by Chris Ward
It was futile. They could be anywhere.
Dreggo cursed again, turning around on her heels in despair. She’d have to go back to her original plan, which was to track them down the traditional way: find out who they were, where they hung out, who they were friends with. But that could take days, and she wanted revenge now. What little life she’d had as leader of the Cross Jumpers was gone, and her hatred for the Tube Riders burned through her soul like acid.
They wouldn’t be back, she knew, the Cross Jumpers. They might form again in small gangs from time to time to practice their dangerous hobby, but their unity had been undermined, and that was her fault. She had thought they wanted the same as she did, the urban legend, the infamy, but with the exception of Maul and a handful of others they were just cowardly street kids looking for a way to pass the time. It had been fun until too much blood was shed.
I should have known better.
Dreggo wanted to blame herself but that was mental suicide, and she had blamed too much on herself already. The abuse, the suffering, the violence, the rapes; for years she had shouldered the blame.
Not this time. The Tube Riders had caused this. And the only way to restore her pride and build the infamy for herself that she wanted was to track them down and kill them, one after another.
‘. . . orders . . .’
Dreggo jumped. She looked around, searching for the source of the word, faint, almost indistinct. There was no one behind her, no one anywhere near her. Then she heard another sound, a buzzing sensation like a radio stuck between stations, the crackling of static.
The sound was inside her head. She felt suddenly uncomfortable, as though plumes of blood were pressing against the inside of her skull, and she pushed her hands against her forehead as though to stop her brain from bursting out.
The buzzing paused for a moment and then began again, louder. She started to hear more words, faint and indistinct. At first she thought she was going mad, and then memories of another horrible chapter in her life began to resurface; a time she had been held captive underground, a prisoner of the government, used as a test dummy for experiments. From those dark days she remembered little other than fear, pain, and suffering, but her skills had come from that time, too: her strength, her tracking ability, her ability to jump higher or run faster than any normal human, her ability to sense fear or danger just from breathing in the air.
She sat down by the side of the road as the buzzing got louder. She had no choice but to listen as the words became clearer, but she squeezed her eyes shut anyway, trying to push them out, waiting for them to end.
‘. . . orders . . . five people . . . two women . . . three . . . all die . . . known as . . . Tube Riders . . .’
Her eyes flicked open. Dreggo began to listen. I know you. Huntsmen . . .
So, they were loose again, after so long. And they were hunting the Tube Riders? It hardly seemed possible. What could those worthless fools have done to have the Huntsmen set loose on them?
Dreggo didn’t know and didn’t care to know. What it did mean was that her dead end had suddenly opened up again and she had another trail to follow. Maybe the nightmares from her past could help her settle her own score.
Despite the growing nausea she felt, Dreggo smiled.
Chapter Fifteen
Scent
Clayton hung back at the rear as the group of handlers led the muzzled Huntsmen down into what had once been St. Cannerwells London Underground station. One hand rested on the butt of his gun, in a holster at his right hip. The creatures were surprisingly sedate as the men led them along, walking upright like respectful prisoners with their heads bowed, their faces invisible beneath their cowls. Unseen metal collars encircled the Huntsmen’s necks beneath their robes, with a thin chain that reminded Clayton of an overlong watch strap leading back to a loop that each handler held as they walked about three metres in front of their respective charges. The five handlers, one for each of the creatures, wore metal face protectors, thick bulletproof jackets and padded leg wear. It wasn’t bullets that they feared, though, Clayton knew. It was ripping, tearing claws.
So far, everything had gone to plan, even though sitting in the back of the DCA’s van with them had been perhaps the most terrifying experience of Clayton’s life.
‘They won’t move,’ the head handler, a man called Jakob had told him. He had indicated a button on the loop of the leash he held. ‘See this? The thing moves and I shock him. These give electric shocks strong enough to render an elephant a gibbering wreck. They won’t move because they’ve all been given a demonstration of what it feels like. The part of the brain that still contains human thoughts and cognitive processes understands how much it’ll hurt if they try anything. But –’ and here Jakob gave a devilish grin, ‘– if I let go of this leash for just one second, that boy’ll tear us all apart before you can even think about getting your gun.’
Vincent, sitting beside Clayton, had scoffed. Lifting his hand, he had put two fingers together in a gun shape, pointed it at the Huntsman opposite and made a quiet popping sound.
‘And even if you did,’ Jakob had continued, with a dismissive smirk at Vincent, ‘You wouldn’t get off enough iron in time. You black coats have any idea what it takes to bring down a Huntsman? Get it square in the face and you’re doing good, but those bodies can take some beating. Next to these boys, killing revolutionaries is like blowing away bits of paper.’
Jakob had sounded almost proud. Clayton had plucked up the courage to look through the metal grill of the face mask-cum-muzzle the creature opposite him wore, beneath the low cowl and into the unblinking human eyes that watched him from above the dog-like snout. There was intelligence there, he saw. Intelligence and hunger; hunger to be free.
‘This way,’ Vincent said up ahead of them. ‘This is where we found evidence of the kids.’
‘You found this place on a map?’ Clayton said, glancing nervously back at the Huntsmen. He noticed Vincent had one hand under his jacket, on the handle of his own gun, no doubt. That insolent bastard would as soon as put a bullet in my back as in one of those monsters, he thought.
‘We just backtracked along the line, checking in anywhere those kids could have come from, once it was apparent that they used those bits of wood to hang off the trains. The abandoned station wasn’t on the most up-to-date map, but we got suspicious at the large gap between the two stations either side and so we checked the archives. And there it was, St. Cannerwells, forgotten for more than a decade. The perfect place for those kids to hang out.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘Not much. A pile of old mattresses at one end, and some chalk lines along the side of the platform. At the other end a dried puddle of blood, and some pretty nasty leftovers on the tracks.’
‘Leftovers?’
Vincent sighed. ‘Come on, Clayton. The remains of a kid. Maybe more than one. It’s hard to tell after they’ve been diced up by a bunch of train wheels.’
‘You think they had a bust up?’
‘From the evidence I’d say they didn’t plan to be leaving the station. I think they were running away from something when they came across us, and our . . . business. Knowing this town, probably trouble with a rival gang.’
It was Clayton’s turn to sigh. ‘Fuck. It sucks, this city, doesn’t it?’
Vincent didn’t look at him. ‘Not our problem. They dig their own graves, we just deliver them.’
Clayton felt a sudden surge of hatred for the younger man. He had an unsettled score with Vincent for going to the Governor behind his back. Being in the presence of the Huntsmen had put it to the back of his mind, but it wasn’t forgotten, and Vincent was adding credits all the time.
‘Over here,’ Vincent said, pointing.
‘They’ve been exposed to the scents of the kids from the other station,’ Clayton said. ‘If they can pick them up here, we should be away.’
Behind them they heard a canine whining from one of the Huntsmen. If th
e creature hadn’t been so fearsome, it would have reminded Clayton of a dog getting a cuff around the head. Coming from a seven-foot-tall half-human killing machine, it made Clayton shiver.
‘There are many different scents here,’ Jakob called over his shoulder. ‘The dogs are getting confused.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d guess from the agitation, that there’s a whole lot of interaction going on. They’re getting secondary smells, intermingled smells . . . it’s going to be difficult to make sure they target the right people.’
‘They’re all vagrants,’ Vincent said. ‘A few extra deaths won’t matter.’
‘Shut up, Vincent,’ Clayton growled. ‘We’re here to protect the State, not instigate a goddamn massacre.’
Vincent smiled. ‘Fuck them. The deaths of a few, for the lives of many. I don’t see why you give so much of a shit, not like you haven’t hastened a few deaths yourself.’
‘Show respect to a senior officer!’ Clayton hissed. ‘I’m your fucking superior! Staple your mouth shut or I’ll have you reported!’
‘My apologies, sir,’ Vincent said, stalking off along the platform, his expression unreadable in the gloom.
‘Okay,’ Jakob called. ‘The Huntsmen are ready to go. Question is, are you ready?’
Clayton felt another shudder. He wondered how long he could last before his mind and his body just fell apart, leaving him like an unfinished jigsaw by the trackside.
‘You’re sure their orders are programmed correctly?’
Jakob nodded. ‘They have their scents, and they have the physical descriptions your men gave them of the targets. And they have their orders. Once the targets have been eliminated, they will return to the lockup facility.’
‘Okay. Let’s get this over with. Release them.’ He noticed how Adam Vincent ambled around to stand behind him like some frightened puppy, and his dislike for the junior officer rose yet another notch.
Two of the five Huntsmen were standing almost motionless by the edge of the track, looking into the dark tunnel. With their long robes and the cowls that covered up their faces, from behind they had the tall stateliness of priests, bishops. From behind you would never know they weren’t men; only the leashes that hung down from their necks and trailed back to the handlers waiting a few metres behind said different.
The other three, though, were a different matter. One was crouched close to the ground, muzzled face almost touching the platform. The two others were pulling and jerking on their leashes like the bloodhounds part of their genetic make-up had come from. Froth dribbled from their canine mouths, dripping through the grills of their muzzles and down the front of their robes.
One of them began to howl. Clayton winced, for the first time feeling irritated with them rather than just terrified. He dealt in men, not animals. This was so far out of his comfort zone it had come full circle and poked him in the backside. The howl was an oddly human sound, and sent a fresh shiver running down his back.
The creature suddenly jerked upwards and screamed, a sound like two pieces of thin metal being scraped together. It’s back arched, then it fell backwards to the platform. It quivered for a few seconds, and then started to climb back to its feet, sniveling like a dog with a cold.
‘What happened?’ Clayton asked.
‘Bill just gave him a little shock to calm him down,’ Jakob replied.
‘Can you hurry the fuck up and just get them out of here?’
‘Sure thing.’
The handlers, faces obscured by their protective masks, moved closer to their Huntsmen charges. Clayton noticed how they held the end of the leashes up where the Huntsmen could see them.
‘Come on now, come quietly . . .’ Clayton heard Jakob say.
The handlers went behind each Huntsman and undid a clasp on the muzzles. Each dropped to the floor, and the Huntsmen’s faces became more clearly visible. One of them turned towards Clayton, a dark red tongue flicking at the canine teeth that hung over its furry jaw line. Clayton had to look away.
‘Now, you have your radios,’ Jakob was saying to his Huntsman. The creature gave a slow nod. A low growl came from its throat. ‘Okay. When you locate a target, you are to contact Mr. Clayton over there, do you understand?’
‘Yesssss . . .’
Clayton exchanged a look of surprise with Vincent. Neither had realised the Huntsmen could speak.
‘Before you carry out your orders. Do you understand?’
‘Clayton . . .’
The sound was what Clayton imagined a snake with the flu would sound like; a hissing, sibilant noise like a piece of metal being dragged across sand. He felt the urge to vomit.
‘Good,’ Jakob said. ‘Ready? Okay, let them free!’
He took a few rapid steps backwards and then pressed a different button on his leash control. There was a click and then the chain fell away from the Huntsman’s neck collar to clatter on the ground. Clayton watched one Huntsman as it looked around for a moment, then turned and bounded off, one jump taking it down on to the tracks, and a handful more taking it away towards the dark of the tunnel. The cowl hung low over its face, and the robes flapped out behind it as it dashed into the darkness, moving low in a half crouch, a two-legged hyena-like gait. In a moment it was gone, the other three close behind it.
Three? Clayton’s eyes widened, and he swung to look back across the platform, where the last Huntsman still stood, towering over its handler. It was the one that had been shocked, he knew, simply from the way its lips had curled back over its teeth. As he watched in horror, its arms rose slowly up out of the folds of its robe.
‘Guns, Clayton!’ Vincent shouted, but it was too late. Even as Clayton drew his gun, the creature’s arm slashed down at the handler. Clayton got a brief view of a furred, muscular forearm, and then blood sprayed out from Bill’s neck and chest. The creature turned towards them and its violent, tormented gaze took them all in. Its lips curled back in a snarl, then it howled once and leapt down on to the tracks, lopping off after the others.
Clayton, Vincent, Jakob and the other handlers rushed over to Bill’s aid, but it was too late. His chest had been ripped open, and dark blood pumped out on to the tiles of the platform.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Vincent muttered.
‘Once too many times,’ Jakob said. ‘They have good memories, those creatures. ‘Fuck, that’s awful. But it comes with the territory.’ He turned to Clayton. ‘Well, it’s over to you, now,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’
Clayton stared at the black tunnel opening where the Huntsmen had gone. He wished that he’d seen the last of them, but something told him that was far, far from the truth.
Chapter Sixteen
Attack
Frank lowered the metal shutters down over the downstairs window. The veins stood out on his thin, sinewy arms as they worked the handle of the old shutter, one that had once covered a shop storefront and which he had bought from a scrap dealer some years ago, when the crime in the city first began to escalate. He had cut the shutters to fit and used them to cover all his windows, both downstairs and up. Many long-term residents in rougher areas preferred just to brick the windows over, but Frank still remembered the days before the anarchy had come and was damned if he was giving up his daylight and the views from his upper floor windows because groups of wiseass punks liked to throw more rocks about than they used to.
Out on the street he heard a crash, several shouts and the sound of running feet. For a moment he wished he hadn’t given the knife back to Paul’s friend, although he had several of his own, and other weapons besides. Whoever was out there was unlikely to bother him, though; his reputation and worth as a former medical doctor lent him some respect, in these parts at least. No, whoever might be out there would most likely pass him by and go on to fuck over some other place.
He frowned as the mechanism jammed, the old cogs catching on each other as they often did these days. He strained his muscles, seventy-four years young, but still wiry enough to have kept t
hat kid on his toes earlier. Frank gave a little chuckle, remembering the way that twitchy-eyed punk had jumped. Yeah, diminutive and old he might be, but there was still a little juice in the tank. He wasn’t done yet.
He grunted and jigged the lever back and forth. The shutter, halfway down, began to descend again.
As the shutter closed it off, Frank glanced out of the window, night now fallen over London as the evenings drew in towards winter. Looking down from his window he could see the row of houses opposite, and towering over them from behind, the empty hulk of an abandoned office building, seven floors of smashed windows and paint-peeling walls. He gave a wry smile as the shutter began to erase it, and his eyes glazed as his mind drifted back to a time when you could walk the streets at night without fear, when you could take a train out into the country and go fishing or ride a goddamn horse if you so chose.
Floating among his memories, he almost didn’t see the low, stooped creature as it advanced up the steps towards his door, its covered head low to the ground like a dog following a scent.
Self-preservation stopped Frank from crying out in terror. He clamped a hand over his mouth as his strength drained away, his other hand dropping from the shutter lever to hang useless at his side. In the silence he heard only his heart beating, and then, slightly out of time, the tap tap tap of the knocker on the outside of his front door.
Frank took one, two, then a third step back from the window, dimly aware that it would take a few moments for even a battering ram to break through his oversized, barricaded front door. The door to the hall was behind him and the front door beyond. There was only one staircase to the upper floor, past the junk in his hallway to the right of the front door. There was safety that way, if the door stayed closed.
His hands shook in terror as he stared out at the blackness of the night. The uncommon sight of a car rolled past on the road below, its horn blaring for some unseen reason.