The moment it was within range it opened up with front-mounted machine-guns, and the sheer impact of so much fire-power blasted the Droods right off their feet. The car screeched to a halt beside Dead Boy’s body, and transformed into the sex droid from the future, Silicon Lily. She picked up Dead Boy’s severed head and hugged it to her chest for a long moment before holding it up before her face; and it winked at her. The mouth moved soundlessly, saying, Think you could find some needle and thread?
“I’m so sorry, lover,” said Silicon Lily. “I got here as fast as I could. But now I think you should come home with me. I’ve had enough of this place. Trust me; you’re going to love the Twenty-Third Century.”
She disappeared in a flurry of discharging tachyons, taking Dead Boy’s head and body with her. Back to her future.
* * *
• • •
The Nightside’s main hospital, the Hospice of the Blessed Saint Margaret, had declared itself neutral ground and opened its doors to the Nightside’s wounded. The Droods tacitly accepted this by ignoring it. The wounded and the dying were brought in from all over the long night, in ambulances and taxis and any other vehicle that would carry them, bearing terrible wounds and unspeakable injuries because the Droods weren’t built to do small damage. Soon enough, every Ward and room in the hospital was full, and the injured spilled over into the corridors. The hospital staff worked themselves to exhaustion trying to cope, while the floors grew slick with blood, and the antiseptic on the air was overpowered by the stench of opened bodies. Other hospitals were doing what they could, but Saint Margaret’s took the main load.
Not that far away, the Sarjeant-at-Arms listened as his local informants told him the hospital was being used as an organising point for the resistance. Behind the cover of treating the wounded, they were stockpiling weapons to use against the Droods. The Sarjeant wasn’t sure he believed that, but he had to check it out. He led his main group of Droods to Saint Margaret’s, to shut the hospital down. After everything that had been done to them, the Droods were in no mood to show mercy.
Saint Margaret’s soon got word that Droods were on their way. They’d done too good a job, giving aid and comfort to the enemy, and now the Droods were coming to punish them. Julien Advent was already there, organising defences and inspiring people, when JC Chance turned up to help. Julien went outside to meet him.
“I thought you came here with Demonbane to help the Droods?” he said, too tired to be anything but blunt.
“I find a little of that man’s company goes a long way,” said JC. “So I wandered off on my own to see what there was to see. This place really has gone to hell in a hurry, and the Droods have completely lost their minds. Anyway, once I heard Saint Margaret’s was in trouble, I bustled right over. I even brought a couple of old friends with me. Do you know the Bride of Frankenstein and her companion, the current Spring-heeled Jack?”
“We’re here to help,” said the Bride, crushing Julien’s hand in a powerful grip. Up close, she smelled of attar of roses with a hint of formaldehyde. “The Spawn of Frankenstein voted not to get involved because they owe so much to both sides, but I couldn’t live with that. So here I am.”
“And I go where she goes,” murmured Jack.
The latest inheritor of the Spring-heeled Jack meme was tall and slim, with a dignified bearing. Handsome enough in a sinister way, with dark hair and darker eyes, he wore an old-fashioned tuxedo, a gleaming top hat, and an opera cape that flapped around him like bat-wings. He looked dandy and debonair, if somewhat dated.
“I like the outfit,” said Julien. “It reminds me of my younger days.”
“The look is imposed by the incarnation,” said Jack. “I am, after all, just an idea that manifests itself by possessing people.”
Julien nodded. He’d heard stranger things. “You two stay out here and guard the front entrance. Do what you can to hold off the Droods. I’ll give orders for the wounded to be dropped off at the back to give you a clear field of play. JC, you come with me. Help organise some defences inside.”
“Suits me,” said JC. “I’m trained to deal with the dead, not the living.”
Julien and JC went inside, while Spring-heeled Jack and the Bride took up positions guarding the front entrance. The car-park stretched away before them, almost empty for once. The ambulances never hung around, and no one had any time for visitors. The night was clear, and the air was cool. Up above, the sea of stars and the oversized full moon looked down impartially. The Bride slipped on two pairs of spiked silver knuckle-dusters: one blessed and one cursed. Spring-heeled Jack produced his traditional straight razor. Its blade shone supernaturally bright in the gloom, not unlike Razor Eddie’s. There had been a lot of comment about that in the Nightside, but never where Razor Eddie or Spring-heeled Jack might hear it.
“You really think we can take on an army of Droods?” Jack asked, after a while.
“Stranger things have happened,” said the Bride. “Hell, we are stranger things.”
“It does feel strange, to be fighting Droods,” Jack said carefully. “They’ve done so much for the Spawn of Frankenstein.”
“Some of them have,” said the Bride. “If Eddie were here, I’d talk to him, find another way. I trust Eddie. But the Sarjeant-at-Arms is in charge now, and by all accounts, he’s a complete bastard.”
“I notice you haven’t answered my question,” said Jack. “Do you believe we can fight an army of Droods in their armour?”
“Of course not, darling,” said the Bride. “I’d have to say such a thing was impossible, wouldn’t you? But we are both of us impossible, in our own ways, so who knows?”
Spring-heeled Jack laughed softly. “Give them hell, my love.”
“With both hands,” said the Bride.
* * *
• • •
The Sarjeant led his people into the hospital car-park, then stopped when he saw who was waiting for him. His Droods looked to him for orders, carefully quiet behind their anonymous golden masks. The Sarjeant had been losing his temper more and more easily of late, as events and people appeared to conspire against him. But in the end he just armoured down, told his people to wait where they were, and went to meet Jack and the Bride.
“More people I thought I could trust as allies,” he said heavily. “What are you doing here?”
“Protecting the innocent,” said the Bride. “Like you should be. This is a hospital!”
“That’s not all it is,” said the Sarjeant. “Why can’t you people understand? The Nightside is the real danger here! We have to bring it under control before it breaks its boundaries and sweeps out to cover the whole world in a night that never ends!”
“I don’t see much control in what you’ve been doing,” said the Bride. “I don’t see any attempts to understand why the boundaries have changed or to work with people here to try to stabilise them.”
“Because we’re too busy fighting the Nightsiders!” said the Sarjeant. “They won’t listen to us. Won’t let us do what’s necessary.”
“Maybe if you stopped killing them,” Jack suggested.
“They’ve killed my people,” said the Sarjeant. “Murdered members of my family, who only came here to save the world.”
“You’re so busy concentrating on the big picture, you can’t see what you’re doing,” said the Bride. “You have to concentrate on what’s in front of you. Like this hospital, full of the wounded and the dying.”
“So take your stupid war somewhere else,” said Jack.
“There are no innocents here,” said the Sarjeant. “Only murderers we haven’t dealt, with yet.” He turned to his people. “Kill these two traitors, then deal with the hospital. Whatever it takes.”
He shouldn’t have turned away from the Bride. Her fist came sweeping around in a vicious arc and punched him in the side of the head. The spiked knuckle-duster tore open
half his face. He fell to one knee but had his armour up before Spring-heeled Jack could get to him. A glowing razor flashed toward the Sarjeant’s throat, and he automatically raised an armoured arm to block it. The vicious edge cut sliced in and out of the golden strange matter, cutting deep into the flesh beneath. The armour sealed over immediately, but the Sarjeant could feel blood streaming down his arm, under the armour. He summoned a machine-pistol and sprayed bullets wildly about him. The Bride and Spring-heeled Jack dived out of the way, and the Sarjeant took advantage of that to scramble back out of range.
The other Droods arrived, and Spring-heeled Jack went dancing among them, moving too swiftly to be stopped. His razor gleamed impossibly bright as it cut through armour and flesh. The Bride strode right into the midst of the Droods and struck out powerfully with her blessed and cursed knuckle-dusters. Her punches cracked armour and sent Droods staggering, but the armour repaired itself, and the Droods always came back. The Bride just kept fighting, making no attempt to defend herself. Death held no horrors for her.
One extraordinary man and one woman raised from the dead took on a small army of Droods and held them back from their objective. But both sides knew that wouldn’t last.
* * *
• • •
Inside Saint Margaret’s, Julien ran himself ragged organising barricades and inspiring the walking wounded to take up arms to defend the hospital because the staff were just too busy. Or exhausted. JC did what he could. Julien finally paused for a moment, leaning against a wall, his eyes drooping with fatigue.
“I’d much rather be outside, fighting the Droods with Jack and the Bride. But I learned the hard way; I’m no match for Droods in their armour.”
“There are all kinds of ways to fight,” JC said thoughtfully. “Excuse me, while I wander off and have a little ponder about that.”
He walked away, humming a merry tune. Leaving Julien to get back to organising defences he knew wouldn’t even slow the Droods down. Because he had to do something.
* * *
• • •
Outside in the car-park, the Bride and Spring-heeled Jack had been forced back-to-back, surrounded by Droods. The two of them held their ground before the front entrance, refusing to be moved. Blood dripped thickly from Jack’s razor and from the Bride’s spiked knuckle-dusters. The Sarjeant summoned a really powerful gun and aimed it at the Bride’s head. She glared back at him unflinchingly. And then the door behind them opened, and JC Chance came strolling out.
“Fall back,” he said calmly to Jack and the Bride. “I’ve got this.”
They almost collapsed through the door, leaning on each other for support, happy for someone else to take over. JC smiled easily at the Sarjeant.
“Hello, Cedric. That is you under the armour, isn’t it? The stance and the really big gun are a bit of a give-away.”
“It just goes to show,” the Sarjeant said disgustedly. “You can’t trust anyone. Walk away, Ghost Finder. While you still can.”
“Really?” said JC. “You know, that’s just what I was about to say to you.”
The Sarjeant raised his gun. JC took off his sun-glasses, and a golden light blazed from his eyes, so unbearably otherworldly, the Sarjeant and all the other Droods had no choice but to turn their heads aside. JC looked around the empty car-park and saw a door standing on its own that hadn’t been there a moment before. Just an ordinary, everyday door, standing entirely unsupported, with a large EXIT sign glowing above it. JC smiled at the door and snapped his fingers commandingly.
“Come out, all you dead and dearly departed! Come forth, all you who died here at Saint Margaret’s. Come to me, all of you who lost loved ones here, or had your loved ones saved by those who work within. Come back because the hospital needs you.”
The door to the after-life swung open, and an unearthly light spilled out across the car-park. And through that door, the dead returned. An endless stream of ghosts, shining in the night like so many candles in church. More and more of them came through, transparent figures with solemn faces full of reproach and condemnation. They made no move to attack the armoured Droods, just strode endlessly forward to stand in shimmering ranks before the hospital. Hundreds of them, men and women and children, come back to defend the last place that had cared for them. The Sarjeant looked around at his Droods and saw at once there were no orders he could give that they would follow against such protectors. He turned his back on the hospital and stalked out of the car-park. The other Droods went with him.
JC put his sun-glasses back on. He nodded easily to the ranks of standing ghosts and went back inside the hospital, to give them the good news.
* * *
• • •
John Taylor and Suzie Shooter arrived at Strangefellows in a taxi. They’d commandeered it by the simple expedient of Suzie’s stepping out in front of the taxi and aiming her shotgun at the driver. She’d then kept the barrel of the gun pressed against the back of the driver’s head all the way to the bar. He had enough sense not to ask for a tip and drove off the moment John and Suzie were out of his cab. They hurried down the back alley-way and were immediately confronted by Betty and Lucy Coltrane, armed with sledge-hammers. They nodded John and Suzie past and took up their positions again, looking hopefully for someone to come and challenge them. John and Suzie went inside.
They could hear the noise even as they descended the metal stairs: an uproar of raised voices, screams and shouts and foul language. But this wasn’t just another night at Strangefellows. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, they discovered the bar had been turned into a field hospital. The furniture had been cleared away and the injured laid out in rows on the floor. Volunteers moved among the wounded and the dying, doing what they could with what they had. Persecution Psmith, the Puritan Adventurer, moved among the worst off, praying over them and offering what comfort he could. Rather unfairly, his black garb made him look like a gorecrow on a battle-field.
John stood at the bottom of the stairs, lost for anything to say. He’d known things were bad; he’d seen the Droods ploughing through Nightside defenders, but still the blood and pain and death laid out before him hit him hard. He wanted to do something but had no idea what. In the end, Suzie put a hand on his arm and urged him forward. They headed for the bar, where Alex was dispensing endless hard liquor as an alternative to pain-killers and anæsthetics. He nodded grimly to John and Suzie.
“Brilliant Chang’s idea,” he said. “I didn’t get a say in the matter. Not that I objected. It makes me feel as though I’m contributing something.”
“Why did he choose Strangefellows?” said John.
“Because we have the best protections in the Nightside,” said Alex. “To hide this from the Droods. Word is, they’re already attacking Saint Margaret’s. That’s why I wanted you here, John. You saw Betty and Lucy in the alley-way?”
“They looked very keen,” said John.
“Oh, they are,” said Alex. “You have no idea how keen. But just one Drood would walk right over them.”
“Someone will talk about what’s happening here,” said Suzie. “Because someone always does.” She looked at John. “See what you can do. I’ll go outside and support the Coltranes.”
She walked off. Alex looked at John.
“You haven’t told her yet, have you? About the young man who appeared here before the invasion, claiming to be your son from the future. He said the whole world was going to be destroyed because of something you were going to do.”
“And I killed him,” said John. “Because if I hadn’t, he would have killed me. How could I tell Suzie something like that? I’ve been trying to find the right moment, but we’ve been so busy . . .”
“I think you should tell her right now,” said Alex, looking over John’s shoulder.
John sighed. “She’s standing right behind me, isn’t she?”
“I had to come
back to use the toilet,” said Suzie. “One of the problems with being this pregnant is that your bladder contracts to the size of a pea. Yes, I heard everything. So talk to me, John. Right now.”
“Don’t you need to . . .”
“It can wait.”
He told her the whole story, and when he was done, Suzie looked down at her bump, protruding from her leather jacket.
“You really think that was our son?”
“No,” said John. “He couldn’t be. I made sure that future timeline could never happen. You know I did.”
“But you never foresaw the Drood invasion,” said Suzie. “Who knows what you might feel compelled to do to stop it?”
And that was when the future Suzie appeared, stepping out of nowhere to stand before them. She looked old and hard-used, her straggly grey hair packed with dirt. Inside her torn and battered leathers, she was painfully thin. Half her face had been savagely burned, long ago, the skin blackened and crisped, twisted around the seared-shut eye. One side of her mouth was turned up in a permanent caustic smile. Her right forearm was missing. The last time John had seen her, right here in Strangefellows, her arm had been replaced by the Speaking Gun, grafted directly onto her elbow. Merlin had torn it off, and she had vanished.
“I sent our son back through Time to stop you,” said the future Suzie, in a harsh cracked voice. “And you murdered him.”
“You’re not my Suzie,” said John. “And he wasn’t our son.”
“You look just like I remember you, John,” said the future Suzie. “And you still have that same arrogance that will damn the whole world to Hell.”