Immortals' Requiem

by Vincent Bobbe (Jump Start Publishing)

  Weighing up his options, Mark realised he would have to escape soon, or risk spending a large part of the next few days in the thing’s intestinal tract. It began to wind its way around the room, looking for an opening. Mark turned with it, keeping the sword held out in front of him. The gash on the worm’s body leaked a pale pink substance that might have been blood.

  Leach darted in again. Mark jabbed at it and it withdrew quickly. It tried again, this time more successfully, leaving a couple of deep scratches down his thigh. The wounds healed instantly, but a numbness began to spread through the limb.

  Venom: Mark remembered that Leach’s bite had paralysed him in the garage. It only lasted a few minutes before his system purged it, but it had been long enough to tie him up. In this instance, it might last long enough for Leach to eat him. The head darted in again. Mark’s dead leg threw him off balance, and it easily avoided his clumsy stroke. Nasty teeth scored his left arm. Almost immediately the limb began to tingle.

  Mark did the only thing he could: he pulled the sword back over his head and swung it around as hard as he could. The ensorcelled blade swept through the flesh and bone of his left wrist as if they were soft cheese. Mark yelled and fell backwards, his numb leg giving out just as the worm lanced its head into the space his sword arm had occupied. Mark found himself lying directly beneath the huge creature, and he instinctively thrust the sword up.

  Camulus pierced the flesh just below Leach’s mouth and continued upwards into what passed for its brain. The monster emitted an inhuman, high-pitched squeal, and its coils thrashed madly for a second. Mark pulled the blade free and acrid goo came with it, slopping down over his upturned face, getting in his mouth and causing him to gag at the fishy tang.

  Opening his eyes, Mark saw that Leach had reared up to its full height and was directly above him. He could tell it was dead, and for the briefest instance he felt a surge of triumph. Then the creature’s body toppled down on top of him, and he raised his arms uselessly against its crushing weight.

  Sam sighed with satisfaction as he walked. Killing the fairy – tearing into its face and tasting the sweetness of its blood, so different from a human’s – had aroused Sam sexually. He was back at the station looking for Annalise, wanting to use her body to satisfy his lusts.

  He found her near the birthing pits. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. ‘It is nearly time. The Master is tired of this filthy place.’

  He grabbed her arm. ‘Let’s fuck.’

  She snarled at him, her beautiful face momentarily twisting into its bestial counterpart, her golden eyes flashing dangerously. ‘Let go of me, you fool. It is time. The Master calls us.’

  ‘Let’s fuck,’ he said again. ‘I need to fuck.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ she spat and wrenched her arm free. Sam lashed out; the back of his hand smashed into her face and knocked her down onto one knee. She threw herself back at him, dragging him to the floor and straddling him.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he said with a leer.

  She clambered off him. ‘It is time. We rise.’ She turned and walked away.

  ‘You whore,’ he shouted after her. ‘I liked you better when you were human.’ She ignored him and was soon out of sight.

  Climbing to his feet, Sam felt the stiffness in his trousers. A smile rippled across his face, the skin changing and morphing in its wake. Fur and fangs replaced skin and teeth. Who else could he fuck? Why, his darling wife had not provided him with his conjugal rights in quite a while.

  She was right where he left her. He sat at the side of the pit for a while and listened to her cry, not bothering to look down. After a while, he spoke. ‘How are you, my Love?’

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Who else?’

  There was a pause. ‘You aren’t Sam.’

  ‘Of course I am. Your dear husband. Your true love. And guess what, lover; I’m horny.’

  She began to laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded.

  ‘Look at me,’ she said calmly. Then louder: ‘Look at me.’ Finally, she screamed; the noise rang in his ears. ‘Look at me!’ Sam looked down into the pit. Tabby’s stomach was distended and heavy, as if she were several months pregnant. ‘I don’t think your boss would like you playing with his leftovers.’

  ‘What happened?’ Sam demanded, jealousy surging though him.

  ‘What do you think happened, you idiot?’ Tabby asked, her voice suddenly dead. ‘He raped me. That’s what you had in mind when you brought me here, isn’t it? To be his toy?’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘But what?’ she interrupted. Sam had no reply. ‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘My Sam’s dead. That creature put a monster inside him the same as it put a monster inside me. Sam’s monster just came out first. It hurts me so much to have to listen to it speak with his voice; walk with his body. My Sam died on that street when his throat was torn out. Whatever you are, you aren’t him.’

  The hurt in her voice touched something deep within Sam. ‘I am me, Tabby,’ he said. ‘I’m in here somewhere. It’s just that everything is so simple where I am. I’m immortal – do you know what that means? I can do anything I want, and I’ve got forever to do it.’

  ‘Sam didn’t care about that. Tell me something. Are you happy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s simple enough, Mr. Immortal: are you happy?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Why – tell me why.’

  ‘I’ve already told you. I’m going to live forever.’

  ‘That’s not happiness. That’s subsistence. Sam was happy. I was happy. We loved each other. I doubt you even know what the word means.’

  ‘Of course I know …’ But Sam realised he wasn’t so sure anymore. The feelings he had felt for Tabby were dull and unreal, and faintly ridiculous. ‘What’s love anyway? I have power!’

  ‘At what cost?’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish, woman. I’m a god! Of course I’m happy.’

  ‘Go away, Mr. Immortal.’

  ‘Fuck you, you fat slag. You’re nothing but meat.’ There was no answer. ‘I’m going to pull your spleen out through your fucking arsehole. I don’t care what the Master stuffed in your whore belly.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said a voice from behind him. Sam swivelled and became aware of firelight. He had been so absorbed with Tabby, he hadn’t noticed the man walking up behind him. It was Mark Jones, carrying a sword and a flaming torch. He was naked, covered in filth and slime. Sam grunted. If he couldn’t fuck, then killing was the next best thing.

  ‘You’ll be the second person with a sword I’ve killed today,’ Sam said.

  Jones simply stared at him. Sam let the change take him, feeling his limbs swell, reading the wolf’s desire in his forebrain – the desire to kill and eat. He threw himself forwards, one massive arm sweeping out to crush Jones’s skull. The man sidestepped and the sword flashed.

  Pain hit Sam’s arm just below the elbow. The severed limb spun off into the muggy gloom. He regained his balance and faced the human. He looked down at his arm, waiting for it to grow back. Nothing happened. Blood began to gush from the wound. Slowly, the change slipped away from him.

  ‘What have you done?’ Sam demanded, fear in his voice.

  ‘Nothing’s truly immortal,’ Jones said quietly. ‘I’ve already killed Leach with this. I had to dig myself out from under his corpse. This weapon can hurt you, boy … it can kill you. It’s easy to be tough when you have nothing to fear. Let’s see how tough you really are.’ He brought the sword up and advanced towards Sam.

  Sam took a step backwards, confusion and fear squirming within him. His arm was still missing and blood was still spurting. He clutched at the stump with his other hand to try and stem the flow.

  Rainbows danced on the surface of the sword. It glowed silver in the torch’s flame. Sam realised he could die here. Turning, he ran away.

  ‘I thought so.’ Jones’s voice followed him, quiet and contemptuous. Sam
didn’t care.

  Adrian Mathers was not feeling very well. He was the first to admit that he spent far too much time propping up the bar in the Green Man and was reconciled to his status as a high-functioning alcoholic. He was, after all, a professor of Linguistics and Sociology at Manchester University: looking slightly rumpled and enjoying a drink was part of the job description! Besides, it was not like he had anybody to go home to. Not since Phoebe had left him.

  Usually, Adrian did not get hangovers, but last night he had gotten particularly tipsy and decided to experiment with antifreeze. He suspected he had poisoned himself. He had not drunk much – only a single shot – but his stomach was churning and his head was throbbing. Damn that idiot at the bar for putting the thought in his head! Damn himself for listening!

  His morning commute had been unpleasant. In fact, he felt so under the weather that the thought of getting his connecting train and follow on bus along Oxford Road to his building was frankly abhorrent. Crammed into a peasant wagon? Probably with students! No, much better to walk. It was a twenty-five-minute stroll. Clear his head. Possibly risk a coffee. A black coffee. Yes, that would be just the ticket!

  So, he walked out of Piccadilly Station just as a freak show emerged from the derelict building a little further along Fairfield Street. At first, Adrian thought that it was some sort of parade. Possibly a flash mobbing. He’d read about them somewhere. Something to do with the Internet? Either way, he did what he usually did when confronted with something odd in the city centre: he ignored it.

  A loud voice rose above the sound of morning traffic. ‘We rise!’ Oh great, Adrian thought; a bunch of religious nuts. Or protesters. He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. It was a bit early for this sort of thing, wasn’t it? Had these people got no sense of propriety? He looked around. His mouth dropped open. Walking towards him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen – tall and blond with green eyes and a fantastic body. He could tell her body was fantastic because she was completely naked. Her breasts swung from side to side in a very provocative manner. Adrian gulped and hoped his pants could hide his erection.

  Screaming jolted him from his unabashed staring. He looked around, and what he saw triggered a rush of adrenaline that dispelled his chemical hangover. Huge pink dogs were attacking people. No, not dogs, just dog shaped. Adrian moaned in fear and tried to run, but the naked woman caught him, her hands clutching him with incredible power.

  ‘You will see,’ she hissed at him. She smelled of sweat and damp, and her breath was an abattoir. She pulled his head around, and he watched as things with tentacles and wide mouths ripped the people on the street to bloody ribbons.

  A giant in a green duffel coat appeared. We rise! The voice was everywhere and nowhere, impaling his head, vibrating in his gut, clutching his testicles, making him want to cry. The voice held madness and glory: madness and glory, which promised death and despair that would never, ever end.

  ‘We rise,’ the woman echoed sibilantly in his ear before she twisted his head off his neck.

  After two bottles of wine Cam thought he might at least be slightly drunk. Inebriation seemed to elude him though. He sat in the middle of the aisle in Spar, Piccadilly Gardens, while early morning shoppers stepped around him, beguiled by a Glamour, completely oblivious to the Elf in their midst.

  The Glamour was stretched thin, and Cam knew that if many more people entered the shop, it would collapse. He was past caring. On some subconscious level, he wanted to get caught … at least then it would all be over.

  A security guard stood close by. ‘Get me another bottle of wine,’ Cam commanded him. The guard nodded happily and went to fetch Cam the alcohol. Cam twisted the cap off and took a couple of long, hard swallows. It was warm, but he didn’t care. On reflection, he had done this all wrong – he should have gone straight for the spirits. He didn’t want to change drinks now, though – he might get a hangover. He giggled to himself. Maybe he was getting drunk after all.

  His shotgun lay on the floor next to him, and the small bag of ammunition was still slung over his shoulder. He wore the jeans and t-shirt he had taken from his father’s closet before all hell broke loose that morning. There were two gashes on his face and a bite mark on his throat, all courtesy of the Svartálfar, and his arms were covered in that God-awful red dragon tattoo. His dad was dead, too. His dad who had replaced him with Dow. It had not been a good couple of days.

  Drinking more wine, Cam conceded that Dow was a much better choice for guarding some ancient portal liable to cough up a monster or two every few thousand years. It still rankled, though. He was angry, too – angry that his father had died before Cam could prove him wrong. ‘Selfish bastard,’ Cam muttered.

  It was all so unfair. Nothing had ever gone right for Cam. A confused-looking police officer stepped over his outstretched legs and picked up a pint of milk. It was a woman. She was kind of cute. She couldn’t see him, though. He was an Elf, after all. He couldn’t tell the humans about the Elves. No, couldn’t do that. He could live amongst them, but he couldn’t be one of them. Or he could live amongst the Elves but not live like one of them, because he was going to die in fifty years. What was the point in being immortal if you knew you were going to die in fifty years?

  Maybe his father was right: maybe he was a failure. Look at all these people. They had no idea what was going on around them. Why should he risk his life to try and protect them? Maybe Cú Roí had it right: fairies for fairies, immortals for immortals. Kill the humans and start again. Not a bad idea.

  Somebody screamed. It was the pretty female police officer. What’s wrong with her? he thought. Not like there’s a bloody zombie Elf in here. If they want to see something worth screaming about, how about a zombie Elf with its eyes hanging out on its cheekbones? Or a bloody vampire? Try looking down the throat of a Barghest, and then come screaming to me …

  Something round and hard smashed against the wall near Cam and rolled up the aisle to rest between his legs. It was a head. A human head. It looked very surprised. Not as surprised as Cam. He shouted in shock and scrambled to his feet, grasping the shotgun automatically. The Glamour fell away just as the pretty police officer and three other shoppers came running towards him.

  Cam could imagine what they were seeing and was about to slam another Glamour into them when something large and pink crashed around the corner. It slipped on the polished floor, knocking a display of crisps everywhere. Tentacles looped up as the Barghest shrieked in rage, its wide worm’s mouth opening to reveal massive fangs.

  ‘Get behind me,’ Cam shouted, pumping a round into the breach. The four humans quickly obeyed, deciding to ignore the fact that he was armed, surrounded by empty wine bottles, and – to them at least – had just materialised out of thin air. Cam emptied all eight rounds into the creature, knocking it from its feet and sending bits of tentacle flying everywhere. ‘Is there another way out?’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘This way,’ the police officer replied. ‘I think there’s a loading bay or something.’ The Barghest was forming into its more canine shape, tentacles writhing around each other to give it legs. Slowly, it pulled itself upright.

  ‘Run,’ Cam shouted.

  It was a haphazard scamper down the aisle and into the storerooms. Cam slammed the door shut behind him just as the Barghest crashed into it, knocking it off its top hinge and warping it in its frame. They fled through a narrow rat-run of crates and trolleys and tiny offices, and emerged in front of a set of steel shutters. ‘Open them,’ Cam commanded the police officer as he quickly slotted another eight shells into the Remington.

  ‘What makes you think the gun’ll work this time?’ asked one of the shoppers.

  Cam turned to look at him. The speaker was a small man in a business suit. ‘Have you got a better idea?’

  ‘Are you drunk? You stink of alcohol. My God, you are drunk!’ squawked the little man.

  Cam stared at the man incredulously. ‘So what?’

&n
bsp; ‘I just don’t think you should be holding a firearm while you’re under the influence,’ he said primly.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Cam muttered. He finished loading the shotgun and looked back the way they had come. The roars of the pursuing Barghest were getting louder.

  ‘Look, all I’m saying,’ insisted the little man, ‘is that you can’t fire a gun, drunk!’

  ‘You’d be quite amazed at what I can do while I’m drunk,’ Cam snapped. The man didn’t answer. The sounds of the beast crashing after them were very close. ‘Get back,’ Cam said. The little man obliged. He could hear the shutters rising and risked a glance over his shoulder. It was going to be too late – they weren’t rising fast enough.

  Looking forwards, Cam raised the shotgun to point at the entrance just as the Barghest appeared. He emptied it again. The massive noise of the reports filled the small space, drowning out the clanking of the shutters and the screams of the humans. The Barghest absorbed the shots.

  Slowly, it spread. Tentacles reached up to the ceiling, wrapping around pipes and outlets to support its weight. More tentacles whipped out to the side, unwrapping so that its shape disappeared into a twisting net of barbed arms: a web that hung suspended across the room with a thick, blind, sinewy nodule lurking at its centre, like a hunting spider. The solid thing at the centre opened a wide mouth crammed full of broken-glass fangs. Cam thought it might be smiling.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the police officer. Cam could barely hear her through the ringing in his ears. Bloody shotgun.

  ‘It’s a Barghest,’ Cam shouted back. ‘It’s death. Now you’ve looked down its throat, I suppose we’re in it together.’ He didn’t know why he said it; maybe it was the booze, maybe it was facing a common enemy with these humans, maybe it was a subconscious desire to make his dead father proud.