The Swarm Descends

by Jacob Grey

  “If you think I can be bargained with, you’re wrong,” said the Mother of Flies.

  Selina was staring at her mother, wild-eyed. “How can you say that?” she murmured. “Mum, please …”

  Mrs Strickham held firm. “Don’t test me, fly talker,” she said.

  Caw could see the determination in her face and it terrified him. She wasn’t bluffing. But neither was the Mother of Flies.

  “Arrest them all,” said Cynthia Davenport. “Alive, preferably. Or dead, if it comes to it.”

  Caw jumped forward to tear Mrs Strickham away, and at the same time two foxes launched themselves at Cynthia Davenport. Several rifle shots cracked above and the foxes scampered clear. Selina broke free.

  He wasn’t sure what happened next, only that more bullets flew and a policeman fell screaming from above, hitting the ground with a thud. The pale shapes of pigeons fell from the sky, swooping to attack the other officers. Mr Strickham jumped in front of Lydia, shielding her with his body.

  “Caw, get out of here!” yelled Lydia. “Use your crows!”

  Caw heard pigeons screeching, and looked up. Each one was thrashing, its feathers covered in a black swarm of flies. He couldn’t call his crows into this trap as well.

  Police were coming through the gates now, surrounding Crumb and Mr Strickham. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Mr Strickham muttered, his face deathly pale.

  “On the ground!” said one of the cops, pointing his gun at Caw.

  Caw backed away, looking for an escape route. Red dots danced across his chest.

  The fence was too high and the gate was blocked. There was no way out.

  Except one.

  “Get down, kid!” shouted another officer.

  Caw closed his eyes. Come on! his mind screamed. Change!

  He remembered the first time it had happened – how he’d managed to lose himself, to release his body from its human form. But that was before he’d touched the Midnight Stone. What if it had weakened him permanently?

  “Last chance. Lie down, or we’ll fire!”

  Caw ignored the waves of fear smashing through him. He lowered himself to his knees. He felt his body lighten and the shouts of the prison yard become more distant.

  It’s happening …

  His limbs seemed to turn to liquid, his bones shifting horribly, tendons stretching to breaking point. He cried out in pain, opening his eyes to see the faces of the police aghast. They lowered their guns, slowly, in horror. Only one fired, but Caw felt the bullet whizz past his shoulder.

  He fell forward and tried to catch himself but his arms had gone and instead his feet left the ground. He flailed, and again he rose. He saw his wings on either side and flapped them more forcefully until at last they lifted him right above the police officers’ heads. He soared higher and higher – marvelling at the power of his crow body.

  A cloud of moths came to intercept him, screeching, but with a flick of his wings he slid beneath them. He felt them land across his back with soft, insistent thumps. Caw thrashed and snapped his beak, but he couldn’t fight them off. He couldn’t even see for all the wings.

  He tried to think above the panic to survive. He cast out his summons with the power of his mind and saw them coming. A dozen crows. They swept past, gathering up the moths in their beaks and talons, crushing their bodies and hurling them down. The weight on Caw’s back was gone and he righted himself, climbing higher. The moths pursued, a swathe of fluttering grey, but the crows regrouped and attacked, smashing their column to pieces.

  Above the prison yard, Caw saw it all. Mr Strickham and Lydia being dragged to their feet and pulled away from each other. Mrs Strickham still fighting as officers piled on to her. Selina gazing open-mouthed to one side, her body slack, pressed up against a wall with her hands cuffed behind her back. She looked neither afraid nor defiant, just … lost.

  Cynthia Davenport had gone. He turned his head, sweeping his crow gaze over the vista.

  No, there she was. Somehow, in just a matter of seconds, she had reached the top of one of the towers. She was standing there, watching him.

  Rage boiled in Caw’s chest, making his feathers tingle.

  Attack! he willed.

  The crows wheeled behind him and together they swooped towards her.

  She watched him coming, a grin on her face, as if she didn’t care at all.

  Caw gathered his strength, turning up his talons to rake across her skin. She couldn’t escape. And then, a split-second before impact, she seemed to dematerialise in front of him, exploding into a storm of black dots.

  Flies!

  Caw adjusted his flight to avoid smashing into the side of the tower and turned on the wing. The other crows did the same. Where Cynthia Davenport had been, now there was a swarm of flies, so dense in places they were a solid mass. They shot towards him, coating his wings, and their buzzing burrowed into his ears and made him want to clamp his eyes shut.

  Caw tried to shake them loose and fly away, but each time he threw them off, they simply fell on him again in a raucous assault. He tried to call his other crows, but couldn’t focus. He felt the sting of a hundred bites across his body and sensed her hatred in each one. He flapped madly, and broke free.

  Caw shot across the rooftops, trying to escape. The flies pursued on every side, sometimes swarming ahead, sometimes dropping back.

  They’re playing with me! Like it’s a game.

  By the time he reached the railway line, he was tiring, but the flies were relentless. He dipped and swooped under a bridge, hoping to lose them, but on the other side they were waiting, hovering. A mass slammed into one wing, tipping him over. Caw lost his bearings and couldn’t stop as the rails rushed towards him.

  He slammed into tracks and, for a moment, all he felt was breathless pain. He bounced and slid, and when he fetched up at the side of the lines, he saw his leg bleeding through his torn trousers. He was a human again.

  Caw rolled over – his hands were scraped and bloody, and his shoulder felt all wrong. When he tried to move it, the bones ground against each other, making his vision blur. The wave of agony brought bile into his throat.

  The flies descended in a black cloud, then a foot above the ground they coalesced into the shape of Cynthia Davenport. Her feet touched down smoothly. Taking out her phone, she muttered a few words into it, then strode towards him.

  “Not your best landing, I would have thought,” she said. Leaning down, she grabbed his foot and began to tug him across the metal rails and into the middle of the line. Caw had no strength to fight her, and his shoulder screamed.

  She let him drop, and placed a dagger-like heel in the middle of his chest, pushing him back to the ground.

  “You might be able to turn into one animal, but you see, I can turn into thousands,” she said. “Now, where is the Midnight Stone?”

  Caw tried to move, but he was too weak.

  The Mother of Flies pressed more weight on to him, the point of her heel right over his heart.

  “Where is it?” she said again.

  The ground began to tremble beneath them. Craning his neck, Caw saw two wide headlights approaching along the tracks.

  “Where is the stone, crow talker?” she shouted. It was the first time Caw had heard her raise her voice. He squirmed uselessly. He couldn’t escape, but he couldn’t tell her either. He couldn’t let his mother down. Over her shoulder, he saw his three crow companions circling. He willed them to stay back.

  “You’ll never have it,” he said.

  The glare of the lights lit up Cynthia Davenport’s face as the train horn sounded.

  “So be it,” she said.

  Caw heard the piercing screech of brakes, but it was far too late to escape. He closed his eyes, ready to die.

  he roar of the train seemed to burrow into his head and the air filled with the smell of engine oil, heat and dust.

  Caw felt his body jerked aside and pain shot through his shoulder again. It took a moment to r
ealise he wasn’t dead. The Mother of Flies had pulled him upright and gripped him tight by the collar as the train thundered past just a foot away, shaking his bones. Then it was gone, carrying its sound and fury off into the night and leaving the air trembling in its wake. Caw felt barely strong enough to stand.

  “Brave,” she said. “But this is a waste of time. You’re only delaying the inevitable.”

  A limo pulled up on the road below the bridge. From its huge grille and bulk, Caw guessed it was armoured. One of the rear doors opened and Mr Silk climbed out. He’d changed out of the police uniform back into his white hat and suit, which was covered in the shimmering bodies of his moths.

  Cynthia Davenport spun Caw round and then dissolved into flies. They swarmed over his skin and suddenly the world lurched as he felt himself hoisted into the air by the buzzing bodies. The sensation was weird and frightening – and completely unlike when the crows carried him. He was a prisoner.

  The swarm lowered him on to the ground beside the limo, then dispersed, flying up and away. Caw felt cold metal clasp over his wrists as a pair of handcuffs clicked into place. The pain from his shoulder brought him close to retching as the moth feral shoved him into the car. He fell awkwardly across the seats. Mr and Mrs Strickham and Lydia sat opposite, all in cuffs like Caw. Mrs Strickham’s eyes passed over him emptily.

  “Do make yourself comfortable,” said Mr Silk with a smile. He slammed the door.

  “Caw, are you OK?” said Lydia, eyes fixed on his torn clothes.

  Caw righted himself, hissing through his teeth as his bones ground together. “I think my shoulder is dislocated,” he said. “Where’s Crumb?”

  “They kept him at the prison,” said Mr Strickham. His cheek was badly grazed, his lip swollen, and he looked utterly dejected.

  The limo started to move. Still Mrs Strickham only stared into space.

  “And … Selina?” asked Caw.

  “Why d’you even care?” snapped Lydia. “She betrayed us again, the first chance she got.”

  It was true. But Caw knew what he’d seen in her face in the prison yard – the look of fear as she struggled to understand, of being completely lost. And he knew how that felt.

  The car drove fast, throwing them around in the back every time it swerved. Caw glanced out of the window. They were heading south, unless he was mistaken, and back towards the river. The prison was in the other direction entirely. Where’s she taking us?

  “So where is this stone that she’s after?” asked Mr Strickham.

  Caw checked all around for flies before he answered. “I hid it.”

  “Well, where?” asked Lydia’s father angrily.

  “Don’t tell us,” said Mrs Strickham. “It’s better that way.”

  Mr Strickham rolled his eyes. “For god’s sake! This is crazy. If it’s this stone she wants, then why the hell don’t we—”

  “Please, Dad, don’t,” said Lydia. “Don’t you see, Caw was right. This whole thing – Selina being at Caw’s house, the raid at the zoo, the prison – the Mother of Flies planned it all. She wants that stone more than anything else. It’s like Mamba said – she’s been a step ahead from the start.”

  Mr Strickham’s mouth moved as if he was about to say something else, but he fell silent.

  After a few moments, the car stopped with the engine still running. Caw heard the sound of electric gates opening, then they rolled forward more slowly. Finally the engine died, and the door was flung open.

  “Out,” said Mr Silk, tapping his foot impatiently.

  Caw went first, gingerly manoeuvring himself out of the door. The pain in his shoulder had dulled to a pulsing ache. He realised at once that they were in the financial district, surrounded by towers of steel and glass. It wasn’t a place he’d often visited – there was nothing to scavenge here and most of the buildings had cameras or security guards. The car had pulled up in a wide forecourt decorated with potted plants and a sparkling fountain. It was completely silent, apart from the trickling of the water.

  The front door on the other side of the car opened. Caw expected to see Cynthia Davenport, but instead it was the pale figure of her daughter who climbed out. Caw’s heart twisted with a surge of emotion as she glanced up at him, her face puffy from crying.

  “Get a move on,” said Mr Silk.

  Selina stood firm, looking up at the towering building. “What is this place?” she said.

  “Your new home,” said Mr Silk. “The concierge will tell you where to go.” He shoved her in the back and she walked slowly towards the entrance.

  “Traitor!” shouted Lydia.

  Selina didn’t even seem to hear as she went up the front steps and disappeared inside.

  Pinkerton got out of the car next. Like Mr Silk, she had changed out of her police gear. Several squeaking rats poured after her as she went to join Mr Silk.

  “I think we’d better go inside,” said the moth feral. He took off his hat and bowed to Velma Strickham. “Ladies first.”

  Mrs Strickham didn’t move.

  “You can try to summon all the foxes you want, but trust me, there won’t be many around here,” said Mr Silk. “They lay down poison, you see, for pests.” He tipped his hat. “Please,” he pointed towards the lobby. “My manners have limits.”

  “Come on,” said Mr Strickham. “Let’s see what she has to say.”

  He led the way up the steps, his wife and daughter following. Caw came last, his arm gripped by Pinkerton, her rats scuttling around his feet.

  “You sh-shouldn’t have m-m-made her angry,” said Pinkerton in Caw’s ear.

  As they walked through the door, Caw glanced back and scanned the sky for his crows. Had they followed? If so, he couldn’t see them.

  Once inside, Mr Silk and Pinkerton escorted them across a marble floor, skirting the fountain. Selina had already disappeared. A doorman on a desk paid no attention to the strange crowd, or the rodents. Another of her employees, thought Caw. His blood was pumping. He had no idea what they were walking into.

  At a bank of elevators, Mr Silk pushed a button and waited. “She won’t let you take your rats up there,” he said to Pinkerton.

  “W-w-why not?” said the feral.

  “Because, my dear, even the fly talker thinks they’re vermin.”

  Pinkerton scowled.

  The elevator door pinged open and they were all herded in. As the door closed on the rats, Caw saw that even though their wrists were cuffed behind their backs, Mr Strickham was still holding on to Lydia’s hands with his own.

  He doesn’t know if we’re getting out of this alive, thought Caw.

  Caw watched the numbers light up as the elevator climbed smoothly. The walls were glass, and while the lobby dropped away on one side, through the rear pane Caw saw the city loom into view. The neighbouring skyscrapers were dark shadows against the sky, but further off lights twinkled across the river, and the glow of car headlamps threaded across the city. So many ordinary people, who had no idea what was going on beneath their noses.

  At the seventieth floor, the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened.

  Caw wasn’t sure what he’d expected. An office, perhaps. But they stepped out on to a walkway overlooking a huge, open-plan apartment. Mrs Strickham was taking it all in as well, coolly surveying her surroundings. One side of the apartment was entirely glass, giving an incredible view of the city. Huge abstract paintings covered white walls and a fire burned in a free-standing hearth. Large leather sofas were arranged around a glass table on a rug made of some sort of animal skin. Off to the side, forming the short section of an L-shape, Caw caught a glimpse of what looked like a kitchen.

  The place couldn’t have been more different from the dilapidated sewing factory where the Spinning Man had based his operations. Everything was pure luxury – the sort of stuff most normal people craved.

  But there was a smell that didn’t fit at all. Something that made Caw’s stomach turn.

  They were led down a set
of stairs from the walkway and across the lounge, towards a long dining table lined with chairs. Caw’s heart jolted as he saw what lay there.

  “Urgh!” said Lydia, suddenly halting and clapping her hands over her mouth and nose.

  In the centre, half-decomposed and grinning up at them, was a pig’s head. Flies crawled over its rotting surface and maggots squirmed from an empty eye socket. Mr Strickham wretched.

  Pinkerton sniggered. “G-g-got to keep her babies happy.”

  Lydia’s mother merely raised an eyebrow. “Just take us to her.”

  At the end of the dining table was a set of double doors, one open slightly. As they passed, Caw caught a glimpse of a low-lit carpeted room. Several men and women were drinking beer from bottles at a bar and playing pool. They were muttering to each other, and one or two noticed Caw and his companions, but none came out.

  Mr Strickham stopped suddenly. “Hey!” he said. “I know you.”

  A particularly fierce-looking man with tattoos over his arms and a crooked mouth put down his beer bottle on the bar and stalked over, spinning a pool cue.

  “You’re Lugmann,” said Mr Strickham. “You were in D-wing.”

  Lugmann grinned, squeezing his frame through the single open door. His mouth glinted with several silver teeth. “Not any more, Governor,” he said. He raised the pool cue and Mr Strickham backed away. Mr Silk grabbed Lugmann’s arm, and Caw saw a tattoo of a fly on the inside of the convict’s wrist.

  “I wouldn’t be trying that if I were you,” said the moth feral. “Our mistress would not be happy.”

  Lugmann grunted and jutted out his chin. “When the time comes, Governor,” he said. “And I assure you, it will come.” He dragged a finger across his throat, turned and walked back to his game of pool.

  “I think we know where all the high security inmates are now,” muttered Mr Strickham, as they were pushed on. “In that room.”

  Caw frowned. Why would the Mother of Flies have human henchmen? Then he remembered what Mrs Strickham had said in the taxi on the way to the prison – how the fly ferals had always been looked down on by the other ferals. Perhaps the Mother of Flies had no choice but to make do with humans? And the only wretched ferals who would follow her – the moth feral and the rat feral. The lowest of the low.