by Mike Bennett
Ben looked over at McKinley and Harris, both of whom continued to ignore them. ‘Yeah, let’s hope so, Milord.’
But they didn’t. No new passengers boarded. Harris and McKinley regarded each other nervously, as if psychically debating their next move. McKinley reached for the door handle, but Harris shifted his foot in front of the door before taking off his hat and laying it on the seat beside him, as if making himself more comfortable.
‘Thinking of getting off?’ said Underwood to McKinley. ‘Not sure where you are, eh? This is Portland Road. Perhaps you missed the sign?’
‘Thank you,’ said Harris, his eyes not leaving McKinley’s face. ‘We know where we are.’
‘Oh, so you do speak English,’ said Underwood. ‘I thought you might be visitors to our fair city from foreign shores.’
‘No, just a little tired is all,’ said Harris. ‘Please excuse us, gentlemen.’
There was whistle from the platform and the train answered it with a short toot before moving off. As the carriage moved again into darkness, Underwood said, ‘I say, I couldn’t help but notice your rings. They’re very … distinctive. I believe I’ve seen a similar design recently, but I’m damned if I can remember where.’ He smiled to see the furrows of anxiety on both men’s brows deepen at his words. ‘Do they represent anything in particular?’ When they offered no reply, Underwood turned his questioning on Ben. ‘What about you, Flinch? Have you ever seen anything like those rings before?’
‘Matter of fact Milord, I reckon I have.’
‘Oh? Where was it? Pray tell.’
‘It was at Lord Pelham’s country estate last October, if I remember rightly.’
‘Pelham’s? By Jiminy, of course it was. I remember now.’ Underwood noticed the first beads of sweat breaking across McKinley’s brow. ‘Chap was spying through a window. They loosed the dogs on him, didn’t they? I seem to remember the ring was about the only bit of him that survived.’ He turned to Harris, who sat along the seat from him. ‘Wouldn’t be a friend of yours, by any chance?’
Harris’s face had turned red with rage. He sprang to his feet and reached into his coat, ‘God damn you!’ He drew out his revolver and aimed it straight at Underwood’s chest, but all the time he managed to keep his eyes from direct contact with Underwood’s. ‘Yes, he was a friend of mine. And you murdered him!’
‘Dear God, Harris! What are you doing?’ said McKinley. He drew his leg up onto the seat and frantically fumbled a knife from a garter scabbard before pushing his back was up against the window of the carriage so that he was facing Ben along the seat. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘He’s onto us! We should kill him now and have done with it.’
‘That’s not our decision, we have orders.’
‘To blazes with our – !’
Ben sprang from his seat, launching himself in a tackle aimed at Harris’s middle.
Harris reacted incredibly fast, he jumped back and slashed his gun in a backhanded blow that caught Ben across the temple and sent him tumbling into McKinley’s lap. McKinley grabbed him brought the knife up against his throat.
‘Be still, damn it!’ said McKinley. ‘Or so help me, I’ll cut you.’
Underwood had watched the struggle with cool interest, but now he spoke up. ‘Do as he says, Ben. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure these gentlemen can be reasoned with.’ He sought their eyes, but found both assailants resolute in avoiding his gaze. He rapped his knuckles impatiently on the window. ‘I say, why won’t either of you chaps look at me when I’m talking to you?’
‘Because we know what you are, Milord,’ said Harris, ‘which is why this gun is loaded with silver bullets.’
‘Oh my,’ said Underwood. ‘Aren’t I the special one. So tell me, just what is it you think I am?’
‘A vampire,’ said Harris. ‘Spawn of Hell.’
‘Kill ’em, Milord,’ said Ben. ‘Don’t mind me.’
Underwood looked at where McKinley’s knife was pressed against Ben’s carotid artery. One slip and the boy would be dead. ‘Well, that’s the thing you see, Flinch,’ he said, holding up his hands and rising slowly. ‘I do mind you – or at least, I mind your dying.’
‘Get back, demon,’ said Harris.
‘Very well,’ said Underwood. He turned smartly on his heel and flung open the carriage door. It blew back with a clatter, and an acrid blast of white smoke surged into the compartment.
Harris closed his eyes and felt the revolver kick in his hand. He hadn’t intended to fire, but shock had tightened his finger on the trigger. With his gun still raised before him, Harris squinted through the smoke that swirled around the carriage. The doorway yawned onto the rushing blackness outside, its door banging angrily in the wind – but of the vampire, there was no trace, not even a drop of blood.
‘Oh, my God!’ said McKinley. ‘You did it! You killed him!’
Harris dropped onto his seat. ‘Did I? I didn’t mean to.’
‘He must have fallen out of the door.’
‘Yes,’ Harris felt a sudden surge of relief. ‘By God, that’s it! He’s dead! I’ve bagged the bli – ’ He stopped speaking, interrupted by the sudden flickering of the gaslight. Harris, McKinley and Ben all turned their eyes to the ceiling in time to see the flame sputter out, leaving the carriage in total darkness.
‘Dead?’ With the knife still close to his throat, Ben laughed. ‘Oh, you should be so lucky, boys.’
Underwood had anticipated the shock that would ensue upon his opening the door. As the smoke had rushed in, he’d grabbed the edge of the doorway and thrown himself outside, swinging his body around to slam against the outside of the carriage where the hundreds of tiny adhesive hairs on the palms of his hands then took purchase on the smooth surface of the train. As he climbed lizard-like to the roof of the train, he heard the gunshot in the carriage beneath him. He pressed his ear to the roof of the carriage, and through the rumble of motion, heard voices within – including Ben’s. Reassured, he got to his feet and went on.
Carried in the smoke from the engine’s funnel, a blizzard of soot – tiny flecks of coke ash – stung his eyes, but despite that he could still see what he was looking for; having attended a shareholders’ tour of the Metropolitan prior to the railway’s opening, he knew that the gas lighting in the carriages was supplied by a large India rubber bag housed in a box on top of the carriage. Now, he fell upon the box, turned the catch and opened the lid. He reached inside and turned the gas tap to close. The first class carriage was divided into six separate compartments, all of which now flickered into darkness. Underwood grinned at the chorus of screams that broke out beneath him. He stood up – the tunnel was high enough for him to do so – and began running along the carriage roofs towards the engine. Up ahead, distorted by the rippling heat from the engine’s funnel, a light appeared; it was another train, travelling towards them from the opposite direction. Underwood dropped down and pressed his body flat to the roof, not wanting to be seen by the other driver. The carriage beneath him shook as the two trains thundered past each other, and Underwood held his breath as his body was wreathed in smoke. Once the other train had passed, he got up and ran on to where the last carriage joined the engine.
Unusually for trains of the time, Metropolitan trains had no driver’s cab, leaving the two-man crew completely exposed. Underwood looked down at them, lit by their lantern and the orange glow from the furnace. The driver was focused on the tunnel ahead, while the fireman, gleaming with sweat, was fully intent on stoking the fire. Both of them were oblivious to the distant screams behind them due to the roar of the engine. Underwood leapt down onto the footplate behind them.
Turning to take a fresh shovel-load of coke, the fireman froze in astonishment to find Underwood waiting for him. ‘’Ere! What the bloody hell - ’ His words stopped in his throat at the sight of Underwood’s eyes.
Underwood said nothing; he merely made a gentle downward gesture with his hand. As if happy to oblige, the fireman lay down on
the footplate and went immediately to sleep. Underwood stepped over him and tapped the driver on the shoulder. He turned and, like his colleague had been, was immediately lost in Underwood’s eyes, and when Underwood told him to stop the train, he did so without hesitation.
From his shareholders’ tour, Underwood knew that the engine was of a special design that channeled most of the steam back into a cold water chamber, thus preventing steam from completely engulfing the tunnels. Now, as the train slowed to a halt, Underwood told the driver to release the steam so that it did just that. As steam began to billow out around the engine, Underwood informed the driver that the train had, in fact, broken down. It was now the driver’s responsibility to change the emergency signals and stop all other trains, before then going on to evacuate the passengers and lead them down the tunnel to the station ahead. Without a murmur of protest, the driver obeyed, and as he hurried off to attend to the signals, Underwood climbed down to the tracks. He walked through the steam to the edge of the tunnel. Up ahead, he could see the distant glow of the next station. If he could see them, then they could see the train. They may even send help. ‘Damn!’ he muttered. His moustache tickled his lips. He went to correct it and found it limp; the steam had utterly defeated his moustache wax. He’d lost his hat back in the train carriage, and now on feeling his hair, he noticed with annoyance that it too was in complete disarray. ‘Confound it! I must look an awful fright.’ He was thinking of Madam Sayonovich, over whose crystal ball he’d been looking forward to a little flirting. ‘Oh well,’ he said as he turned and started trotting back alongside the train. ‘Hopefully tonight will still have its compensations.’
The windows of all but one of the carriages glowed through the fog of smoke and steam that enshrouded the train. The atmosphere was sulfurous indeed, recalling to mind the phrase Flinch had used to describe it: “choke damp”. Underwood pressed his handkerchief over his nose and mouth and quickened his pace, listening keenly for the sound of Ben’s voice through the cacophony of shouting, weeping, and coughing all along the length of the train. Some passengers had already exited the first class carriage and were groping their way along the tunnel wall towards the engine, being led by a middle-aged man with a military air who had clearly taken control of the crisis. As Underwood came up to the carriage, he came upon a young man who was reaching up to a woman who stood clinging to the doorway of the compartment for dear life.
‘Come on, Felicity dear, I’ve got you.’
Underwood looked past the struggling couple and into the tunnel beyond. His nocturnal vision allowed him to see in the dark, though the acrid atmosphere was irritating his eyes just as it was everyone else’s. There was no sign of Ben and his two assailants, so they must still be aboard. ‘Here,’ he said to the man, ‘Permit me, sir.’
The young man stood aside and fell to coughing as Underwood reached up to Felicity and met her eyes. ‘Come, Madam, there’s nothing to fear. Jump.’
For a second Felicity was taken aback by the man’s eyes; they had the uncanny look of a nocturnal predator’s. Then, she forgot that and everything else, took his hands and jumped down into his arms. She embraced him, feeling a gratitude she might have thought out of proportion had she been able to think at all. Then, he was easing her from himself and her fiancé Walter was there. Walter thanked the stranger who smiled at them before vanishing into the mist and from the couple’s memories forever.
Underwood now came to the compartment that he had been travelling in. The door was closed. He sprang up and clung to the wall of the carriage. He looked inside; it was deserted. But the door on the other side, the one he’d exited from earlier, still hung open. None of the other passengers were getting out on that side for fear of trains coming in the opposite direction. Underwood had assumed Harris and McKinley would have done the same. He cursed and quickly scaled to the roof of the train. Now looking down between the east and westbound lines, he searched the darkness towards the front of the train. On seeing nothing, he looked back in the direction that the train had been travelling from, and there, about ten yards beyond the end of the final carriage, he saw Ben lying face down between the rails. So, they were heading back to Portland Road. He leapt off the train and raced to Ben’s side.
‘Flinch! Flinch, are you all right?’ He crouched beside him and his nose caught the aroma of fresh blood. Then he saw the wound at the back of Ben’s head. It was a short gash; doubtless the result of a blow with the butt of the knife or revolver. He was relieved to see that the blood was beginning to clot. ‘Ben? Can you hear me, lad?’
Ben moved an arm and tried to raise his head. He groaned.
‘Bloomin’ ’eck, my ’ead! I wouldn’t go with them, sir. Made meself a proper burden, I did.’
Underwood patted him on the shoulder. ‘And this is the thanks you get, eh? Fortunately, they only gave a bang on the noggin, Flinch. A nasty cut, but you’ll live. Here,’ he pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it lightly to the wound. ‘You stay there and rest yourself and I’ll be back for you just as soon as I’ve taken care of them.’
‘But … what about trains, Milord? It’s not safe.’
‘Oh, I’ve taken care of that, Flinch, don’t worry. I’ve got a man on the signals. You just stay here and rest and I’ll be back before they get the trains running again.’
Ben sank back down. The stones that bedded the railway sleepers were painful against his cheek, but he barely noticed them. ‘All right, sir. I’ll be fine in a minute.’
‘Of course you will.’ Underwood stood up and removed his frock coat, which he rolled up and placed gently beneath Ben’s face. He then kicked off his shoes and began unbuttoning his shirt. ‘In the meantime Flinch, keep an eye on my clothes, will you? There’s a good fellow.’
Harris and McKinley were running in almost total darkness. Their only sense of direction came from the rails at their feet, and gas lights that glowed dimly along the tunnel walls every twenty-five yards or so. The men stumbled in between the tracks, frequently tripping over railway sleepers and other obstacles; their clothes were now torn, bloody and covered in streaks of soot. Harris was the worst; soon after they’d fled the train he’d tripped and pitched face-first into a railway sleeper. McKinley had helped him up again, but now, as they staggered into the pale yellow light of the next gas jet, Harris fell against the tunnel wall and panted, ‘I can’t, McKinley. My head – I’m concussed. Balance is gone, I’m seeing double. Just leave me.’
McKinley saw that his friend’s face was covered in blood. ‘No, you’ve got to keep going, George. He’ll kill you! You can’t just lie here and wait for it.’
‘We don’t even know that he’s going to try to come after us. He’s probably found his pal and the two of them are long gone by now. But if not … ’ Harris pulled out his gun. ‘He’ll have to contend with this. I was the crack shot of my regiment, remember? I could shoot the feather off a hussar’s hat from half a mile away, headache or not.’ He gave a brave smile and waved McKinley onwards. ‘Go on, old man. I’ll be fine.’
‘Please, George! It’s not far back to Portland Road. It can’t be, we’ve been running for bloody ages.’
‘Well then you’d better get going, hadn’t you? We’ve got vital information. One of us has got to get back and tell Christie what were up against.’
‘I’m not leaving you here.’
‘Yes you bloody well are, and at the double, too. Just be sure to send help back when you get to Portland Road. All right?’
Reluctantly, McKinley nodded. ‘All right, I’ll send help. Never fear, George.’ He patted Harris on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, old man.’
‘And to you.’
McKinley turned and ran on into the tunnel towards Portland. The tracks snaked ahead of him through the darkness dimly reflecting the next faraway light. He got about ten yards when a cry of astonishment echoed after him. He stopped and turned to see Harris now aiming back into the tunnel behind him. ‘Harris! What is it?’ Harris didn’t reply. Mc
Kinley swore and started back towards his friend. ‘Hang on, George, I’m coming!’
Harris shouted to him without turning. ‘No! Get out of here! It’s coming!’
“It”? The word struck McKinley as odd. He stopped about fifteen feet behind Harris, and bent to pull his knife from his garter scabbard, his eyes never leaving the scene ahead. Beyond Harris, all he could see was darkness broken only by the receding glow of gaslights down the tunnel. Then he froze as a black shape flickered through the spill of a distant light. Then a few moments later, it flashed past the next light, and then the next, coming towards them at a speed to rival that of any train – but it wasn’t a train; it was silent – and it was flying, racing towards them through spills of ochre light. A vulture? No, not a vulture; it was a too big.
The sudden boom of Harris’ revolver broke McKinley’s paralysis; he pulled his knife free and straightened up. He could now hear the beating of huge wings approaching.
Harris fired again.
McKinley held his knife before him and whispered, ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, protect us.’
Then, through the plume of gun smoke swirling ahead of Harris, McKinley saw the full horror of the creature as it rushed out of the black upon them.
McKinley had only seconds to grasp what he was seeing – a bat, a giant bat, it seized Harris by the shoulders and tore him off his feet. McKinley felt the knife fall from his fingers. He thrust his hands out before him defensively as Harris crashed into him, knocking him off his feet and sending him flying backwards. In the seconds it took for him to fall, McKinley saw the hell-spawned monster and Harris, screaming, sweep over him. Then, mercifully, his head struck the ground and he slipped into a blessed darkness. But Harris’ screams followed him, not letting him go; he could hear their tortured echoes receding down the tunnel. Oh God, end it, he thought, end it! As if in answer to his prayer, Harris’s screams abruptly fell silent.