by Chris Ward
‘That’s us, Switch,’ Marta whispered. ‘They’re trying to pin this mess on us.’
‘It’s a fucking conspiracy,’ he replied. ‘They murdered the Ambassador and staged his death to create sympathy in the EC. That fucking deformed bastard . . .’
Mr. Lewitt talked for a couple more minutes, his speech descending into general propaganda. Marta and Switch listened with disgust. As Lewitt finished off the Governor’s statement and left the stage with a barrage of questions leaping in his wake, Marta closed her eyes, remembering the carnage they’d found in her apartment.
They’d not encountered the Huntsman again, but it or another had got to her apartment before them. Two of her flatmates were dead, torn apart, their blood splashed over the carpet and across the bare walls of the squat. Another, Rob, a drifter who’d been staying with them the last few weeks, was still alive, but his eyes were wild and blank. A bloody chest injury had not been bad enough to kill him so Marta had placed an anonymous emergency call from a payphone store a couple of streets away. Whether his mind would recover was another matter. Switch had made him comfortable while she grabbed a few clothes and belongings. She had whispered sorry as they left.
‘We have to go, Switch,’ Marta said, tugging on his arm. ‘The others should be waiting for us.’
He nodded and they hurried off down the High Street. Behind them they heard people shutting down the television screen amidst a growing unease from the crowd, most of which had refused to disperse. Marta heard someone barking an order to leave the street. There were one or two shouts of defiance from the crowd and she quickened her pace, aware that a full scale riot could break out at any moment.
The road bent away to the right and soon the crowd was out of sight. Drunken shouts came frequently now, though, and she heard the sound of something made of glass shattering on the road. A gunshot followed.
‘Here it goes,’ Switch muttered from in front of her.
St. Cannerwells Park came up on their right. Through the fence they could see a couple of trashcan fires, hear the sound of people laughing, making merry. For once Marta actually envied the drunks and tramps down there in the park. Their existence seemed so carefree.
Switch moved further ahead of her, jogging towards the entrance to the Underground station, a dark building a hundred yards further on. She smiled a little at his self-assumed role as her protector. They had always been a unit, the Tube Riders, looking out for each other, but Switch seemed to have singled Marta out for preferential treatment. Perhaps he likes me, she thought.
A hand fell on her shoulder. Marta jerked away, almost falling into the street. As she looked back she let out a small cry of surprise.
Simon stood behind her with Jess at his shoulder. Both looked grim.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
She rubbed her chest just below her neck, as though compelling her heart to slow. It was a few seconds before she could make words come out. ‘I am so happy to see you both,’ she said at last. ‘Really, you have no idea. Did you have any trouble making it back here?’
Simon shook his head. ‘No, we saw nothing. Maybe there’s only one. You?’
Marta nodded grimly. ‘Yeah, we ran into one. Thank God Switch was with me.’ She briefly recounted what had happened.
‘That’s terrifying. Are you sure you’re all right?’
Marta nodded. ‘Still alive is good enough right now. We haven’t seen Paul yet.’
‘He’ll be fine.’
‘I hope so.’
Simon smiled. ‘Trust me. He’s better at looking after himself than he lets on.’
They headed after Switch who was standing in the shadows of the Underground station entrance. Marta glanced at Jess as they walked; under the streetlights the other girl’s face was difficult to read. Jess hadn’t said a word yet, and her eyes were eerily distant. Her parents’ violent death would be near impossible to deal with, but Marta felt uneasy seeing the way Jess’s eyes had steeled. This afternoon she had been as bright and carefree as London allowed. Now, though it scared Marta to admit it, she looked almost as dangerous as the thing that had attacked them in the office building.
‘No sign of Paul,’ Switch said by way of greeting. ‘But there’s no sign of any Huntsmen either. Looks like doubling back was a good call.’
‘What time is it?’ Simon asked.
‘Just after eleven, according to a clock in a shop window over there,’ Switch said, flicking a thumb back over his shoulder. ‘The first freight trains are running about now. We can give Paul a little time. We said midnight.’
‘We’re not leaving him!’ Marta almost shouted.
Simon put a hand on her shoulder. ‘After what you told us, he might be dead. We’ll have no way of knowing.’
Marta felt tears spring to her eyes. ‘We’re not . . . leaving him.’
‘If the Huntsmen come before he does, we won’t have a choice,’ Switch said. ‘We run or we die. Don’t worry about Paul. He might look like a fat, balding fag, but he can look after himself. He’ll catch up.’
‘Maybe there’s just one,’ Simon said. ‘Five of us against it . . .’
‘When it’s running straight at you I’ll let you say that again,’ Switch replied. ‘I picked up some shit on the street, but . . . fuck, man. Seeing that thing up close, I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘Come on, let’s get inside. At least by the tracks we have an escape route.’
Down in the station, Marta and Simon sat down against the wall near the breakfall mats. Jess stood nearby, a few feet apart. Switch was restless, patrolling up and down the platform, knives occasionally appearing in his hands only to vanish again.
The minutes ticked past. The trains were becoming less and less frequent as services wound down for the night. In the minutes between trains the station had a peaceful warmth to it, an echoing, thought-provoking calm.
With her head resting on the wall, Marta realised they had no plan after this. Ride the freight trains away from here, get out of London. Was it even that simple? Were there no checkpoints, no guards?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet, more than one pair. She jumped up and turned towards the stairs as Switch jogged over from the platform edge, a vicious serrated knife in each hand. Jess had turned too, lips curled back in a snarl of anger. Simon had been dozing and had yet to climb to his feet.
Two shadows appeared on the stairs, followed moments later by Paul and a much younger boy who they could only assume was Owen, Paul’s brother. They’d never met him before, though Paul had often talked of bringing him when he was older. Without his parents around, Paul was father to Owen, and Paul had said no sane father would let a twelve-year-old kid hang off the side of a train. Now, though, he was carrying a clawboard Marta recognised as one of Paul’s old ones. It pained her to realise he’d get even less practice at it than Jess had, and she broke out into a hot sweat as she realised just how many holes there were in their plan.
‘Paul,’ she said with relief, and started to move towards him.
Paul put up a hand. ‘No time for greetings, guys. We’ve got company!’
‘What?’
They were waiting for us! Outside!’
‘They?’
‘In the park, waiting to trap us. They broke cover just as Owen and me reached the entrance. Quick, into the tunnels. It’s our only chance!’
Marta’s heart filled with dread. Above them came the sound of more running feet. It didn’t sound like the Huntsmen, though; the footfalls were too heavy.
Again she realised how stupid they’d been. The Huntsmen might be erratic tracking machines, but they were working for the Department of Civil Affairs. It should have been obvious that the DCA might watch St. Cannerwells in case they came back, but in their blind fear they hadn’t realised. Of course they’d not seen them before; the DCA wanted to catch them all together.
‘Not so fast,’ a man’s voice said from behind them. They turned to
see a DCA agent descending from the other stairway, the one which led up to the blocked entrance. Back the way they’d come in, two other men jogged down the stairs. All three had guns.
‘He was there,’ Jess hissed. ‘Before. When they killed the Ambassador. He was one of them. Those bastards started this.’ She started to walk towards him, but Marta put a hand on her shoulder. ‘What?’ Jess growled.
‘That’s suicide.’
One of the agents held his gun in the air. ‘That’s all of them,’ Mr. Vincent. We appear to have collected an extra one too. Want us to kill them now?’
Vincent, the leader, held up a hand. ‘Wait! Are you sure the Huntsmen have been called off? The last thing we want is those fucking monsters spoiling the party.’
‘Four are captive, but one has gone AWOL,’ the man shouted back. ‘We’ve lost the frequency on the fifth.’
‘We’re that important that they sent five Huntsmen after us?’ Marta whispered to Paul. ‘Holy shit.’
The one called Vincent laughed. ‘Well, you kids are cleverer than I thought. How did you manage to kill one of them?’
The Tube Riders didn’t answer. They had backed away towards the centre of the platform, where a large supporting pillar offered cover in the space where a confectionary stand and some vending machines had once stood. As Marta shouted, ‘Get to cover!’ they darted towards it, dodging out of sight just as a gun went off and a bullet cracked into the platform not far from them, causing tile shards to shower their feet.
Don’t shoot, damn it!’ Vincent shouted. ‘I want them alive!’
Beside Marta, Paul whispered, ‘Where’s Switch?’
Marta realised the little man wasn’t among them, and risked a glance out towards Vincent. There she saw him, standing alone on the platform, fifty feet from the DCA leader. Switch held a knife in one hand. The other had vanished, back into his jacket, she assumed. He advanced slowly like a true street fighter, swaying from side to side, ready to drop and roll at any moment.
‘Switch, for God’s sake, get back!’ Marta hissed, remembering his words earlier: we have something to battle for. He wanted to go down fighting, but against trained, armed, DCA men, Switch had little chance.
‘Well, I guess killing one won’t matter,’ Vincent said, cocking his gun. ‘I’d hoped we could use you, maybe, but it’s no skin off my –’
As fast as Marta had ever seen, Switch drew something from under his coat then dropped and rolled just as a bullet passed through the space he’d been standing in. As the gunshot died away a sharp hammering sound rang across the empty station and into the tunnels. Vincent screamed and fell to the ground, clutching at his leg.
‘Wow, that was fucking cool,’ Owen said, just before Paul pulled him back out of sight.
‘Where the hell did he get a nail gun?’ Simon asked, holding on to Jess, who was trying to rush out and join the fight.
‘Get off me, Simon!’
Vincent’s gun went off again, impossibly loud, the bullet ricocheting off the ground just inches from Switch, who was still rolling across the platform. Vincent was hurt but not dead; Switch had just bought them a little time.
‘Fuck this . . . ahhhh . . . just kill them!’
Gunshots cracked from the other direction. Paul and Simon moved to the other side of the alcove, crouched low, clawboards held like clubs. Jess had pulled a huge bread knife out of her bag and passed another to an inanely grinning Owen. Marta felt a little left out as the only one without a weapon so she reached under her shirt and grabbed her pepper spray can.
Switch rolled over the platform’s edge and down on to the track. Vincent was moaning in pain while trying to reload his gun. A train suddenly roared past and Marta gasped as it passed through where Switch had fallen.
‘Let’s rush them,’ Jess said behind her. ‘They’re scared. We have to take them before they call in the things again.’
As if in response, a gunshot cracked, and a small explosion of broken tiles and mortar from the roof above showered them.
‘See?’ Jess said. ‘They can’t even aim.’
Marta stole another glance, this time back towards the front entrance. The two DCA agents were crouching at the bottom of the stairs, blocking the only way out.
She frowned as a shadow fell on the stairs behind the two men. Huntsmen? She glanced out again. In the moment before she pulled her face out of sight of their guns she saw what looked like a woman, being pulled along by something on a leash –
#
Dreggo had caught the Huntsman outside in St. Cannerwells Park. Blind, it had been stumbling about like a drunk down near the old pond, not far from a group of tramps drinking homebrewed spirits around a pile of burning benches and old chairs. Using the metal lid of a trashcan until she was close enough to use her knives, she’d battered the creature, finally sending it into some form of unconsciousness by smashing its head against the low wall that edged the pond. A piece of old rope made a suitable leash.
The buzzing in her head had told her all she needed to know, and she’d slipped back to St. Cannerwells and staked out the DCA units laying siege themselves. She knew from the transmissions that the other Huntsmen had been called in and restrained. The signal had been faint, but she’d realised the fifth was still alive and getting closer, its receivers damaged but still following the mission. She didn’t know what had happened to it, but captured, it was a weapon unlike any other.
She’d failed to track the Tube Riders; their scent had been too faint. The Huntsman, however, had a stronger smell, one she knew well. She’d taken it by surprise; it hadn’t been hunting for her.
Its face was caked with blood and both its eyes were useless but its sense of smell was as good as ever. Among her personal armoury was a police-issued stun-shocker, and tied to a piece of old railing it kept the newly conscious Huntsman squirming at the end of the rope. It was damaged goods, but it was still far more dangerous than a gun.
The two men at the foot of the stairs didn’t even see it coming. They were focused on keeping the Tube Riders trapped, and the Huntsman had slashed the throat of one and torn the arm off the other almost before they knew it was there. One of them got a shot off, puncturing the Huntsman’s shoulder. The creature screamed in rage as its claws and teeth finished the man off.
‘Come out, Tube Riders,’ Dreggo shouted. She jabbed the Huntsman with her stun-shocker. ‘Come out, it’s safe. I’m on your side now.’
#
Marta saw Dreggo descend the stairs, saw the captured Huntsman maul the two DCA agents and leave their bodies on the ground, writhing in its own pain from a bullet wound.
She also heard what Dreggo said and realised they might have no choice but to trust her.
‘There’s another one!’ she shouted, and glanced back towards Vincent. The leader of the DCA was crawling towards them, gasping in pain as he dragged his injured leg. A trail of blood followed him, as dark as shadow under the emergency lights.
‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’ Paul muttered.
‘Just keep down and wait for a chance,’ Simon answered.
‘This is like a computer game,’ was Owen’s contribution, while Jess stayed silent.
‘Hey you! Drop your gun or I loose this thing on you!’ Dreggo shouted at Vincent.
Marta glanced out to see Vincent lifting his gun. He aimed in Dreggo’s general direction and pulled the trigger, but instead of a gunshot there was just an empty click.
‘Ah, fuck,’ he muttered, and tossed the gun away.
‘Come out, Tube Riders,’ Dreggo repeated.
‘She doesn’t have a gun by the look of things,’ Paul said.
‘She has a whole lot worse,’ Jess said.
‘Let’s go.’ Marta stepped out into view. ‘What’s this about, Dreggo?’
The leader of the Cross Jumpers approached them with the Huntsman still ahead of her, crouched low to the ground. Marta thought it seemed more feral than the one that had chased her and Switch. That one,
with the way it ran and operated its weapon, had more closely resembled a man.
‘I think we can help each other,’ Dreggo said. ‘I want a way out of this city, and in exchange I can protect you.’
The others came up beside Marta. ‘Who says we need protection?’ Paul said.
‘You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me,’ Dreggo replied. ‘Or you would have been as soon as you tried to run.’ She came closer, prodding the Huntsman along in front of her.
‘That’s the one Paul got,’ Owen said, eyes filled with awe. ‘Man, you smashed it up bad!’ By way of response Paul put a protective arm around his brother.
Dreggo moved past the Tube Riders, who backed off away from the Huntsman. Ten feet from Vincent, she stopped.
‘Looks like your plan didn’t quite work out,’ she said.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Dreggo smiled. ‘Don’t you remember me? I’m the one that got away. Give my regards to your witch-doctor friends. We’ll be seeing you.’
‘Fuck you. Release that thing and get it over with.’
‘You really want me to?’ She let out a little slack and the Huntsman jerked forwards, jaws snapping, making Vincent flinch. Dreggo turned away. To the others she said, ‘Together we’ll be safer. I have a . . . history with these people. I can use it to help –’
Marta gasped as a hand snaked up from below the platform edge and gripped Dreggo’s ankle, pulling hard. She cried out in surprise and fell backwards on to the ground, the leash and the pole slipping out of her hands. For a moment everything seemed to freeze: Vincent, lying on the ground, wide-eyed; the Huntsman, crouched at Dreggo’s feet; Switch, climbing up off the tracks; Marta and the others, caught in the middle.
Everyone was staring at the Huntsman.
It hesitated just a second, as if deciding where the pain it remembered clearest had come from. Then it leapt at Dreggo, its claws and maw ripping and tearing. Dreggo screamed and tried to throw it off her. They rolled away across the platform, Dreggo, despite her strength no match for the ripping, tearing claws of the incensed Huntsman.