Another tortured cry, and Ana began humming to herself, mumbling nonsensical words. Anything to overcome those sounds.
She felt a hand in her hair. Long nails scraping lightly against her skin.
Mojito was standing beside her, a wide, eerie smile on his lips.
“Ana?” he said with mock concern. “All right, darling?”
Ana stood up, nodded. “Yes, yes. All okay.” She tried to avoid his eyes.
Mojito sneered, then patted her on the back. “Listen Ana,” he said. “I know this is bad. I mean, it’s awful, right? Having to knock a man’s teeth out. But,” he raised her chin gently, until she was facing him. “The thing is, stuff like this has to be done. It simply must. It’s for the good of the Greater Pack.” He paused, studying her. “I’m sure you understand.”
Ana hesitated, then mumbled something that was meant to sound like agreement.
The tall ’wraith laughed. A loud, sincere roar of a laugh. “Never forget, Ana. You are the Alpha Wraith, now. So, if you don’t feel like taking part in an interrogation, that’s fine. It’s entirely up to you. Heck, you’re the boss here, ’m I right?”
This time, Ana smiled a little. Just a little. “Yes, right.”
Suddenly, Mojito dropped his smile. “Not while I’m here, you’re not.”
Ana shivered. He brought his face an inch from hers. She felt the taste of his rancid breath in her mouth.
“While I’m here,” he growled, “you obey my orders. So, if I tell you to sit and watch while I beat the shit out of a potential spy, you do so. Understood?”
Ana dipped her chin, her heart overflowing with rage and disgust.
She watched Mojito storm off, the long tails of his odd coat trailing in the mud.
Yes, she thought. It might just be time to get outta here.
* * *
A rucksack offers little room, if your plan is to flee. But anything larger, and it would have been difficult for her to slip by unnoticed.
She’d decided to be pragmatic about things—a few changes of clothes, a small flashlight, a gun, water and a hairbrush. It wasn’t much, but her little rucksack was already overflowing. Ana swept a lock of hair from her eyes, stood hands on hips, and took in her messy little caravan for the last time. It wasn’t easy—however dysfunctional, chaotic and sometimes insane the Pack could be, it had, after all, been her home for quite some time. She would miss it, no doubt. There was a time when the idea of being Alpha Wraith of the Pack would have filled her with excitement. How things had changed.
Her eye caught a book (the only one she owned), its cover criss-crossed with fold lines and torn in one corner. She moved hesitantly towards it. It was a copy of Master and Margarita, by some Russian bloke called Michail Bulgakov. She sat on the bed and ran her fingers on the worn cover.
Luke had given it to her. A gift, taken from Bately’s library. It’s wonderful, he had told her.
“Is it about Jesus?” she’d asked him.
Luke had smiled his warm, gentle smile and said, “Yes, he’s in it. But it’s about lots of other things, too.”
She’d never read it, although she really had tried. But the style, the story, everything about it made her want to tear her hair out (a dangerous desire, when you happened to be a ’wraith—hair came out all too easily). The little she’d read, she’d hated with a passion.
Now, at the thought of Luke, she felt her eyes well up with tears, her chest become hollow. While Luke was around, she’d always had a feeling that there was a tiny, vulnerable speck of innocence left in the world. Not any more.
Ana unzipped her rucksack, and carefully fit the book inside it. The zip would only close half-way now, but she couldn’t get herself to leave the book behind.
Okay, you’re ready. Time to go.
Running away could get lonely, she knew that. Maybe she should have told Sixfingers to join her. The burly ’wraith would have understood. As much as she believed in the ’wraith cause, Ana was sure she wouldn’t stand for torturing random people. But only her, no one else. It’s going to be difficult enough to get out on your own. Two is a lot.
What about Dimwit? Was she going to leave him here? The boy liked to act hard, but he was fragile. Would he cope without her?
Stop. You can’t take anyone else with you and you know it. If you do run away, like a coward, you do it alone.
And it was cowardly, wasn’t it? Turning your back on the Pack that had just made you its leader, vanishing into the night like a thief.
But there as no other way around it, not really. She’d had a taste of Mojito’s ways, and it had left her nauseated. She didn’t want any part in that.
If the Wraith Queen gets here, things might be better. Mojito won’t be in charge, then. True, but for all she knew, Her Highness might be even more insane than he was. Plus, there was this whole war issue, now. The Greater Pack was gathering to face the Warden’s people, and Ana had the impression that would make the Bately battle look like a scuffle in a playground.
It would be cool, yes, to be part of the ’wraith gathering. But she’d lost most of her belief in the ’wraith ideology, whatever that was.
No. That’s it. I’m going.
She stood up, nodded firmly to herself, and grabbed her rucksack.
Then she heard the drums.
* * *
They were low, at first. Like another heartbeat, stemming from her own. Just loud enough for her to stop and twist her head, wonder if she was simply dreaming.
But it got louder. And louder. It grew until the whole night seemed to shake and shudder to that primordial beat.
Ana rose slowly from the bed and stumbled to the door. She pushed it ajar to peer outside.
The horizon was speckled with shimmering lights. As they grew closer, Ana saw they were torches—thousands and thousands of them. All around her, the members of the Pack began to step outside of their makeshift homes, staring with fear and amazement.
There came three loud thuds from the drums. A long, dense pause followed, but the torches kept moving towards them. An instant later, Ana was struck by the mighty resounding notes of bagpipes. They rose, grand and powerful, to the skies, as if they could tear the thick sheath of clouds above them all. The drums kicked in again, faster now, their beat thumping inside her chest.
She stepped into the night, her jaw hanging open.
The torches flowed onwards, steady and unstoppable. Before she knew it, Ana could see their faces.
Devilish grins and sneers, toothless smiles and wild eyes. Some were dancing, moving with a fever of lust and elation. There were weapons, too—swords and machine-guns, rifles and bows, all mixed together in this surreal spectacle.
Shadow and light flickered upon the dancing horde of ’wraiths, as they came clattering and howling through the mist. Their voices were deep as they chanted in unison, their thrilling chorus filling the night.
Ana couldn’t look away. She was shivering with awe and horror and excitement.
Then she saw her.
She sat on a throne fitted on a litter carried by twenty ’wraiths. Beneath her crown, Ana saw a balding head, with long braids pouring out from scattered clumps of hair. Her mouth was twisted in a mocking grin, and a knowing, sarcastic light twinkled in her eyes. The Affliction had turned her into a monster—rotting skin and open sores, but she emanated such power, such command, that all the rest slipped into the background.
The vast multitude advanced into Ana’s tiny Pack, flooding its every corner. There came a final, ear-splitting percussion on the drums that quickly dispersed into the distance, then they all fell silent.
Ana gasped as she witnessed the arrival of the Wraith Queen’s army.
Chapter 9
R3dPill
They moved silently, but every little noise, every quiet whisper bounced off the walls of Atlantis, echoing through its titanic halls.
It felt a little like one of those old MMORPGs Sean used to play—a party of explorers making their way throu
gh a threatening dungeon. What treasures did this place hide? More importantly, what dragons lurked in its recesses?
It had been surprisingly easy, so far. The toughest part had been breaking into the main entrance, and even that had been a breeze. Once inside, all the passageways and blast-hatches they found were wide open, and the three explorers had moved through the base unhindered. But despite this, Sean was sure his hacking skills would be required again, before their mission was over.
Jeremy lead them, weapon ready at hand. He was cautious, but confident. When they crossed the threshold, he’d produced some sort of map, a layout of the base’s levels. It was rolled up like a magic scroll and he consulted it, from time to time.
“You feel its aura, boys?” he asked them, at one point. “It’s dark, but powerful.” For once, Sean agreed with the old man’s drivel. A feeling of great might, a deep, malicious force permeated this place. But Sean also saw abandonment and decay. Atlantis had been designed to house hundreds, if not thousands, of people. Now, it lay empty and nonsensical, like some dark secret no one remembers any more. But it was a creepy sort of emptiness—one in which things seemed to be dancing in the shadows, just out of view. Following him, mocking him.
“H-how many people are left in here?” Checkmate’s question broke their silence, making Sean jump. He hated this guy.
“One,” Jeremy replied.
Sean gasped. “One?”
The old hippy nodded gravely. “Yes, just the one. A very astute one, I am told. Dangerous.”
Sean thought back to all the damage he’d been able to do, single-handedly, armed only with a computer. Maybe the old geezer was right. It was better not to underestimate this lonely inhabitant of Atlantis. Despite his fear, he couldn’t help but picture a grotesque Bond villain, sitting somewhere in the depths of Atlantis, in a high chair, stroking a cat and twisting his moustache.
“Are you sure about that?” Checkmate whispered.
“Quite, yes,” said Jeremy, with a hint of irritation. He wasn’t the kind of person who liked it when others doubted his words.
Checkmate suddenly stopped walking. The young hacker raised a finger, “Who’s that then?”
Now, without the echo of their movement, the silence in the base seemed absolute.
Except, thought Sean, it isn’t.
Whispers. Two voices, somewhere close. It sounded like two men, discussing something below their breaths.
Sean’s blood froze. Beside him, Jeremy raised an eyebrow. He seemed perplexed, incapable of explaining the voices. This scared Sean a lot more than he liked.
“Can you hear it too?” Checkmate’s voice oozed fear.
Jeremy nodded and brought his index finger to his lips. Shush.
He then closed his eyes, and slowly rotated his head left and right, one hand extended before him, as if he could use it to pick up sounds. When he began to move again, the two boys scuttled behind him.
We’re in an army base, so it must be soldiers. US Army soldiers in a fucking top-secret base. They’re going to kill us, guaranteed. Sean’s heart was beating high in his throat.
The whispers became louder. He tried to make out the words, but the voices were too hushed. They sounded menacing, evil—the sort of voices murderers would have. But yes, it was two people, no more than that. Sean wondered if Jeremy would manage to take them out on his own. The old man knew how to fight. And he sure knows how to kill, he reminded himself. Remember how he dealt with the poor bastards in the Colony? Must’ve killed a dozen of them without even breaking a sweat. With a strange feeling of guilt swelling in his chest, Sean hoped this wrinkly nutcase would be able to kill again.
“There!” Checkmate cried, pointing ahead of them. Sean felt like strangling him. Again, he’d almost given him a heart attack.
They peered in that direction, and Sean saw the ghosts.
Two see-through figures, crouching in a room at the end of the corridor. Actual, honest-to-god ghosts.
Effing GHOST SOLDIERS. Some sort of weird army experiment. Shit, they’ve seen us… THEY’VE MUST HAVE SEEN US–
“It’s a reflection,” Jeremy murmured. “I don’t think they’ve spotted us.”
Sean’s eyes flicked to the opposite end of the corridor, to an open door, then back to the ghostly image of the two men. Yes, of course, a reflection in the glass inserts of a door. He swallowed nervously.
Okay… perhaps not ghosts, you idiot… but it’s still two trained killers waiting for us. We should get out. Get out NOW.
“We’re going in,” Jeremy said, and Sean’s heart sank. He began to protest, but the hippie was already advancing. With his guts tangled in desperation, Sean followed. Behind him, Checkmate did the same.
They slid along the wall, throwing quick glances at the reflection, making sure the soldiers weren’t moving. The whispering continued, and that was a good sign. They wouldn’t be whispering if they’d seen us, right?
Time stretched, and Sean’s heartbeat was so loud, he half-expected Jeremy to turn around and tell him to shut it up. All too soon, they were crouching by the door.
“… of course they’re fucking in here, man,” one of the voices said. “You heard the commander, didn’t you?” There was a strange nasal quality to it.
“Yeah, sure,” the other replied. This one was oddly high-pitched. Not in fear—it was more like this bloke had a severe cold or something. “They show up, we blow a fucking hole in their faces.” Sean shivered.
Jeremy peeked behind his shoulder, to the two hackers. He showed them his free hand, fingers outstretched. Slowly, he lowered his little finger, folding it back into his palm.
What’s he up to now? wondered Sean.
Jeremy’s ring finger came down. The middle finger followed.
It was a countdown. Jeremy was planning on braking into the room.
Oh please no, please please ple–
Two.
One.
In the instant before Jeremy pranced forward, Sean felt a tingling sensation in his belly. Something was wrong. Alarm bells went off inside his head, like the ones that alerted him when breaking into a network, the times he’d felt he was walking straight into a trap.
But there was no time to think clearly. Jeremy was already bouncing up, and Sean was flooded with too many details, as the world began to move in slow-motion—he saw Jeremy’s legs and arms flexing, the aged skin stretching over his surprisingly large muscles, dreadlocks lifting and swirling in the air.
As if sucked in by Jeremy’s movements, Sean followed him into the room. Just as they entered it, Sean finally understood what it was, what had set off his hacker alarms. It was two things.
First—these weren’t ghosts, okay. But they were zombies. And they were armed.
Sean saw the rotting skin, the glazed eyes, the swollen tongues pouring out of the cracked, dry lips. One of them had its head caved in. The other was even worse, and must have died weeks and weeks ago. This fucking chattering zombie with a machine gun–
A thought flashed through his mind. Dead. Of course—these aren’t zombies, they’re corpses. Corpses dressed to look like soldiers, you idiot.
The other element he noticed, the more important one, was the smell. Not the stench of death and decay let off by the bodies. There was something else—a subtle scent, one he was familiar with, seeping through the air.
Gas.
He saw where it was coming from: two pipes in the wall had been perforated, and were spewing the gas out into the room.
Sean looked at Jeremy. His finger was contracting around the trigger.
“DON’T SHOOT!” Sean screamed. He shoved Jeremy hard, pushing him against the wall. The hippie’s furious eyes darted over to Sean, and for a second the young hacker thought he was going to shoot him.
“The air!” he called out desperately, “Gas. Smell it!”
“They’re dead…” Checkmate muttered idiotically, somewhere behind them.
The two voices kept whispering. Sean slowly steppe
d between the two corpses and knelt down to pick something up. When he stood again, he was holding a small digital audio player between his thumb and index finger.
“It’s a recording,” he said. “And this room is filled with gas.”
The hippie paused. His nostrils quivered, as he sniffed the air. Jeremy slowly looked Sean in the eyes, and nodded, a smile curving his lips.
“If I’d shot, we’d have blown sky high. You saved us, Sean.”
Sean dipped his shaking chin, before Jeremy added, “Let’s get out of here before we suffocate.” They peered at the two disgusting bodies once again and ran out—just in time to see the blast-hatches on either side of the corridor blow shut.
They were trapped.
An ear-splitting voice echoed through Atlantis. “Welcome, strangers,” it said, booming from the PA. “Let me introduce myself. I’m your host, James Walscombe.”
There was a long pause, and the three of them traded silent glances.
“And you, whoever you are,” it reprised, “are about to die.”
Chapter 10
Walscombe
Walscombe was grinning. Had he caught his reflection in a mirror, that grin might have freaked him out a bit. It was sort of insane. But it was also very, very happy.
“Gotcha, a-holes,” he whispered triumphantly at his three prisoners in the monitor. A while back, they’d been invaders, and he their would-be victim. The tables had turned.
“What do you say, Aube,” he said, turning to the small plant on the desk beside him. “Too melodramatic? I should’ve gone for something simpler, maybe. You know—a good ol’ Die you sons of bitches! And then burst out laughing like one of those evil guys in a movie.”
Everything had gone according to plan. Well, to one plan. He’d developed quite a few.
The first assumption was that these guys would somehow find a way to open the doors and blast-hatches inside the base, as their five-minutes-tops entrance had proven. So, he’d left them all open, allowing them to roam freely. Lulling them, he figured, into some sort of sense of security. Hey, come in, make yourselves at home.
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