‘Up there!’ Jack flicked on a powerful LED torch, its beam zigzagging up a metal staircase. ‘Stop it!’
Owen snapped off a couple of shots in the right direction, but the rounds drew nothing more than sparks off metal. The boom of the heavy automatic reverberated around the warehouse like trapped thunder looking for a way out.
Without breaking his stride, Owen sprinted for the stairs leading up the gantry. Jack was right behind him, and he must have seen the thing again, because next Owen heard the heavy crack of Jack’s old Webley revolver, and more sparks flew somewhere up in the darkness.
They split up, Owen taking the stairs on the left while Jack headed right. Owen took the metal steps three at a time, thighs straining, but he had to make the effort. They had been chasing this particular Weevil for long enough. It was big, tough and bastard cunning. Finally, they had it trapped.
Owen reached the landing and dropped to a crouch, arms extended, gun in both hands, trying not to breathe too hard. He didn’t want to compromise his aim, for one thing, and then there was the smell.
‘This place is bloody rank,’ Owen said. ‘What the hell’s making that stench?’
Jack’s reply came promptly from the shadows: ‘Shh! Thought I saw something …’
Owen concentrated. The shadows were deep up here, and huge, grimy cobwebs floated among the girders of the ceiling and balcony like ghosts.
But there was something, up ahead, moving slowly in the darkness. Owen levelled his gun quickly, feeling a familiar surge of adrenalin. Then he forced himself to slow down; to do it properly. He summoned the clarity of mind he used on the shooting range and sighted carefully along the automatic’s barrel, weapon held high, level with his eye.
He thought he could see it — just a silhouette, no more than one clot of darkness among all the others, but something was wrong. It didn’t have the right shape for a Weevil. It didn’t sound like one either — no harsh breathing or guttural noises.
The target spun, dropped, and Owen’s shot went wide. Something clanged at the far end of the landing and he heard Jack shout. For a horrible moment Owen thought he’d hit him, but then he saw Jack running back down the stairs, greatcoat flapping behind him like bat wings.
Bloody hell! The thing had jumped. Straight off the gantry, a forty-foot drop.
Suicide, normally, even for a Weevil. But Torchwood didn’t deal with normal.
Owen swore loudly and doubled back, hurrying down the steps.
He found Jack at the bottom, circling the area warily, gun held down in a two-handed grip. He didn’t look happy.
‘Don’t tell me we lost it,’ Owen said between breaths. ‘Not after all this.’
‘No way,’ Jack snapped. ‘It’s in here somewhere and it’s not leaving.’
For a second, all they could hear was their own heavy breathing. They stood still and listened carefully. The warehouse wasn’t huge, but it was full of echoes and dark places. It would be possible to hide in here — but not for ever.
A rat darted out of a side opening and disappeared into the shadows. Owen realised the significance immediately, exchanging a nod with Jack. Something had spooked that rat.
‘This way,’ said Jack quietly, moving forward, pistol raised. Owen followed him through the narrow doorway into a tiled passage. There was just enough light to see their way through to a large chamber on the far side. It was cold in here and there was a sound — unmistakably water, gently lapping at the edges of a large tank. It sounded to Owen like they had wandered into a swimming baths.
‘Phew! What is this place?’ hissed Owen, scouring the gloom. The terrible stench of putrefying waste was far worse here, hitting them like a wall of offal.
‘Fish farm. Used to be, anyway. Closed down and scheduled for demolition.’
‘Can’t come soon enough.’
‘Hold it.’ Jack stopped, held up a warning hand. He shone his torch down at his feet and found that he was standing in a large puddle of dark blood. Close by, a Weevil lay on its back, mouth open wide, stomach and chest opened even wider.
The rancid stench of Weevil blood hit Owen, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, gagging reflexively. ‘God almighty,’ he hissed a moment later, swallowing down the bile. ‘What the hell did that to him?’
‘It’s Big Guy,’ Jack said.
‘Was Big Guy.’ Owen, recovering, took a closer, more professional look. The bestial features were frozen in a surprised snarl. Fangs glinted in the torch light. Further down, torn muscle and intestines filled a gaping wound. ‘He’s been ripped open like a packet of crisps. Not many things could do that to a Weevil.’
They exchanged a look of mutual puzzlement, and then suddenly turned back to back, ignoring the corpse, covering each other.
‘Whatever it was, it may still be here,’ Jack whispered.
There was still water in the holding tanks. They were set in the floor, six feet deep, two rows of three. ‘This used to be a public baths,’ Jack said, confirming Owen’s initial assessment. ‘It was built early last century, converted into a fish farm in 1982. They split the swimming pool into six separate tanks to keep the fish in.’
Owen had his torch out now, the beam chasing across the calcified tiles and into the rectangles of black water.
‘Stagnant,’ he said. Green algae filmed the still surface of the nearest pool, crawling up the sides of the tanks and between the cracks in the tiles. ‘No wonder it stinks so much in here. Weevils are bad enough at the best of times, but this place is something else.’
Jack was circling around the far side of the room, peering deep into the shadows. Owen stabbed his torch beam into the darkest areas, trying to chase out whatever had to be hiding in here. So far there were only rats — big, greasy-looking specimens swimming through the thick soup of algae, climbing out onto the tiles and running away from the torch beams.
‘Come on out!’ Jack called, his voice echoing. ‘We’ve got you cornered.’
No response.
Owen slid the torch beam around again, but there was nothing. The room was empty. ‘Back door?’
‘We’d have heard it.’
Owen swept the torch around again. ‘I don’t believe it. Nothing. It’s gone. How can it have just gone like that?’
Jack slowly released the hammer on his revolver, lowering it gently with his thumb.
Owen lowered his own weapon and his stomach growled loudly. Jack gave him a look.
‘I can’t help it,’ Owen told him. ‘I’m hungry. Breakfast time.’
‘It’s just gone midnight, Owen.’
‘I’m an early riser,’ Owen shrugged. ‘Besides, I’m a growing lad.’
‘You poor boy.’ A smile twisted Jack’s lips. ‘Why don’t you help yourself here? You guys love your fish and chips.’
He nodded at the nearest of the water tanks, where the surface was covered with dead fish, floating in a scum of green algae. A silver sheen of dissolving scales glistened across the fetid mass. In the corner, where the corpses had gathered and started to merge into one another as they decayed, a cloud of flies broke away as the torchlight hit them. Rats stirred beneath the water, avoiding the glare.
And there was something else.
Lurking just below the surface.
As the light touched it, a long, pale shape suddenly dived, disappearing into the murky depths. Ripples spread through the scum.
‘Did you see that?’
Jack stepped closer to the edge and peered into the water. ‘Can’t see a thing. Maybe it was a fish — a survivor?’
‘No way — too big.’
Something exploded from the water, sending a fountain of brackish spray high into the air, drenching Owen and smashing straight into Jack, lifting him off his feet.
Spluttering, blinking the filthy water from his eyes, Owen brought his weapon up — but he couldn’t see anything clearly enough in the darkness. He tried to bring his torch to bear, but the beam was flashing wildly and all he glimpsed was a dark shap
e sprawled across the floor, turning over and over as Jack wrestled with it. Then he heard a sharp cry from Jack and the heavy thud of a bone-crunching impact.
The pale shape leapt away and Owen felt something cold brush past him, so fast that he could only snatch at its slippery wetness, then — nothing. The shape disappeared into the shadows while he was still reeling. He stumbled after it, aiming again, pulling the trigger instinctively rather than with any hope of hitting anything. Two bullets zinged away into the darkness, punching plaster harmlessly out of the nearest wall, but the thing had reached the exit and was suddenly whisked away, as if by the wind.
Then silence.
Owen went back and used his torch to find Jack. He was lying on his back, teeth clenched, holding his chest. Owen knelt down and trained the light on Jack’s shirt. The dark blue material was soaked in blood, a glistening stain as black as tar in this light.
‘I’m OK,’ grunted Jack through his teeth. ‘Get after it.’
Owen shook his head. ‘It’s gone, mate. Took off like a crocodile with a jet-pack. Moved so fast I could hardly see it.’
‘It was waiting … under the water …’ Jack sat up, wincing, looking at the blood on his fingertips.
‘Yeah, I got that,’ said Owen ruefully. He was still dripping.
‘Hell, this was a new shirt — fresh out of the packet this morning. Damn!’ Jack indicated the front of his shirt, which was in tatters. Owen caught a glimpse of the lacerated flesh beneath.
He helped Jack to his feet. Jack limped over to the pool and looked down at the water, still swirling with dead fish and decaying matter.
‘Think there’s any more of them down there?’ asked Owen cautiously. He hung back, making sure his gun was still cocked.
‘I doubt it,’ Jack said. ‘We’d both be dead by now if there were. Well, you would be.’
Owen looked at him. ‘You’re an inspirational leader, Jack. Have I ever told you that?’
Jack grinned as he turned to leave. ‘It’s a gift.’
Owen stuffed his gun into the waistband at the back of his jeans and followed him. ‘So we’ve got a Weevil-killer on the loose,’ he said as they headed back to the SUV.
‘Not just a Weevil-killer,’ Jack replied. ‘Tosh says the Rift’s fluctuating because of something she calls chronon discharge — she gave me a 45-minute lecture on the subject, but basically it boils down to this: the Rift is throwing off little sparks of time energy, and, while we don’t know what they mean, Tosh’s computer can trace the direction these sparks travel in. One of them kept coming back here.’
‘To the fish farm?’
‘Two nights ago, the security guard on night duty was found dead; his body had been ripped right open from his crotch to his neck. It was quite a mess with the rats and all, but the pathologist was certain there was no way the poor guy could’ve been killed by another human being.’
‘So they assumed it was a Weevil and called us in.’
‘Got to admit, I assumed it was a Weevil too. We knew Big Guy was active in the area after all.’
‘Except that Weevils don’t gut people like that. They go for the throat.’
‘Actually the police pathologist reckoned on a velociraptor,’ Jack grinned. ‘He had some imagination, I’ll give him that.’
‘Dinosaurs coming through the Rift?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘So what do we reckon it is, then?’
‘Something that can kill a Weevil as easily as a human being.’ Jack paused. ‘Ianto?’ His ear comm connected directly to the Hub. ‘Give me some news, and make it good.’
Ianto Jones’s soft Welsh voice came through loud and clear: ‘Gwen and Toshiko have made it through alive.’
‘Alive?’
‘It was a close thing, apparently. They nearly died of boredom.’
‘Right. Kinda funny, Ianto, if I wasn’t in such a foul mood.’
‘I take it the Weevil got away. Again.’
‘Yes and no. It’s a long story full of mystery, intrigue and lots of sex and violence, but the upshot is this — the Beast of Butetown is no more. Owen’s bringing Big Guy in for an autopsy.’
‘Ah,’ replied Ianto. ‘I’ll be getting the Morgue ready, then.’
‘Great. Any sign of Rift activity?’
‘Just the “spark” trail leading to your current position. Tosh has been running an automated network program to identify any areas of temporal activity including time shifts, time warps, time jumps, time bubbles, time splits, time loops and time travel, but there’s nothing unusual showing whatsoever at Evans Fish Emporium. Except, as I said, for the “spark”.’
‘And a Weevil ripped open like a tin of tuna,’ Owen added.
‘OK.’ Jack clicked his tongue, considering. He kept looking around the old warehouse. Eventually he sighed and said, ‘Ianto, you can liaise with the cops. Sergeant Thomas is the guy in charge here. Tell him I want this entire area cordoned off — armed guards until further notice. Then get the coffee on. We’re coming back to base.’
Jack yanked open the door of the SUV. He looked over the top of the car at Owen. ‘Initial assessment?’
‘I’ll know more when I’ve had a chance to look at Big Guy properly.’
Jack started the SUV up and reversed it across the warehouse, close to the tanks. Together they dragged Big Guy into the back of the car and closed the hatch.
When they finally climbed back into the front seats, both men were breathing hard and bone weary. Owen was soaking wet, and he could still smell the stagnant water. Mixed with the ripe odour of dead Weevil, it was enough to make him nauseous.
Jack drove out into the night and the start of a heavy downpour. The windscreen wipers started to dig holes in the rain automatically.
‘At least we know what it isn’t,’ Owen said after a while. ‘It isn’t a Weevil — or a velociraptor.’
‘Great, that narrows it right down: there’s only a hundred billion other kinds of alien it could be. Tell you what, make out a list when we get back to the Hub and we’ll work it out by a process of elimination.’
Owen sulked, too cold, hungry and tired to think of a good enough retort. Worse still, his head felt muzzy and there was a sneeze brewing. He let it out with an explosive yell, earning him another disgusted look from Jack.
‘Great,’ Owen muttered. ‘Now I’ve caught a cold.’
‘Well, hey, at least you caught something.’
TWO
Gwen Cooper put the back of her hand across her mouth in an attempt to hide the oncoming yawn. It was a hopeless task: the yawn was too big and too wide. Nothing could have disguised it.
‘Got you,’ said Toshiko Sato with satisfaction. ‘You lose.’
‘Sod it.’ Gwen rubbed her face with her hands and then threw her thick black hair back from her face in an effort to sharpen up. ‘It’s not fair, anyway. You never yawn. I’ve never seen you yawn, not once, ever.’
They were sitting at a table in a motorway service station. It was almost deserted, but they had agreed to pull in and grab some caffeine before one or both of them nodded off in the car. They’d sat down with two large Americanos, and the yawning competition had started.
‘What are we doing here, anyway?’ Gwen asked, blowing into the foam on her coffee.
‘Well,’ said Toshiko with some enthusiasm, ‘the way I like to see it, we’re investigating specific chronon discharge in the area. The Rift’s been fluctuating so much recently, and this seems to be a focal point for some of the more obvious temporal spasms. Jack’s doing the same thing near the city centre.’
Gwen blinked at her. ‘I was speaking philosophically.’
‘Ah.’ Toshiko had already taken out one of her scanning instruments, ready to demonstrate. She smiled quickly and returned it to her bag. ‘Philosophy. Not my strong point. Quantum physics and Stephen Hawking, yes. Metaphysics and Plato, not so much.’
Gwen rested her chin in one hand. ‘Rhys once told me that, fr
om the moment we’re born, we’re all on a collision course with death.’
‘If that’s philosophy then I’ll stick with Hawking.’
‘I think he read it somewhere in a novel. That’s why he’s in haulage, not philosophy. But it’s true, though, when you think about it. We’re all going to die some day.’
‘Well, all of us except Captain Jack Harkness, it seems.’
Gwen nodded slowly. ‘The exception that proves the rule.’
Toshiko thought about it for a while. ‘I suppose it does mean that one day, for the rest of us, we really will breathe our last breath. Say our last word. Think our last thought …’
‘The final act.’
‘You sort of stop thinking about it in our line of work,’ Toshiko said. ‘We’ve each faced “the final act” so many times, it just becomes-’
‘Part of the routine?’
‘-an occupational hazard.’
‘I had that already in the police,’ Gwen mused. ‘Rhys used to worry about it a lot. God knows what he would think if he knew what I did now.’ She stared into space for a long moment. ‘Poor Rhys …’
‘This is getting too maudlin,’ Toshiko warned. ‘A motorway services at midnight is no place to think these thoughts. You and Rhys are fine, you’re strong, you’re getting married. It’s good that you have a life outside Torchwood. None of the rest of us have that, not really.’
‘I suppose.’ Gwen sat up straight, brushed her thick black hair away from her face. ‘OK, non-philosophical question: what are we doing here, exactly? Something about chronic somethings, wasn’t it?’
Toshiko smiled patiently. ‘Chronons are discrete particles of time. The Rift has been throwing them out like little sparks for some time. I don’t know if it’s anything to do with the recent time shift with 1918 but …’ Her smiled faded, just a little, as she remembered what it had taken to put things right then. The final act, once again. She looked down at her coffee and said nothing.
‘Hey,’ Gwen reached out, squeezed her hand. ‘Chronon particles. Tell me more.’
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