When he heard his name, he turned wearily on the spot to see who had whispered it. Could they have found him so quickly, now that he had sinned afresh?
There was nobody there, but he heard his name again.
Pandora was looking up at him, tears in her crystal eyes. “Ambrose?”
Though she whispered, to the demon it sounded like song.
Weary, Calum stumbled down the dark stairwell after Mary and Stephen, unable to see either of them, his feet finding the steps on trust.
The twisted chant bounced around them on the stairwell. “Am-brose! Am-brose! Am-brose!” Mary was crying, and Calum swallowed to counter the accompanying whimper he felt in his throat. Dead people on the streets had been one thing, a step removed from how the world worked. The owners of those voices though, had no right to exist in the same time and place as man. While Calum knew that the voices came from outside, darkness convinced him he was a step away from running into one of their owners on the stairs. There would be scales, he suspected, or feathers, or viscous slime. Hearing the tones and trills underlying the chant, it was impossible not to let his imagination run away with him.
Even if his imagination was not up to the task of reflecting the probable reality.
Stephen was leading them towards the back entrance of the flats. Calum knew in his gut that running was futile, but he couldn't stop himself trying. Perhaps running was the true human condition. Calum had run from his life before the priesthood to God, then from God to the new wonders of angels and demons. Had he been running in search of these things, or had he been fleeing what went before?
Turning another corner, lungs heaving, he continued down the next flight of steps. In the darkness, with the noise surrounding him, it felt as though he had spent a terrified eternity descending into the dark unknown.
Ahead of him, there was a rectangle of grey light to break the blackness, and relief made him want to join Mary in weeping. Finally, they were at the back door. Stephen's silhouette immediately darted in front of him, and beneath the chanting Calum heard the scrape of a key trying to find a lock.
Stephen stood back, opening the door, and cold air washed over them. Abruptly, the chanting stopped, and for a moment Calum's heart did too. They're here, he almost screamed, and then realised it wasn't true. Whatever was happening at St Cottier's, it did not yet involve them. They could still escape.
“Quietly,” he breathed, following Stephen and Mary out of the door. To his ears, their own breathing was a grating din that could only draw attention towards them.
In the new silence, they crept into the gardens, the fog still thick enough to prevent them from seeing more than a foot ahead, and they were aware of each other's positions only by the little noises they made. The fog was icy, and Calum wondered whether leaving the shelter of the flat had been a mistake. It came down to which was the better death; evisceration by demons, or hypothermia. Knowing the torments that would follow in the afterlife, he realised he didn’t have a preference.
In the space of a footstep, Calum was out of the fog, into the enclosed communal gardens. He was so surprised that he walked straight into Stephen's back. When Calum followed his gaze up, he saw that the fog rose as far as he could see, like a vast, billowy wall to the stars. “It shouldn't just stop like that,” Stephen whispered, and Calum thought he was going to cry.
“No,” he answered. “But it does. That's what the world is like, tonight. Get used to it.”
“And it's your fault?” Unspoken struggles wrote themselves on Stephen's face.
Calum paused. “Maybe. Yes,” he whispered, almost wanting the man to mete out punishment. “It's all my fault.” They stared at each other, and he thought he might be about to get his wish.
“Look!” Mary put a hand on each man's arm, drawing their attention to a point further along the wall of fog. Calum's heart sank, and he saw Stephen stiffen in challenge. Two dead men were shambling along the fog line towards them, stumbling over lumps in the turf, blood dripping from their coats.
Clive was vast, a shambling organism spreading like oil on water across Glasgow. At the flex of a whim, he could dart in and out of the heads of the gifted, or stay in his own body and control them all like a decaying puppet master. While the blasphemy of the thought did not escape him, he could not help thinking of himself as a little god.
The body he owned, the centre of his vast being, staggered carefully down Byres Road, but while his eyes were open, he paid the street ahead of him only enough heed to avoid colliding with anything. Visions were playing across his mind like a movie, except that the frames did not follow sequentially, and it was dizzying trying to interpret everything he was seeing at the same time as moving. Remembering where he was, which pair of eyes he owned, was the most difficult thing of all, and he had several times stepped around something that was not there, or reached for a living body that was actually miles away.
In a sick way, Clive was going to miss this power, when Judgement Day was over, and the minds of the gifted returned to their bodies. For the moment they were empty, their actions driven only by the instinct to share the gift with those still burdened with beating hearts. Clive could command them otherwise, but the moment their task was done, or his control shifted to another body, they reverted to their basic drives. Passing a blazing building, that poured smoke onto the street, he realised how little time he had to make use of the power he had been given. Dawn could not be far away. Tasked by an angel, he was now almost redundant in the continuation of his duty, having been required only to act as the pebble that would send out ripples of the dead across the city. Abilities such as those he was discovering served no purpose in converting the masses.
Clive stretched threads of flimsy logic that scarcely supported the conclusion he wanted to draw. Obviously, there was other work he was required to do, that the angel did not have time to tell him about. That work could only relate to one thing.
Ambrose.
Clive's grin turned downwards in a snarl, even while a strange, prickling heat infused his otherwise lifeless flesh. Ambrose had made his choice, discarding Clive in the harshest way possible, shattering his heart and body at the same time. Somehow, the angel had been turned against him. The heat Clive felt was part shame, that he had been unable to get to the angel before his enemies, and part rage, directed at those who had interfered.
Clive had met only one of those enemies, could latch his hatred to just one face, and icy clarity rinsed through him. All the visions playing separately on the canvas of his brain from the thousands of eyes at his behest merged into one seamless, panoramic whole. So abrupt was the change, from jigsaw pieces to a whole picture, that body memory made him gasp aloud, despite his lungs having made no movement for hours. In his own body, Clive could see nothing through the billows of smoke rolling across the street. With his new vision, which saw everything as one vast picture, the smoke was no more distracting than a speck of dirt in his eye. Further along the street, one of the gifted was lying on its back, unable to get to its feet, and Clive had it turn its head back to the smoke. When he emerged into the cleaner air, Clive saw himself do so, at the same time as he saw the prone body of the gifted looking back at him, at the same time as he saw and understood a thousand different scenes, and how they related to one another.
What blasphemy was there then, in assuming he was a god?
His enemy's face, seen through the eyes of two of his gifted, jerked Clive away from the thought. Gritting his teeth hard enough to crack the back molars, hearing them break but feeling nothing, Clive changed direction.
As did mutilated bodies across the city, driven by his vengeance-fuelled will.
Gemmell stared at the creature that wore a man's body like a seductive mask, and ran his fingers through his hair. With his other hand, he pulled his warrant from his pocket, and held it up. In as steady a voice as he could manage, taking comfort from the familiarity of the act, he addressed the thing with contempt.
“My name, you
jumped up bloody arsehole, is Detective Inspector James Gemmell, Strathclyde Police. I don't answer to 'little man', and I don't waste my time with the likes of you.” Turning, he stepped back towards the door. Before he could open it, the demons started wailing again, hitting his nerves like a jackhammer and driving him back to his knees, his hand still clutching the ancient metal of the door handles.
The wailing stopped, and Leviathan spoke again, cold fury in his voice. “You dare! You look on me, and dare address me so? Get up and answer me! Get up or I'll flail you alive!”
Gemmell staggered to his feet and turned. Something warm and wet dripped down his neck, and he didn't need to check to know he was bleeding from his ears. “With what? Harsh language?” His own rage was driving him now, crushing the fear and the shock, and he stepped further along the path. “Ambrose is gone. All I have here is a church full of frightened people, and a bunch of Jim Rose Circus rejects massing at the walls who think that a little bit of noise pollution is going to bring us to our knees and make us cater to their every bloody whim. I deal with arrogant tossers like you every day, son. You don't frighten me. Now fuck off.”
For a moment, Gemmell thought Leviathan was going to explode, and then he did. With a meaty rip, flesh ballooned from his body, a vast spurt of growth so fast that the transition was almost invisible. In a second, the man was gone, and a vast, expanding serpent was writhing and growing in front of him, wrapping around the stone walls. It was hundreds of metres long, dwarfing the church, its undulating body as thick as a house. Pavement cracked beneath its weight as it gave a deafening, furious hiss. It roiled, and weaved, and Gemmell had his hands to his ears again.
This time, he refused to move. Breathe deep. Whatever it is, if it could cross into this church you'd already be dead.
The serpent spent its rage, and then shrank in on itself, as though some vast vacuum cleaner hidden in the fog was sucking the added bulk away.
In a blink, Leviathan was a man again, breathing hard, grasping the church gate, staring at Gemmell with wide eyes.
Gemmell stared back. “Feel better? I'd offer to give you a hug, but you know how it is in the force these days. Everything's a harassment case waiting to happen, and with you bollock naked…”
Leviathan set his shoulders, his eyes narrowing as he forced out the words. “What do you want?”
Gemmell cupped a hand to his ear. “What's that again? You'll have to pardon my poor hearing. Something to do with all this blood in my ears.”
Leviathan gestured, and the monkey-things threw themselves back into the fog. The demon's smile was forced. “I understand, Inspector Gemmell. You want to trade. Just tell me what you want for Ambrose. Safe passage, perhaps?”
Gemmell approached the demon, stopping a few feet away from the gate, out of arm's reach. “Safe passage? To somewhere safer than, say, this cosy patch of holy ground you can't set foot on?”
Leviathan tensed, and forced himself to relax. “Inspector,” the word was spat out, “just tell me what you want. If you want us to go away, give us Ambrose. He's a demon. He doesn't deserve your protection.”
A shadow fell over Gemmell before he could answer, and he looked up instinctively.
Far above him, dozens of white wings blocked his view of the stars. Angels with swords of fire drifted towards him like snow. Gemmell's heart soared, and he felt like punching the air. Instead, he looked down at Leviathan with a wild grin. “It looks like he doesn't need it. Cavalry's here, you bastard.”
Leviathan answered him with a chilling smile. “You would think so, wouldn't you?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Malachi woke abruptly, the most hideous wailing he had ever heard pouring into his head. It sounded like children being tortured. When he tried to raise his hands to his ears, he found that his right arm was in a sling. The pain was terrible, and he vaguely remembered that it was broken.
The noise stopped, and he relaxed. Somebody had bandaged his eyes, and that was reassuring. It meant that Pandora was gone. Nearby, somebody was breathing hard, and he rolled to his knees, ignoring the nausea that almost sent him toppling. “Who's there,” he said softly.
“Mr Jones?” It was a woman, terrified and breathless.
“That wasn't what I asked.” She was to his left, and he tilted that way, hoping he was looking at her face.
“Jackie Summer. Police.”
“You know who I am because you went through my pockets?”
“Yes. I've got some aspirin. It might help.”
He had no choice but to trust her, and lowered himself into a careful sitting position. The pain from his eyes was dull fire. Sticky wetness on his cheeks told him he had not been out for long.
“Hold out your hand.” Malachi did, taking the plastic bottle she offered. “Open your mouth.” Two pills dropped onto his tongue, the bitter, chalky taste confirming that it really was aspirin. Raising the bottle to his mouth, finding it frustratingly difficult to find his lips when he couldn't see anything, he washed them down.
“I have some questions, Mr Jones, if you're up to them?”
Malachi would have laughed, if he had a sense of humour left. “Did you see what attacked me?”
There was a pause, and then she spoke. “Sorry. I nodded.”
“You accept what it was?”
“Yes.”
“It took my eyes and broke my arm, and you want me to help you with your inquiries?”
“When you put it like that…”
“Where did she go?”
“We don't know.” Malachi thumped the floor with his good hand. “She vanished with the man, Ambrose. If he's a man.” She snorted. “I don't think where they went matters any more.”
Malachi nodded, though he didn't agree with her. “What was the screaming?”
“You should rest…”
Malachi tried to make his tone gentle. He remembered what it was like to be soft spoken, but his attempt sounded harsh. “Jackie, listen to me. I'm tired and I'm hurt, but somebody died to get me here. I can't sit around nursing my injuries.”
Jackie's own control faltered. “I don't know, all right! My Inspector went downstairs to calm everybody down, and I could hear it was working, but there's a fog outside, and things in it, and they wanted Ambrose, and I think he went out to talk to them before the screaming.” She was hyperventilating, and Malachi reached out for her. He misjudged, flailed for a moment, and then found her knee. She stopped talking.
“What rank are you?”
“D-detective sergeant.”
“Sergeant Summer, find a window. Don't be seen. Come back and tell me what's outside. Understand?”
She swore. “Sorry, yes. Wait for me.”
Malachi nodded, as though he had a choice, and listened to her walk away. He had been attacked in a corridor between two rooms. Each of those rooms had windows, which he assumed Summer was going to now, so that meant he had been moved. He must be near the top of the stairs, and he made a mental note to avoid sudden movements until he was sure he wasn't going to go tumbling down them.
A moment later, Jackie Summer was running back towards him, her voice filled with childish glee. “You have to… I mean… I wish you could see! There are angels. Angels are falling out of the sky!”
Malachi's gorge rose, as he realised just how much trouble they were in.
Stephen kicked in the back door to the tenement on the opposite side of the garden from his own. Calum glanced back to make sure the corpses had not put on a burst of speed.
They ran into the close, heading for the front door. Far behind them they heard screaming, muffled by fog, but debilitating. It stripped the sense from their heads. Mary fell to her knees beside a discarded hypodermic needle, and Stephen smashed awkwardly into the door. Tears welled up in Calum's eyes. The legions of hell were walking the earth.
Calum helped Mary to her feet. “Whatever it is, it isn't human.” Mary's pupils were tiny, and he didn't even know whether she was hearing him. Stephen wa
tched them, mouth set, and then threw his shoulder against the street door, grunting as it failed to open.
“My shoulder,” he muttered, his face screwed up with pain. “I've done something to it.” Even in the shadows, Calum saw that he was understating. Stephen's shoulder was dislocated.
“I'll try,” the ex-priest whispered. Stephen gave a grudging nod, then joined Mary. Taking a fast step forward, Calum kicked at the lock. The door shuddered, but rewarded him with nothing but a sore foot.
Something thudded behind them, and Calum saw a shape outlined against the back door. The dead, come calling. Desperation raised his leg before he knew what he was doing, and he lashed out again with a cry. The door flew outwards, rebounding from the wall to smack Calum solidly as he spilled through it.
Picking himself up, not bothering to examine the new grazes on his hands, he surveyed the scene before him.
Hundreds of eyes looked back, all of them dead. Corpses lined the street, watching the three living bodies peacefully, as though they had been waiting there for all time.
“Jesus,” Stephen and Mary joined him. Mary closed the door behind them, putting her back to it, and the wood shook as the zombies inside tried to force their way out. Adding his own weight to the shattered door, Calum helped her keep it closed against the insistent, leaden shoving from the far side.
Stephen stood on the pavement, one hand resting gently on his dislocated shoulder. “Were they waiting for us?” Calum stared warily, too tired to answer. Behind the door, all was still. How intelligent were these things? Were they waiting until he stepped away to pile on the pressure?
The point became moot, when the corpses watching them started to shuffle forward. Stephen whirled. “We have to do something,” he shouted over his shoulder, and Calum had the disquieting feeling that Stephen was talking only to Mary.
Already, the corpses had closed off the escape routes along the street. Time to die.