Jim stepped forth with a set of old iron keys that looked as though they belonged back in the Tower of London. He opened three locks with three separate keys, and swung open the door carefully, wincing as hinges squealed and metal dragged on stone.
Silence within. John stepped up and dared shine a lantern inside. A short corridor, bare brick, terminating at more steps leading down. Cobwebs draped brick pillars, floor to ceiling, and water trickled down the walls.
Down the steps, through the door, into a square room long emptied. John flicked a lever and a dull electric light pulsed weakly, giving Jim a little illumination as he opened the locks on another thick metal door.
Only the faint echo of a drawn rifle-bolt alerted John to danger. He yanked Jim aside. The bullet hit the door, ringing loud, sparks flying. Jim dropped to one knee, firing a pistol into darkness, deafening. Brickwork exploded into plumes of dust. John hit the floor, belly down in the grime, Winchester blazing away. The enemy fire lessened; John guessed there weren’t many of them. A small patrol maybe – a few men sent to watch this disused section of the facility.
The enemy shrank away, their shadows growing smaller, curses in a foreign tongue audible only when the firing paused for a second. John’s soldiers took up positions in pairs, firing their rifles as the next pair stepped over John and advanced. So they moved, two men covering the next two, until John was able to get to his feet and hurry forward, down the centre of the lines. The broad corridor in which he found himself opened ahead into a storeroom, sectioned into aisles defined by bare shelves.
As John emerged, a large rack toppled towards him. He leapt away as it plummeted into the adjacent unit with a deafening crash. The man behind it had a gun ready. John did not have time to think; at such close range he barely had time to lash out with his rifle butt, knocking the man’s hand aside. The enemy’s pistol discharged, striking the floor. Miss Furnival leapt past him, kicking the enemy hard in the stomach. The man swung at her, she ducked the blow effortlessly and took hold of his arm, wrenching it sharply and catapulting him away from her.
The man staggered back, and John shot him dead.
Movement in the shadows. Miss Furnival drew a pistol, a swift, fluid motion ending in three gunshots. A man cried out in pain. There was a loud curse, which John recognised as Russian. The enemy were retreating as the soldiers and policemen filed into the room.
‘Secure the area!’ John shouted. ‘Kill those men; don’t let them call for reinforcements.’
The soldiers obeyed, dashing after the enemy. More shots rang out as John surveyed the room, Jim and Marie by his side.
Jim shone a light on the man John had killed. ‘Russian?’ Marie asked.
‘Aye,’ John said. He patted the man down, but found nothing other than pocket-change and spare cartridges.
Jim unfolded his map. The facility was substantial, stretching beneath an entire row of large office buildings. Thick-walled tunnels formed something of a labyrinth; the ‘armoury’, named for the famous weapons store, was the jewel in the Order’s crown – Cherleten had made sure of it. ‘Outside this room there’s a maze of corridors,’ he said. ‘We must not let the enemy get behind us.’
‘We shall need a lookout on each junction as we advance,’ John replied, ‘and call them back gradually as we clear the way ahead.’
‘The storage room is here,’ Jim pointed to a large room on the map, which he’d marked with an X. ‘That must be where the Artist is.’
‘No, that is just one storeroom. The real prize is here.’ John pointed at another room, larger still.
‘What’s there?’ Jim asked.
‘The things you have never been shown. This is where Otherside technology recovered from the Thames is studied, to see if it can be used. If the Artist plans to open a gate, she’ll find what she needs there.’
‘Then that is where my generator is taken,’ Tesla said.
‘It has to be,’ John said. ‘It is the only storeroom with access tunnels large enough for such deliveries, although the main approach is likely buried under rubble now. We shall have to use the side tunnels, or perhaps the ventilation shafts.’
‘We won’t all fit through there,’ Miss Furnival said, looking up at a metal grille above, which covered one such shaft.
‘It will of course take you from your secondary mission,’ John said to Jim. Denny shifted uncomfortably – he had not wanted to tell John about Cherleten’s fall-back plan of destroying the facility but, as he had put it, ‘there should be no secrets between comrades-in-arms’. That openness did not extend, however, to the soldiers, who remained in the dark about the whole affair.
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Jim said, glancing at the men furtively. ‘Just magic up a route past the enemy if you’d be so kind.’
‘Here,’ said John, tapping on the map. ‘This is the experimental weapons room. If it has not been compromised, we can find enough Tesla pistols to put the fear into the Russians.’
‘Except I don’t believe Cherleten gave me a key for that,’ Jim said.
‘It is a combination lock, known only to the quartermaster, and a select few agents,’ John replied. ‘As long as the combination hasn’t been changed, I am the key.’
Another shot rang out. Jim shone his lantern in the direction of the broad passage that led out of the storeroom. One of the soldiers – a hardy Coldstream Guard – signalled in the air.
‘Looks like the way is clear, old boy,’ Jim said. ‘Lead on.’
* * *
We are one.
The words rattled John as surely as a blow to the head. A harsh whisper inside his mind. He stopped in his tracks.
‘Something wrong, old boy?’ Jim asked, when he saw that John was not hurrying along with the rest of them.
‘I… I don’t know.’ It was difficult to admit. He did not want to show weakness, not now, and not to Jim. And yet, he sensed something he could not explain. He knew he had been compromised at Osea, where de Montfort had rifled through his thoughts like a callous burglar. But de Montfort was gone now. That meant either some other force was exerting influence over him, or perhaps an all-too-familiar spirit was not yet done with him.
They stood at a crossroads between corridors. The bodies of white-coated engineers and suited armoury stewards littered the floor. Most were clean kills – gunshots, blades. Most, but not all. And that meant the threat of vampires was not yet over. The electric lighting – Cherleten’s pride and joy – flickered on and off at intervals, broken lamps cascading intermittently with orange sparks and a smell like sulphur.
We are one.
John knew they had been led here. Or, perhaps, whoever read his thoughts had predicted his movements and set up an ambush. Their progress so far had been dogged periodically by harrying soldiers. Echoed shouts in Russian, and sporadic coughs of rifle-fire, had shepherded them here.
‘John!’ Jim hissed.
John snapped to attention. ‘Something is not right. We need to come up with another plan.’
‘We’re almost there,’ Jim protested.
‘I think –’
A scream. Wet, gargled, tailing off into an agonised yelp, ending abruptly. It came from the right-hand corridor.
Gunfire echoed through the tunnels. More screams, and throaty growls.
One by one, the lights above the party blinked out, leaving darkness in their wake. From all four points of the junction, the darkness approached, advancing as a black curtain, until the last, flickering light failed.
A tapping sound came from the darkness, growing faster, closer. Scraping, scurrying, like a great mass of rats scampering across the hard tiles of the facility floor at first; then something very definitely larger than rats. Pinpricks of violet light advanced, bobbing in the black voids to left and right. Growls and low whines came with them. The men at John’s side breathed hard. He could smell the fear on them, and so could the things that came from the dark.
‘Lanterns!’ It was Miss Furnival who shoute
d.
The ghouls drew nearer, rancid breath carrying on the air, eyes sparkling.
Matches were struck, lanterns lit.
In the yellow lamplight, the ghouls shrank back. They dropped from the ceiling like spiders; they shielded their eyes.
‘Fire!’ Miss Furnival shouted.
Rifles rattled. Volley after volley boomed in the confines of the corridors. A cacophony of screeches almost drowned out the reports. Then the shooting stopped, and the sounds of gunfire were replaced with the wet hacking of flesh beneath blades, the crunching of bones under truncheons and rifle-butts, the snapping of jaws and the agonised cries of men.
John looked about in desperation, seeing the mission slipping away. A sudden flare of brilliant light flashed, electricity arcing from Jim’s derringer. Sickly white flesh blackened and charred, and gave John an idea.
He smashed a lantern against the wall, and tossed it into the left-hand corridor. Oil ignited, ghastly faces glowed orange for just a second, before flames licked up around them. The ghouls began to clamber over each other in their bid to escape the fire. John drew his sword, slashing and thrusting at any creature that came close. Miss Furnival darted low, two curved knives held in a backhand grip, whirling amidst the creatures as they fled, slicing throats and severing limbs. She fought like the devil. Worse, she fought like Lillian.
Soon, the last screeching, naked monster vanished from the amber glow of the flames, back the way they had come. John could not count how many there had been. He counted four dead men at his feet, torn apart; heard only the testimony of ragged breaths and stumbling soldiers that they had been in a hard fight. Men beat at the flames, and the corridor slowly darkened. John’s shoulder throbbed. He slumped against the wall, struggling to catch a breath.
‘What just happened?’ Jim gasped. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘The Artist must have smuggled them into the facility somehow,’ John said. ‘But such numbers… I’d say Melville was right when he suspected there were greater forces at play. Just how big is this submarine vessel?’
‘Not big enough for this,’ Tesla answered. The Serbian had kept well out of the way so far, and held his tongue. ‘The Munjolovac can carry ten men perhaps, though not comfortably. I think Madam Artist would not share space with such creatures.’
‘It’s not in their nature to launch a coordinated attack like this – not unless their master commands them,’ Miss Furnival said. ‘Maybe the Artist controls de Montfort’s ghouls. Maybe the Russians brought them. Who knows?’
‘They had those brand-marks on them, did you see?’ Jim noted. ‘Army markings, perhaps? Maybe it is the Russians after all.’
‘It sounded as though the Russians were fighting them too,’ John said. ‘I’d wager those ghouls are not under the full control of the enemy, and that can only be good for us.’
The fire burned still down one corridor. Jim shone his lantern along the others. There was no sign of movement.
‘We have no choice but to continue,’ Jim said.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ one of the men spoke up, somewhat angrily, ‘but what about the wounded? We can’t leave them here for them… things!’
John rubbed at his forehead; he felt peculiar. He needed to get on with the mission. The more he delayed, the more he felt the malign influence infiltrating his thoughts. ‘If they cannot find their way out, then I suggest they fortify this position as best as they are able and form a rear-guard,’ John said, feeling far more irritable than he ought. ‘The rest of us will damn well follow our orders and press on.’
The man stepped forward, face a deep shade of burgundy by the dying firelight. The stripes on his arm showed his rank of sergeant, Coldstream Guards. Burly, moustached and insubordinate. ‘With all due respect, sir –’
John was prepared to shout the man down, but Jim stepped between them, interrupting the soldier’s flow. ‘In my experience, Sergeant,’ Jim said, ‘those words are usually followed with a distinct lack of respect.’
John recognised those words at once, as a favourite saying of Sir Toby. Hearing them caused his anger to subside. He was not feeling himself. He stepped back.
‘What’s your name, Sergeant?’ Jim asked.
‘Carruthers, sir.’
‘Well, Sergeant Carruthers,’ Jim said, ‘the colonel here has given an order.’ Jim stressed John’s rank. ‘I for one intend to follow my orders, regardless of where they lead. And do you know why? Because down that tunnel are weapons so powerful they could wipe this city off the map. Weapons gathered here by the Crown because no nation on earth can be trusted with their use. And right now, they are being stolen by enemy soldiers. Enemy soldiers! Here, on the sovereign soil of England. I don’t know about you lads, but I’d rather die than let the Russians, the Chinese, or anyone else get away with that. Because if they succeed, they could kill every man, woman and child in London. So are we going to stand here and argue all day, or are we going to show them what British steel is all about?’
Carruthers nodded, his emotions writ large across his lined face, until finally he hoisted his rifle and cried, ‘Aye, sir!’ This brought a round of ‘ayes’ from the other men.
The group was soon on the move again, now in near darkness. They hurried to the next junction, trying every door as they went to ensure no one could ambush them from the side-rooms. At the end of the corridor was a T-junction. To the right, the corridor terminated at a reinforced door, bloody handprints slapped onto its surface, smearing down to the floor where a dead guard lay. To the left, a light flickered, illuminating a stretch of passage that curved right.
‘That’s the weapon store,’ Jim said. ‘The guard must have been trying to arm himself.’
‘Or find a secure place to hide,’ John said. ‘Come on, we need to arm ourselves, too.’
John set about the combination locks – there were three, each of which had to be set in turn. He worked quickly, hoping that Cherleten hadn’t changed the combination. When the third sequence was dialled, the door clicked, and John swung it open. He flicked a lever on the wall beside the door, and electric lights blinked on. And they revealed a room almost entirely empty. A few pistols and boxes of ammunition lay on otherwise bare racks. Some were strewn about the floor, but where once hundreds of guns, knives and explosives had been kept, only empty space remained.
‘Dear God,’ Jim said. ‘They’ve raided the armoury. The Russians have Tesla weapons now.’
‘No,’ John said. ‘The door was locked.’
Jim stared at him dumbly. ‘Does it lock itself when closed?’
‘No. The dials must be spun for the locks to engage. No one would raid an armoury, turn off the lights and lock the door, unless they were doing it legitimately.’
‘The security forces?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ John said. ‘We might find some lying about, that being the case. Best take what is left. Arm yourselves.’
Jim and Marie did as instructed. When they were done, John looked both ways along the corridor.
‘These passages form a loop,’ John said. He pointed back the way they had come. ‘That way is the most direct path to the stores, but it’s where the sounds of fighting came from. Ahead leads to the Nightwatch.’ He glanced at Miss Furnival to gauge her reaction, and was relieved that she let it pass. ‘There are other experimental wards – another level below this one. Even I don’t know what’s there. We should set the charges first, and double back if –’
A great rumble came from the bowels of the facility. The floor shook. The walls vibrated, and the rumbling intensified.
‘What the devil?’ Jim said.
The rumble became a low whine, slowly increasing in volume and pitch. Soon it was a nauseating squeal. Men held their heads, and covered their ears, but it was of little use. The lights above them, previously dead, began to flash again. Bulbs popped, showering fragments of glass and sparks below. Luminous motes of dust began to drift all around in the darkened space, amber-gold. Th
e walls themselves began to shimmer like a desert mirage, their surfaces patterned with the faintest impressions of green and purple glow.
The last honest man in London has come. A fitting tribute.
The words jabbed into John’s mind. He gasped with pain, bunching his fists.
‘What’s happening?’ Jim shouted over the squeal, but John could not answer.
‘It’s a gate,’ Marie shouted. ‘A big one.’
Jim wore an expression first of disbelief, then of horror. John knew what he was afraid of. The thought of passing through another gate was enough to unman him still. All who had seen the Otherside had nightmares of the many-tentacled thing that surveyed the world from its lofty height in the burning sky. None desired ever to cross through again.
As the frequency of the fearful trilling reached fever pitch, John felt complete stillness. All around him, Jim, Marie, the men – all of them grimaced at the noise, but John tuned it out. He could hear nothing but muffled cries and a distant rumbling, as though he were submerged in deep water. Something called to him, pulled at him.
John turned, looking down the left-hand corridor. And there she was. Elsbet, pale and delicate in death, staring into the next passage. She turned her head to look at John over her shoulder. Dark hair drifted across a wasted face like the tendrils of some deep-sea creature. Her eyes, black and glassy, pierced John’s heart for the briefest moment, before she turned that fearful gaze away once more, and walked away. Her bare feet trod lightly across broken glass. Her white shroud floated out behind her, caught on some ethereal current. She vanished around the corner.
John knew what awaited him, and he knew what he had to do. Elsbet had guided him before, and was doing so again; whether to his doom, or to his salvation, it hardly mattered. Before he even knew what he was doing, he found himself walking away from the men, towards the spirit. He was dimly aware of being followed – Tesla. The Serbian stuck to him like glue.
The sound returned violently, shaking John to his senses.
‘John! Where are you going?’ Jim called out, not for the first time.
John saw the look of puzzlement on Jim’s and Marie’s faces, and was about to return to the group when a deep rumble shook the ground, rattling his teeth. John felt a hand on his arm. Tesla yanked him back, as a great crack opened up in the walls, across the ceiling. Lintels fell, missing John by inches. He scrambled away as a cascade of bricks and timbers spilled from the fault-line, filling the corridor with choking dust.
The Apollonian Case Files Page 25