‘Do you honestly believe that?’ Sergei asked doubtfully.
‘Nope,’ Mark said frankly. ‘Right, let’s go.’
It was still grey and cold, though the drizzle had stopped. Black clouds hung in the sky, and puddles laced the ground. Rowan adjusted the night vision goggles sat on the top of his head and followed Mark towards the entrance of the Mayfield Station.
Like Mark, Rowan had an L85A2, as well as two Browning pistols on a belt around his waist. Grenades hung like evil fruit from the webbing of his body armour. A small bag contained extra magazines of ammunition, a medical kit, and some flares. Sergei and Mark had the same equipment, but Mark also had a black scabbard hung across his back. The matching black hilt extended up and over his shoulder.
They hurried in. The stench of piss and stagnant water assaulted Rowan’s nose as they entered a large concrete room littered with debris and black puddles. Bird shit streaked some of the walls, and the sound of scuttling rats came to them sporadically from the darker corners. Light spilled in, grey and diffuse, from broken skylights. There was no other noise.
The room was the old station reception where the ticket offices had been. Low walls gave evidence of the booths, long ago removed. Arches ahead led out onto the train platforms. They glowed with ambient light, and Rowan could see high grass peeking up from the abandoned tracks.
The three men spread out and made their way towards the back room. It contained a narrow staircase that led down into the basement, where the furnaces had once been situated. As they made their way deeper into the building and the light faded away, Rowan slipped the goggles down over his eyes and flicked a switch. A low whine told him they were warming up, and then the darkness softened into a green glow. Black shapes appeared on a neon jade background.
Mayfield Station was deadly quiet except for their shallow breathing. Black blocks loomed up out of the fuzzy green world, eventually resolving themselves into old lockers or torn-up chairs, scarred desks and gaping cabinets. The floor was gritty and damp beneath their booted feet. Rowan kept the barrel of his gun pointed out in front of him, ready for the blur of an open-mouthed monster that never came.
Sweat trickled from beneath the headband that supported the heavy night vision equipment. Rowan ignored the irritation it caused as it dribbled down the side of his nose. Instead, he kept his attention on the narrow, empty corridors.
A towering shape flickered at the edge of his vision. Clawed hands spread wide and a barrel chest thrust forwards, below a shaggy elongated head. Waves of adrenaline shot through Rowan’s system; fright and eagerness churned in his gut. An involuntary spasm caused the hard muscles in his stomach and arms to contract. His trigger finger tensed.
The monster suddenly became a mess of cleaning equipment propped up in a corner – the shaggy head a mop, the clawed arms abandoned vacuum hoses, and the barrel chest a bundle of rags and dusters, jammed haphazardly into the rest.
He gasped and quickly pulled his finger out of the guard. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered to himself.
‘What was that?’ Mark hissed.
‘Nothing,’ Rowan whispered back.
‘Keep quiet,’ Sergei said, the tension in his voice palpable. They moved on towards the staircase. Rowan reached it first and looked down. About fifteen steps dropped to a narrow landing. A dark space to the left indicated where the stairs continued downward. The corner was blind, and Rowan felt his hackles rise. Water dripped in a steady patter from the ceiling, into a puddle on the concrete. The walls were naked, crumbling brick. Other than the drip, there was no sound. The world was eerily bright through the goggles.
Mark gestured for him to go down and Rowan obeyed cautiously, one slippery step at a time. He took it slowly, testing his footing on each stair, keeping his assault rifle pointed ahead of him. When he got to the corner, he pushed his back up against the wall, took a deep breath, and then eased his head out. His quick glance took in the way ahead.
Mark leant in and they whispered to each other quickly. ‘Just another set of stairs down to another landing,’ Rowan said. ‘There’s nothing there.’
‘Keep going,’ Mark ordered. ‘There was no threat at this stage the first time I came down here, but still, be careful.’
They went down another two landings before they came to a doorway. The door itself was off its hinges, propped up against the wall to the doorway’s right. Once again, Rowan cautiously peered into the unknown and found a room, maybe fifteen feet squared, filled with the hulking forms of abandoned junk – machinery across one wall, and old, rusted pipes stacked up against another. Nests of cardboard boxes and filthy mattresses crowded another corner, and the floor was littered with empty bottles and cans, and thousands of used needles.
It smelled of shit, and Rowan almost gagged. Obviously, the homeless community had used this room as a place to stay until recently. Dark streaks covered the floor around the makeshift bedding. Sergei moved over and knelt by one of the larger puddles. He dipped the tip of a finger in and rubbed the substance, then smelled it. ‘Blood,’ he whispered. ‘Whoever was staying here …’ he trailed off. There was no need to finish the sentence.
There were three exits, including the one they had come in by. From the blueprints, Rowan knew the first led down a long corridor and ended in a small room. The second led into a large basement storage area, where the heat signatures had been strongest. They moved on through the room and over to the second exit.
He looked at his companions. They were suitably grim. Mark nodded at him and Rowan nodded back. Smoothly, they went through the second portal, Rowan first, then Mark, and finally Sergei. The malodour in here was even greater than the room before.
Through the goggles, Rowan saw a room so large that the far wall was lost in a green blur. The low ceiling was covered with leaking pipes; water dripped everywhere. A series of dark holes had been driven into the greasy floor in a rectangular pattern, four across the width of the room, the vertical lines marching away to be lost in the gloom. Rowan counted twenty before his goggles lost resolution to distance. Mark was already moving towards one of the pits near to the right-hand wall.
Rowan began to follow when he heard a low growl. He froze instinctively. The deep and menacing noise came from another pit, off to his left. Rowan edged over and looked in. A creature, dog-like but as big as a cow, lay at the bottom. A mastiff, perhaps? There was something wrong with it – its limbs were difficult to make out. It was as if they had been shredded. The way it lolled on the floor of the pit was wrong, too. It looked boneless: filleted.
It appeared to be asleep. It growled again as it rolled over and something cracked beneath it; Rowan saw slivers of bone littering the bottom of the hole. Something that looked a lot like a human head stared up at him with dead eyes. He pulled back sharply and his balance went. He turned quickly; his feet scuffed the floor, making a whisper of sound. The growl rumbled louder.
Rowan dropped the gun to thrust out his hands for balance. The strap over his shoulder took the slack, and the gun’s heavy stock swung sideways, rapping him in the hip. He bit his lip to stop himself swearing, still struggling to keep his equilibrium. Panic snickered at the back of his mind as Rowan realised he had turned a full circle. His back was now to the pit … and he was losing his battle with gravity. Very slowly he began to topple in.
A hand caught him by the shoulder and dragged him back from the edge. Sergei looked at him, the Russian’s face alien and insect-like beneath the AN/PVS-14. Then he leant and glanced over the edge.
‘Scared of dogs?’ he hissed condescendingly.
‘There’s a dead person in there,’ Rowan hissed back.
Sergei shrugged. ‘In Bosnia, entire families were fed to the dogs. Alive.’ He shrugged again. ‘This is nothing.’ The Russian turned and stalked back over to where Mark was leaning over a pit. Tabby. Rowan hurried after him, eager to make sure his sister hadn’t been hurt.
She cowered in one corner of the pit, refusing to look up at Mark’s whi
spered pleas. Even through the green fog of the goggles, Rowan could see how haggard and dirty she was. ‘Tabby,’ he whispered. ‘Tabby, it’s me.’
‘Rowan?’ she asked in a normal voice, hope and disbelief in her tone.
‘Shush, Tabby,’ Rowan said desperately. ‘Not so loud. I’m with some friends. We’re going to get you out of here. Come over here. Follow my voice, and put your hands up. We’ll pull you out.’ Tabby obeyed; she was in his arms in a matter of seconds. Rowan held her tight for a moment, hugging her and whispering reassurances into her ear. She was shaking badly, but she didn’t cry or demand any explanations, and Rowan felt incredibly proud of her.
‘It’s time to go,’ Mark said. There was something in his voice too, a catch, and Rowan turned to look at him questioningly.
Sergei interrupted. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be as easy getting out as it was getting in.’ Rowan turned and followed the Russian’s gaze. A naked woman stood twenty feet away, her long hair tousled and wild, her heavy breasts heaving, and her fingers twitching spasmodically where they hung at her sides. Her eyes glowed star bright in the green wash of Rowan’s world. He had no doubt that she could see them.
‘What’s going on?’ Tabby asked.
‘Quiet, Tabby,’ Rowan chastised. The woman did nothing but stare at them. The three men stared back. ‘What do we do?’
‘We move backwards, very slowly.’ Mark followed his own instructions and slipped a foot behind him. A snarl hummed across the stagnant air. Mark stopped. Rowan saw Sergei raise his rifle to his eye and take careful aim at the woman. ‘Go,’ he said. Rowan grabbed Tabby by the arm and pulled her towards the exit. The naked woman screeched and threw herself forwards. Sergei’s rifle kicked, and the report echoed deafeningly through the large room.
Wails and roars rose from every one of the pits, and huge forms began to writhe over the lips of the holes. ‘Run,’ Sergei shouted. He switched his rifle to full auto. Its thundering chatter chased Rowan and Tabby as they sprinted towards the door. They ran for the surface world, away from the dark and madness of the station.
Annalise went down with a bullet in her head. The back of her skull mushroomed out in a shower of brain and bone. His night vision made the world grey and empty, devoid of colour and life, but Sam still knew what he had just seen.
Rage overwhelmed him, and he bounded towards the tall thin man who had fired. All his concentration settled on the great hook of a nose beneath the gunman’s night vision goggles. As he moved, Sam felt his body swelling, tearing, changing. The tall man swung his gun at Sam, but everything seemed to be in slow motion.
Sam’s foot hit the floor and a spasm of pain ran up his spine. He fell forwards reflexively and heard the mosquito zip of a high-velocity bullet whipping past his head. His hands hit the floor to catch himself, and he felt natural on all fours. He pushed himself forwards with his hind legs and leapt towards the gunman.
Something hit him hard in the chest. Sam lost all his momentum and fell to the floor. Thunder filled the room with a medley of roars and screams as the Barghest woke. Sam shuddered as bullets cut into him. He opened his mouth to scream, and a howl ululated from his throat. There was another scream, this one human, and the stream of agony abruptly ended.
Sam lay there for a second, panting. He became aware of a deep burning sensation where each of the slugs had entered his body. Then, one by one, they faded and disappeared. Attempting to get to his feet, he found his limbs were twisted and strange. He managed to gain control and rolled onto all fours. He looked down at his fingers; they were long and clawed. Licking at his lips, he felt the elongated muzzle and razor teeth of the wolf inside him. He struggled to his hind feet, tottered precariously, and finally found his balance.
For a moment, Sam stopped to enjoy the power and vitality of his altered form. Then he turned baleful eyes to the tall man with the gun. He had been backed into a corner by two huge Barghest, their freakish limbs swaying hypnotically. It was his scream Sam had heard. Sam stalked towards him.
Leave him be, Samuel Autumn. The command cut through his head like a buzz saw. Sam groaned and ignored it, taking another step towards the gunman. Leach was in front of him, appearing from nowhere. Sam bared his teeth and lashed out at the smaller man. Leach slipped under his furry arm with fluid grace and slammed an open palm into Sam’s chest.
The blow lifted Sam from his feet and sent him sprawling to the floor. Sam surged to all fours, ready to leap at Leach and rip him open.
Stop. The single word paralysed Sam, and he stood trembling. Another figure stepped in front of him. It was Annalise, her hair messed but otherwise intact.
‘It’s sweet, Sam,’ she said. ‘It truly is.’ She patted the back of her head. Powder puffed up into the air where she touched: all that remained of her blood and brains. ‘But obey the Master.’ There was steel in her voice, and Sam slowly relaxed. Pain surged through him as his body shrunk back into its old shape. In moments he was kneeling on the floor, aching, and except for the tattered remnants of his filthy clothes, naked.
The man with the gun had watched it all. Cú Roí walked past Sam, past the Barghest, and stood before him. Cú Roí spoke to him in his strange, empathic way, and Sam heard every word. Sergei Constantine, I know your desires. And I can make them all come true.
Upstairs there was a small, dusty abattoir. Cam thought that maybe once it had served a purpose, but from the looks of things, the Tattooist had a vegetarian diet now. It made sense. The balcony would undoubtedly serve as a garden, and presumably there was some sort of dew collection device for water, but where could the Ifrit possibly get meat when he was stuck all the way down here?
Still, the tools of the butcher’s trade were readily to hand, and the Tattooist scooped up a pair of meat cleavers as they passed through. They were big, ugly things, thought Cam – evil-looking, with long edges and scarred surfaces. Cam noticed they were made completely of metal, one dirty great lump of pitted iron forming the handle and the blade. He heard a howl from behind them and turned his attention to the door ahead.
They had run from the little sitting room, through some other storage areas, and then up a narrow, winding staircase. On the next floor they turned back on themselves, going through a few more abandoned rooms and then into the abattoir. The Tattooist led, and Cam ran on his heels, the shotgun pointed ahead of him, the muzzle weaving madly as he ran. Dow and Grímnir brought up the rear, a few feet behind them.
‘The entrance hall is ahead,’ the Tattooist called over his shoulder. ‘We go straight across. Hopefully the Twisted will still be at the bottom of the stairs!’
Cam did not like the sound of the word ‘hopefully’, and his lips pursed, tense with worry. The Tattooist reached the door and wrenched it open. The portal slammed backwards and the Tattooist was through. The noise of the ORCs howling grew louder: a thunderous cacophony.
Beyond the door was the wide upper gallery that Cam had seen when he first entered the Tattooist’s home. To his right was one of the stairways that led down towards the front door. The archway that led to the balcony was beneath him, and the huge stained-glass window was to his left. Facing him across the gallery was the other door. It was around eighty feet away, and the Tattooist was already running towards it.
Tightening his grip on the shotgun, Cam followed. He couldn’t help but glance to his right, over the balcony and down into the hallway. A roiling mass of ORCs fought each other to get through the door he’d left open. It was a seething, chaotic scene; the hallway was full of hundreds of screeching creatures that clawed and bit each other as they tried to push through the narrow gap. Those that had been pressed back to the bottom of the stairs by the mob saw him. They rushed up the stairs towards Cam, their eyes milky with cataracts, their hands rotted claws.
Without thinking, Cam aimed the shotgun down at the first one and pulled the trigger as he ran past. His aim was perfect; the thing’s scabrous head evaporated. The ORC to its right also staggered and fell, its left
arm chopped off at the shoulder.
‘They know we’re up here!’ Cam shouted, the sound dull and muted through the ringing in his ears. The Tattooist was by the window. He stopped and looked back at Cam. There was a flicker of movement on the other side of the coloured glass, as if a huge spider was crawling across it. As Cam opened his mouth to call a warning, the glass exploded inwards and the dawn’s light flooded in. A hunched figure tumbled through with it. The Twisted arched and bucked like a falling cat, turning in mid-air and plummeting towards the Tattooist.
The shotgun boomed again, and the ORC was punched roughly sideways to land in a writhing, crippled mass of hissing fury at the Tattooist’s feet. The Tattooist stamped on its head, his huge foot crushing its skull. It went still. Two more of the Twisted climbed through the window. The Tattooist stepped back towards Cam. The zombies were ahead of them, blocking their way forwards.
Cam glanced over his shoulder to see a throng of zombies nearing the top of the set of stairs behind him. There were more at the bottom of the other set of stairs. A lot more. They had seen Cam and the Tattooist and were running up towards them. They would reach the gallery and block the other door: in seconds, they would be overrun. Dow stepped out onto the gallery, and Cam could see Grímnir’s huge form in the doorway behind him. It was clear that if Dow and Grímnir attempted the sprint to the other door, the approaching zombies would be on them. In moments, the gallery would become a surging gauntlet of the undead. Dow and Grímnir would certainly be surrounded. They had only been a few seconds behind, but it had made all the difference. Dow would die and be resurrected, a cannibalistic monster. Grímnir would be ripped to pieces, but he would regenerate. He would face an eternity as a living larder; a flesh cornucopia to the voracious swarm.
For the briefest instant, Cam and Dow looked at each other. Understanding passed between them, and knowing that his friends’ path led a different way to his own, Cam felt very lonely. Dow nodded at Cam stoically. Cam nodded back. Then, Dow stepped back through the door and shut it. Even over the howling, Cam fancied that he could hear the big deadbolts sliding home.
Immortals' Requiem Page 24