Arkham Nights

by Glynn Owen Barrass

  “We’re running low on ammo!” cried someone nearby.

  German bullets continued to gouge holes in the surrounding walls and bounce around the courtyard, occasionally striking a Carcosan. This pleased me to no end but it wasn’t whittling down the odds enough to make a difference.

  Jacobi glanced at his watch and turned to Crowley. “Can you get us out of here now?”

  Crowley sighed, saying, “I’ll need a few more minutes.”

  “Okay,” Jacobi replied. He looked at me and said, “Barnes, it’s nearly time. I don’t know what the situation is with your friend, but we can’t tarry to sort it all out.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “We’ll withdraw into the alley!” he shouted over the gunfire. “A couple of my boys will cover our...”

  “I’ll be one of them,” I interrupted.

  “Look,” he urged, “no point in throwing your life away.”

  “Trev would wait.”

  Jacobi tossed me another drum of ammo and yelled orders to his men. Turning, he said, “Good luck Sir! Catch up to us if you can.”

  I nodded grimly and took my position alongside the soldier I knew as Hanson. We laid down suppression fire as the other Yellow Cross men withdrew into the alley. A score of Carcosans fell under our withering fire while Trevor continued to rage wildly at his companions.

  “Time to go, mate!” Hanson said once the last of his comrades had made it to the relative safety of the alley.

  “Make tracks, kid,” I answered. “I’m right behind you.”

  I made the Thompson sing as Hanson hit the alley. I was on the verge of making a suicidal dash to drag Trevor away from the Carcosan maniacs, when to my surprise the one nearest him grabbed his arm and pushed him toward my position.

  I started to yell and felt strong hands pulling me back.

  “Damn it!” I raged, thinking that the last thing in the world I needed was some do-gooders trying to drag my butt to safety. Hanson and two other men pulled me toward the alley as I watched Trevor and the unknown Carcosan head towards us.

  “You were supposed to be following me,” accused Hanson.

  “Look, kid, this is my problem! Get the hell out of here.”

  “Hey!” a soldier yelled. “That’s your pal and one of them Carcosan bastards.”

  “Let go of me and cover them!”

  They released me and began to fire. I joined in and yelled for Trevor to hurry. Even my foghorn voice failed to carry over the deafening noise but it was beginning to look like things might turn out well. It was about that time that I watched in horror as Trevor staggered forward, apparently hit.

  The gunfire I’d been preparing for appeared behind me, instantly felling the Huns about to gun me down. As Einal had promised, someone had my back.

  Their corpses fell around me and for the moment I was too surprised to take a look at who’d arrived to save my bacon. And besides, my main concern now was in grabbing hold of the nearest gun so I’d at last own a weapon I was familiar with.

  One of the fallen Germans, an officer no less, had ended up facing me with a leer of agony frozen across his face. Pushing him away I proceeded to remove the Luger from his grip before crawling to my knees to finally see who my saviors were.

  Would you believe it? Not far distant I saw what looked like a group of British soldiers. They were crouched, taking cover at each street corner. With them was a man who looked exactly like my partner, Riley Barnes.

  But shit... that couldn’t be right, could it?

  My double-take was interrupted by footsteps all around me. My Carcosan comrades, having succeeded in killing the Huns, were now rushing my way.

  My congratulating them for a mission well done evinced nothing but blank stares.

  They were no longer mine to order.

  My sinking feeling began as they retrieved the German guns. It deepened as they utilized them to open fire on the British. The Carcosans, spear bearers and bolt throwers both, had no problem cocking and firing the German machine guns and rifles.

  My orders to cease-fire came to nothing. Apart from maybe shooting the ones nearest me point blank, I was totally at a loss.

  The words, “Hold back, they’re on our side!” didn’t help, and the British soldiers who’d saved me in the nick of time were returning fire, but seemed utterly overwhelmed by the barrage.

  Added to this were the crossbow bolts of those that hadn’t picked up guns. I stood helpless while my double-crossing troops continued their war against the good guys.

  I looked around in panic and found a familiar face beside me. It was Demos, armed with a crossbow, his face wild with the heat of battle.

  “I’m sorry sir, I really am,” he said, “the King wants the German tech and what he wants he gets.” He nodded towards the broken device behind me before continuing. “You’re a good man though, and you deserve to get out of this.”

  At this, he grabbed my arm and indicated I should follow him. He headed right and pushed me before him saying, “Run! I’ll be right behind you!”

  So I ran, with arrows and bullets whizzing past from every direction and the British soldiers just in reach. And Barnes, I mustn’t forget him.

  I was almost upon them when a scream from behind, followed by something heavy, slamming against my back, sent me staggering.

  I turned, gun raised, to find Demos falling into my arms, his mouth dripping blood. He’d been shot, by bullet or arrow I didn’t know, until I glanced up to see Einal with her crossbow raised.

  The bitch was smiling. Demos died in my arms and I found myself filling up with rage.

  “You double-crossing…”

  I lowered him and aimed squarely at her face. She was going to die for her treachery.

  I pulled the trigger and the gun clicked empty. The next thing, strong hands were pulling me back as I looked on helplessly at Einal’s evil face.

  She re-loaded the crossbow with a smile and popped an arrow right into my chest.

  I watched Trevor reel wildly and sort of lost it.

  Without thinking, I charged recklessly forward before Hanson and the others could stop me. After only a couple of steps I figured that my partner wasn’t hit but had staggered from a Carcosan that had fallen against him. His ally had been felled with a crossbow shaft fired by a coldly smiling woman. Trevor managed to regain his balance and catch the dying figure who had spurred him away from the treacherous Carcosans.

  I raised the Thompson to cut down the bitch. Before I could shoot, a ricocheting bullet struck the barrel and managed to crease my thick skull. Seeing stars, I cursed a blue streak while searching the ground desperately for another weapon.

  Trevor cursed the murderous woman and I stopped my clumsy fumbling long enough to watch him aim a Luger at the killer. “Take the bitch down, Trev,” I whispered, wiping blood from my eyes.

  His pistol clicked empty.

  “Let’s go, Trev!” I yelled. “We need to get out of here!”

  I lurched towards him but was grabbed from behind by Hanson. “Jesus, Hanson!” I roared. “You got a crush on me or something?”

  “We’re all going now, Yank!”

  At least Hanson’s Yellow Cross comrades had latched onto Trevor and were dragging him away from the carnage. My spirits began to lift until I saw the crossbow bolt sticking from the center of his chest.

  We disappeared into the alley, keeping our eyes peeled for pursuing Carcosans. Trevor was able to travel under his own weight but kept worrying at the shaft poking from his chest.

  “Leave that damn thing alone,” I said. “We’ll be meeting up with some other Brits that can lend a hand.”

  “It’s not that deep,” he answered. “The armor under my coat stopped most of it.” He grunted in pain in spite of himself. “And what the hell are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story,” I replied.

  “It always is.”

  “Glad we found you,” I said, “even if you do look like shit.”

 
Trevor smiled, saying, “Yeah, well if I was you I wouldn’t go prancing in front of no mirrors.”

  One of Hanson’s fellow soldiers rolled his eyes and said, “Christ, they’re worse than me Mum and Dad.”

  “I know,” said Hanson, “maybe they’ll declare war on the Germans and talk them to death.”

  Trevor managed a laugh. “Those are sure some smart-mouth kids you’re hanging around with.”

  “Well at least I found some Limeys to pal around with, instead of signing up with the Yellow King’s army.”

  A dark look of regret crossed Trevor’s face. “Yeah, I’ll tell you about that later.”

  I grinned and said, “If we ever get back to Arkham, there’s a certain pawnbroker I intend to look up and have a word with.”

  “So, you met him too, huh?”

  “Yeah, and he better hope I don’t meet him again.”

  “This is all because of that damned Kingsport desk,” Trevor groused.

  “I figure our old friend the King should shoulder the blame.”

  “Yep,” Trevor agreed, “One of these days I’ll settle his hash for good.”

  “These fellows who saved our bacon are sort of in that business,” I answered. “I wonder why those Carcosan goodwill ambassadors ain’t following us?”

  Trevor looked distraught and growled, “Why should they? I helped them get practically everything they wanted.”

  “Look at the bright side, mates,” Hanson piped. “Any chance of an alliance between the Carcosans and the Huns is probably on hold for a long while.”

  “Damn I hope so,” Trevor muttered.

  We finally reached the spot where Jacobi and his men were gathered. They stood bunched together inside a powdery circle that Crowley was pouring on the ground around them.

  “Who’s baldy?” Trevor whispered as we straggled towards the group.

  “Aleister Crowley,” I answered. “Our ride home.”

  “Makes about as much sense as anything else that happens to us. Should we get his autograph for Geoffrey?”

  “Let Justin get his own,” I answered. “Crowley’s a bit on the grumpy side.”

  Jacobi, pleased that we hadn’t been followed, ordered Hanson and the rest of us to join them. “Be mindful that you don’t break the circle, boys,” he cautioned.

  We started to cross and Jacobi spied the arrow protruding from Trevor’s chest.

  “Crowley, take care of that man,” Jacobi ordered.

  The magician gave Jacobi an expression as pleasant as sour milk and stepped to where we stood. He looked curiously at the arrow and then smiled coldly. “This will hurt,” he said.

  “No shit,” Trevor growled. “It hurt going in too.”

  “Have no fear, Mr. Towers,” said Jacobi stepping forward. “Once Crowley is finished you’ll be good as new.”

  I chuckled. “That’s not saying much.”

  “Screw you, Barnes,” Trevor answered.

  Crowley stood in front of Trevor and placed his hands lightly on the crossbow shaft. I saw my partner tense, waiting for the pain that was sure to come.

  “Shouldn’t we cut away the armor?” I asked.

  “No need,” Crowley answered. He mumbled a few words and his fingers began to dance up and down the shaft. Sweat broke out on Trevor’s face, now becoming pale as Crowley did his magic. Suddenly the wizard pulled forcefully and Trevor groaned in pain.

  I watched dumbstruck, as the crossbow shaft landed on the ground, seemed to quiver for a few seconds and become a greenish haze that quickly dissipated. Trevor reached for his wound but was shocked to find it healed.

  “How in the hell did...”

  “No time for explanations now,” Jacobi interrupted. “I believe our friends are finally in pursuit.”

  “Into the circle,” Crowley intoned.

  The enemy’s rifle fire and crossbow bolts were ineffective.

  While safely within the confines of the circle, we jeered and made obscene gestures at our foe until Jacobi put the kibosh on such shenanigans.

  “Spoilsport,” I muttered, then grabbed my belly as a wave of nausea washed over me.

  Crowley was taking us home and the trip was anything but pleasant. Still, it was a damned sight better than being left in the Yellow King’s domain. At some point everything went blank, after a brief bombardment of bizarre colors, headache-inducing sounds, and brief glimpses of things and places I’d be hard-pressed to describe. We eventually arrived back in England—not where I wanted to be—but better than the alternative. We had just enough time to gather our wits, bathe and get a hot meal. Jacobi had a mission for us.

  It seemed that the Carcosans were so keen on playing with their newfound technology that they decided to put it to use soon after we’d escaped their world.

  Jacobi had heard from the powers that be that some strange-looking characters had appeared at a nearby town called Dewsbury to cause all kinds of carnage. And there was me wanting a drink to the memory of Oakes.

  We departed the barracks Crowley had brought us to, armed and ready for another encounter with the Yellow King’s men. And women. All through the journey Towers groused and griped about getting his revenge on a woman called Einal.

  Quaint little place, Dewsbury, at least until we got finished there. Trevor did get his revenge through. But that’s another story.

  The Glass Jaw

  I was minding my own business in a dive called The Kettle of Fish when a weasel-faced shrimp slunk over to my table and cleared his throat. I shot him my best go-to-hell look and said, “Whatever you’re collecting for, I gave at the office.”

  The weasel looked confused for a second, then smiled.

  “You are Riley Barnes?”

  “You taking the census, are you?” I asked.

  “The boss said you was a wise ass.”

  Sliding my hand beneath my coat, I asked, “Did he tell you about my awful habit of shooting the messenger?”

  My inquisitive pal took a step back and raised his hand as if to placate me.

  “Hey, I’m not worth it,” he stammered. “You’d go to jail and lose your license.”

  “I’m not that attached to it,” I replied. “Now what the hell do you want?”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Yeah,” I answered. “But do it anyway.”

  The weasel was short and skinny as a string. He sweated heavily even though the night was cold and clammy. His pupils were about the size of saucers and whatever monkey was riding his back had definitely gotten the upper hand.

  I downed my beer and pushed a large jar across the table.

  “Pickled egg?” I offered.

  “No thanks, my appetite ain’t what it should be.”

  I rolled my eyes and said, “Do tell.”

  The weasel lit a smoke, his shaky hands jerking the flaming match so bad that it looked like he was trying to flag down a train.

  “It’s obvious that you’re not really up for making social calls this evening. Why are you here?”

  “Lost the draw,” he answered.

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Somebody had to give you the message and I’m the sap that lost.”

  “Well, I’m no prophet but I’m getting a vision of me being pissed off. I tend to become unpleasant and lose my charm when that happens.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that about you,” he said. “But see, this isn’t coming from me but from Boss Logan... so please don’t take it out on me.”

  “Boss Logan!” I laughed. “Don’t tell me that little pissant has developed delusions of grandeur.”

  The weasel looked around all panicky like and tried to shush me. “Please... someone might hear you and start trouble. Then I’ll be in deep shit for not warning you off.”

  I admit that I didn’t like the sound of that one bit.

  “Warn me off what?” I growled. “You can tell that sonofabitch that...”

  “Please!” the weasel squealed, attracting attention from the dive’
s other unsavory patrons.

  I glared at the drunks at the bar and said, “Go back to your drinking. My pal’s upset because I ate the last pickled egg.”

  Turning to the weasel, I said, “Okay, spill it and then get the hell out of here.”

  I was seeing red when I left the bar. I decided to run by Barnes and Towers Investigations before returning to the small but clean room I rented from Mrs. Bordon, a nosy old widow with a heart of gold. I knew my partner Towers was out on the town with his girl but if I felt the urge to put my fist through a wall then better our office than at Mrs. Bordon’s. That wall-punching urge was becoming a damn sight stronger after hearing what the weasel had been sent to tell me.

  It seems that me and Towers were to make sure that a protégé of ours threw an upcoming boxing match. That was the word from Boss Logan, a former bootlegger and heretofore two-bit hood. Failure to throw said bout would supposedly result in some very unpleasant consequences for both the boxer and his family.

  My partner and I had been back in Arkham only a few weeks since our adventures with those Yellow Cross boys over in England. In that time we had taken an interest in a young heavyweight fighter named Eddie McCoy. The kid was talented and hungry as hell. He had the finesse that me and Towers had lacked in the ring and a killer right that could send a giant to the canvas. All Eddie McCoy really lacked was experience and the confidence that comes with it. And as for throwing the fight, that just wasn’t going to happen. No way in hell.

  I hoped that the stooge from the bar could get my point across to his boss. It’s sort of hard to talk when your teeth get knocked out. And to make matters worse, I had to hit the hophead twice since Towers wasn’t around to put in his two cents worth.

  The foggy night air seemed to tamp down my rage to a more manageable level and I was relaxed to the point of carelessness on the way to the office. Two blocks from my destination a giant of a man stepped out of the alley and was wielding a blade that had me debating whether to call it a knife or sword. I started to reach for my gun but a voice behind me said, “I wouldn’t do that.”