The Revenant Express - (Newbury and Hobbes 5)

by George Mann

  The cultist backed away, his dagger held aloft. He glanced at Newbury, accusation in his eyes. “You led them here?”

  Newbury didn’t deign to answer. He hefted the table lamp. It wasn’t going to protect him for long, but he might be able to brain a couple of them before he went down.

  The revenant in the doorway lurched for the cultist, covering the ground between them in less time than it took to draw breath. The cultist was quick to react, slashing with the blade and opening the creature’s throat. It gargled and lashed out with its talons, and Newbury saw the cultist parry the blow with another swipe of his blade. He didn’t have time to ponder on it, however, as the others had now spilled into the carriage and were circling him, teeth and talons bared.

  The female he’d seen in the cabin earlier was the first to move. It darted forward, slashing with its right hand, and Newbury kicked the armchair forward with as much force as he could muster, catching it in the midriff and taking its legs out from beneath it. It went down in front of him and he smashed the table lamp across the back of its skull, feeling it crack like an eggshell beneath the force of the blow.

  He came up swinging the lamp before him, striking another across the side of the head, so that it fell into the path of a third, which gouged at it furiously, tearing out its throat and tossing its corpse aside.

  Newbury could see more of the creatures lurching in through the doorway behind it.

  He risked a glance at the cultist, to see that he was still valiantly defending himself, his porcelain-coloured blade flashing back and forth. One revenant was already dead by his feet; another was clutching at its throat, blood spurting through its fingers.

  “Make for the rear door,” bellowed Newbury, edging around behind another armchair, attempting to keep another of the creatures at bay. “If we work together we can hold them off long enough to get free.”

  The cultist laughed. “What delicious irony. The enemy of thine enemy.”

  Newbury battered aside another swipe. His entire body was aching, his arms and legs like dead weights. The blood he had smeared upon himself earlier seemed to have seeped into every pore: a sticky, gritty film that coated his skin, leaving him feeling as if he were fighting through treacle. He knew he was on the verge of nervous collapse; the treatments he’d been performing on Amelia had sapped much of his stamina. Yet he could think only of Veronica, her lily-white face upon her pillow, fading slowly towards oblivion.

  The thought gave him strength, and he lashed out again, catching another revenant across the side of the head. It stumbled, disorientated, and then came on again. Newbury kicked a card table into its path as he backed away, heading incrementally towards the door.

  He was standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder with the cultist now, and as the two of them swung and slashed, he wondered what would happen when they finally made it to the door. There was no doubt the cultist would resume his efforts to kill him, if Newbury didn’t take the opportunity to strike first. Nevertheless, he had to find out what had happened to Amelia: where the man had taken her, and what he had done.

  The cultist’s blade flashed before Newbury’s face, and he flinched, stumbling back, thinking for a moment that the man had decided to cut him down now. Instead, though, he felt the splash of warm blood, as a revenant fell back, its face parted from jaw to forehead, its left eye blinded and dribbling out across its pale cheek.

  He sensed the rear wall behind him. The carriage was packed with revenants now—at least a dozen of them, including those that had been recently put down. The cultist had proved useful in keeping the creatures at bay, but had disrupted his plan—the door to the carriage was still open. He needed to find a way to close it from the other side, trapping the revenants within. There was no going through them, though—he’d have to find a way to go round, or worse, to go over. Preferably before they began to disperse.

  “Are you ready?” he said, risking a glance at the cultist, who had his foot up on a revenant’s chest as he worked to free his blade from its lolling head.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, do it now,” said the cultist.

  Newbury took a final swing with the table lamp, launching it at another of the lumbering creatures, and then turned and grabbed the door handle. He shoved the door open and stepped through, then, in one fluid motion, pivoted on the spot, grabbed the cultist by the back of his collar and hauled him out onto the viewing platform, before slamming the door shut behind him.

  CHAPTER

  27

  “So you see, Miss Hobbes, the maid told me everything. I know exactly what happened.” Petunia had been pacing back and forth across the cabin while she recited her tale, and now she had stopped beside her late husband’s coffin and was slowly caressing his malformed face, cupping his cheek in her palm as if he were simply asleep. “I know what she did to you, my love.”

  “Where is the maid now?” said Amelia, desperate to keep the woman talking for as long as possible. Whatever form of revenge she had in mind, she was planning to enact it here, on the train. There wasn’t much time.

  Petunia looked over, and smiled. It was a wicked sort of smile. “Oh, she’s feeding the vines back in Tottenham. The police cleared out Julian’s laboratory, of course, but they missed the stuff in the garden. She made quite a display, opening up like a flower in the potting shed. She’ll be ripening nicely by now.” She shrugged. “It was the least she could do, keeping his legacy alive like that. She might have stopped you, you see? She should never have let you in. She was under express orders to keep people away. So I had to teach her about responsibility. She had to pay for her part in things.”

  Amelia worried her bonds. They were finally starting to work loose around her left wrist. It was clear to her now that the woman was completely unhinged. This was more than a simple desire for revenge—the death of her husband had unleashed something monstrous in this woman; had broken her in ways Amelia could not understand. Over the years, Amelia had seen others like her, abandoned to the institutions, slowly retreating inside cocoons of their own carefully constructed realities. She needed help.

  “I’m sure Veronica didn’t mean for things to end that way,” said Amelia, trying to keep her tone as reasonable as possible. “How could she have known what would happen?” She twisted her wrists again, and winced as the twine bit into her skin. She could feel blood trickling down into her palm, making it harder for her fingers to find purchase on the knot.

  “And still you persist with this ridiculous fallacy,” said Petunia, scowling. “Can’t you see that I know the truth? I know everything about you, Veronica.” She left her husband’s side and crossed the cabin to stand over Amelia. “It matters little. I should have expected such lies. A woman such as you, lurching from one deceit to another—you’ve probably forgotten how to tell the truth. Whether you go to your death protesting your innocence, or finally admitting the truth, justice will still be served, and Julian’s legacy will go on.”

  “I thought you said the police cleared out his laboratory?” said Amelia.

  Petunia frowned. “What of it?”

  “Then how is he here, on the train? Didn’t the police impound his body? I should have thought they would mark it for incineration.”

  Petunia grinned. “They incinerated something,” she said. “Or rather, someone.”

  “One of those poor soldiers,” said Amelia. “You had someone switch the remains.”

  “It’s surprising what lonely young men can be coerced to do, isn’t it, Miss Hobbes? It wasn’t difficult to arrange. There was a policeman.” She paused, suddenly serious. “I couldn’t allow them to burn him.”

  There was a policeman. Amelia didn’t like her use of the past tense. Just how many people had this woman already killed? “And what next? You kill me, and then continue with your little crusade? When is it going to end?”

  “You still don’t understand, do you?” said Petunia. Her manner, as always, was smug and superior.

  “I’m sure you’
re going to tell me regardless,” said Amelia.

  “This is where it ends. Here and now. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I’ve crafted a perfect ending. Julian and I, we’d always wanted to take a trip across the Continent, but his work … it was so important. It’s going to change the world. Now, though, we’ve finally made the time. We’re seeing the world together.”

  “He’s dead,” said Amelia.

  Petunia drew back her foot and kicked her, hard, in the stomach. Amelia spluttered as she gasped for air. The pain was excruciating, and she brought her knees up defensively in case Petunia hadn’t finished.

  She’d started pacing again, however, lost in her own make-believe world. “How can he be dead? Look at him! Look at the life he’s creating. He’s changed. Transformed. But not dead. He’s just … moved on to better things. His work is more important now than it ever was. And soon we’re going to be properly reunited.”

  The wild look in the woman’s eyes told Amelia everything she needed to know. “You’re going to kill us both, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re going to open up one of those spore sacs and turn us into something monstrous, like that.” She indicated the corpse in the coffin with a nod of her head. The thought of it appalled her. Worse, she wondered what would become of Newbury when he found her, whether the spores might infect him, too. And what would that mean for Veronica? There would be no one left to help her, and she’d die back there in London, with no one coming home to save her.

  Amelia redoubled her efforts to free her wrists, biting down on her lip as the twine slipped and slid across her flesh, slicing agonising furrows.

  “‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ That’s how it goes, isn’t it?” Petunia was laughing now. “From the moment I discovered Sir Maurice had bought tickets for the train, I knew this was how it would end. You were so easily taken in, Miss Hobbes. Almost like a child. It was as if you wanted to believe the world was still the innocent place you’d always dreamed it to be. You really should know better by now. All the things you’ve seen. The things you’ve done.”

  “I’ve told you. I am not Veronica.”

  Petunia wheeled around on the spot, intending to administer another blow, but this time Amelia was ready for her. She’d carefully manoeuvred her bound legs into position, and she propelled herself forward with a sudden kick. Her arms—now free of the twine—encircled Petunia’s calves, and the momentum carried them both over.

  Petunia howled in shock and consternation, throwing out her arms to save herself. The tackle was sound, however, and she fell hard, striking her face and rolling onto her side.

  Amelia rolled, too, but her bound legs were too much of a hindrance, and she was unable to hold on to Petunia’s legs as the woman kicked and thrashed, catching Amelia in the face with her boot.

  Amelia released her, falling to one side and bringing her knees up again, this time feeling for the knot that would release her ankles. As she scrabbled, Petunia dragged herself up onto her knees, twisting about and aiming a blow at the side of Amelia’s head. She ducked, but was too slow, and the cuff knocked her sideways. She hit the carpet, her thoughts sluggish. She blinked, trying desperately to bring herself round, expecting another blow at any moment.

  Petunia, however, had other plans. She was on her feet by her husband’s coffin, reaching out for one of the bulbous spore sacs with her gloved hand.

  “No! Don’t do it. Please, Petunia. You don’t have to do this.”

  Petunia turned to look at her, and their eyes met. Then she closed her fist, and the spore sac exploded.

  Dust plumed all around her, like the discharge of a deadly perfume bottle. The air filled with a musty scent, and Amelia clamped her mouth shut, trying desperately not to inhale as her fingers worked at the knotted twine.

  Petunia was laughing. “It’s too late, Veronica. It’s done. There’s nothing either of us can do.” She reached over and burst another spore sac, then a third, hacking as she took the stuff deep into her lungs.

  Amelia could feel her cheeks reddening as she fought against the desperate urge to breathe. Her fingers were slipping on the knot, unable to find purchase. Panic flared.

  She glanced over at Petunia, whose eyes had grown suddenly wide, and was clutching at her chest, hugging herself, her mouth hanging open in a silent scream.

  Tears pricked Amelia’s eyes. The knot was stuck fast. There was no time. She threw herself onto her stomach and began dragging herself across the carpet, grabbing fistfuls of it as she made for the door. Her lungs were on fire now, and her vision was growing hazy, as if the world was slowly closing in on her from all directions. She wasn’t going to be able to hold out for much longer.

  She heard a wet retching sound from behind her, and turned to see a thick bundle of vines bursting from Petunia’s mouth, spilling out like curling green tentacles. Three plump vines had erupted from her stomach, too, and shoots were beginning to emerge from her fingertips, blood dripping upon the floor as they forced their way out beneath the fingernails. These fresh vines were interlacing with those of her dead husband, forming an intricate web, finally returning the two lovers to the embrace for which Petunia had been longing. The woman was already dead—her head was hanging limp, her eyes staring and unseeing. It had taken only moments for her to be utterly subsumed.

  Amelia was close to the door. She shuffled forward, pushed herself up into a sitting position, reached for the handle … and then fell back, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. Her vision swam. Her body was protesting from the lack of oxygen. She tried to keep her mouth clamped shut, but the act was involuntary, and, unable to stop herself, she parted her lips and took a short, gasping breath.

  Immediately she tasted the spores on her tongue—the dry, fusty flavour of something stale or rotten—and she knew that it was over. Within moments they’d be in her bloodstream, coursing through her body, altering her from the inside out. She was going to die here, halfway across the Continent, apart from her friends and family.

  Her head felt fuzzy, and she noticed a sudden chill, starting deep in her stomach and spreading up through her abdomen and lower back. She closed her eyes, and willed it to be over quickly.

  CHAPTER

  28

  “What did you do to her?”

  Newbury shoved the cultist back against the door, one hand around the man’s throat, the other pinning his knife arm to the wall. The revenants inside the carriage were scratching at the glass with their talons—it would be a matter of moments before they broke through and the two men found themselves hemmed in, with nowhere left to go. The iron railings out here were shoulder high, designed to prevent unwary passengers from stumbling off the end of the train as they took in the view. If the revenants got loose, they were both dead.

  It was dark now, the only light coming from the distant, gibbous moon and the paraffin lamp dangling from an overhead hook. It swung with the motion of the train, causing the cultist’s face to flicker with shadow. The cool breeze was revitalising, whipping at the two men as the train sped through the velvet night, stirring their clothes and hair.

  “Oh, now this is interesting,” said the cultist, struggling to catch his breath as Newbury’s thumb pressed against his windpipe. “You think I took her.”

  “You’re the only one on this train with good reason to,” said Newbury. “Now tell me what you’ve done to her.”

  The cultist laughed, and Newbury squeezed a little harder. “Tell me.”

  “I didn’t take her,” gasped the cultist. “But I know who did.” He twitched at the sound of breaking glass, as one of the revenants’ fists burst through a window, clawing for them.

  Newbury forcibly turned the man’s head, until he could see the revenant’s talons only inches from the end of his nose. “Tell me.”

  The cultist grinned again. “It was a woman. I heard them squabbling inside your cabin and waited until they emerged. She dragged the girl off while no one was looking, and I seized my
chance to take another look inside. As pretty as she is, I’m not here for the girl … only you.”

  Newbury released his grip on the man’s throat. So it had been Petunia Wren. There was no reason for the cultist to be lying.

  Newbury cursed himself. He should have trusted his instincts about the woman. But what business did she have abducting Amelia like that? It made no sense.

  “Drop the knife and I’ll let you live,” said Newbury.

  “It’s a little too late for that,” said the cultist. He dipped his head to indicate the wound on his chest. The fabric of his suit had been torn, and there were three long welts across the man’s scarred chest. The flesh had puckered around the wounds, and blood oozed from the scratches. One of the revenants had caught him during the fight inside the carriage. He was already dead. He had nothing to lose.

  The cultist’s knee came up and collided painfully with Newbury’s groin.

  Newbury staggered back, bringing his fists up, as the cultist swung at him with his blade. Newbury was too slow to avoid it, and the knife slashed his forearm, parting fabric, flesh, and muscle. He grimaced in pain, punching low and striking the cultist in the gut, and then again on the side of the head. The man staggered groggily, and then came up and at him again in a smooth stabbing motion. Newbury was expecting it, however, and dived out of the way as the blade whistled past his midriff. He threw another wide punch at the man’s head, trying to keep him down.

  The cultist shook it off, flexing his shoulders. “You might consider me the villain,” he rasped, “but think on this, Sir Maurice: It was you who stole from us.”

  “I did what I had to do,” said Newbury.

  “As do I,” said the cultist. He roared, throwing himself forward, aiming his weapon at Newbury’s throat. Newbury dropped to one knee and punched upwards, striking the cultist hard in the chest and causing him to overcompensate, falling back against the railings.