The Revenant Express - (Newbury and Hobbes 5)

by George Mann

  “Then we should leave for Limehouse immediately,” said Veronica. She pushed her chair back to get up.

  Bainbridge shook his head. “It’ll keep, Miss Hobbes,” he said, waving her back to her seat, a broad smile on his face. “At least until I’ve finished my cup of tea.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  It was with a deep sense of disquiet that Newbury set out to locate the scene of the disturbance. This, he reflected, was due in part to his uncertainty regarding what he might find—more evidence of the Cabal’s appalling practises and their continued presence on the train, or perhaps even the original site of the dead man’s murder and a clue to his identity. Yet there was something else, too, worrying away at the back of his mind: Amelia’s surprise visitor, Petunia Wren.

  She’d seemed harmless enough—utterly odious, in her overbearing, ingratiating manner—but innocuous, nevertheless. The sort of self-obsessed braggart that were ten a penny in places such as this, intent on lording it over those less fortunate than themselves. Yet when he’d greeted her, he’d been startled to discover she was missing a digit on her right hand. The mercurial finger of her glove had been soft and padded, hollow.

  This, in and of itself, was so insignificant as to be meaningless—the result of an accident or childhood trauma—and would have been easily dismissed if it hadn’t been for the dream.

  He’d attempted to rationalise it as a harmless coincidence, reasoning that the vision he’d experienced during his seizure was most likely a hallucination akin to those he’d succumbed to before, on account of his laudanum habit. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake the notion that something was wrong, that the symbol he’d seen carved into his chest in the dream was a warning of some kind.

  But a warning of what? It seemed unlikely that the woman had any connection to the Cabal. Ludicrous in fact—she simply didn’t have the temperament. Yet there was something nagging at him, and over the years he had learned to trust his intuition. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  Not that he was able to do anything about it now. Amelia had been right; the most important thing was to establish what had happened back here on the train, and whether it was going to present any difficulties for them. If that also meant he was able to uncover more about the Cabal’s activities or intentions, all the better. Indeed, it might mean he’d find the opportunity to intervene without needing to alert the authorities, and therefore risking the outcome of his mission. Nothing could get in the way of procuring Veronica’s new heart.

  Newbury had passed through three full carriages before he encountered any further signs of life, assuming that, with news of the murder spreading, people had begun to confine themselves to their cabins to wait out the investigation. Or until they got bored or hungry; in his experience, people’s stomachs often took precedence over concerns for their safety.

  As he opened the door to the next carriage, however, he heard rapid footsteps heading toward him, and had to throw himself back against the wall as someone came barreling straight into him.

  She was a slight woman, no taller than five feet, with long blond hair and a slender figure. Her face was somewhat angular, with exceptionally high cheekbones, accentuated even further by the misapplication of rouge. He caught her as she tumbled into him, grasping her by the arms. The woman let out a whimper and looked up at him, frightened, as if expecting him to suddenly lash out.

  Concerned by her reaction, he released her and she backed away from him nervously, refusing to meet his gaze. He could see that she’d been crying.

  “Are you quite well, madam?” he said, fully in the knowledge that she was not. “Can I assist you in any way?” The woman shook her head. She tried to speak, but all that came out was another whimper. She was clearly scared out of her wits. “All right, try to breathe. Take a moment to compose yourself. You’re quite safe.”

  “M … m … m…,” she mumbled.

  “Take your time.”

  “Monster!” she blurted. “There’s a monster on the train. Back there. I saw it … it … it ate that poor man.” It came as a sudden deluge, almost impossible to decipher.

  Newbury frowned. This was not at all what he’d been expecting. He wondered for a moment if the woman was delusional. “It ate him?”

  The woman nodded frantically. “Bit him. Right in his neck. Blood everywhe—” She swooned suddenly, and he stepped forward and caught her again. He lowered her to the floor in the vestibule, propping her into a sitting position with her back against the wall.

  A monster, biting people? The thought wasn’t entirely encouraging. He’d expected to hear word of murder, of a ritual killing or a missing passenger whose cabin had been discovered doused in blood. But this—this sounded disturbingly like something else. Perhaps it was one of the Cabal’s weird creations, an animalistic hybrid of man and machine. He’d fought them before, back in London, and they were utterly deadly. But how on earth had they managed to bring one onto the train?

  “What did it look like?” he said. He was crouching low, facing the woman. She still had her eyes closed. “Can you hear me? Hello?”

  The woman groaned, but didn’t respond. It was no use questioning her further—she was clearly suffering from shock. She’d evidently witnessed something horrific, and it had temporarily rendered her delirious.

  Newbury stood, considering his next move. Really, he should seek some assistance, but that would be a further distraction, and she seemed safe enough here. If there really was something loose on the train, then he might be able to help stop it. At the very least, he’d be in a position to make an informed decision about whether or not to get involved.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m going to leave you here while I find out what’s going on. Stay exactly where you are, and I’ll come back for you shortly. Do you understand?”

  The woman said nothing. Feeling torn, he left her in the vestibule and continued on his way, rocking from side to side with the steady motion of the train.

  It wasn’t long before the source of the disturbance became evident. Train guards were ushering back a press of rowdy onlookers, who had gathered in the vestibule area of the offending coach and were shouting questions in a variety of colourful languages.

  Newbury muscled his way through the crowd, causing a bearded man in a grey suit to round on him angrily. Newbury mumbled an apology and pushed on through the morass of limbs.

  It was growing close and increasingly uncomfortable in the carriage, as people shuffled shoulder-to-shoulder, each of them vying to see. Newbury decided his only option was to disregard politeness and began manhandling, forcing his way through the crowd and bellowing “Out of the way! Police!” as he started to push the other passengers aside.

  To his surprise, people began to make way, forming a central aisle to allow him through. As he got closer to the front of the crowd, he realised why: the rich, coppery scent in the air; the revulsion on the faces of the train guards; the spatter marks halfway up the wall; and the ragged, half-shredded corpse on the ground.

  Newbury’s lip curled in disgust. This was no ritual murder. The man had been eaten alive. Rend marks parted the pudgy, buttery flesh of his belly and chest, and fat gobbets had been gouged free by claws and teeth. He’d been opened up like a tin of sardines, peeled back to reveal his glistening innards. The man’s face was so smeared in his own blood as to appear indistinguishable. One of his eyes had been pushed back so far into the socket that it had burst.

  The dead man was lying in the passageway just outside his cabin, in a puddle of thickening blood. A quick glance at the interior of the small room told Newbury it was undoubtedly the scene of death; unlike the dead man he had found in his own cabin earlier, this one had not been moved. The cotton sheets on the lower bunk were stained with splashes of crimson blood, which had spread like blotches of ink on blotting paper. The floor was slick with arterial fluid, along with scattered hunks of gristle and an errant human tooth.

  Hanging on the wa
rdrobe door was the heavy boiler suit, thick leather gloves, and the sooty cap of a fireman. This, then, had happened between shifts at the furnace.

  Newbury felt a cold knot tightening in his stomach. He’d seen corpses like this before, eaten by wild, unnatural things—things that should be nowhere near a passenger train hurtling across the Continent. He could feel the eyes of the crowd on his back, the weight of expectation upon him. He’d told these people he was with the police; now they expected him to make sense of what they were seeing. He wasn’t sure anyone could make sense of such a mess, however.

  He looked up to see one of the guards staring at him. The man had obviously asked him a question and was waiting for his response.

  “I’m sorry?” said Newbury.

  The guard narrowed his eyes, sighed, and then repeated his question. Newbury’s French was rusty at best, but he gathered from the man’s outstretched hand that he wished to inspect Newbury’s papers. He’d obviously heard him telling the other passengers he was a policeman.

  Newbury gave up his most charming smile. “I represent the interests of Her Royal Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria,” he said. “I’ve come to offer my assistance.”

  The guard glanced at his companion, and then offered Newbury an indulgent smile. “Your Queen has no jurisdiction here,” he said, in broken English. “We do not require your assistance. Please step aside, before my men are forced to return you to your cabin.”

  I’d like to see them try, thought Newbury. He swallowed and moistened his lips. It wasn’t worth engaging with this man any further, he decided. He’d seen what he needed to see. The death here was not the result of some grotesque ritual. Nor was it the design of the Cabal or its agents, but something far worse.

  “Very well,” he said, backing away. “Good day.” He turned and slipped into the crowd again, heading back toward the vestibule where he’d left the woman.

  When he got there, he discovered she had already gone. He hoped she’d plucked up the courage to flee for the relative safety of her own cabin. Or perhaps some other concerned citizen had come by to assist her. He supposed it mattered little at this juncture. If he was right, if what he feared were true, then every one of them, every single person on the train, was at risk.

  He weighed his options. As he saw it, he had a choice: retreat to his cabin with Amelia, bolt the doors, and attempt to sit out the rest of the journey; or attempt to unpick what had happened here, and protect as many people on the train as he could. He knew, though, that there was really no choice at all. Turning a blind eye wouldn’t get him back to Veronica any faster, and, indeed, might jeopardise his mission even further, if a revenant was left to roam free, wreaking havoc and infecting further passengers or members of the crew.

  He’d have to avoid the guards, however. They certainly didn’t seem to want the help of an Englishman, irrespective of his position or experience with the creatures. Then, of course, there was the Cabal, still at large and no doubt planning to make the most of the chaos. He had to expect them to make another move soon.

  Nevertheless, he couldn’t stand by. Decision made, he quit the vestibule, and cautiously set out the way he had come, heading toward the front of the train. He would pay a quick visit to the engine room, to speak, if he could, with the other firemen, and try to get a measure of what had happened to their colleague.

  CHAPTER

  19

  From amidst the crowd, the Keeper observed Newbury’s brief confrontation with the train guards, before watching him peel away into the shadows. He smiled inwardly. This, he knew, would be his best chance yet. Newbury was distracted, more concerned with the imminent threat of the revenants than with protecting the girl or the book.

  The Keeper straightened his tie, and took one last look at the bloody ruins of the fireman on the carriage floor. The guards had begun to usher everyone back while they brought in a stretcher to remove the corpse. Soon enough, the whole mess would have been tidied away as if nothing had occurred, as they attempted to restore some semblance of order and normality upon the train. Within a few hours it would be nothing but a rumour, tittle-tattle spoken in hushed tones amongst the rich wives in the observation lounge. At least, it was clear that’s what the train guards were hoping. Like Newbury, however, the Keeper knew better. If a revenant were loose on the train, the likelihood was that it had already passed on the infection, and there would be glorious chaos and bloodshed to follow. It was a ticking bomb, and they were all trapped aboard, hurtling through the countryside.

  The Keeper suppressed a laugh. It was everything he could have hoped for. The revenants would provide the perfect distraction, so that he might seek his revenge and claim another trophy for his treasured necklace. All he had to do now was find the book while Newbury was indisposed. The girl would be no trouble. His blade would drink its fill as it parted her soft, yielding flesh.

  He watched Newbury quit the carriage, pausing at the door to allow a plump, moustachioed buffoon with a gin-soaked complexion to waddle through before him. Newbury’s demeanour had changed, however—there was intent in his eyes. He planned to investigate, or find some means to contain the revenant threat, to save these little people from their fate. He was a compassionate fool, concerned with the lives of these rich wastrels. It was this, more than anything else, that would be key to his downfall. The Keeper would ensure it.

  Quietly and calmly, so as not to draw attention, the Keeper slipped through the crowd, trailing a few feet behind Newbury and leaving the hubbub of the still-gaping crowd behind him.

  In the vestibule, he paused at the sound of a drawn breath and a scuff of movement, and for a moment found himself wondering whether he had underestimated Newbury; that the man had not been quite so distracted as he seemed, and was lying here in wait, ready for a confrontation. As it was, he discovered upon turning his head, the situation was considerably worse.

  It was not Newbury whom he saw lurking in the recess by the train door, half-shrouded in shadow, but a wretched creature, ravaged by the infection burning through its bloodstream: a revenant.

  The Keeper almost laughed. Hadn’t he wished this chaos upon himself, only moments earlier?

  The revenant lurched forward, talons gleaming. He caught a glimpse of its face. It had once been a man, but now its flesh was bloated and puckered with open sores. Its lips were curled back in an animal snarl, teeth bared and flecked with the gore of a recent kill.

  The Keeper fell back, smoothly reaching into his jacket and withdrawing his blade. His heart was hammering, his temples throbbing. He’d been trained for moments such as this, but he’d always anticipated living enemies, not the ravenous half-dead. He’d never fought one of the creatures before, but he knew it would not die easily or well. If he engaged it, the likelihood was that he, too, would die, or himself become infected by the diabolical plague.

  He risked a glance at the door. There was no running for it. A single graze is all it would take to transmit the infection, and he had no doubt the creature would reach him before he made the door, even if he were to make it through without having his innards ripped out.

  He considered screaming for help, which might afford him a momentary reprieve. Perhaps even Newbury might come running. But time was not on his side. The creature had his scent now, and he represented the closest, easiest kill. It was no good. He would have to engage it, attempt to stun it before making a play to escape.

  He had no idea if it were even possible, and recognised his chances were slim at best.

  He took another step back, and the revenant lurched forward again, closing the distance between them. He could see now that its left cheek had been raked by its previous victim, the flesh torn in weeping, necrotic strips, which now hung loose across its lower jaw. Its left eye, too, was red and bloodied, unseeing. It hardly mattered—he could see from the way it was preparing to spring that it meant to overpower him.

  “Good Lord!” The sudden voice almost startled the Keeper into taking his eyes off the sn
arling revenant in front of him. “What is that thing? It’s monstrous!”

  The Keeper issued a nervous, quiet laugh. It was the moustachioed buffoon he’d seen entering the carriage earlier.

  “I say! The situation looks a bit tricky, what? Are you in need of some assistance?”

  The revenant turned its head to regard the newcomer, clearly weighing its options.

  “Quickly now,” said the Keeper. “I’m armed. Move behind me.”

  “Well, yes, all right,” said the man. He kept his back to the vestibule wall as he shuffled around behind the Keeper. He stank of cheap cologne and brandy.

  “Now, come closer. Stand just behind my left shoulder.” The man did as he was told. This, in the Keeper’s experience, was typical of such idiotic gentry—so concerned with saving their own skin that they were only too happy to let someone else tell them what to do.

  The revenant issued a low, rumbling growl.

  This was it. This was his one chance. With a single, deft movement, the Keeper reached behind him, grasped the man’s collar in his bunched fist, and flung himself backwards, shoving the buffoon in front of him like a shield.

  The revenant saw its opportunity, and struck.

  “Now hold on a mo—” The man broke off into a strangled wail as the creature surged forward with surprising agility, burying its teeth in the man’s throat. For a moment, his eyes met those of the Keeper—betrayed, imploring, shocked—and then, as the revenant began to feast, they were filled with only horror, panic, and pain. The man’s lifeless body slumped to the floor, and the revenant fell upon it, shredding clothes with its talons to get at the milky-white flesh beneath. It buried its face in his belly, tearing gobbets of fat, bloody flesh.

  The Keeper did not take his eyes off the creature as he slid carefully towards the door, opened it, and stepped through. He didn’t draw another breath until the door was shut and he was already entering the next carriage.