by S. C. Green
The whole structure glowed with eerie yellow light, illuminated by wall sconces and moonlight shining through grates in the ceiling. An opulent, tiled platform stretched on into the distance, much longer and wider than Nicholas expected. Surely Aaron was wrong … surely machines didn’t create all this?
A huge, black locomotive waited at the platform, steam still curling around her. She had not long been used. Several carriages waited behind her, and as Nicholas walked past them, he could see dark smudges across the walls. Blood.
“It’s not perfect,” whispered Brunel, stretching out his fingers to touch the locomotive. “I designed it myself, but Banks insisted on letting Stephenson look it over. He installed the vents to carry the steam and smoke out of the tunnel, but they don’t work as efficiently as I’d hoped. Actually, they don’t seem to work at all. When you exit the train, it feels as though you are walking into the smoky pits of hell.”
Nicholas nodded, too stunned to speak.
A grand staircase wound up into the palace proper, but Brunel led him through a nondescript wooden door down a stairwell and up into a steep vertical shaft. A ladder made of iron pins mounted into the stone served as the means of ascent.
“I had this built secretly, while we constructed the platform,” said Brunel, heaving his broad figure up onto the first rung. “When I first laid eyes on those deplorable creatures and was given the job of constructing this railway, I knew the time would come when I would need it.”
“How far must we go?” Nicholas asked, slipping his hand through the metal handle of the lantern and grabbing the first rung.
“Not too far,” answered Brunel, in a tone that implied he climbed precarious ladders up thin ventilation shafts every other day.
Up and up they climbed, Nicholas holding his breath and trying to ignore the heat from the lantern as it banged against his arm. Brunel stopped, pushed open a tiny trapdoor, and wriggled his way through. Nicholas followed, squeezing his shoulders together and thrusting himself through on a jaunty angle. He slammed his shoulders on cold stone and slid a few feet down a winding staircase.
“Servants’ access,” Brunel whispered. “We must hurry.”
A strange noise penetrated Nicholas’ ears, a kind of buzzing, almost like a swarm of insects trapped behind the walls. From somewhere within the palace, more screams echoed, and the fear tightened in his chest. As quietly and quickly as they could, they descended the steps into a long, low hall, with thin wooden doors on either side, probably leading to more halls — a maze of passages extending throughout the palace grounds, to allow servants ease of access to every room without being a nuisance to the royal family and their guests.
Brunel led the way, strangely confident of his path for someone who should never have spent much time wandering through servants’ passages. The sound was even louder here, and Nicholas thought perhaps he heard individual voices, hissing and crying, producing the hideous cacophony. He remembered what Aaron had said, and wondered if Aaron had been correct in no longer trusting Brunel.
Maybe I’m being led into a trap … he remembered how frightened he’d been when Brunel held him aloft over the pulpit. No. He shook his head, trying to shake off the thoughts. No. Brunel was angry with me, and rightly so. He is placing himself at great risk to save the city. I trust him.
They rounded a corner, and thumped down a flight of small steps. At the bottom, Brunel stopped abruptly, and Nicholas crashed into him, sending the pair of them into the stone wall.
“Argh!” Nicholas cried as his head scraped against bare stone. His vision blurred, and pain shot through his skull. From somewhere outside the pain he became aware that Brunel had picked himself up, and was facing away from him, his back rigid.
And then he heard the animalian snarl from somewhere in the darkness, and his chest tightened in fear.
“Nicholas,” Brunel said, his voice strained. “You need to get up and run back down the passage. You need to go now!”
Seizing every ounce of courage, Nicholas heaved himself to his feet. His vision swam and he toppled forward, grabbing the edge of the stone staircase, and scrambled away, barely able to tell if he were going up or down. He heard Brunel cry out behind him, but he couldn’t look back. He ran, his feet sliding out from under him on the slippery stone.
Down the corridor he stumbled, around one corner and the next, not sure where he was going. Footsteps thundered behind him. “Nicholas!” Brunel called out. “Not that way!”
He reeled around, the hallway spinning in a whirlpool of shadows. He stumbled into the wall, banging his temple against a protruding candle sconce. Black dots appeared in his vision. The creature hissed, so close now, he could hear it breathing, panting, and salivating for his flesh. I’m going to die, he thought. I’m going to die here in the palace and I’ll never see Brigitte again.
Brunel grabbed his shoulder and shoved him forward. Nicholas stumbled over his feet, falling forward, spinning out of control. Rough hands yanked him back, and Brunel groped for the pistol on his belt. The creature hissed again, and pounced. Nicholas caught a blurry glimpse of that horrid, disfigured face and bulging eyes as it tore at his shirt with emaciated fingers. He shut his eyes and waited for the pain.
The gun went off, and the creature screamed. Its hands tore from Nicholas’ chest as it bounced against the wall. It crashed in a heap, squirming and screaming as it clutched at the wound. Brunel leaned over it, and stomped on its neck. Once, twice … Nicholas heard the bones crunch … and it was dead.
“Are you all right? Did it bite you?” It was Brunel’s voice in his ear, softer now. He pulled Nicholas to the ground and inspected his chest.
“No … I don’t think so.”
Brunel untied the powder horn from Nicholas’ belt and refilled the barrel, using the ramrod to pat it down. He wrapped a ball in wadding and dropped that in on top, then handed the pistol back to Nicholas.
His vision stopped swimming, and the dim world came into focus once more. His head throbbed, but he thought he might be over the worst of it. In front of him, on the stone ground, the creature twitched, groaning as it sank into death. Nicholas leaned over, straining his eyes for a look.
It had once been a man, and wore a tattered tunic and trousers much like Nicholas’ own, but the resemblance ended there. The skin on its face and arms hung from the bones like wet sailcloth, slick with sweat and mucus that oozed from the hundreds of weeping boils that covered its skin. The eyes bulged from the skull like a reptile, and Nicholas recoiled as these blinked once before rolling back in the creature’s head. Where the mouth had once been was now a gaping hole, surrounded by charred flesh. The jawbone protruded, stained green by a diet of lead, and a metal protrusion extended from the cheeks and chest, like unholy surgeries gone wrong, surrounded by more patches of charred, broken skin.
“This is madness.”
Brunel tugged his jacket. “More will be coming for us soon, if we don’t get to the King’s private chamber. Are you able to walk?”
“I think so. My head hurts, but the dizziness has subsided.”
“Good.”
Something skittered along the corridor. They both whipped their heads around, but couldn’t see anything. Brunel tightened his fingers around Nicholas’ arm.
“We need to leave these tunnels, immediately,” said Brunel. “Follow me, and for Great Conductor’s sake, don’t fall again.”
***
James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished
It was not party guests who swarmed from the palace gates, but hundreds of hissing, snapping creatures. They fanned out across the street and ducked and weaved around the carriages. I heard the unmistakable sound of teeth tearing flesh, of bones being crushed as the creatures tore down their first victims. Two vehicles careened down the street beside us, a pair of snarling creatures in hot pursuit.
The Sunken were not locked away inside the palace, but had been let loose here, on the streets, to tear the population of London limb from limb.<
br />
“Nicholas!” Brigitte grabbed my hand. “He wanted to stop them. James, what if he went into the palace? We must go to him!”
Before I could dissuade her, she ordered the coachman to turn the carriage around and drive with all speed toward the palace. “Bugger that, you’re a madwoman!” he cried, slowing the coach, leaping off and sprinting away into the night. A sensible lad, if ever I saw one.
Brigitte pulled herself onto the coachman’s bench and gathered up the reins. “Holman, I need help!”
“Hand me the reins,” I said, clambering onto the bench beside her, “but you’ll need to direct us.”
And for the second time that day I found myself, a blind man, on the footplate of a carriage, navigating a horse and cart through London’s narrow streets when they swarmed with terrified citizens and lead-soaked vampires. We turned off the main road and careened through the smaller, narrower streets at a pace I wasn’t entirely comfortable with, Brigitte calling out directions and me trying frantically to learn the right signals for left, right, stop, about turn. All around us, bedlam reigned. Terrified people ran in all directions, throwing themselves to the road to be crushed by the carriage wheels rather than succumb to the tortures that awaited them.
Phantom hands groped at my legs, crying out to be let on the carriage, but I knew if I stopped we’d share the same fate as Miss Julie and Rebecca and poor, sweet Cassandra. Men shouted at me, women sobbed, bodies pressed against the wheels before being dragged under. I felt their bones breaking as we wheeled over the top, but we could not stop. And over it all, that inhuman sound of the Sunken hissing, snarling, and tearing apart their victims in their frenzy.
***
Through the gates of Engine Ward they rolled, two abreast, like an army spilling forth from a fortress of steel. Some carried weapons – hoses and blades and crude bludgeoning devices. But all carried a fire in their belly. All carried a message from their master.
The Boilers fanned out across the city, placing themselves at strategic points around the palace, spreading out across the boulevards, weaving around the traffic, smashing their way through roadblocks and buildings, relentless in their haste to carry out their mission.
Their instructions were explicit; destroy the lead creatures. Destroy them all.
***
Charles and Francesca Babbage had just seen the last of their dinner guests to the door. Francesca pulled the downstairs curtains while Charles lovingly carried his miniature Difference Engine back to the study and locked it in the cabinet under his desk.
He was just replacing the key in the spring-loaded secret drawer behind his typewriter, when Francesca called him from the hallway. He went to see what was the matter and found his wife with her head pressed against the front window.
“Something’s happening out on the street,” she said. “I heard a woman screaming. I’m worried about the Faradays. We only just sent them on their way — what if they’re being mugged right at this very moment!”
Charles stared into the dark street, but could see nothing amiss, save the outline of a lone organ grinder pacing the curb in front of the house. He gritted his teeth in irritation, and was just about to tell his wife it must have been the wind when a piercing shriek cut through his thoughts.
“See?” said Francesca. “What if that’s Mrs. Faraday?”
The song of the organ grinder — a tuneless version of “The Stoker and the Navvy’s Wife” — suddenly ceased.
Babbage threw open the door. “Hand me that lantern,” he ordered his wife.
He stood on the stoop, still in his evening finery, and shone the lantern into the darkness. It was no good. The city hadn’t got around to installing street lamps in their neighbourhood yet, and the houses on either side of him had their lights off, so he could barely see across the street. He descended the steps, straining in the darkness to see if the Faradays’ carriage was anywhere in sight.
He heard a scream again, from the eastern end of the street, probably the organ grinder trying to lure him out into the street. But no, the organ lay on its side at the bottom of the steps, the grinder nowhere in sight. He squinted at the cobbles. Is that blood? He stepped onto the road, thinking to walk as far as the corner to investigate.
Something hissed as it brushed past him and leapt up the steps.
He whirled around in time to see a blur of movement as the intruder disappeared through the open door. He heaved himself up the steps, and pushed the door open just as Francesca let out a wail.
He shone the light into the dim hall and froze. The sight that greeted him cooled his blood. His wife, backed up against the bookshelf, faced a creature so loathsome it must have come from the very pits of hell. It walked like a man, but hissed and snarled like a predator, gnashing its teeth against its puckered, blackened jaws.
“Hey, demon, over here!” The creature whirled around, its bulging eyes narrowing on Babbage. He inched along the wall toward the hat stand, where his walking cane rested in the basket. Inside was concealed a thin, retractable blade.
The creature took a tentative step towards him, a dry hiss emitting from its puckered, burnt mouth. Not daring to take his eyes off the creature, Babbage fumbled with his fingers and grasped the handle of his cane. He gestured to his wife to move toward the staircase.
He pulled the cane to his chest and pressed the spring-loaded catch. Francesca bolted for the staircase. The creature’s eyes darted between the two of them, then sprang onto the balustrade and lunged for Francesca.
Her scream tore Babbage’s heart. The creature caught her by the throat and bit her, tearing the flesh from her cheek. Babbage raced across the hall, knife poised for the kill, but by the time he reached her, it was too late. With a twist of its head, the creature tore out her throat, and his beautiful wife fell silent and sagged against the staircase, her blood cascading over the creature like a waterfall.
Babbage howled as he bore down on the beast, slashing with the knife and tearing at it with his bare hands. He dug his fingers into those bulging eyes and felt the hatred surge. The creature squirmed and screamed for escape. With a final bellow of triumph, he thrust the knife deep into the creature’s chest, driving it through the ribcage and into the heart, if it even had a heart. He twisted the blade, and the creature sagged.
He threw the beast to the floor, his rage unquenched. With tears clouding his eyes, he kicked the body, stomped on the head. He screamed as he pummeled the fiend with his best leather boots, trampling its oozing viscera into the hallway carpet.
In defeat and disgust, he turned away.
“Francesca,” he knelt beside her. The creature had torn open her bodice, ripping the buttons from her favourite dress. It had also torn off most of her face, leaving her beautiful visage a pooling mess of veins and muscle. Her eyes, still intact, stared at the ceiling. He cradled her in his arms, pressing his face to her chest and hoping to hear the faint beat of her heart.
Outside, in the street, the organ grinder started up again, tuneless and ugly. His shoulders shuddered with sobs, and he threw himself down next to her and howled with pain.
***
Brunel pushed open a wooden door leading into one of the opulent connecting halls of the southern wing of the palace. Although they could hear screaming from the palace staff while the Sunken feasted on what they fancied, the sounds were muted, confined to the Georgian wing.
Nicholas followed Brunel through a series of halls and drawing rooms, each more opulent than the last. The sounds of the madness faded, ’till he could almost pretend the horror was all in his imagination.
Outside the entrance to the King’s private wing, Brunel dragged him behind a door and gestured to the pistol on his belt. Nicholas drew the barker, and Isambard silently slid his sword from its sheath. Isambard gestured for Nicholas to go ahead.
Nicholas sucked in his breath, held the pistol against his shoulder, and crept up to the heavy doors. He wondered, briefly, why the door was bolted on the outside. As silentl
y as he could, he slid the bolts across, leaned his shoulder against the carved wood, and pushed inward. The door opened, revealing a dark, empty reception hall.
I am going to kill the King of England.
The thought stopped Nicholas cold. He’d been so worried about the Sunken, so concerned for the welfare of the city and for Brigitte’s safety, that he hadn’t contemplated the deed ’till now. If he killed the King, he would be a traitor. He would be a murderer. He could be put on trial and hanged, and he’d deserve it, too, for betraying his King and country.
“Isambard?” he whispered, hearing his mentor step behind him. “We can’t kill the King.”
“Shhhh!”
“It’s treason. We will hang for this.”
“It needs to be done, Nicholas. He cannot be allowed to live. Trust me. I will look after you.”
Nicholas made to protest some more, but Brunel held his finger to his lips.
Around the corner, Brunel pushed open a wide double door, and the horrible stench of raw, rotting meat invaded Nicholas’ nostrils. He gagged, covering his mouth with his hand to try and keep out the smell.
More doors, more empty rooms. They passed into the inner sanctum — the private chambers of His Majesty King George III. As Nicholas’ eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see what made the horrid smell.
Scattered about the room, piled on the bed, hunched by the curtains, lay the torn, twisted bodies of several young girls. Naked and sprawled in vulgar positions, their limbs scattered about them, their bellies torn open and organs strewn across the floor, tangled about the satin pillows and Turkish rugs.
Hunched over the broken corpses, more women — their naked backs puckered with pustules and scars — chewed on discarded limbs, digging their long, thin fingers into the bellies and stuffing whatever delicacies they could find into their gaping mouths.