by Jasmine Walt
Nicholas wanted to ask what he was talking about, but his tongue had frozen to the roof of his mouth.
One of the Sunken raised his head, sniffing the air. He turned, and his cold, hungry eyes found Nicholas. The creature snarled, and leapt forward, racing across the courtyard toward them.
Paralysed by his fear, Nicholas could only stare at the animal eyes of the creature as it closed the distance between them. At any moment it would pounce, and his life would be over. I'm sorry, Brigitte. I hope you are safe—
At the corner of the courtyard, Nicholas saw something flash; a glint of metal under the lamps. Suddenly, a jet of water shot across his vision, catching the creature on the head and knocking it down. The Sunken screamed, pawing at its face with clawed fingers, crying in agony as its skin fell away under the stream of boiling water.
"Let's go." Brunel tugged on Nicholas' arm, but he still couldn't move. He watched, horrified, as more Boilers poured into the courtyard and set upon the Sunken. The creatures dropped their victims and raced to deal with this new threat, leaping and crawling over the machines as they swung with pipes and blades.
One Sunken tried to sink his teeth into a Boiler's belly, but the Boiler swatted it away. The creature sailed through the air, landing in a marble fountain. It slumped in the water, not moving, a pool of red spreading out from its body and a stream of blood pouring from the broken teeth in its mouth.
Another Boiler picked a creature off his shoulder and flung it into the palace wall. Its skull cracked open, leaving a red stain across the stone as it fell to the ground.
The Sunken began to hang back, confused. They didn't understand why they couldn't eat the Boilers. Their hungry eyes darted anxiously between the units, searching for escape. But the Boilers soon had them surrounded, and began to roll forward as one unit, weapons raised, faceless soldiers moving in for the kill.
They used to be men. I am watching the Boilers ruthlessly, mechanically, killing men.
"How did the Boilers know to come here?" Nicholas asked.
"Because, I told them to," Brunel met his eyes. "I figured we would need their help. We must go, Nicholas. There is nothing left to do here."
With a last look over his shoulder at the carnage, Nicholas allowed Brunel to lead him away to the edge of the courtyard.
"William, there's another one!"
Lead pipe raised above his head, William let out a roar and swung it down hard on the creature's head. Its skull split in two with a sickening crack, spewing blood and gore across William's already filthy face. He swung again, flinging the limp body into the window of a ladies’ hat shop, where it slid down the glass and rolled into the gutter.
"That's for my son, you filthy leadbag," William growled.
They charged along Oxford Street, dodging crowds of scattering citizens. Out of the corner of his eye, Aaron saw two of his boys bring down another of the Sunken, hacking it with their axes ‘till it was reduced to a bloody puddle.
They'd barely run a block when they heard more screams, and turned off Oxford, following the sounds of shrieking women ‘till they stood outside the British Museum. Two Sunken circled a crowd of tourists, pouncing whenever someone tried to dash away. They huddled in a protective circle in the corner of the courtyard – women and children in the middle, men facing the beasts, their stricken faces betraying their terror.
Panicked scholars poured from the ramshackle Montagu House, only to be met by this monstrous pair. Men ran across the courtyard, letters flying everywhere, pursued by the Sunken, who had the instincts of true predators – pick off and corner the weak and the slow. They pounced on two men hobbling along on walking canes, slashing and gnashing with their terrible teeth, ‘till the men went down in a fury of blood.
While they were feasting, Aaron and William charged them with their axes, hacking their heads off from behind the neck. His blood boiling, Aaron cried as he swung, like a medieval warrior clamouring for blood. Again and again he hacked, the creature's blood splattering across his face and overalls,’ till well after the creature was dead. William had to pull him away.
"Plenty more where that came from, boyo!"
Aaron turned away, wiped the blood from his eyes, and followed William down to Fleet Street. They chased the screams along the Strand, toward Somerset House, the imposing residence of the Royal Society. Several Sunken crowded around the grand entrance, crawling over each other in a great pile, snarling and snipping at their comrades as they lunged at their prey.
"Holy Conductor's Turds," breathed William.
A shout from behind Aaron tore his gaze away. A group of men approached him, their fine coats stained with blood. Londoners from the nearby well-to-do neighbourhoods, these men carried fine swords and loaded pistols. Their leader signalled that they wished to help, and Aaron called his men back. They stood, gasping for breath, allowing these fresh-faced chaps the honour of hacking down the monsters.
They attacked with gusto, flinging each corpse aside and pulling out the next one, bellowing praises to their various gods as they swung and slashed and stabbed. The swords, thin and flimsy, sang as they sliced through the air, removing limbs and heads as though they were slicing fruit fresh from a tree.
At the centre of the horde, they saw what the Sunken had been scrabbling for: Joseph Banks, or what was left of him. One of his hands still clutched the ornate door handle of Somerset House, but his hand was no longer attached to any other part of his body. He must've been trying to escape when they set upon him. His body slumped forward, and his face twisted around his neck so he faced the sky, his mouth open in a silent, terrible scream. His flesh, muscles, and organs had been torn away, leaving only cracked bones dripping with gore.
Aaron turned away, his stomach heaving. He bent over, trying to calm himself. William grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him away.
"You can stop this now. They're saying the King is dead!" he cried. "They are shouting it from rooftop to rooftop. Listen!"
Aaron gazed up. Sure enough, a cry had been taken up, passed from citizen to citizen. "The King is dead! The King is dead!" The sound of those four words was as sweet as a symphony to Aaron's ears.
"We did it, William," Aaron huffed, as two Stokers pulled down another creature and stabbed it through the chest. "The Stokers saved London."
William shook his head. "Not the Stokers. Look."
He pointed up the street. Aaron squinted, and could just make out a horde of Sunken running into an alley, screaming as they fell over each other in an attempt to flee their pursuers. He heard the sound of steam rushing through chimneys, of gears turning and wheels clanking. He knew before he saw them what pursued the Sunken so relentlessly. Boilers. Boilers chased the Sunken into the alley, surrounded them, and hacked them down with blades already slick with blood. One creature leapt over the wall of iron soldiers, only to be hit with a stream of boiling water from one of the Boiler's hoses. It fell to the ground, screaming as its skin was scorched away. A great cheer rose up from the people crowding the streets. "Long live Brunel!" They cried. "Long live the Metal Messiah!"
Aaron slumped to the ground. Of course. Brunel had set everything up so neatly. He had laid the trap, he had set the Sunken loose within the Walls, and then he sent his mechanical army into battle to reclaim the city. Now the king was dead and all of London was praising his name.
Brunel and his machines had saved the city. And Aaron had made the Stokers into Brunel's enemies.
I've doomed us all.
James Holman's Memoirs – Unpublished
With no regard for propriety or London's traffic laws, Brigitte ordered me to swing the carriage through the palace gates. We careened up the drive, the horse snorting in protest as I drove them onward at a frantic pace. The Sunken, aroused by the scent of fresh meat, raced from every corner of the lawn to circle our carriage. I heard them snarling around us, and felt the carriage judder as one flung itself at the canopy, its hands swiping at our heads. Brigitte screamed, and I ducked, y
anking the reins. The horses swerved, flinging the Sunken off the carriage into the screaming horde.
"Over there!" she cried, tugging my arm. "Oh, James, it's Nicholas. He's alive!"
I turned hard left, dashing several sculpted flowerbeds under the horse's hooves, and pushed the horses at full speed across the lawn. The heavy stone palace raced alongside, and the Sunken still circled, teeth snapping in anticipation of a fresh meal.
"James!"
It is Nicholas. I slowed, wondering how I would make it to him without having the carriage overrun by Sunken. A heavy object thudded on the roof of the canopy, followed by another. "Go, man, go!" Nicholas screamed, and I took off, flying those horses for all they were worth.
"They're everywhere!" Brigitte cried.
"I'm aware of that," I snapped, trying to focus on getting the carriage safely outside the palace gates.
"No, not the Sunken. Boilers! They are chasing down the creatures."
I focused my hearing. She was right. The sounds around me had changed. Before, we had been surrounded by the snarling, snapping creatures. Now, the hiss of steam and the clang of metal hitting metal punctuated the air, broken only by the screams of the Sunken as the Boilers took them down.
We hurtled through the gate at top speed, and tore out into the street, leaving those horrible animalian screams behind us. Only when we were back on the street and Brigitte reported no Sunken in sight did I slow the horses and allow Nicholas and his companion to climb down into the carriage.
"James Holman, you bloody scoundrel. You were meant to remain in my home to protect Brigitte, not take her on a midnight carriage ride through a blood-soaked city! And why are you, of all people, driving this carriage?"
"Needs must be met, when a woman is distraught and the city is overrun with lead-soaked vampires," I answered. "Where to, gentlemen?"
"To Engine Ward, please," said a familiar voice – grating and controlled. Isambard. I nodded, and pulled back out into the empty streets.
"For once, James had nothing to do with this," said Brigitte. "It was all my idea. I couldn't bear the thought of you out here trying to save the city singlehandedly."
"Woman, you are incorrigible. I may as well marry Holman here for all the grief you cause me."
"What happened, Nicholas? What have you done?" Brigitte demanded.
Isambard answered. "Nicholas and I have … solved the problem. My Boilers will take care of the rest." He leaned forward, clasping his hand over my shoulder. "A real pleasure to see you again, James. I see you have not lost your bold spirit."
"Even my lust for adventure has been tested tonight," I said, shuddering under the touch of his cold hand. "People have been shouting that Somerset House is overrun with the Sunken – you are very lucky to be alive. I would pay you the correct observances, Presbyter, but under the circumstances I think we can both agree that would be unwise."
"Indeed. Drive on, Mr. Holman. And call me Isambard."
The news of the King's death had spread through the streets. All around us we heard people shouting from window to window, their voices rising with joy as they passed on the happy news. The Sunken had all but disappeared from the main streets, butchered or chased away by the Boilers. Only scattered screams in the distance reminded us the fight still continued.
Inside the carriage, however, all remained quiet. Beside me, Brigitte still gripped my hand, speaking only to give me directions in a small, frightened voice. Finally, she broke the silence.
"Forgive me for what I am about to say, but … won't you be … is the … will you be punished for what you have done?" she directed the question at everyone, but it was clear she worried for Nicholas. I worried also, knowing full well the penalty for such an act as they had committed.
"That remains to be seen," Brunel answered. "Is it treason to kill someone who was already dead? Most of the King's supporters on the Council died alongside him tonight, and he has no immediate heirs. We have done England a great service, Miss Brigitte, and she will look after us."
"But—"
"Don't fear, my love." Nicholas leaned over, placing his hand on top of Brigitte's and mine. "The worst is behind us. From now on, every day will be filled with promise. Nothing approaching this scale of horror could ever be repeated."
How wrong he turned out to be.
They poured down the street like a river, their furnace bellies glowing in the moonlight, their blades slicing the air like a siren's song, calling the Sunken to their doom. They fell into formation with languid ease, as if they had fought off hordes of once-human-lead-vampires hundreds of times before. Descending upon the city with immaculate precision, they finished what the Stokers had begun – sweeping the streets clean of the Sunken.
Aaron could only pull the Stokers back, well clear of the carnage, and watch the Boilers with a mixture of reverence and disgust. Wiping the blood from his face, the full horror of what he'd fought against came crashing down on him. Watching the Boilers at work – the ease with which they mowed down their enemy, the ruthlessness of their mechanical blows – forced him to see them as something other than a mechanical workforce; they were a true killing machine, answering only to one master. The notion struck his heart with a deeper feeling of fear and unease than he'd felt all night.
William patted his shoulder. "Time to go home," he said.
Home. Aaron shuddered. We have no home anymore.
They trudged back toward Engine Ward, the only place they could go, their spirits broken, their bodies shaking off the thrill of the killing and taking up the burden of their belated terror. All around them, the night's horror forced itself upon them. The dead littered the streets, piled up in the doorways, draped across the gutters and sprawled in mangled heaps under the wheels of wrecked carriages. Blood mixed with raindrops and flooded through the cobbles, collecting in the drains and forming scarlet ponds that glimmered in the moonlight.
So many dead, and for what? What could drive a king to this madness, and what made Isambard allow him to do so? He could have stopped this. He should have stopped this. So many have died so he could be the saviour of London.
They marched through the gates of Engine Ward, wishing only to sink back down into their tunnels and sleep off the horrors of the night. But the madness on the streets outside had penetrated the high walls of the Ward, for men and women ran through the streets, torches blazing, drums beating, voices screaming and cackling as they rushed in and out of narrow streets and ramshackle buildings.
Aaron pulled his men into an alley. "It seems we're not out of danger yet. If the Sunken have penetrated Engine Ward—"
"But why is the Chimney ablaze with light?"
"And why is everyone singing?"
"Singing?"
William peeked around the corner. "I don't believe it."
Aaron leaned out, and he couldn't believe it, either.
It wasn't a massacre, but a celebration, and it was attracting a great crowd of people, who poured in through the main entrance. Priests from the Metic and Isis churches rolled barrels of wine from their cellars into the streets and pried them open, while eager hands dived in, bottles and tankards at the ready. Men dragged instruments from their homes – strange devices made from steel pipes, broken steam valves, and empty drums. A great cacophony rose up – grating at first, but as the musicians found their places, it became melodious, a dance to lift the heart of the Engine Ward. Multi-coloured robes of every sect intermingled, twirling and weaving through the streets, dancing together, the wearers laughing with each other.
As they walked, awestruck, toward the Chimney, hands reached out to embrace them, voices calling blessings and thanks. Their praises brought smiles to Aaron’s men, and as they neared the Chimney, he saw the lanterns had been flicked on, and a group of revellers congregated on the steps, dressed in dirty overalls, but welcomed by all and wrapped up in the frenzy of the dance. They were led by a familiar figure, draped in grey and handing out candies to laughing children. He bolted into
the street before William could grab him.
"Chloe, what are you doing up here?"
"You left me all alone in that hovel," she snapped. "We could hear the screaming through the vents. What was I supposed to do, Aaron? Wait for them to break into the Engine Ward and devour us? I heard them, everywhere I heard their horrible snarls, and you were gone, so I came here – we all came up here – to see what could be done."
"What has happened here?" Aaron grabbed his wife by the shoulders. "Why is everyone celebrating? The Sunken are not yet defeated. We've lost two men, and the city is drowning under the weight of the dead. What could there possibly be to celebrate?"
"Haven't you heard? The King is dead," she answered, her face breaking into a smile. "Brunel has killed him. The Council has seized control of England. The Boilers are rounding up the rest of the Lead Children as we speak."
"I heard, but—" But what about the Stokers? What about all we did?
"Long live Brunel!" The shout rang out from the horde of Stokers.
"Long live Brunel!" The cry was taken up by the other men congregating in the streets – Metics, Morpheans, Dirigires, all chanting praise to Brunel. Aaron stepped back, his stomach tight with horror.
"Long live Brunel, the Metal Messiah!"
Everyone – his people, his enemies, even his wife – was under Brunel's spell.
Epilogue
Nicholas watched from his place of honour behind the altar in the Chimney as Robert Stephenson, who could barely disguise his disgust, placed a new sceptre, forged of steel, into Isambard's hands. Isambard repeated an oath, spoke in Latin, containing his promise to watch over all the peoples of England and her Empire, to uphold the laws of her Council and the will of her Gods. He raised the sceptre high in the air, and the whole Nave erupted with applause. Nicholas stood and clapped loudest of all, a genuine smile on his face.
After the Redcoats had cleaned the streets of the Sunken, and the remains of the dead were piled up in the market square in Engine Ward, a public funeral was held and hundreds reported to collect what body parts they could recognise as belonging to loved ones. All that remained were buried under a memorial stone in Kensington Gardens. The bodies of the Sunken were deposited on the lawn of Buckingham Palace, and set alight.