The Queen of Sinister
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Copyright © Mark Chadbourn 2004 All rights reserved
The right of Mark Chadbourn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Gollancz
An imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane, London wc2h 9ea
This paperback edition first published in the UK by Gollancz in 2005
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
isbn 0 575 4
Typeset by Deltatype Ltd, Birkenhead, Merseyside
Printed in Great Britain by Clays, Ltd, St Ives plc
www.orionbooks.co.ukfor more information on the author and his work, please visit www.markchadbourn.net
One night, the world we knew slipped quietly away. Humanity awoke to find itself in a place mysteriously changed. Fabulous Beasts soared over the cities, their fiery breath reddening the clouds. Supernatural creatures stalked the countryside - imps and shape-shifters, bloodsucking revenants, men who became wolves, or wolves who became men, sea serpents and strange beasts whose roars filled the night with ice; and more, too many to comprehend. Magic was alive and in everything.
No one had any idea why it happened - by order of some Higher Power, or a random, meaningless result of the shifting seasons of Existence - but the shock was too great for society. All faith was lost in the things people had counted on to keep them safe - the politicians, the law, the old religions. None of it mattered in a world where things beyond reason could sweep out of the night to destroy lives in the blink of an eye.
Above all were the gods - miraculous beings emerging from hazy race memories and the depths of ancient mythologies, so far beyond us we were reduced to the level of beasts, frightened and powerless. They had been here before, long, long ago, responsible for our wildest dreams and darkest nightmares, but now they were back they were determined to stay for ever. In the days after their arrival, as the world became a land of myth, these gods battled for supremacy in a terrible conflict that shattered civilisation. Death and destruction lay everywhere.
Blinking and cowed, the survivors emerged from the chaos of this Age of Misrule into a world substantially changed, the familiar patterns of life gone: communications devastated, anarchy raging across the land, society thrown into a new Dark Age where superstition held sway. Existence itself had been transformed: magic and technology now worked side by side. There were new rules to observe, new boundaries to obey, and mankind was no longer at the top of the evolutionary tree.
A time of wonder and terror, miracles and torment, in which man's survival was no longer guaranteed.
chapter one Crow Life
'Life is the saddest thing there is, next to death.' Edith Wharton
Two storms. Without, the night torn asunder by the kind of jungle-beast weather that always marked the passing between winter and spring. Within, a storm of death and despair.
Bodies were heaped around the village hall with the sickening confusion of a medieval charnel house, on parquet flooring that had felt the celebratory tread of weddings and birthdays and anniversaries, and in the annexe, obscuring trestle tables that had served a thousand meals and more. Not even the kitchen's no longer sterile work surfaces were free of bodies.
At first, they had been placed in reverent rows, a futile attempt to impose order on an incomprehensible chaos. Eventually, when the full magnitude of what was happening became apparent, they were simply tossed in piles in one corner or another. Before the storm had started, the plan had been to dig individual graves, but those efforts had soon been outpaced. Now there was no hope of catching up. Occasionally their minds turned to the practical options - pit or fire, fire or pit - but the horror was too consuming for rational thought. A part of them knew the corpses would have to be disposed of quickly to prevent the spread of disease - the stench already left them breathless and reeling - but that would mean facing up to what lay around them, seeing and knowing and accepting.
It wasn't just the stink of decomposition that fouled the hall. The corpses leaked a yellowish greasy pus from the suppurating sores where the swellings had blackened and burst like alien fruit. It pooled on the floor, became sticky underfoot, smelling like rotten apples dusted with sulphur. They all had perfume-soaked handkerchiefs tied across their faces, but that did little to protect them. Worse, they felt as if they were becoming inured to it, the stench becoming, through repetition, as irritating and ignorable as exhaust fumes on a foggy morning.
The storm swirled about them, detaching them from their humanity. Only the moans of the nearly dead, lined up on camp-beds against one wall, reminded them that they were still on earth, not in hell.
There were five of them. Caitlin Shepherd was in charge. She was twenty-eight, but felt as if she'd lived for at least seventy years, her body fragile with weariness, her mind worn by too many nights without sleep, too many days of labour and struggle and heartache from dawn to dusk. The others - the former chairman of the parish council, a teenage boy with a bad case of acne and two elderly sisters who used to run the post office - were the only ones from the village who were prepared to help. Everyone else still standing had locked themselves in their homes with their families, threatening violence to those stupid enough to come calling.
Caitlin pulled the rubber band from her hair and refastened it. It had become a nervous act, subconsciously distracting her from the futility of what she was doing. The woman on the table in front of her had just expired with a phlegmy rattle. Caitlin had seen her every morning in summer tending her garden, but she couldn't remember her name.
'How many is that tonight?' she asked. It made it easier for her to think in terms of numbers rather than people.
Eileen, one of the sisters, placed a hand on Caitlin's forearm. 'Best not to think about it now, dear. You could do with a break.'
'How can I take a break?' Sparks flashed across Caitlin's vision and she had to steady herself on the edge of the table.
'You're not going to help anyone by running yourself into the ground,' Gideon noted. The council chairman, who no longer had any council members left, had a disgusting smear of dark bodily juices down the front of his shirt that made him look as if he'd been stabbed. 'And if we haven't got our doctor, we're nowhere.'
In the grim surroundings, Caitlin's laughter sounded even more damning than she had intended. 'A doctor's no good if she doesn't know what she's doing. I've never seen this before. It's not in any of the textbooks. As far as I can tell, it's something completely new. I have no idea how to begin treating it... antibiotics don't work. All I can do is make people comfortable before they die.' And they did die. Always. The initial appearance of the tiny black spots was a death sentence.
She glanced up at the few boxes of medicine left on the shelves. Soon it would all be gone, and with no one manufacturing new drugs in the crisis that had gripped the country since the Fall, they'd be down to bunches of herbs and wishing.
'It's still important to make people comfortable in their last hours,' Eileen said gently. 'That's a good deed.'
'It's not enough.' Caitlin tore the useless handkerchief from her mouth and rested her eyes behind her hand. 'We'd better get this ... this lady
'Mrs Waid,' Eileen prompted.
'Mrs Waid ... we'd better get her moved.'
'I'll do it,' Gideon said. 'Timothy, give us a hand!'
The teenager stood shell-shocked, staring out into the rain-lashed night. 'There'll be floods along the river,' he said, as if it were important.
While Gideon and Timothy carried the blackened, seeping body to the latest pile in the main hall, Eileen gave
&
nbsp; Caitlin a brief hug. Caitlin was surprised by how comforting it felt.
'You should take a break ... go back to your husband and son. Family's even more important at times like this,' Eileen said.
'I don't know...'
'Go on. You said yourself you're not doing anything we can't. Have a good rest, and when you come back we can arrange some kind of rota system.'
Caitlin looked into the elderly woman's face, as if seeing her for the first time. 'How do you do it?'
'What, dear?'
'Keep going ... not start wallowing in despair.'
Eileen didn't seem to comprehend the question. 'It's just what we do, isn't it? There's no point in giving in to it ... that doesn't do any good at all.'
Caitlin took a long, juddering breath. 'I think I will go home. Just for an hour or two.'
'You do that, dear.' Eileen gave her another hug, and this time Caitlin didn't want to break it.
The moment was disrupted by a thin cry from Daphne, Eileen's sister. She was staring at her hands with a shattered expression.
Caitlin knew instantly what it was. 'Oh God—'
They rushed to Daphne's side and sure enough the telltale black spots that marked the first appearance of the disease were visible on the wrinkled webbing at the base of her fingers.
Daphne looked up at them both with tearful eyes. 'Oh dear...'
Eileen wiped away her own tears, but the two of them remained calm. It wasn't as if the development was unexpected - they all knew the risks of contracting the disease. It didn't strike everyone; sometimes just one person in a family, sometimes all of them. Caitlin had no idea of the pathology, but it was a reasonable guess that extended exposure increased the chances of contraction.
Caitlin stared impotently at the thin collection of medicines. Eileen sensed her thoughts. 'Don't worry, dear - you go.'
'I can't leave now!'
'You know there's nothing you can do, Caitlin.' Daphne gave a weak smile, a tear trickling down her cheek.
Daphne was living, breathing, feeling, talking, but she was already dead. Within hours, the fever would hit. She'd lose all contact with the real world, imprisoned in dreams and memories of frightening intensity while the disease worked its insidious route through her system. The spots made strange patterns across the skin before reaching the glands, which swelled, turned black, filled with pus. Death would come three to four days later without the patient regaining consciousness.
Caitlin felt as if she was being torn apart by her inability to do anything worthwhile. All her years at medical school, in the surgery, all worthless.
'I don't want to leave you to all this,' Daphne said pitifully to Eileen, her frail voice betraying the wealth of emotion behind the simple statement. They'd been together all their lives, never married, supported each other through hard times, enjoyed the best, never even known a day apart for decades. And now it was all coming to an end.
Caitlin gave Daphne's arm a squeeze, silently cursing the impotence of the gesture to convey all the razor emotions but not knowing any other way to express them.
'I think we'll have a little time alone, dear,' Eileen said, her eyes brimming. She led Daphne away to a quiet corner where they crumpled into each other.
Caitlin watched them with feelings so raw they made her throat burn. That one symbol summed up everything she had felt over the past year: the suffering and the strength, the heartbreak and the hopelessness. The humanity.
Too exhausted to cry, Caitlin pulled her battered all- weather parka on tightly and forced her way out into the storm. The rain was cold and hard, the roaring wind buffeting her. Yet she felt swaddled in cotton wool, and that the harsh, uncompromising world was just a dream.
The sense of unreality had been growing since the Fall. It had started with the Government's unspecified announcement of some threat on the home front and the subsequent imposition of martial law and a media blackout. Travel had been limited, and with the telephone network down, the only available information was always leavened with an unhealthy dose of rumour, gossip and downright lies. Newcastle had been wiped out. The Royal Family was in exile. Nuclear disaster, a military coup, an attack by some rogue state - never identified - an epidemic of some awful bioengineered disease. She'd always discounted that last one, but the evidence of the past week had made her think it was probably the truth, or part of it. Perhaps the Fall had been caused by some conglomeration of all the rumours.
Whatever the answer, life in the intervening months had been too hard to give it too much consideration - the first weeks of near-starvation when the shops and supermarkets stopped being stocked, the slow crawl to set up the distribution of locally supplied food, and even more months on subsistence level while new sources were established. But slowly, slowly, they had got back on their feet ... until the plague had come.
She didn't know whether it had swept the country or if it was a localised phenomenon. It had come too fast, too hard, to comprehend.
She bowed her head into the gale and attempted to dodge the puddles, but without streetlights it was a struggle to see. They had some power during the day thanks to a wind turbine erected by a local engineer and solar panels scavenged from a nearby health farm, but it was conserved at night. The national grid hadn't come back on line; the nights remained black, friendless and frightening, filled with all the stories she had heard from the more superstitious residents.
It was just a short walk along the High Street, but then she had to negotiate the winding lane to their barn conversion; she wished they'd bought a place in the centre of the village. When she reached the rutted track, it was even darker than the built-up area, where at least a few candles had glimmered through the window panes. The trees, just coming into bud, pressed tightly on either side, the hedgerows wild and untrimmed.
Before she stepped into the lane, she couldn't help succumbing to the primal desire to glance behind her. It was then that she saw something strange and disturbing. They'd kept the electric lights on at the village hall since they had started using it as an infirmary-cum-mortuary and from her slightly elevated position she could now see the bright windows clearly above the rooftops of the houses at the lower end of the village. Yet when she had turned back, briefly those windows had been obscured. No swaying trees lay in her line of sight; something had passed in front of the hall, but from her perspective she knew it would have to have been something much larger than a person. It was a simple thing, barely worth comment, yet inexplicably it touched a nerve, triggering a ratchet of fear. She hurried along the lane, overhanging branches reaching down to grab at her hood. The lane was half a mile long, doglegging to the left before rising sharply to the ridge on which the converted barns rested. On the slope it became more exposed to the elements and she had to struggle to make progress against the gale which thrashed the trees on either side. Nothing could be heard above the maelstrom of the storm, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that there had been footsteps, or hoof beats, on the road behind.
It was irrational, stupid even, but it pulled tingling sparks up from the pit of her belly. She looked back again, saw nothing but darkness and the movement of shadowy vegetation.
Get off the road! a voice in her head said. The notion was so powerful and so unexpected it was shocking. There was no reason for her to be scared, but then an overwhelming sense of presence came upon her from nowhere, a feeling so frightening that she fought the urge to run. Someone was behind her.
She looked back again. The storm rushed all around. Stupid. She was getting as superstitious as some of those villagers who had come to believe there were ghosts and devils and mythical beasts away in the countryside.
When she returned her attention to the path ahead she was startled to see a big black bird standing in the centre of the lane. It was a hooded crow, bigger than any she had ever seen before. That it was there at night, in the middle of a storm, was discomfiting enough, but the way it kept one beady eye fixed on her brought a chill to her spine.
Peering over the hedge, she saw that the crow was no longer there. Typical, she thought, uncomfortable as the wet undergrowth soaked her jeans. That'll teach me to be childish. Yet the feeling that something was coming up the lane behind her was still growing; goose pimples ran up and down her arms.
Caught in the wind, the trees, bushes and grass moved with an eerie life of their own. She forced her way through the dripping vegetation, the wind slowly dropping as the storm finally began to move away, the staccato drip of rain from branches the final percussive reminder.
Caitlin realised she was holding her breath; her instinct was responding to something beyond her senses, but whatever was out there gradually crept into the edge of her perception. At first she thought the wind was picking up again, until she noticed that there was structure to the sound.
Whispering, she realised with a strange chill. People talking in rustling voices, yet making no attempt to remain unheard. The conversation floated amongst the trees, insinuating itself within the drip-drip-drip of rain, growing louder as it approached.
It sounded so bizarre. Caitlin wondered who would venture out at that time of night in such a fierce storm. The lane only led to four barn conversions and Caitlin couldn't imagine any of her neighbours talking in such a strange manner.
Yet as the whispering intensified, Caitlin realised it was not becoming any more comprehensible. It seemed to her a foreign language, at times like Russian, something northern and guttural, at others incorporating the florid clicks and glottal stops of an African tribal dialect. The hairs on her neck grew erect.
With a feeling of rising dread, she quickly dropped to her haunches, holding her breath tight in her chest. The road was just about visible through the hedge.