The Sunken

by S. C. Green

  Nicholas pressed his hand to his mouth, forcing himself to follow Brunel, ignoring the bile rising in his throat. The smell made his head spin — the putrid stench of a slaughterhouse and a public urinal washed over him.

  Look at your boots. Just don’t look at them. He followed at Brunel’s heels, his hand pressed tightly against his mouth, as they moved, unnoticed, through this monstrous feast, out through the doors onto the King’s private balcony.

  And there he stood — George III, the maker of this madness, the Vampire King. He hunched over the railing, sickly, but strong enough to stand. His thin fingers gripped the wrought iron lattice, and he stared out into the night, drinking in the chaos he had wrought. His wheeled-chair lay in pieces, strewn across the balcony, the axles bent at unnatural angles and great chunks of flesh hanging limply from the torn ribbons of its upholstery.

  The screams from the city rolled over them, wave after wave of terror that rocked Nicholas on his feet. In the courtyard below, soldiers fought against the Sunken, wrestling the loathsome creatures to the ground and slitting their throats with their curved rapiers. But they were few, and they would soon be overpowered. The battle had long been won.

  “Your Majesty.” Brunel spoke.

  The King whirled around, and Nicholas cried out and staggered back. Where his face should have been was nothing but a raw, blistering, bloody pulp, the eyes grey and bulging, the lips burnt away to reveal jagged, rotting teeth. The skin was pulled from the bones and hung in bulbous clumps under his cheeks, and through the mess ran ribbons of cold lead, solid bars nailed right through his bones, as if those protrusions were all that kept his body strung together.

  The thing that had once been the King of England opened its jaw, and Nicholas thought it would snarl like the Sunken, but instead, it spoke, in the rough, commanding tone of a ruler whose time had only just begun.

  “Have you seen my city, Presbyter? She has never been as beautiful as she is tonight, with her streets bedecked in red ribbons and the song of her people arching across the skies.”

  Isambard said nothing. He took a tentative step forward, and unsheathed his sword.

  The King threw back his head, and laughed.

  “Don’t point that needle at me,” he said. “I have drunk the blood of hundreds of men. I am immortal. You will not kill me.”

  Before Nicholas could cry out or turn away, Brunel flicked the blade up, and sliced clean through the King’s neck.

  The head balanced in mid-air for a moment, as though suspended on strings like a balloon. And then it fell, bouncing on the balustrade and toppling into the courtyard below, landing with a splat upon the tiles and strewing across the pavement. The King’s body crumpled against the railing.

  Brunel lowered the sword, his eyes downcast, expressionless. “It’s over,” he said.

  “No.” Nicholas whirled around, raising his pistol. “It’s not.”

  Noticing at last the two intruders and the crumpled body of their master, the Sunken had discarded their morsels and rushed towards the balcony door, clawing the air with their sharpened nails, eager to be the first to devour the murderers.

  Isambard sized up the horde in one glance, and flung himself over the balcony.

  Nicholas leaned out over the balustrade, horrified he might see his friend sprawled across the courtyard in a pool of his own blood. Instead, Brunel swung from a window cornice, his right coat arm pulled back to reveal a remarkable device strapped to his skin — a metallic claw which had extended and gripped the edge of the cornice, supporting the engineer’s full weight while he fumbled, one-handed, with a rope.

  “Isambard!”

  “Only a few moments more,” Brunel called up, securing the rope with a knot. He swung the end up, and Nicholas reached out. Missed. Something grazed his back. He swung up his shoulder and knocked the creature across the face, the force of his blow sending it flying over the balustrade.

  He fired his pistol into the approaching horde, knocking another to the ground. The others, wary now, stepped back. He reached out, Brunel swung the rope again, and this time he caught it.

  Without stopping to look down Nicholas leapt off the balcony and swung out toward Brunel. The rope sliced through his fingers and he slipped down, crying out as the palace wall careened into view. Suddenly, the rope pulled taut, and the shock released his hands, and he fell backward.

  “Oh no, you don’t.” Something cold grabbed the top of his arm. He dared to look up. Brunel gripped his shoulder with his strange metal claw, the mechanism somehow supporting his entire weight.

  “The rope, on your left — grab it!”

  Nicholas reached for it, gripped it with both hands, and swung across. Brunel unlocked the claw from his shoulder and retracted it into his sleeve. He hung from the windowsill, his weight on the rope allowing Nicholas to plant his feet against the wall and guide himself down. When his feet landed in the soft earth of the flower beds, he tied the rope around his waist and sat back, allowing Brunel to climb down.

  Isambard landed beside Nicholas in the flower bed, stopping to untangle the rope from his waist, and wiped the sweat from his brow. As Nicholas struggled to calm his frenzied stomach, he noticed his friend didn’t even seem out of breath.

  “What was that?”

  “What was what?” Brunel jumped down from the flower bed, unsheathed his sword, and held out a hand to help Nicholas, who still felt shaky on his feet.

  “That … thing that came out of your shoulder. That machine that saved my life.”

  “Oh,” Brunel replied, flashing him a wicked smile. “You’ll learn all about that soon, Nicholas. I promise. At this moment,” he pointed across the courtyard to where a horde of Sunken had gathered, swarming over the bodies of the guards on duty, “we have more pressing issues at hand.”

  Nicholas gripped Brunel’s arm, his nails digging into his friend’s flesh. Guards screamed as the creatures pounced on them, tearing the flesh from their faces with their teeth. One wrenched a guard’s arm so hard Nicholas heard the snap as the bone broke in two. The man howled as the Sunken gnawed at his wound.

  Run. Get out. He tried to force his body to move, but he was frozen in place, unable to tear his eyes away from the horror before him. His heart thundered in his chest, and blood rushed to his head.

  “They should be here.” Brunel whispered beside him. “Why aren’t they here?”

  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.

  T
he 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, yanking 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 anamilian 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.