James watched him writhe on the floor for a moment, then stomped his foot down on the man’s throat.
It ought to have been the coup-de-grace, and would have finished off any normal attacker, but the farmer grabbed hold of James’ boot and flipped him off-balance. James fell hard, splitting the side of a crate. He landed on his back on top of the tattered corpses. Wet sounds accompanied him as he struggled to right himself, and he slipped on the bloody mess.
The farmer sprang forward, landing on top of him with all fours. He attacked like a beast, scratching and kneeing, snarling and spitting. The man’s bloodshot eyes stared wildly and his forehead was slick with sweat, his matted hair sticking to his flesh.
James tried to push him off, but the floor was too slippery. The blood of the dead passengers completely covered his hands.
The farmer opened his mouth and forced his jaws down toward James’ neck. He was strong, surprisingly so, and James couldn’t push him away. The sharp teeth drew closer to James’ exposed skin.
James kneed the farmer in the groin then followed up with a quick eye gouge.
The man howled and released his grip just long enough for James to roll him over and get on top. Grabbing the man by the collar he head-butted him again, shattering the farmer’s nose. Then he pinned the man’s head to the floor with his left hand, and chopped his neck at the base of the skull with the side of his right fist. He felt something snap under the force.
The farmer’s body went limp. His eyes were still open but were sightless and his head lolled loosely where James had struck him.
James breathed hard, sitting astride the man’s chest in case he moved again. When he had regained his breath, he held his fingers to the man’s neck, pressing into the soft spot beside the windpipe. Nothing. He counted to thirty. Still nothing.
The farmer was dead.
All of his human cargo was dead.
James got back to his feet. He stared in shock at the carnage before him. What the hell was he going to do? He could hardly drop off his delivery and hope that no one would notice. Informing the constables didn’t seem like a good move either. He’d have a hard job explaining why he had six dead Mexicans in the back of his container, and an even harder one explaining why they were now in pieces.
He could think of only one good option.
Get rid of the evidence. Torch the airship.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Tulane University, Christmas Eve.
Early on Christmas Eve morning, the lab was empty of both students and staff, but Mary worked on tirelessly. She’d always been a hard worker, even as a mere human, and the transformation into her “true self” had given her almost unlimited endurance.
She stared at a dish through a microscope, studying the changes to the nuclein that had occurred since she had become rat-kin.
Nuclein—the basis of all life on Earth, was at once beautifully simple and astonishingly complex. Two strands coiled around each other in a double helix form—like a chain. The spirals were mirrors of each other, ready to divide and create identical copies of the original molecule in a continuous dance that ended only at the moment of death. Each strand was a chain of just four types of base units, and yet with human nuclein containing approximately three billion base pairs, the number of possible combinations was unimaginably vast. You could hardly design a more exquisite means of encoding information.
Her studies had already isolated the genes that were alien to her original human specification, that were rat in origin. How rat genes had mingled with human ones was a mystery lost in the mists of time when early humans and rats had collided on the plains and rainforests of Africa, countless millennia ago. Mary had no way of knowing. All she could hope for was to understand the mechanism by which rat genes passed from one host to another.
Doctor Daniel Hale Williams had uncovered much of the basics of how the condition spread, but there was still a lot to learn. Dr. Williams had discovered that a virus was responsible for transmitting the rat genes from one host to another, and Mary had identified the virus as one that occurred naturally in rats—in reptiles, too, as Robert had proven. Perhaps the reptiles had contracted the virus from consuming rats. So much to learn.
Viruses were broken relics of the molecular world, unable to reproduce on their own. But they were capable of hijacking the cells of their host, tricking them into becoming lethal chemical factories that replicated the virus. But here was the twist—the change had reversed that process, enslaving the virus for its own ends, replacing its nuclein with rat genes, and transforming the virus and its molecular machinery into a means of spreading rat nuclein from one host to another. It was a fascinating topic to study, and she was just scratching the surface.
The virus had a capacity to mutate rapidly. It would be almost impossible to find a cure even if she had wanted to. The nuclein payload it carried varied enormously too. Every person infected would receive a different set of genes, and acquire different unique abilities.
Not everyone would survive the transition from human to god. Only the strong would live. But filtering out the weak was all part of the process. Evolution always worked to eliminate weakness, but Mary’s work would accelerate the process a hundred-fold.
Mary had never doubted her own strength. Her first trial had been as a baby, when a bout of smallpox had threatened her life. The disease killed more children than any other infectious disease in the world. Most of those who survived were left with severe scarring and many were left blind. But Mary had been strong. She had survived unscathed.
She had survived the onset of the transformation, too. Many would not, but their deaths would leave the human race stronger and better able to survive and thrive. Everyone had a part to play in Mary’s grand scheme, and for some, their contribution would be to die.
The new genes would be Mary’s gift to the world. She would free humanity from weakness, and replace it with strength, endurance and beauty. And so what better time to work alone in the lab than on the day before Christmas? The season for giving.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Compère Lapin, Tchoupitoulas Street, New Orleans, Christmas Eve.
James Wells devoured his pepperpot and black-eyed peas with relish.
He’d hitched a lift to the restaurant with a Cadien hunter bringing home his kill—a large buck—in his cart. That had been an awkward journey if ever there was one. “I just came up on a burned-out dirigible in the wood,” the hunter had told him. “Not yours, was it?” James had said nothing to that. The dark red blood stains all over his jacket had been a talking point too. “How dat happen?” the trucker had asked nervously.
“Cut myself shaving,” James had told him, treating the man to a cold, dead stare that had kept him quiet for the rest of the trip. James had felt bad about that. The man had just been doing him a favor after all—a lagniappe, the Cadien would have called it. He hadn’t deserved the treatment. But when had life ever given anyone what they deserved?
Now that he was alone, he was thinking through his next move. The way it looked to him, there weren’t many options, and none of them held much appeal.
He could have kicked himself in frustration. Running from the scene of a mass murder had been the stupidest idea ever. Torching the airship, even worse. He might as well have left a note for the constables saying, I’m guilty. Now his options were very limited indeed.
He could keep running, heading west out of New Orleans, hoping for something to turn up. Or he could turn around and try to get out of the country before the constables got wind of him. But did he really want to spend the rest of his life abroad? He’d never get to see his daughter again if he chose that option. No, he would stay in Louisiana, whether it was on the run or in prison.
His best option, though he hated to admit, would be to contact Ida and throw himself on her mercy. Ida always knew what to do. He would tell her what he’d done, endure another lecture about how unbelievably stupid he’d been, and then ask her to decide what t
o do. If she turned him over to the authorities, so be it. He would face his punishment with dignity.
He crammed the last of the cassareep-soaked mutton into his mouth, mopping up the remaining sauce with a slice of bread, and then he headed outside into the rain.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Ida’s home, Christmas Eve.
It was dark as pitch when Ida awakened. She groaned, and rolled over onto her back. She’d felt a little better after throwing up the previous evening, but then she’d woken in the middle of the night with a fever and had hardly slept since. No amount of painkillers seemed to make any difference. Her limbs ached right to her very bones. Sweat soaked her bedclothes, and she could no longer tell whether she was too hot or too cold.
She needed to go and see a doctor, obviously. Dabney had been nagging her all week to go. He was like a mother hen. But it might be days before she could get an appointment. She would probably be better by then. Better to tough it out.
Ida had proudly maintained a one-hundred-percent attendance record during her whole attachment to the Black Dispatches, and she had no intention of taking a day off work then.
Especially not then.
There was so much to do, with the Beast and the Ripper still at large, not to mention incidents like the riot at the refugee centre. Plus, she needed to be strong for Wilguens.
She sat up, swinging her feet onto the bedroom floor. Immediately, her head swam with dizziness and her vision went black for several seconds, but she gripped the bed tightly until the dizzy spell receded. She stood up carefully then shambled toward the bathroom.
Once she had bathed and made herself presentable she felt a little stronger. A cup of café au lait and some toast, and she would be as good as ever. Except that the thought of food made the bile rise in her throat again.
She decided to cut her losses and head straight in to work.
She was just scrawling a note for Wilguens and leaving him some more money when there was a thumping knock at the door.
“All right, all right,” she shouted. “Don’t break the door down.”
She opened the door to a ghost, or the closest thing. Her father stood on the doorstep, his wet kinky hair stuck to his head, two days’ worth of gray stubble on his chin, and blood stains down his jacket. His lower lip was swollen and a nasty bruise closed one eye. “Hey, princess, how you doing?” he asked.
Ida stared at him coldly through narrowed slits. The last time they had parted she had told him never to return. “What the hell happened to you?” she demanded.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Bit of a scrap. Can I come in?”
“I’m just going out to work.”
“Yeah,” her father said, looking shifty. “That’s why I’m here. It’s kind of work-related, you being a hero of the people and all.”
She opened the door wider for him to come in. “What have you done now?” she asked.
He slouched sheepishly into her hallway. “Any chance I can get some of that coffee I smell?”
Ida made café au lait for both of them. If she was going to have to listen to her father’s latest stunt, she would at least try to get some hot liquid inside her. She set the chicory coffee down on the table in the front room.
Her father had already taken a seat on the sofa. He didn’t seem in any hurry to talk however.
“So where have you been?” she prompted.
“Bit of long distance work,” he said. “Mostly Mexico, Brazil—sometimes as far as Cuba, or even Jamaica. I like being in the sky, you know? Helps me see things clearly.”
“So what brings you here?”
“I could use some advice. Professional advice, really.”
“You mean you’re in trouble and need bailing out?”
He scowled briefly then his face cleared. “Listen, princess, I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye on everything. Last time I left, I was a bit hasty. I said some things.”
Ida waited silently. If that was an apology, it would be the first one ever.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” he continued after a while. “It was wrong. I was wrong.”
“Yes?”
He looked around the room, at the pictures on the wall, at the floor. Anywhere, except at her. “I didn’t mean those things,” he said.
Ida reckoned that was the closest her father was ever going to get to the words, I’m sorry. “So, what’s up?” she asked.
He still seemed reluctant to talk, knitting his fingers together like a little boy. “I had a little trouble with my airship last night. It ended up getting torched.”
“Torched? How?”
He stared at the cup of coffee in his hands. “I did it myself.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. But in hindsight, not so much.”
Ida had no idea where the tale was headed. Her father’s explanations were often disjointed and rambling, and this one was typical. Then suddenly she remembered. Dabney had told her about the latest possible Beast attack… on a burnt-out dirigible.
“Oh my God, that was your airship. The mass murder. You did that?”
“No, no,” he said hurriedly. “Only one of them.”
“Only one what? Only one murder?”
“I didn’t mean to. I was just defending myself.”
“Damn it, Daddy, slow down. Start again from the beginning and tell me everything.”
He told her, in fits and starts. She just about believed his story. It was exactly the kind of stupidity she had learned to expect from him. By the end of it, she didn’t know what to do, other than shake her head in bewilderment. A couple of details bothered her, however. “You said the farmer tried to bite you?”
“Yeah,” James replied.
“And he’d bitten the other… umm… passengers, too?”
“Bite marks all over them.”
“Did the farmer have yellow eyes?” she asked. “Think carefully, it’s important.”
“Can’t say I noticed,” he said. “But he was in a bit of a state. All sweaty. He sounds familiar or something?”
“No, not exactly. Where did you pick the passengers up?”
“Just outside Monterrey. All seven of them together, hiding by the roadside. A thousand pesos each.” He drained the last of his tea and set the mug back on the table. “So, what I need to know is, what should I do?”
“You’ve come to ask me that? You have to hand yourself over to the constables, obviously. What the hell did you think I was going to say? I’m a goddamn Black Dispatch, Daddy. And it might be important—part of something bigger.”
“Okay then,” he said. He held his arms out toward her, his wrists together. “Take me in.”
“Goddamn it! Not here. I’m not going to arrest you myself,” Ida said in exasperation. “You don’t get to pin the blame for this on me. This is all your fault, and you’re gonna take responsibility yourself, for once. Come with me to the station and hand yourself in at the desk.”
He stood up. “All right. Now?”
“Yeah,” Ida said. “I was just about to go when you arrived.” She still hadn’t touched her cup of café au lait.
She stood up, and felt the blood drain from her face. She reached out to grab a support, but her fingers clutched at empty space. An uncharacteristic look of concern flickered across her father’s face. “I’m okay,” she heard herself tell him, but her voice seemed to bubble up from the bottom of a deep ocean. Then the room began to spin in a kaleidoscopic swirl, and the floor rushed up to meet her.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Jardins de Fraises, Decatur Street and Ursulines Avenue, Christmas Day.
Christmas could be a lonely time for some, and Erica Brigitte had never felt quite so isolated. Freda had been missing for days now. Erica had finally plucked up her courage and called the constables to report her sister’s disappearance. The constables had tried to reassure her, saying that many people went missing at that time of year. In Ne
w Orleans, someone was reported missing every two minutes, they told her, and the majority were found again safely, sooner or later.
It wasn’t the first time Freda had disappeared. Once she’d flown, by dirigible, to Rio de Janeiro with some man she’d just met. She hadn’t bothered to tell Erica where she was. It wasn’t that Freda didn’t care, just that such practical considerations never even occurred to her. She was impulsive. She lived her entire life on a whim.
She was probably somewhere exotic at the present moment, sipping absinthe on the beach, while some wealthy older man attended to her every need. That, or she was lying dead at the bottom of a ditch, her mutilated body waiting to surprise an early-morning dog-walker.
Whichever it was, Erica could do nothing about it. Instead, she had Pépé for company. She always had Pépé.
He was sitting up in his chair with a blanket folded across his knees, wearing a paper party hat. Erica wore one too. She had spent some considerable time getting everything nice for the festive season, with a Christmas tree, and even a small turkey, delivered to the house on Christmas Eve. Erica was a stickler for tradition, and she liked to do Christmas right. In a world that seemed to be falling apart, tradition and ritual was often the only glue that bound things together.
Erica studied the lined face of her grandfather. One day, all being well, she would be as old as he was right then. Pépé would be long gone. And as for Freda, who knew? Her sister had a reckless, self-destructive streak that made her court danger. She might be dead already. And even if she turned up again in the New Year, Erica knew for sure that Freda would never allow herself to become old and gray. Her sister’s life burned hot and bright, and was never destined to endure.
One day, sooner or later, Erica would have to face the world alone, and she had no idea how she might go about it.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Ida’s home, waxing moon.
When Ida woke up the world was yellow. She rubbed the surface of her eyes and thick mucus clung to her fingers like lemon curd. She wiped the sticky covering away with her thumbs and looked about. She was in her bed, dressed in an old nightshirt that she didn’t normally wear. The curtains were drawn closed, but daylight leaked in around the edges, stinging her eyes. She had no recollection of how she ended up in her bed. She hardly remembered anything.
Gunsmoke Blues Page 20