoured scattered, spraying great gobs of acidic saliva in protest, that sizzled against the worm’s hide. But its hunger was sated now anyway, and it withdrew back into the groaning building, concrete and glass falling to crush the crowd of mindless humans down in the streets as it retreated back into its lair.
Bloodless Revolution (The Graeme Stone Saga Book 5) Page 15