by George Mann
The creature he had been struggling with—the one that had formerly been a woman—was still trying to right itself, pulling itself up on its arms and finding that its legs would no longer support it. Relentless, it started to shuffle towards him, using its arms to pull it along the ground. It was an obscene gesture, and Newbury was unable to watch. He turned to look behind him, trying to work out where the cab was in the fog. He leaned on the cane for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Perhaps the other creature had slipped away, driven by the desire to find its own prey, when it looked as though its fellow had Newbury pinned to the ground? But that seemed unlikely.
He heard Veronica calling his name, somewhere behind him in the cloudy soup. He set off, staggering towards her voice, but stopped when he became aware of the shape of the other revenant, about ten feet away from him, silhouetted in the fog. It had its back to him. He edged around it, following the sound of the churning pistons nearby. Gingerly, he placed one foot after the other, doing his utmost to remain silent as he circled the monster. Then, stumbling on a loose stone, his foot scuffed on the cobbles. The creature twitched at the sound and spun around to face him. Newbury, exhausted, waved the cane from side to side, trying to hold it at bay. He didn't think he had the strength to take another one down.
He heard Bainbridge calling to him from the carriage. "Newbury! Newbury! Use the cane."
He couldn't help but laugh at this most inappropriate advice. "I'm using the bloody cane, man!" He stepped back, trying to keep his distance from the creature. He knew it was likely to pounce at any moment.
Bainbridge's disembodied voice came back to him. "No! Twist the knob on the end of the cane. Quickly!"
Newbury peered along the shaft of the cane. The bulbous brass knob didn't look extraordinary in any way. Nevertheless, desperate to find a way out of his current nightmare, he swung it back towards him, clutched hold of the cold metal knob and twisted it sharply to the right.
There was a clicking sound from within the shaft itself. Clasping the knob, Newbury pointed the end of the cane at the revenant, unsure what he expected to happen next. The shaft twisted and then began to spin, sections of the wood unpacking along its length and folding out to create a kind of chambered structure along the middle of the cane. Brass filaments ran along the inside of this structure. The spinning reached a crescendo and, with an electrical hum, an arc of blue light spat from one end of the chamber to the other, fizzing along the length of the shaft and crackling at the terminus of the device, the small pointed section at the very end of the cane. Smiling, Newbury raised the weapon towards the revenant just as the creature decided to give up waiting for an opportunity to catch Newbury off guard and threw itself towards him, claws outstretched. The point of the shaft impaled the monster through the chest, and there was a loud bang as the electrical current flowed into the rotting carcass of the creature and fried what was left of its nervous system. The creature lost its momentum and dropped to the floor, dead for the second time. Blue light arced in its open mouth, and the blackened, dirty hole in its chest was smouldering, dark smoke rising into the air to mingle with the thick fog. Newbury's lungs filled with the scent of charred meat. He looked down at the body. The electrical current had set the creature's hair on fire, and little flames were licking at the edges of its tattered clothes. It wouldn't be long before the flames took and the creature's papery, rotten flesh became nothing but dry kindle.
He stood over the body and pulled the lightening cane free. Then, confident that the monster was finished, he staggered over to where the other one was still struggling to> pull itself along the ground and drove the cane into its back, just below the base of the neck. Blue light sparked dramatically. The creature thrashed around for a moment, before the twitching subsided and Newbury knew he had put it out of its misery. He stood for a moment, gathering his strength.
Then, not even bothering to deactivate the weapon, Newbury staggered towards the sound of his friend's voices, hopeful that, this time, he'd be able to make it back to them unmolested.
Bainbridge and Veronica were waiting by the cab when Newbury staggered out of the fog. He was faint and bleeding from multiple injuries, the blue electrical light dancing and fizzing in the darkness along the length of Bainbridge's cane. They both rushed towards him, their eyes flitting nervously from side to side, worried that more revenants may come hulking out of the fog at any moment. Bainbridge swept the weapon out of Newbury's hand and twisted the brass knob, compacting the device so that it folded away neatly, dissipating the electrical charge and ensuring none of them would accidentally bear the brunt of its force. Within a matter of seconds, the peculiar device was nothing more than a cane once again.
Newbury, his vision swimming, practically collapsed into Veronica's arms, and together with Bainbridge she lifted him up into the cab. They laid him carefully across one of the seats and Bainbridge used the top of his cane to rap on the ceiling of the carriage, letting the driver know they were all safely back onboard. A moment later the engines gave a wheezing gasp, and the vehicle trundled away into the rising dawn.
Veronica was on her knees beside Newbury, tearing strips off his shirt to use as makeshift bandages on his wounds. He looked a mess; his torso was covered in scrapes and bruises and he was pale from the loss of blood, which pooled on the floor after soaking through his torn clothes and running free. Veronica tried to stem the flow with her hands, applying as much pressure as she could to the tear in his shoulder.
"Oh, Maurice." She seemed at a loss for words.
Newbury turned his face towards her. "I'll be alright. Everything will be alright." His voice was nothing but a croak. He cast his eyes at Bainbridge, who was sitting in the seat opposite them, leaning heavily on his cane. "Quite a contraption, Charles. Wish I'd known about it earlier." His face cracked into a weary smile. "Where did you acquire it?"
Bainbridge shook his head, smiling in amazement that Newbury had even the strength to hold a conversation. "Dr. Fabian. Never had much chance to put it to the test, but the old girl seemed to do alright by you out there, didn't she?"
Newbury nodded, wincing as Veronica tied a strip of fabric tight across the wound in his shoulder. "She certainly did."
Veronica glanced at Bainbridge, concern etched on her face. "That's the best I can do, here. We need to get him to a hospital."
Bainbridge scoffed. "Might as well take him to a butcher's shop. No, we need to get him to the Fixer."
"The what?"
"The Fixer." Newbury turned his head to look her in the eye. "One of the Queen's surgeons..." He paused, shifting on the seat in an attempt to alleviate the pain. "Tell her, Charles."
Bainbridge picked up the explanation. "The Fixer is one of the Queen's personal surgeons, on hand to help Her Majesty's agents in time such as this. He works for Dr. Fabian. He's the best medical man I've ever had the misfortune to meet, and he's got a place out in Bloomsbury, not far from the museum."
"Does the driver know where to go?"
Bainbridge nodded. "Barnes? Yes, he's one of ours. Why do you think he didn't bolt when he had the chance earlier, when Newbury had those damnable revenants after him?" He paused, glancing over at Newbury, his brows furrowed. "I take it the two uniformed chaps weren't so lucky?"
Newbury shook his head, but didn't speak. Bainbridge knew this meant the worst. "Damn!" He rammed his cane against the floor. "Poor bastards." He glanced at Veronica. "I do apologise, Miss Hobbes." She waved her hand dismissively.
Newbury had closed his eyes. Veronica brushed his hair back from his face. She met Bainbridge's stare. Her voice was only just above a whisper; as if she didn't really want to know the answer to the question she was asking. "What about the plague? Doesn't it spread when the revenants bite someone? Will he be infected?"
Newbury eyes flicked open again. He tried to prop himself up on one arm, but cringed when the pain in his side became too much. He returned to his previous position, prone on his back. He searched Veronica's face with h
is eyes. "Don't worry. I'm immune to the plague. I won't be infected."
Bainbridge leaned closer. "Immune? How so?"
Newbury swallowed, then reached up and pulled at his ragged shirt, exposing a large expanse of his chest. It was streaked and matted with blood, but it was easy to see the sickle-shaped scar of white tissue just above his left nipple, even in the dim light. "I was bitten before." Veronica's eyes were wide with shock. "Years ago, in India. My family had purchased some land out there, just about the same time that I'd found myself enamoured with stories of the occult. When the opportunity arose to pay a visit, I jumped at the chance. I spent two years in Delhi, exploring the Indian myths, searching for truth in the ancient stories of their culture." He sucked in his breath as the cab rolled over the uneven cobbles, jostling him in his seat. "At around the same time a plague was spreading through the slums, a virus that turned people into shambling cannibals, forcing their skin to stop regenerating and blowing the blood vessels in their eyes."
He coughed, raising a hand to his mouth.
"The revenants." Veronica mopped his brew.
Newbury nodded. "The revenants. I was out visiting a temple in the hills when I was set upon by one of the detestable creatures. It bit me here on the chest, but ] was young and quick-witted enough to be able to get away. I managed to find my way back to my family's rooms in Delhi, whereupon they immediately called for the doctor. The Indian physician told us that his research had shown that the virus incubated in the brain for eight days before massively altering the physiology of the victim."
"What happened?"
"They threw me in a cell and gave me nothing but bread and water to survive. For eight days I ran the most appalling fever, and then, on the eighth day, the fever broke and I began to recover. Soon after, the doctor sent me home. He told me I was one of only three people he knew who had survived the plague." He glanced from Veronica to Bainbridge. "I'm convinced that this is the same virus, spread here from India, and that, provided my wounds don't kill me first, I'll live to fight another day." He flexed his fingers, frowning at the pain in his shoulder.
Bainbridge nodded. "Of course you will, my man." He looked serious. "Of course you will." He patted Veronica on the shoulder reassuringly, and then looked up,, smiling. "We all know that the Fixer can perform miracles, don't we."
Newbury sighed. The cab trundled on towards Bloomsbury, and towards the mysterious surgeon who, Bainbridge assured them, would be able to make things right once more.
—— Chapter Twenty ——
The sun had risen by the time the cab pulled up outside the Bloomsbury home of the Fixer, reducing the fog to wispy trails of vapour that seemed to linger in the air like white tendrils. Newbury had passed out a short while after they had set out from Whitechapel, and Veronica had continued to tend to him, staunching his wounds and trying to limit his blood loss by continuing to use strips of his shirt as makeshift bandages. She was covered in blood herself, now, her skirt, blouse and hands sticky with the gritty residue. Bainbridge thought it was a credit to her that she seemed entirely unfazed by this development.
Newbury's breath was shallow, his skin had lost its colour and his eyes had sunk back in their sockets. Black bruises had emerged all over his exposed body where he had taken a severe battering from the revenants. Bainbridge hoped the Fixer really was able to work miracles. Newbury would need one if he were going to live.
Taking his cane, Bainbridge clambered to his feet and swung the carriage door open, glancing from side to side to see if anyone was watching. There were a few early risers going about their business, but the street was mostly deserted. He turned back to Veronica. "Stay here. I'll go and make arrangements."
She nodded silently and he ducked out of the cab, nodding at the driver as he mounted the step down to the road and made his way towards the entrance of the large house. The building was tall, with three storeys above ground and a basement below, which Bainbridge knew would be their destination today. The house stood at the end of a long terrace, and as Bainbridge mounted the steps up to the front door, he heard the engine of the cab chugging behind him and watched as the driver reversed the cab around the corner, parking it near the iron staircase that led down to the basement level.
He rapped loudly on the door with the end of his cane. There was a momentary pause, and then the door clicked open and a middle-aged man in a black suit appeared in the opening. "Ah, good morning, Sir Charles. Won't you come in?"
Bainbridge stepped over the threshold into the opulent foyer of the house. It was a grand building, worthy of royalty itself. The floor had been laid in a shimmering white marble and a huge staircase swept away towards the upper levels of the house. Panelled doors led off into other, private rooms. A chandelier hung from a perfect ceiling rosette, and a small table had everything arranged just so. The entire place smelled of freshly-cut flowers. The presentation was immaculate.
Bainbridge caught sight of himself in the large mirror hanging on the opposite wall, and shuddered. He looked terrible. Once he'd deposited Newbury with the Fixer, he'd see Miss Hobbes back to her lodgings and head home himself for a sleep and a long soak in the bath.
The manservant who had admitted him to the house—a stout man of around fifty, with a receding head of grey hair— looked Bainbridge up and down, as if trying to ascertain the reason for his visit. "Are you well, Sir Charles...?"
"Yes, yes, no time for all that, Rothford. I've got Sir Maurice Newbury in the cab back there, practically torn to pieces. He's in urgent need of the Fixer."
Rothford snapped to attention. "Quite right, sir. Better bring him around the side entrance, quick-sharp. I'll notify the master immediately. I believe you know the way?"
"I do."
"Then go, sir, and I'll make the necessary arrangements."
Bainbridge nodded. "Thank you, Rothford."
"I'll hear no word of it, sir." He clicked the door open again and ushered Bainbridge out.
Bainbridge hurried down the steps and round the corner to where the cab was still waiting, its engine burring noisily. Overhead, an airship swept low over the city, whipping his hair back from his face. He was glad he'd left his hat in the carriage earlier. He hopped up onto the step and spoke to the driver. "Keep an eye out, Barnes. Wouldn't do to have anyone see what we're up to."
The driver nodded. "Aye, sir. I'll give you the word when you're clear to make a move."
"Good man." He ducked into the carriage. Newbury was still unconscious. Bainbridge put a hand on Veronica's shoulder. "All will be well, Miss Hobbes. We've brought him to the right place. The Fixer will do his work, and Sir Maurice will be back on his feet in no time at all." He glanced down at the prone man. "Here, can you help me with his head whilst I lift him down?"
"Of course." Veronica moved to cradle Newbury's head as Bainbridge placed his cane on the opposite seat and moved to scoop his unconscious friend up into his arms. He staggered under the weight, trying to get his footing, and then was able to rest Newbury's head in the crook of his arm as he moved towards the open door. Gasping a little for breath, unused to the exertion, he called out to the driver.
"Barnes? Are we set?"
"Aye, sir. All clear."
Bainbridge stepped cautiously down onto the step beneath the carriage door, and then onto the street below. Without looking back, he approached the side of the house, mounting the first rung on an iron staircase that descended from street level down to the basement of the large house. His feet clanged loudly on the steps as he struggled to manoeuvre Newbury down the tight enclosure. Then, reaching the bottom of the flight of stairs, he used the edge of his boot to bang on the wooden door that awaited him there. A fraction of a second later the door swung open, revealing a dark space beyond, and Bainbridge, shifting so as not to strike Newbury's head against the doorframe, slipped quietly inside.
A few minutes later Bainbridge emerged from the same doorway, having deposited Newbury with Rothford to await the ministrations of the Fixer.
He crested the top of the iron staircase, dusted himself down, and, red-faced from the exertion, hopped back into the cab with a nod to the driver. The engine spluttered to life as Bainbridge took a seat, careful to avoid the spilled blood that was congealing on the floor. Barnes would have his work cut out for him, cleaning that lot up.
Veronica was sitting with her hands folded in her lap. She looked nearly as white as Newbury had, shocked to the core and uncertain about Newbury's condition. Bainbridge attempted to offer her his warmest smile. "My dear Miss Hobbes. I should think Sir Maurice will owe you a large debt of gratitude when he eventually comes round from all this. Your efforts in stemming his wounds are surely what kept him alive during the course of the journey over here. Now, the Fixer can do his work and make him whole again."
Veronica pursed her lips. "Sir Charles, I think it is we who shall owe Sir Maurice a debt of gratitude. His actions at the murder scene are what saved us all from disaster. He willingly put himself in the way of those monsters to save us from harm. Saving his life in turn was the very least we could do, if indeed we have managed it." She looked away, still dignified, even whilst caked in the dried blood of her employer. "I hope this 'Fixer' is everything you've made him out to be."
Bainbridge nodded, carefully weighing her words. "You're quite right, of course, Miss Hobbes. Forgive my insolence. I did not mean to demean the actions of our brave friend, only to embolden you with talk of your own. I was aiming to give reassurance, where perhaps none was needed. I'm afraid I've forgotten how to talk to ladies, ever since my wife died. I now spend all my time in the company of other men."