by Nick Moseley
‘It’s almost worth dying myself just to see you die first,’ Corbyn growled. The shadow stalked towards Trev until it was standing over him. Trev did his best to scramble away using his elbows and one working foot until he realised he was just moving himself nearer one of the other shadows. It reached out a questing hand, black fingers skittering across the floor near Trev’s head.
Nothing could be seen of the room outside the Engine now. The accumulating energy was almost at the tops of the pillars and swirling at an ever-increasing speed. Trev could hardly hear Corbyn over the sound it was making, and the vibration was rattling his teeth.
‘I told you I was a survivor, didn’t I?’ Corbyn shouted at Trev. In the flickering light behind him, something moved. ‘Going to survive longer than you, anyway!’
Corbyn clenched a fist and swung his arm back, lining it up on Trev’s upturned face. Trev felt as if everything had slowed to a crawl. He saw the fist finish its backswing; the flare of triumph in the shadow’s eyes; and behind Corbyn, a black shape springing into the air.
The fist started its descent. Trev pushed off with his elbow and his working foot in an attempt to roll out of the way. Corbyn let out another inarticulate bellow of anger and hate.
And the black shape struck him in the back and bowled him over.
Trev’s roll was just quick enough to take him out of the way. He had enough time to register that the thing that had hit Corbyn was Vicki before both of them disappeared into the thundering stream of energy between the pillars, taking the other shadow with them.
‘Holy shit,’ Trev said. He stood up awkwardly, hampered by his numb foot. Without their leader’s presence to anchor them, the remaining shadows were losing their grip and following him into the Engine’s relentless circuit. ‘Thanks again, Vicki.’
The werewolf had been drawn into the Engine along with the other shadows, and had taken her chance to finish Corbyn once and for all. Trev had been the distraction she’d needed.
Time to go, Trev thought, but one look at the rushing wall of energy told him he’d missed his chance. It would be like throwing himself into an industrial meat-grinder. To prove the point to himself, he took off his jacket and threw it between two of the pillars. The energy caught it and reduced it to a cloud of tattered shreds in the blink of an eye.
‘Bollocks,’ said Trev.
The vibration was now very pronounced. Trev could hear a groaning sound as the strain on the pillars continued to increase. He limped into the centre of the Engine and sat down next to the lantern. Its bright glow was a tiny comfort amidst the swirling darkness. Trev picked it up and waited for the end.
He’d hardly had enough time to get good and morose when a comet of white light burst into the Engine, bounced twice, and resolved itself into the form of Oscar. The cat’s aura showed starkly against the black background. He scampered over to Trev.
‘Quick!’ he yelled, his words almost lost in the noise of the Engine tearing itself apart. ‘Get down and cover your head!’
‘What’s the point?’ Trev shouted back. ‘That’s not going to protect me from this!’
‘Just bloody do it!’ was Oscar’s reply. There was a clatter as fragments of stone began to fall free from the disintegrating pillars. ‘Now!’
Frowning, Trev did as he was told. He got onto his knees and bent over with his arms wrapped around his head and the lantern tucked beneath him. His nose was almost touching one of the metal inlays in the floor; he could see it trying to vibrate itself out of its setting.
Oscar jumped onto Trev’s back. ‘Hold still!’
Trev did as he was told and everything went white. His first instinct was to lift his head to see what was going on, but he managed to resist. The sound of the Engine had become strangely muffled, as if some passing Health and Safety jobsworth had slipped a set of ear defenders on him while he was distracted. Even with the deadening effect of whatever Oscar was doing, the noise was huge.
‘Steady,’ said Oscar. ‘Here it comes!’
The roar of the Engine rose to a tortured scream. Without Oscar’s protection Trev thought he’d have been deafened. Tremors ran through the floor and he struggled to hold his position. He clung on, teeth gritted, until a thundering, tearing, crashing noise swept over him and he lost consciousness.
Silence.
Trev blinked. He was lying on the floor of the Engine. His arm was curled protectively around the lantern, which was badly cracked but still working. He sat up. It was freezing cold. When he saw what was above him, he understood why.
The ceiling was gone. The whole area above the Engine had been obliterated, leaving a gaping hole with only the night sky beyond. The pillars had shattered, leaving a ring of stumps, none taller than a foot or so. The metal inlays in the floor were either missing or melted into their sockets. The floor itself was splintered and cracked.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Trev, looking up again. He could see the edge of the moon through the hole. ‘How did we survive that? Oscar, you’re a genius!’
There was no reply.
Trev felt the giddy euphoria of having survived slip away, replaced by concern. ‘Oscar?’
‘Here,’ said a weak voice, from the base of one of the ruined pillars.
Trev stumbled over, raising the lantern to see. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said.
Oscar was lying on his side. Almost all his fur had been burned away, and the skin beneath was blistered and raw. Three of his legs were bent unnaturally and his tail was nothing but a bloody stub. The cat turned his head and Trev saw that one of his eyes – the blue one – was gone.
‘Ouch,’ Oscar said.
‘Jesus,’ said Trev. He thought he might throw up. ‘What happened?’
‘Couldn’t quite… stretch my aura to… cover us both entirely,’ Oscar wheezed. ‘You need to… lose some… weight.’
‘We’ll get you a vet,’ Trev babbled. ‘The best. We’ll get you sorted. You’ll be fine.’
‘I’m dying, you num… numpty,’ Oscar said.
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Trust… me. I’ve done it… often enough over… the years. Know what it… feels like.’
‘You’ll come back though, right?’ said Trev. ‘You can’t really die, can you?’
‘Not so… sure this ti… time,’ said Oscar. ‘All that en… energy. Might’ve cut me… loose from this pl… plane. Never felt… like this bef… before.’
‘Hold on,’ said Trev. It was a woefully inadequate thing to say, but he had to say something.
‘I’m go… going,’ Oscar said. ‘Just want to… say that there… were times… times when…’
‘Yes?’
‘Your com… company was…’
‘Yes?’
‘Almost tolerable,’ Oscar finished, and his remaining eye fluttered closed.
Forty-Five
Trev left Oscar’s body where it was and walked unsteadily back to the metal door. The force of the Engine’s destruction had travelled upwards for the most part, but the walls were cracked and flakes of red brick had broken free in scattered piles.
A numbness spread through Trev’s mind and body and he crunched through the debris in a trance, as if his brain and his feet were separated by a vast distance. He’d cut himself off from his emotions, at least temporarily. He knew that he was going to suffer a reaction to Oscar’s death, and soon, but for now he’d compartmentalised it. He had to. There were still things to do.
The door was intact, although the frame had shifted out of alignment. Trev pounded a fist against the metal. The thumping of his heartbeat in his ears provided a counterpoint.
‘Hello?’ said a hesitant voice from behind the door. It sounded like Suzanne.
‘It’s Trev.’ His own voice sounded like it was at the wrong end of a bad telephone line.
Pause. ‘Real Trev, or some freaky shadow Trev?’
‘Real.’
Another pause, during which faint voices could be heard. ‘All right, stand back.’
The door screeched open and Trev found himself staring down the barrel of Richie’s shotgun. ‘You’re just taking the piss now,’ the big guard said. ‘It sounded like the world was ending in there, and you come waltzing out with nothing but a bit of dust on you? How?’
Trev looked past him to where Desai, Montano and the others were standing. Phelps was guarding them, his own shotgun held in the port arms position. He was demonstrating the same combination of relaxed body and alert eyes that Trev had noticed before, but there was something different in his expression.
Trev held up his hands, palms outwards. ‘Can I come in?’ he asked Richie.
‘Let him in,’ said Jones. He was staring at Trev as if he were a test subject which had just done something wholly unexpected.
Trev joined the main group. Barton was upright but still looked somewhat dazed; Bookbinder stood next to him, hands in his pockets. Desai gave Trev a quick hug, made awkward by her handcuffs. She held up her hands, the left of which was swathed with bandages.
‘Tried to reach into the Engine to get to you,’ she explained. ‘The energy almost took my hand off. How did you get out without being sliced and diced?’
‘Oscar,’ said Trev. ‘He used his aura to protect me from the energy when it overloaded the Engine. You ought to see the damage that thing did when it went off. Half the ceiling’s gone. If you had a ladder you could climb out onto the lawn.’
‘Wait, the cat saved you?’ spluttered Richie. He glared at the red scratches on his hand. ‘Where is he, the little shit?’
‘He’s dead,’ said Trev.
‘What?’ said Desai.
‘First good news I’ve heard all day,’ said Richie.
Trev narrowed his eyes and took a step towards him. The guard levelled his shotgun. ‘Come on, then,’ he said.
‘All right, that’ll do,’ said Jones, moving to Richie’s side and pushing the barrel of the weapon down. ‘Whatever the circumstances, the plan worked and the threat is gone.’
‘The threat that you created,’ Desai pointed out.
‘Rubbish,’ Jones replied. ‘We didn’t build the Engine. The Custodians did. And they were the ones who left it accumulating energy all this time.’
Montano shrugged. ‘True. But it wasn’t the Custodians who used a young woman as a guinea pig, killed her, and set this whole disaster in motion.’
‘We didn’t expect her to come to harm,’ Jones said.
‘Not at all,’ agreed Keane, though he was working very hard at not making eye contact with anyone.
‘You exposed her to a huge amount of negatively-charged psychic energy, but you weren’t expecting her to “come to harm”?’ said Desai. ‘You must be joking.’
‘We took all possible safety precautions,’ said Jones. ‘She didn’t have the Sight, so it was reasonable to believe that the energy wouldn’t affect her too strongly.’
‘And she knew the risks?’ Montano pressed. ‘She was a volunteer, I take it?’
Jones’s face was reddening. ‘Of course.’
Montano pointed to the heavy wooden chair in the corner with the leather straps. ‘You strap all your volunteers down?’
‘Like I said, precautions.’ Jones waved a hand dismissively. ‘She might’ve fallen out of the chair and hurt herself.’
Desai snorted. ‘Right.’
‘I’m not interested in your opinion,’ said Jones. He snapped his fingers at Keane. ‘Hurry up and get this equipment packed away.’
‘I wouldn’t bother, we’ll need that as evidence,’ said Montano.
‘What?’
‘You’ve broken into a secure Custodian facility and conducted an experiment that’s resulted in the deaths of all the prisoners and almost all of the staff,’ said Montano. ‘Do you honestly think you can just pack up your things and go home?’
Jones gave her a mocking smile. ‘Do you honestly think you can stop us?’
‘No. But the Custodians aren’t going to just ignore what’s happened here.’
‘That’s assuming they’ll know what happened here.’
Montano gave a thoughtful nod, as if this response was exactly what she’d expected. Trev, who’d been following the conversation with distracted interest, remembered Desai’s off-hand comment about the scientists having them killed, and Keane’s reaction to it.
‘They’ll know,’ Barton growled, suddenly coming to life. ‘You can’t seriously expect us to keep quiet.’
Trev raised his eyebrows at Richie. ‘Just how hard did you hit him?’
‘Not hard enough,’ Richie muttered.
‘I’d like to point out that I’m a loyal employee of Veil Security,’ Bookbinder said. ‘And that Seth Lysander has more than enough blackmail material on me to ensure my silence.’
‘Always a pleasure to meet a man of principle,’ Desai said. Bookbinder simply shrugged.
Jones looked at Suzanne. ‘And you?’
‘Considering that a lot of the people who died were my pals, I’m not feeling much company loyalty,’ she replied.
‘Think very carefully,’ Jones said. ‘If you choose to stand with this lot instead of us, there’ll be… consequences.’
‘He means they’re planning on having us killed,’ Trev said to her in a stage whisper.
Suzanne looked Jones up and down. ‘I lived in Glasgow for ten years,’ she said, her accent becoming stronger. ‘I’m no’ frightened of you, wee man.’
Jones shook his head. ‘Suit yourself.’ He nodded at Richie.
‘Where?’ said the guard, raising his shotgun again.
‘Out there,’ said Jones, pointing at the metal door. ‘We’ll get the equipment packed up. Get a move on.’
‘Right, go through the door and walk to the far end of the tunnel,’ Richie said to Trev and the others. ‘Come on, Jerry.’
The situation was sliding out of control, but Trev was still wrapped in his blanket of numbness and felt a curious unconcern. He glanced at Grace Montano and saw that she had a faint smile on her face. Desai looked resigned; Barton looked confused; Suzanne looked furious. Trev wondered how he looked. Probably like I’m drunk or something, he thought.
His internal monologue was interrupted by the unmistakable clack-clack of a shotgun being cocked.
‘Put your weapon down, Richie,’ said Phelps. ‘Very slowly.’
Startled, Richie turned and found his colleague’s shotgun aimed at his chest. ‘You’re shitting me,’ he said. ‘You’re siding with these twats?’
‘Put it down.’
Richie hesitated, then did as he was told.
‘Good,’ said Phelps. ‘Now step away.’
‘This is a bad idea, Jerry,’ said Jones.
‘Shut up,’ Phelps replied. ‘Irwin, your hands are free. Get that shotgun, please.’
‘Right-o.’ Trev scooped up the weapon and walked across the room to stand with Phelps. He had no idea whether the shotgun was ready to fire or not, but even if the safety was on it could still be used as a pretty effective club. Barton’s head-wound was a reminder of that.
‘There’s a pair of wire-cutters on that desk,’ Phelps said to Montano. ‘You can cut your cuffs with them.’
Montano retrieved the tool and set to work on Desai’s cuffs. Trev kept a wary eye on Richie, whose purple face suggested he was on the verge of either a dramatic act of defiance or a massive coronary. Trev was hoping for the latter.
‘Are you hoping the Custodians’ll let you off if you turn the rest of us in?’ Jones asked Phelps. ‘If you are, I think you’ll be disappointed.’
‘That’s not it,’ said Phelps. ‘Whatever you say, we’re responsible for all the deaths that have happened here. But indirectly responsible. We didn’t intend for those people to die. It wasn’t murder. But killing the witnesses to cover it up? That’s where I have to draw the line. I’m not an executioner.’
‘So let Richie do it then,’ snapped Jones. ‘I don’t see why the rest of us should go to prison just because you’ve sudd
enly become squeamish.’
‘I’m not handing anyone over to him,’ Phelps said. ‘He’s a psychopath.’
‘Aren’t psychopaths supposed to be highly intelligent?’ Trev said. ‘You’re giving him too much credit. “Thug with bad breath” is more like it.’
‘I’m going to kill you,’ Richie growled. Trev blew him a kiss.
Barton had regained his wits enough to be entrusted with Richie’s shotgun, so Trev handed it over. Richie, Bookbinder and the two scientists were herded together and put under guard. Montano, who’d been making a quick inventory of the scientists’ equipment, nodded her satisfaction.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m going to make contact with the Custodians and let them know what’s happened here. Needless to say, nobody’s going anywhere until there’s an incident team on site.’ She headed for the stairs up to the chapel, passing Phelps as she went. ‘Thank you for doing the right thing, Jerry.’
Trev noticed that she touched his arm as she spoke. He wondered whether their relationship was more than that of just work colleagues, and if that might have been a factor in Phelps’ decision to switch sides. Or maybe he just realised that they’re a bunch of arseholes, Trev thought, and sat down in a chair to wait for the Custodians to arrive.
Sunday passed in a blurry montage of fatigue, questioning, argument and recrimination. The Custodians, on hearing of the disaster at Spectre’s Rest, had finally juggled their resources to allow a proper team to respond. Feargal Deacon himself was in charge, and conducted the interviews – or “interrogations”, as Trev thought of them – personally. Trev gave an honest, if somewhat incoherent, account, with an impatient Deacon having to nudge him back on track at regular intervals as he wandered off-topic. Particular scrutiny was applied to Trev’s conversations with Corbyn. Deacon was frustrated that they’d had an opportunity to identify the Custodians’ traitor and it had slipped away. Trev supposed that under normal circumstances he’d be just as frustrated, but he was so tired, sore and emotional he couldn’t summon the energy for it.