The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  ‘Dead-tunnels?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Subterranean passages used for disposing of dead bodies discreetly,’ Jim explained. ‘They usually lead to and from morgues, to cemeteries. Or charnel pits, if you believe the stories.’

  ‘If it’s any more than a story,’ Marie said, ‘then we’re in the right place. Stay sharp, Captain Denny. It seems to me that a certain enemy you faced recently would rather like one of these dead-tunnels to lurk in.’

  The meaning was not lost on Jim, and now, in the darkness, he wondered if he had done the right thing bringing just half a dozen men down here. He remembered the pallid, naked half-men aboard the Glarus. The horrific sight of Constable Beresford dying in fear. The bestial grunts of the man’s killer haunted Jim’s dreams.

  They forged ahead, Jim refusing to slow his step lest the men at his back detect his reluctance. He’d found the Metropolitan Police little different from the soldiers he used to command. Some of them, indeed, were former soldiers themselves – hardy men, used to following orders, and not shy of a fight. All qualities he needed now. Jim just hoped he wouldn’t get any more of them killed. He’d lost more men on his so-called ‘civilian duty’ than he had during all his time in the cavalry.

  The ground declined further. A hazy yellow light shone from somewhere ahead. Jim squinted, but the lamp was so dim he could make out no detail around it.

  Something brushed past Jim’s ankle. He stopped dead. Behind him, one of the policemen let out a half-stifled cry. A sound like loose gravel tumbling down a quarry bank grew louder, persistent. More things moved past Jim’s feet. Soft, damp. Police lanterns were turned to the ground once more.

  Rats. An amorphous mass of black and brown fur, matted and wet, tiny round eyes glowing like embers as the lamplight hit them. Their claws skittered on the rails. Their squeaks intensified as the light shone upon them. There were hundreds. Perhaps he imagined it, but Jim fancied they were disgusting, inbred things, covered in buboes, some with stumps for tails or missing legs; some as big as cats, some small as mice, but all scabrous and foul-smelling.

  Jim spun about as he sensed growing panic behind him. Constable Dakin was hopping up and down like a sailor dancing a jig, flailing comically at the vermin with his truncheon. The other policemen had the good sense to run to either side of the tunnel, allowing the undulating, living carpet to scurry and squirm past. Marie Furnival stood like a statue, unflustered by the creatures, her large eyes fixed ahead.

  After an interminable time, the stragglers of the great swarm dashed past, chittering at their fellows like slow children left behind upon the playing fields. Jim shuddered, kicking out his legs as though the rats were climbing upon him. When his skin finally ceased crawling, he returned to Miss Furnival’s side.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to say those rats were fleeing something?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Craddock,’ Jim said, beckoning the sergeant who was fast becoming his linchpin.

  ‘Sir?’ The sergeant was beside Jim in an instant. If he had been shaken by the surge of vermin, he showed no sign of it.

  ‘You said we were under Fulham Road – can you think where precisely?’

  ‘Reckon we must have crossed the Fulham Road now, sir. Let me think now… above us are hospitals, as I said. There are more private ’stablishments along this stretch than enough. There’s the cancer hospital… a mad-house, too. Might well be we’re right under the grounds of one of ’em.’

  ‘That light,’ Marie interjected, pointing ahead to the yellow lamp. ‘That is no train signal, so it must be there for a reason.’

  ‘An exit?’ Jim offered.

  ‘Let’s see. Sergeant, what do you suppose is above that section of tunnel?’

  ‘It would be a guess… but for argument’s sake, if we were under the cancer hospital now, then I suppose it would be Brompton Cemetery.’

  When Jim’s eyes met Miss Furnival’s, he saw in them grim determination, as though she had acquired her target and was ready for battle.

  ‘You think that’s where we’ll find our men?’ Craddock asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ replied Miss Furnival. ‘Shall we?’

  She marched onwards at once. Jim swept his gaze across the line of policemen shuffling on their heels, looking somewhat confused at the determination of this slip of a girl. Jim jerked his head in Miss Furnival’s direction to jolly along the men, and followed her.

  The lamp came slowly into focus; a dim electric light in a filthy glass casing, set into the wall above a narrow doorway.

  ‘Maintenance shaft?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Must be, sir,’ said Craddock.

  ‘Ah…’ Jim stepped to the door, and pointed to a chain and broken padlock that lay in the gravel beside it.

  Before he could pass further comment, Marie Furnival had reached past him, and shoved at the door. It groaned on hinges rusted from years of damp; the grating noise echoed through the tunnel. Lamplight danced as the men holding the lanterns flinched at the sudden sound.

  Jim had his gun in hand at once, ducking to the side of the doorway. ‘What do you think –’ he hissed.

  The American was through the door before he could finish, vanishing into blackness. Jim took a deep breath and went after her, hoping the men would follow, not blaming them in the slightest if they didn’t.

  The passage was not wide enough for two men abreast, and Jim found himself stuck behind Miss Furnival, ashamed at himself for letting her take the lead. His coat snagged on rough brick that in places dripped with slime. He had to stoop beneath the low, arched ceiling of the tunnel, which somehow managed to be hot and humid despite the cold season. The tunnel twisted so that it was almost parallel to the rail tracks, and continued some distance with no initial sign of an exit.

  Judging by the cobwebs and slime-slick floor, the passage was not often used. Some ten yards ahead, another yellow light shone – someone was keeping the lights burning down here, though for what purpose who could say? When they reached the light, they found themselves at a crossroads. The narrow passage continued up a definite incline. Left and right, the passages were much wider. To the right, a shaft of daylight illuminated the end of a long tunnel, casting bars of deep shadow onto a set of stone stairs.

  Craddock took a lamp from one of his men and held it out at arm’s length.

  ‘Told you, sir. That’ll be the cemetery. Near forty acres. If they’ve gone that way, they’ll be a bugger to catch.’

  Jim cursed. He’d hoped to find his quarry caught in the tunnels like the rats they’d flushed out. In the open air, with the streets of London getting busy, the chance of catching the celestials was slim.

  ‘So what’s down here?’ Miss Furnival asked, pointing to the left spur that yawned ominously.

  ‘God, what’s that smell?’ Jim asked. The air that wafted from the tunnel was foul.

  ‘Shh!’ Miss Furnival hissed. ‘Listen.’

  Everyone was quiet. At first, there was no sound at all beyond the faint whistling of a breeze from the direction of the graveyard. But then a noise came from the pitch darkness of the left-hand passage. A scuff, and a scrape, followed by the squeal of metal hinges. The distant ring of a metal door closing.

  ‘Craddock, bring up the light. Let’s go!’ Jim gave the order, and moved to the front of the group, grateful when Craddock took his lead and shone the lantern ahead. Jim had had quite enough of letting Marie Furnival lead them into danger half-cocked. He moved steadily, pistol at the ready, emboldened by the shuffling of the constables at his back. Miss Furnival stayed close, and silent.

  The tunnel sloped upwards, until Jim was sure they must be nearing street level again. Before too long the ground underfoot became uneven, strewn about with detritus, and the tunnel at last terminated at a double door, bound in iron. One of the doors was ajar, and Craddock shone his light upon the doorstep, revealing an arc of scrape marks where the door had been forced open.

  ‘Right, men,’ Jim whispe
red. ‘Arm yourselves, and take extra care.’

  It was clear that none of the policemen relished the prospect of entering the dark room and potentially getting shot like poor Gedge at the warehouse.

  Jim did not want to give the order, but he did so anyway. ‘We need light in there, Sergeant Craddock. Two men either side, lamps high, truncheons ready. Miss Furnival and I will provide covering fire, have no fear. On the count of three…’

  Jim counted down at once, before any man could argue. Craddock slapped the two men nearest him on their backs, indicating that they would be the ones to lead. When Jim reached three, the sergeant gave the men a shove to help them on their way, and the room beyond the doorway was at last illuminated.

  A tiled floor and filthy walls materialised before them. A high ceiling and vaulted brickwork stretched until swallowed by impenetrable shadow.

  No bullets rang from the darkness. No sound was to be heard but for the heavy footsteps and nervous breathing of the constables.

  Jim and Marie entered next, followed by Craddock and Dakin.

  ‘All clear,’ Jim said. ‘Keep going, through that arch, hurry.’

  The men pressed on, sweeping through the arch and fanning out to either side of the room beyond. Young Dakin gasped.

  By contrast to the narrow antechamber behind them, this room was much larger. Again, it was filthy, walls smeared with grease and grime. There appeared to be only one exit – a closed door in the left-hand wall – and no windows. The room was lined with counters, and metal-panelled cupboards. If it were not obvious from those that this was a dead-room, the two metal surgical tables in the centre of the room confirmed it. All around them, Jim now noticed surgical apparatus and jars of murky fluid, covered in thick cobwebs.

  ‘I’ll be blowed,’ muttered Craddock. ‘They was dead-tunnels after all, going to the cemetery. Never thought they really existed.’

  ‘It seems you were right, Sergeant,’ Jim said. ‘This can’t have been a poor hospital. If the bodies brought down here belonged merely to poor unfortunates, they would not need a Christian burial. They’d surely be burned.’

  ‘As I said, sir, the cancer hospital, or the mad –’

  Craddock fell silent. Jim turned to him, and was about to ask what was wrong, when he saw that the man was wiping some sort of fluid from his tunic. Craddock slowly turned his eyes upwards, as though it had dripped on him from above. Jim followed the man’s gaze, and there, for a moment, against the dark vaulted ceiling a pair of sparkling violet eyes blinked, then vanished completely.

  Jim could barely get any words out in time, and what feeble cry of alarm he raised was instantly drowned out by Craddock’s scream.

  A pair of pale, clawed hands reached down from the shadows, gripped Craddock’s head, and twisted hard. The sergeant’s head spun around, facing backwards, before the hands withdrew with half the man’s face and great auburn beard hooked on yellowed claws.

  Craddock’s body fell to the floor. Jim squeezed off two rounds at the pallid creature that hung, bat-like from the ceiling. The sound of the revolver was deafening in the confines of the mortuary, but the screams of the creature pierced the air over the ringing in Jim’s ears.

  Another gunshot drummed, this time from Marie Furnival’s gun. The creature fell from the ceiling in a crumpled heap.

  Constable Dakin was by Craddock’s side in a trice, trembling in fear when he saw the terrible state of his sergeant.

  ‘What do we do?’ he croaked. ‘Oh, God… what is that thing?’

  Before Jim could respond, a low growl echoed around the cold chamber. Another joined it, and soon there was a chorus of throaty, bestial snarls.

  The other three policemen grouped together, shining their lanterns all about them in desperation. Marie Furnival stood apart from all of them, statue still, eyes scouring the darkness. Jim saw that she not only had a pistol, but now also a wicked-looking curved knife in her other hand.

  ‘Dakin,’ Jim hissed, ‘make for that door. Quick as you like, lad.’

  The young constable’s eyes were wild, but he nodded, and looked to the door.

  The screams began almost at once. Jim spun around to see two of the beasts drop from the ceiling into the midst of the constables. They clubbed at the creatures frantically, as claws tore at their uniforms and long teeth snapped at their throats. Miss Furnival leapt towards them, but her path was blocked by a third creature, darting as if from nowhere, slashing at her with a taloned hand. Miss Furnival ducked the blow. Jim aimed above her and emptied his revolver into the brute. It stumbled backwards, clattering into an operating table, but did not fall. Jim fumbled as he tried to reload, bullets pinging to the floor. The desperate cries of the other constables consumed his senses. The monster before him pulled itself to its full height once more, and staggered towards him, gaping wounds from the gunshots evident.

  Jim cursed, finally pushing the last bullet into place and snapping shut the cylinder. He took aim, only in time to see the monster’s head fly off, and its body drop to the tiles. Miss Furnival flicked dark ichor from her blade, and nodded grimly to Jim.

  ‘Shoot them in the head, cut their throats, or burn them, Captain Denny.’ With those words, she raced to the policemen, only one of whom still fought wildly against the two beasts. The other was trampled underfoot in a spreading pool of blood.

  Marie plunged her knife into the base of a monster’s skull. Her blade stuck fast, and was plucked from her grasp as the creature fell. Despite the American’s intervention, the constable was overcome by the second ghoul. The creature bit deep into his throat, and was bathed in arterial spray. The constable gargled a hideous, wet scream.

  Jim leapt forward, this time making no mistake; he placed the barrel of his gun to the creature’s temple and squeezed the trigger, ending its feasting instantly.

  Jim looked remorsefully to the policeman, who was still kicking involuntarily against his slain attackers. A banging noise drew Jim’s attention towards the door. Dakin was flinging himself at it desperately, crying, ‘It won’t budge. Oh, God. It won’t move. We’re trapped.’

  ‘Stand down, lad. It’s over.’

  ‘Captain…’ Marie interrupted, her voice very quiet. ‘Best help him get that door open.’

  ‘What? I… oh.’ Jim turned to the antechamber by which they had entered. At least five pairs of eyes gleamed hungrily from the darkness.

  Jim pulled the young constable aside and fired twice at the lock. He opened the door with a sharp kick, and shoved the lad through it. Whatever danger lay ahead, Jim felt it could be no worse than being eaten alive.

  ‘Smithy…’ the constable said, feebly.

  Jim looked back towards the dying policeman on the mortuary floor, but was himself pushed through the door by Marie.

  ‘Leave him, he’s dead,’ she said. She fired into the advancing pack of ghouls, which seemed only to intensify their snarls and howls.

  Marie slammed the door shut behind her, and threw herself against it as the ghouls began to hammer at it. So forceful was their pummelling that she was almost thrown to the floor; but she held her ground, her strength surprising. Jim put his weight against the door too. ‘Dakin!’ he shouted. ‘Find something to block this door. Do it, man!’

  The young constable snapped from some reverie, and set about searching what appeared to be the foot of a dark stairwell. He returned quickly, dragging behind him a battered old cupboard, and Jim helped him heave it into place.

  ‘Any more where that came from?’ Jim asked, as the pounding at the door redoubled.

  ‘Aye, sir. A stash under them stairs.’

  ‘Then jump to it.’

  Miss Furnival went to help. ‘Did you see the brands upon their necks?’ she called back to Jim.

  ‘I was somewhat preoccupied.’

  ‘I counted a nineteen, and a one hundred and twenty-two. What was the one you found on the ship? Nine hundred and something?’

  Jim frowned, and set about dragging furniture toward
s the door.

  ‘I’m just saying, Captain,’ Marie continued, ‘if those numbers are significant, we’re facing an army of those things. And there’s surely only one place such numbers could come from.’

  Jim silenced her with a look as Dakin began to take an unhealthy interest in Marie’s terrifying observation. Together, they piled furniture high against the door, until there was not a stick remaining, and their limbs were weak from the exertion. Monstrous cries echoed from beyond the door, which rattled in its frame from the assault of the ghouls.

  ‘It won’t hold them for ever,’ Marie said. ‘They’ll pound the door until it gives, or until their bones splinter to dust. We have to press on.’

  ‘Three of us in a sorry state,’ Jim said, ‘with one lantern between us. Armed Chinamen waiting ahead, and perhaps more of these things, too? I don’t like these odds.’

  ‘Then we’d best take extra care, Captain,’ she said. ‘Because we don’t have a choice in the proceedings.’

  SIX

  ‘Stay close, Dakin. We’ll get out of this yet.’ Jim peered around the corner, and quickly sprang back. He looked into Dakin’s eyes – the boy was terrified.

  ‘How many?’ Miss Furnival asked.

  ‘Two, I think,’ he whispered. ‘Although it’s too damned dark to be sure.’

  Dakin looked down at his lantern, which had been shuttered to cast only the tiniest sliver of light. Jim shook his head at the young policeman – the last thing they needed was to draw attention to themselves.

  ‘There’s nowhere else to go,’ Miss Furnival whispered. ‘We have to go through them.’

  Jim nodded, and flicked his derringer from his sleeve. Miss Furnival reached beneath her jacket and took out a concealed pistol, all wood and brass, and gently primed the crank-handle on its side until a flicker of bluish light danced across the sights. Dakin’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

  ‘Not a word of this, Dakin,’ Jim said. ‘Top secret government artefacts.’