The Silent Legion

by P W Hillard

  Everything was pink. The walls, the carpets, the doors. All shades of pink ranging from pastel to neon. The walls were arrayed with a huge array of photographs, each of a smiling family. The family was different in everyone apart from one woman, Gloria, who appeared in them all.

  "God, it's like the Barbie house I had as a kid," Sandra said, setting a photo frame back down on the end table she had lifted it from. "She's in all these photos. Each one must be a family she helped out right?"

  Gemma was stood across the living room from Sandra, staring slightly in disbelief at an unsightly sofa. "What?" she replied. "Oh yeah, must be. Jesus this place hurts my eyes. I never liked pink, not even as a kid. Loved all the other cliché stuff, princesses, ponies and all that, just hated pink. Christ, it must have been hard for my mum. I asked for a princess-themed birthday party once. Getting all that stuff in colours other than pink must have taken an age." Gemma turned to face Sandra. She crossed her arms and took another glance around the room.

  “I liked pink, still do, but this is a bit much. Anyway, look at all these people, all these families. She’s like Mary Poppins. Hard to imagine someone had a grudge against her.”

  The two brothers stood motionless, heads bowed. Before them was a large leather recliner. Light from the television danced across an otherwise dark room, glittering against discarded lager cans.

  “So, you two have nothing? Nothing at all?” said a voice from inside the chair.

  “He didn’t turn up boss, we can’t get the goods if the goods don’t get delivered,” replied Carl, his voice faint.

  "You'll have to speak up," came the reply from the chair, its words careful and calm, "I could have sworn that was an excuse," the voice erupted into a rage, "and I don't accept excuses!"

  “What were we supposed to do Vlad?” pleaded Chet. There was a moment of silence as the figure in the chair stood up. He shuffled over into the light from the screen. The man looked to be in his eighties. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers, a checked cardigan over a white vest and a pair of cheap half-broken slippers. He took a swig from the lager in his hand.

  “I don’t care!” Vlad threw the empty can, which bounced off Chet’s lowered head. “I expected a delivery, I didn’t get a delivery, and I want a delivery. It’s up to you two fucking idiots to sort that.” He sneered, revealing an array of daggers. “Well? Why are you still here? Get the fuck out and fix it.”

  “That was a fucking bust,” complained Mark, as he stepped out from the club. Jess followed swiftly after, zipping her jacket up tightly as she walked. They had spent a fruitless twenty minutes talking to wealthy socialite and literal vampire Tara Austin, who had assured them that no one had tried to sell her real human blood and that “like if anyone does, you will totes be the first to know babes”.

  Jess stepped up her pace to catch up with Mark who was stamping angrily back towards the car. “Well, it wasn’t a total loss. We know they probably aren’t selling it to the wealthy. We just need to work out what they are doing with it.”

  Mark stopped to think for a moment as he grasped the car door handle. "That's a fair point. Still, we're back at square one."

  “Not quite,” Jess replied, resting her elbows on the roof of the car. “We know now that they’re out there. All it will take is for them to do something stupid.”

  Carl dropped the bag of ice onto the counter. It was the last one, having picked up all the ice in the small petrol station shop. The young girl at the counter smiled at him, she wore basic jeans and a plain green jumper. A purple apron with a name tag hung from her neck. "Chloe” it read.

  “Planning a big party, are we?” Chloe joked as she flicked her hand scanner over the barcode. It bleeped loudly.

  “Something like that,” said Carl, nodding politely. The scanner beeped again.

  “Is that your brother out there? You look alike?

  “We’re twins.” Carl stared directly into the girl’s dark brown eyes, locking his vision with hers. “You feel like giving us these for free?”

  Chloe laughed. "Wish I could. I also wish I could just leave and come join your party. Looks like it's going to be fun if you need this much ice." Carl sighed. He still hadn't mastered what Vlad called “the look”. “You need help taking this lot out to the car?”

  Carl looked down at the weighty bags of ice. “Yeah actually, that would be great.”

  Carl walked out across the forecourt, arms outstretched, three large bags of ice held in them. His brother was waiting, the back door to their tatty Ford Transit wide open. Chloe followed behind, a single bag of ice in her arms. She stepped down from the small step leading from the shop to the forecourt and immediately lost her footing. She tumbled across the concrete, the ice bag tearing open, cubes rolling across the ground like dice.

  "Ah shit!" she shouted, gripping her knee. She had scuffed it badly, a thin trickle of blood squeezing its way through the torn skin. Carl looked at Chet, who stared back at Carl. Together, they both had the same terrible idea.

  Chloe had tried to scream at first, but her throat failed her, the noise instead coming out as a pained gurgle. She had woken up at the wrong moment, able to feel the knife across her throat, the ropes around her ankles. A moment more of unconsciousness and she would have died peacefully. Instead she thrashed and protested, her movements sending arterial spray across the room. A slit throat is a horrible nightmare thing. It was not the instant death years of television would have her believe. It was a slow agonising death, the frightening sensation of blood pouring from her an unwelcome companion.

  “Why didn’t we do this before?” asked Chet, wiping a splash of blood from his face. Chloe hung from the roof of his garage, suspended from the mechanism of the automatic door. The brothers had emptied the ice into an inflatable children’s paddling pool. A large plastic box was set into the ice to catch the blood. It was proving messy, the flailing Chloe sending blood in wild arcs, rather than the expected directly downwards.

  “It’s pretty messy,” replied Carl. “Maybe Vlad thinks the other way is ultimately easier?”

  “Vlad thinks he knows fucking everything. He’s a right arrogant prick sometimes. Vlad isn’t even his real name.”

  “Of course, it’s not his fucking real name. You run an operation like this, you would be stupid to do so. Vlad is a bit on the nose though.” Carl grabbed a plastic folding chair from the side of the garage and flipped it open. He took a seat and rested one foot on his knee. “This is easier though. No relying on some unreliable dick bag. Hard to imagine anything could go wrong.”

  Ranjit closed the door to the storeroom. He carried several stacked cases of energy drinks, the worryingly moving tower blocking his vision. He tried to step forward and the cases wobbled.

  “Hey, Chloe, can I get a hand?” he asked. He waited for a moment. There was no reply. “Chloe?" Still nothing. He crouched awkwardly, sliding the mound of cans onto the ground. The tiny shop, no more than a single aisle and a chiller, was empty. Ranjit peered through the windows that oversaw the forecourt, scanning for her. It was empty, no sign of Chloe, or any customers. Half melted ice cubes covered the ground. Starting to panic Ranjit opened the door to the shop, stood at the step and shouted. “Chloe? Chloe you there?”

  He was in full panic now. He walked around behind the counter and crouched down. Beneath the desk was a set of tiny monitors, four in all, attached to a cheap plastic keyboard and mouse. He gripped the mouse, moved the pointer to the bottom of the centre monitor and clicked the rewind button on the toolbar that had appeared. He watched as the clock counted backwards, the video moving in reverse as it did. A Van pulled into the forecourt the doors opened and a man stepped out from the back carrying Chloe. Another walked backwards from the driver side door. He watched as the man carrying Chloe walked backwards and placed her onto the ground. She sat up, gripped her knee. She seemed in pain. The man who had carried her placed his fist on the back of her head, before jerking his arm backwards. Ranjit let it rewind a few min
utes more and then clicked play, watching events unfold, the right way this time. He watched Chloe fall carrying ice. One of the men walked over, feigning concern before striking her with his fist. Chloe seemed to be instantly knocked out as the attacker lifted her and bundled her into his van.

  Ranjit lifted the handset from the petrol stations phone, an old beige thing set onto the wall. It felt slippery for a moment, then Ranjit realised that was him, his hands thick with sweat. He was shaking as he held the headset to his ear with one hand and dialled with the other. He pressed the keys. Nine. Nine. Nine.

  “He-he-hello?” he stuttered. “Police please.”

  Chapter Four

  The store was full, bursting with cans and boxes. The shelves overflowed, as many different products as possible crammed into a small a space as possible. It was a typical British corner shop, a noble attempt to supply everything anyone could possibly need in a room less than ten feet square. Linda placed a large plastic basket onto the counter, its handle clattering down as she did. Inside was what her father had always called “the standard shop”. Milk, butter, bread and eggs.

  “Good morning Mrs Carlisle how are you today." The young man behind the counter smiled politely. Linda knew he was the shop owner’s son, far too young to be legally working but the boy always seemed happy to be there.

  “Morning Moe. Not bad, been a good few weeks for me,” said Linda, her smile beaming. “It feels good to be working on your dreams, you know?”

  “Not really Mrs Carlisle,” the boy replied, “need to see what grades I get on my GCSES before I decide what my dreams are.”

  Linda laughed. “That’s very pragmatic of you." She produced a white leather purse decorated with a pastel floral design. Linda opened it, removing a bright orange ten-pound note. She rubbed her fingers on it as she handed it over. She still wasn't sure about the new plastic banknotes, they felt wrong to her hands. That had been the whole world up until recently. Bright, plastic, fake feeling, all wrong. That was until the legion, until her duty.

  “Oh, there is one thing!” the boy said excitedly as he handed her back a collection of coins. “There is a parcel for you.” He half hopped half walked over to a rack behind the counter. Like most corner shops they had started allowing people to have parcels delivered from online to the store. He slid a small cardboard box from the shelf and scanned it with a large plastic scanning gun tied to the rack with a cord. “There you go.”

  The trolley rattled, partly from its age and condition, but mainly from the annoyed toddler sat in the seat. She was currently crossing her arms and attempting, poorly, to hold her breath in defiance at being denied sweets. Lana thought she had articulated her desires thoughtfully and clearly, which unfortunately to a two-year-old was simply pointing and shouting. There was another rattle as Hannah tossed a tin of beans into the trolley. Jess stared for a moment, before reaching in, grabbing the haphazardly thrown beans, righting the tin and sliding it into the careful system she had set up.

  “Do we need chopped tomatoes?” asked Hannah, her hands already taking the tins from the shelf. The asking was a formality, Jess had long since learnt that Hannah was the queen of the shop.

  “What? Uh, maybe?” Jess answered, half in a daze.

  "Are you ok?" Hannah asked, trying to decide between two different tins of tomatoes. They seemed identical aside from the label. "You seem a little out of it for the last few days?"

  Jess stretched her arm in a half-hearted attempt to wake herself up. She was dressed much more casually now she was off duty, skinny black jeans paired with a The Doors t-shirt, Jim Morrison staring outwards from her chest, pointing. “Yeah, sorry, it’s just this case, we hit a bit of a dead-end with it."

  Hannah tossed the tin of tomatoes into the trolley, the chosen tin bouncing off the side and rolling across the bottom. “You’ll work it out, you always do.”

  “I think this one might just get away,” sighed Jess. “We got one guy for it at least.”

  Hannah smiled sweetly. “Well, one is better than none anyway. Stop it Lana.” Their daughter had given up on her obstinance and had started sucking on the tip of a loaf of French bread.

  “It’s just frustrating,” Jess was already half into the trolley, rearranging her careful stacks from the calamity of the thrown tomatoes. “There’s something bigger here. We got one bottom rung of a larger gang. I also hate what they were doing, it rea- “

  "Ah, bup bup bup. No work talk. You know the deal.” Hannah was well aware of the particulars of Jess’ work, having experienced the same harrowing encounter with the supernatural that had dragged Jess from a beat bobby to a special investigations’ detective. “I don’t ask, you don’t tell. I’ve had enough weird shit for one lifetime.” Hannah looked stern for a moment, before breaking into a giggle. She was shorter than Jess, her hair a golden blonde held back by a headband. Hannah wore a light blue maxi dress with a vibrant sunflower pattern.

  Jess laughed and held her hands out wrists together. “Guilty as charged, arrest me and take me away copper, I won’t talk about work no more.”

  Click. Another item to the basket. Click. Another. The light from the computer screen danced across Mark’s face, scattering over the otherwise dark room. The rise in online shopping had been perfect for him. Mark had never liked supermarkets, the bright lights, the incessant beeping, the arseholes who think ten items or less doesn’t apply to them. No, this was better. He picked what he wanted, and a person came to the door and gave it to him. Quick, simple, easy. It helped with his anxiety too. Something about supermarkets set it on edge, the thought of the cashier judging his purchases maybe?

  There was a loud yowling sound as his cat yawned, squeaking out a meow at the same time. Bram, so named because he had a slight overbite, his teeth hanging over his gums like fangs, had taken up position on the stack of books next to Mark. On seeing Mark look at it, Bram dropped to his side, purring loudly. Mark reached down and scratched the cat’s neck.

  “Sorry buddy, but I need that book now, you’re going to have to move,” whispered Mark. The cat's ears twitched, but it otherwise remained still, an unspoken refusal. “Come on, shift it.” Mark pushed lightly at the cat, who got the message and slinked off to find another suitable stack of books. Marks flat was stuffed with them, overflowing from bookcases that seemed pushed into every available space. He lifted the book, a large tome he had bought online, a history of vampire legends around the world. It was dry going, a stodgy tome more interested in the anthropological study of the transfer of mythology between peoples than the subjects of the myths themselves. Still, a useful scrap of information had come from more than one odd place, so Mark was slowly making his way through the book, all normal leads having gone cold. Post-it notes poked through the top, markers for where the book strayed off into myths that Mark very much knew weren't vampire-related. He opened it to his bookmark and began to read.

  Linda placed the milk into the inside of the fridge door and closed it. She bunched up the plastic carrier bag and placed it into the box of them she kept in the kitchen. She kept every plastic bag, intended to reuse them, and forgot every time, necessitating a new one. Satisfied with her shop, she turned her attention to the package she had been given. It was a small rectangular box. Aside from the shipping label, the only thing on the brown paper coating was her name and address, handwritten. Eagerly she tore it open, the paper tearing with a satisfying noise. Inside was a small wooden box, a deep polished walnut. It was hinged, and she opened it slowly. The box was inlaid with rich red velvet. Set onto the cloth were four coins, the same ones that adorned her dagger. She bounced excitedly. She was being recognised, her recent missions having been highly successful. Tacked to the lid of the box was a small slip of paper. A time and date were printed onto it. Linda grinned and snapped the box shut.

  Jess spun slowly on her chair her face drained of any colour. Her lips were stuck in a pout her daughter would have been proud of. She sighed, then sighed again, louder this time, try
ing to get Mark's attention.

  “Bored?” he asked, not looking up from his desk.

  “You could say that,” she replied. Jess began to drum her fingers on her knee, still spinning in her chair. “No leads on our existing case, and no new cases.” She gripped her desk as the chair circled again, bringing it to a stop. “What are we going to do?”

  “Just sit and wait I guess? Weston wants to wait a few more days before closing the blood thefts case, and clearly its quiet right now. We should make the most of it, catch up on paperwork.”

  Jess narrowed her eyes. “I do all your paperwork. And that’s all done. What are you even looking at over there?” She stood up and peered over his shoulder. Mark tried desperately to close the webpage he had been looking at, but his hand missed his mouse, striking the edge of the table instead.”

  “Ow, shit” he cursed, holding the side of his palm.

  “Dreadstalkers- a new nightmare. Chapter one,” Jess read. “Some good use of police time there, catching up on a novel.”

  “Well, I’m not reading it…” muttered Mark, slightly embarrassed.

  “Wait are you writing this?!” squealed Jess. “You are, that’s google docs. Fancy yourself an author now do you?”

  "I mean," Mark’s voice was a faint whisper, "I was reading a book on vampires, and it was so boring. I thought who knows better about this stuff than us. At least it will be accurate."