The Queen of sinister da-2

by Marc Chadbourn

  'Why did you come all this way just to get a car?' Caitlin asked.

  'Because time is of the essence and we have a long way to go,' Crowther replied. 'And to be honest, anything that lessens the time I have to spend with you — and now those two — is a good thing.'

  'You don't think they'll all have been looted?'

  'Only if there's a classic-car collector in the area. Nobody else would be interested in these museum pieces. I'm taking the gamble that most people won't have realised that there must be some kind of fuel depot on the site. We can fill up and be away, and whatever's behind can choke on our exhaust fumes.'

  The explosion made them all jump. A nearby branch splintered and fell.

  'Somebody's shooting at us,' Crowther exclaimed incredulously, a second before Caitlin knocked him to the ground.

  'Clear off, you bastards! I'll kill you all!' A wild-eyed man with grey hair rising up like a sunburst around a bald pate stormed towards them from the direction of the museum. He wore a threadbare overcoat and mud-splattered brown trousers, and he was brandishing a musket so worn and rusty it looked as if it would fall apart if it were fired again. 'This is my place!' he yelled. 'You can't come in here!'

  Another burst of grapeshot rattled over their heads. The gun was so inaccurate that they were more likely to die from accidental fall-out than any specific shot. 'Into the trees!' Caitlin shouted, looking around for the others. Carlton was there, but Mahalia was missing.

  Their attacker set about the laborious task of reloading the musket — shot, gunpowder, tamping it down. Caitlin seized the opportunity to haul Carlton towards cover while Crowther scurried on his hands and knees behind them.

  Once they were hidden, Caitlin frantically searched for Mahalia. Had she run for the boundary fence?

  The answer came a second later. Mahalia appeared like a shadow rising from the ground behind their assailant. She was so silent that he was oblivious to her presence until she knocked the musket from his hands and entwined her arms around him, a knife at his throat.

  The three of them rushed over just as the man stopped struggling in response to whatever Mahalia had whispered in his ear. Blood trickled down his neck from the knife point.

  'Don't hurt me,' he whimpered. Tears of fear trickled from his eyes; in them was a hint of the madness of isolation.

  'What are you doing?' Crowther raged. 'You could have killed us!'

  'This is my place,' the man said pathetically. 'You can't come in.'

  'Do you want me to kill him?' Mahalia's cold voice chilled Caitlin.

  'Kill him?' Crowther said incredulously. 'Are you insane as well? We don't go around killing people!'

  'You leave him free, you might regret it,' Mahalia continued.

  'Oh, shut up.' Crowther pulled her knife hand roughly away from the man's throat. The prisoner sagged and then began to sob. 'Mad as a bloody hatter,' Crowther said. 'He's probably been living up here since the Fall, shooting anyone who came near like some hillbilly. Whatever happened to resilience? The first sign of hardship and everyone starts going insane.' He flashed a glance at Caitlin.

  Behind them, Carlton was growing agitated again. As Caitlin turned to comfort him, he pointed fearfully towards the gate.

  Five shapes had emerged from the tree line beyond the boundary fence. The moment Caitlin laid eyes on them she felt as if her life was draining away. It was the Whisperers, she knew that without a doubt. They had faces that would haunt Caitlin's worst nightmares, a forensic study of a human head once the skin had been removed, though the musculature was white as snow, dry and parchment-like, the teeth needle-long and sharp, like those on luminescent fish caught in the furthest depths. Their eyes exuded a smoky magenta light that drifted around them in clouds as if they burned inside. They were tall and gaunt with limbs so thin they looked as if they barely had the strength to lift themselves, their bodies almost lost in their odd combination of armour — winged, spiked helmets and breastplates, all of it rusted a muddy brown — and fluttering black rags. On their backs or hanging from their belts were a variety of rusted metallic weapons — swords, spears, axes and some things that just looked like long spikes. Their mounts were a disturbing mixture of lizard and horse, their scaly skin a desiccated grey. The hazy purple light wreathed all around them.

  Mahalia, Crowther, Caitlin and Carlton were all rooted before the terrible sight.

  Beneath the rustle of the wind in the newly formed leaves, a whispering rose up that carried with it notions of terrible, depressing things even though no words were clear.

  The Whisperers dismounted and drifted like ghosts to the boundary fence, where they stood motionless.

  Why aren't they trying to get in?' Caitlin asked. 'They can't come in here,' the hermit moaned. 'Nothing can. Sacred land… old, sacred, monastic land.'

  Crowther dropped down and placed the palm of his right hand on the soil.

  'What's he talking about?' Mahalia said.

  'The Blue Fire,' Crowther said to himself. 'I wish I could feel it.'

  'You're bleeding.' Caitlin noticed the thin trickle running from Crowther's nose just as the iron filings taste dribbled into the edge of her own mouth. She dabbed at it, checked the stain on her fingers. 'What are they doing to us?'

  'Come on,' Mahalia said insistently. 'You're standing around as if you're in a dream.' She picked up a rock from nearby and smashed it against the back of their prisoner's head. He pitched forward, unconscious. 'So he doesn't get in the way.'

  Caitlin was too distracted to be horrified by the girl's action. Images scurried through her head that were not her own thoughts, a flickering of consciousness as contact was made — the face of one of the Whisperers loomed before her, and though its mouth formed no human syllables, the words made perfect sense: Give up now. There is no hope… no point running. Everyone must die. No point in anything. You could take your own life. Illness will claim you… The message hid a secret virus that infected her mind like poison in the blood: despair. The emotion was almost painful.

  Suddenly Caitlin was back in the Ice-Field and Briony was shaking her roughly. 'Brigid says they're in your head. You have to get out of here.'

  Caitlin came out of her trance to realise that she was walking slowly towards the boundary fence alongside Mahalia, Carlton and Crowther. She moved quickly, punching Crowther so hard in the face that his lips pulped against his teeth and blood splattered into his mouth.

  The pain disrupted the mental image. 'You stupid cow!' Crowther roared.

  But it was enough. Caitlin grabbed Carlton while Crowther picked up Mahalia and then they were hurrying towards the museum buildings.

  They realised they'd exceeded the range of the Whisperers' sickening influence when Mahalia suddenly yelled, 'Put me down, you creep!' and lashed out wildly. Crowther dropped her hard on the floor with what Caitlin thought was a little too much relish.

  Caitlin took one last look at the drifting purple haze where the withering atmosphere of despair hung along the boundary fence and then forced them to pick up the pace.

  'What are those things,' Caitlin asked, 'and why are they hunting us?'

  'Sport or food are the obvious answers,' Crowther muttered, but his expression suggested that the questions troubled him immensely.

  It took them a while to gain access to the vast display halls; the previous occupant had effectively blocked every entrance. They eventually managed to smash open a side door, and once inside it felt odd to be walking alone amongst the gleaming archaic vehicles that now provided a haunting reminder of the world they had left behind. One vast echoing hall led on to another, all filled with the smell of oil and rubber and leather upholstery. Every car they had ever seen or heard of stood side by side, their pristine paintwork shimmering in the half-light.

  'In centuries to come, when this place is overgrown and forgotten, this will be like Tutankhamun's tomb to a future generation of archaeologists,' Crowther said in hushed tones. 'Of course, that's if the human race is still arou
nd.' Crowther bypassed the oldest vehicles, which looked as if they would barely have outrun a horse, and instead stopped at a display of seventies sports cars. He finally selected one, a 1974 Ferrari Dino 246 GT.

  Mahalia laughed. 'I bet you always wanted one of those.'

  'And never had the money,' Crowther said. 'One advantage of the Fall… everything's there for the taking.'

  'If you're strong enough,' Caitlin added pointedly.

  Crowther examined the display sign. 'Actually, I chose it because it's really just a two-seater and we can shove the children in the tiny space behind the seats where I won't have to be bothered by them for the whole journey. Should be fairly uncomfortable.' He proceeded to read aloud: '2418 cc V-6 engine, twelve overhead valves, 195 b.h.p. at 7,600 r.p.m. and a max speed of 150 m.p.h. That should do the job. Now we just need to fill it up.' He opened the door, then paused uncomfortably. 'I don't suppose any of you know how to hot-wire a car.'

  Mahalia pushed by him roughly and dipped under the steering column. A few seconds later the throaty roar of the engine echoed around the display hall.

  'Oh, why am I not surprised.' Crowther slipped behind the wheel with obvious relish. 'Looks like there's enough in the tank to get us out to wherever the fuel depot is.'

  '"Thanks" would have been nice,' Mahalia said sourly.

  The fuel depot lay behind the display halls. High winds had camouflaged it with plastic sheeting, broken branches, leaves and other vegetation. Crowther uncovered several cans filled with petrol and smiled as he filled up the Ferrari's tank. 'Isn't it funny,' he mused to himself, 'I'd forgotten what it smelled like.'

  Carlton stood off to one side, eyeing the treetops uncertainly, his head cocked to one side. 'I think Carlton knows a lot more than he shows,' Caitlin said. 'It's as if he can sense them.'

  'I don't care if they're about to tap me on the shoulder,' Crowther said as he screwed the cap back on, 'they don't stand a chance of keeping up with this machine.'

  Once they were all in, Crowther revved the engine and drove around to the exit gates. The purple mist that signified the Whisperers' presence drifted through the trees, but Crowther didn't wait to look at them.

  The car hit the gates at speed. The impact jolted their teeth, but the gates burst off their hinges and then they were away down the winding service road.

  'We did it!' Caitlin said in disbelief.

  Carlton reached over the back of the seat to give the professor a hug. 'Get off me!' Crowther roared.

  'You can thank me when you're ready,' Mahalia said, positioning herself so that Crowther would see her every time he looked in the rear-view mirror.

  The professor grunted. 'You're not completely useless.'

  He pulled the car out on to the main road and hit the accelerator so hard they were all thrown back into their seats. 'I wish we had some music,' he said.

  Euphoria gripped them as they made their getaway. Only Carlton peered back to watch the purple mist drifting slowly in their wake. Mary had battled with a feeling of unease ever since Caitlin had left. Part of it was worry for her friend's safety. The first time they had met, three years earlier, they had disliked each other: Mary, the herbalist and alternative practitioner, and Caitlin, the rational GP, could see little common ground. But over the weeks and months as they came into contact more and more, they saw past the superficialities. Mary had learned to admire so much about Caitlin. The young doctor's strength of character and ability to sacrifice her own needs for the good of others were in stark contrast to how Mary saw herself. If her past mistakes had not been so great, Mary might have found a partner she could love, and they might have had a daughter. She would have been proud if the child had turned out like Caitlin.

  But Mary's uneasiness also came from the certain knowledge that not all the trouble had moved on with Caitlin and Crowther. There was something in the air; she could feel it.

  As the glass of whiskey caught the light from the fire, she felt a twinge of guilt that she'd only had breakfast half an hour ago. But then, life was more painful than anyone ever imagined, and what was wrong with something that took the edge off the cutting blade? At least she wouldn't be able to indulge it to the point where she ended up hanging around the village hall doing jigs for anyone that passed. No nipping down to the off-licence to replenish her supplies. The powers that be had seen fit to enforce a period of sobriety.

  The community had managed to survive another winter of long shadows and harshness. But then the plague had come with the spring. Existence certainly had a taste for irony. Where would it all end?

  Arthur Lee bounded in from the kitchen with an urgency that shook her from her dismal thoughts. He was unsettled. With his fur bristling, he tried to bury himself in her calf muscles, body rigid, and he was not a cat prone to fear; indeed, being more than cat, he existed in a state of contempt for everything. Mary's spine prickled in response.

  This is a warning, Mary thought.

  A quick slug of whiskey fired her, and then she moved from window to window, searching the countryside now bathed in early-morning light. Trees and shrubs were budding; she could smell the season changing. Nothing disturbed the peaceful scene; no figures moving, no shift of vegetation in opposition to the wind. She let her senses envelop her, but all she could feel was that constant background unease.

  'What's frighted you, then?' She dropped to her knees to look into the cat's gleaming eyes, but he was too anxious to stay still long enough for her to see. A drop of moisture splashed on to her cheek. Puzzled, she glanced up at the ceiling to search for the source. Absently, she wiped the droplet away, but then grew still when she glimpsed her fingertips: the stain was dark.

  In the mirror, she saw a thin scarlet trickle running from each ear.

  Thoughts of disease and death flashed across her mind, but she barely had time to consider them, for at that moment the phone began to ring; and it had been dead, like all phones, from the time of the Fall. Her heart began to pound.

  Everything shifted at once; shadows in the room altered their position slightly, the light became strangely harsh, the barely perceptible sound of her feet on the carpet now buzzed loudly in her head; heightened sensations were twisted into something a step aside from reality. With a queasy sense of dislocation, Mary approached the phone.

  She hesitated, rigid with apprehension, and then plucked up the handset. 'Hello?'

  There was a moment of fizzing static and then a hollow emptiness that reminded her of space. Out of it came a questioning voice that was faintly mechanical. '… Sshhh… hsss… Are you there? Can you hear me?… hssss… over. Do you hear?… sshhh… not over. It is not over. You have to-'

  Mary threw the phone across the room. After a moment, fighting an irrational dread, she marched across the room and picked up the receiver: the phone was dead once more. She stared at it for a second or two while Arthur Lee flattened himself under the coffee table, and then a hammering at the door jolted her alert.

  Don't answer it, a shrill voice said at the back of her head. And she had every intention of obeying it, but then her hand was mysteriously on the handle, pressing it, pulling it. Her breath caught in her throat.

  A large dark figure stood on the threshold. Oddly, she couldn't make out the face that terrified her so much; it was filled with shadows that moved like smoke. The figure entered and she seemed to float back before it.

  Finally, she saw that it was a man, but that provided little comfort. His face had an odd plasticity that hinted at a mask, made worse by the burning, dreadful eyes stretched wide and staring through that masquerade. Yet everything else about him was thoroughly ordinary: his appearance resembled that of someone who had spent a long time on the road; mud-spattered jeans, faded T-shirt, worn jacket, long, greasy hair tied in a ponytail.

  'Mary Holden.' The voice appeared to come from some other part of the room; a disturbing ventriloquism, a party trick with added menace.

  'Who are you?'

  'I come from a place of qui
cksilver and lightning.' He stood stock still, arms at his sides, and the light and shadows circled him, or seemed to, from her perspective.

  The dread in Mary's heart twisted until she thought she would be sick. 'What do you want with me?'

  'It is not over.'

  For some reason, the words terrified her.

  'You shall not walk away.' The eyes peering through the mask burned into her head. 'The girl will need you.'

  'Caitlin?'

  'Something has woken on the edge of Existence. It has seen you, and everything you are, and everything you will be, and it is moving even now to prevent your awakening.'