“No,” he said, quietly but firmly. “I’m not a killer, and I won’t let you make me one. That would be a betrayal of everything I ever stood for in a child’s world. I’d say to hell with you, but I think you’re already there.”
Bruin Bear turned and walked away, and Morse watched him go. The Bear turned a corner and disappeared, and the paralysis that had held Morse suddenly vanished. He ran forward, grabbed the bandoliers of ammunition and threw them over his shoulder, snatched up the rifle, and ran down the street after the Bear. The little bastard had actually dared to threaten him, dared to make him afraid… He rounded the corner, gun at the ready, and then had to stop abruptly as he almost ran straight into his brother Warriors.
“Ah, there you are, Frank,” said the Major in charge of his unit. “Thought we’d lost you for a minute. Hardly surprising in all this confusion, but do try and stick with us, there’s a good chap. Haven’t got time for search parties. Found yourself a gun too, I see. That’s what I like to see in a man; initiative. I think we can forget the naked and unarmed bit now; you’ve proved your point. Now come along; we’ve been tracking a demon this way, and with any luck it’ll lead us right to where the others of its kind are hiding.”
He broke off and looked down the street. Morse followed his gaze. A large cartoon dog, some five feet tall and wearing an ill-fitting white suit with spats, was shambling away from the Warriors. It looked old, with white and grey hairs on its face, and its long ears dropped lifelessly. It looked back, double-taked on seeing the Warriors, and tried to run faster. The Major laughed. “After him, men! Don’t let him out of your sight. I want his ears. Come on, Frank. Keep up. Don’t want to miss out on the sport, eh?”
The soldiers ran down the street after the dog, who looked as though he might collapse at any moment but still somehow managed to keep ahead of his pursuers. The Warriors laughed and shouted as they ran, sometimes firing their guns into the air for the fun of seeing the dog cringe and jump and howl piteously. Morse didn’t laugh. The dog seemed harmless enough, but he didn’t trust anything in this Godforsaken town. Besides, this was duty, not entertainment. Laughter was frivolous, and a distraction.
The dog ran into a narrow alley and the Warriors ran in after it, whooping and laughing. But once inside the alley, there was no sign of the dog anywhere. The soldiers stumbled to a halt and looked about them. The alley was a dead end, and there were no turnings off. There was nowhere for the dog to have gone. Morse felt a sudden cold hand clutch at his heart, and he turned to the Major.
“Get us out of here, now. It’s a trap.”
“Steady, Frank. We’ll find where it’s hiding. Can’t just have vanished, after all. Could be there’s a secret door here somewhere, that’ll lead us right to the rest of them. Nothing to worry about. It’s just a dog, after all.”
“No,” said a calm, quiet voice from the shadows. “Not just a dog. A cartoon dog.”
It stepped out into the light again, and the Warriors stirred uneasily. It stood straighter, and its gaze was cold and direct. It didn’t look old or harmless any more. It grinned, and its mouth stretched unnaturally, showing large blocky teeth.
“I’m not real,” said the dog. “And though I live in the real world, I still retain some of the characteristics from the animated world that birthed me. For example, I can be bigger…” It shot up twenty feet in height, ballooning in size, and the Warriors fell back, aiming their guns. “Or smaller.” It shrank to the size of a mouse, and scurried about between the Warriors’ feet. They shouted and stamped, but it dodged them easily. The dog resumed its original size and place and stood grinning nastily at the unnerved soldiers. Its teeth had points now, and its paws sprouted vicious-looking claws. “And just in case that isn’t enough, I brought a few friends with me.”
The shadows stirred, growing teeth and eyes, and monsters stepped out into the light of the alleyway. They grew and shrank and changed shape with sickening, fluid ease. They had teeth and claws and huge, impossible muscles. In a cartoon they might have been funny, but in the real world they were awful and hideous, like every bad dream a child ever had. One Warrior suddenly panicked. He put his rifle to his shoulder and opened fire, and in a moment they were all firing. The alley was full of smoke and the crash of guns, firing over and over again. Finally, one by one they stopped, and lowered their weapons. The smoke cleared, and the cartoon monsters were still there, horrid and impossible in their vivid, Technicolor hues. They were riddled with bullet holes, which healed in seconds as the Warriors watched. The monsters’ shapes ran and changed with dreadful ease, and one soldier whimpered. The monsters laughed. They didn’t look at all funny. The dog was still grinning.
“You can’t hurt us. We’re cartoons, and anything’s possible in a cartoon. Anything at all.”
The monsters ballooned up, filling the alley, and fell on the Warriors with teeth and claws. The alley was full of screams and horrid laughter, and the soft tearing sound of rending flesh. The cartoons tore the soldiers apart and played with the pieces, and never stopped laughing.
Frank Morse turned and ran the moment the monsters moved, and was out of the alley and running for his life by the time he heard the first screams. The bandoliers of ammunition flapped painfully against his bare chest and back as he ran, the rifle all but forgotten in his hands. He forgot all about his friends and brother soldiers, his duty and his faith, and ran full tilt, gasping for breath, expecting at any moment that something awful would grab him from behind, but nothing did. He almost reached the end of the street, and then stumbled to a halt as a single figure stepped out into the light to face him.
Morse just stood there for a moment, his heart hammering and his lungs straining, and then he jerkily brought the rifle to bear on the newcomer, standing only a few yards away. But he didn’t shoot. He recognized the figure. Seven feet tall, wrapped in a long trenchcoat, with a large and blocky goat’s head, he was carrying a pistol carelessly in one hand. They stood and looked at each other for a while.
“You’re dead,” said Morse finally. “I shot you.”
“Just wounded,” said the Sea Goat. “You’re not as good a shot as you think. I’m glad you remember me, though. I remember you.”
“Demon,” said Morse. “Hellspawn.”
“That’s pretty good, coming from someone who just ran off and left his friends to die. Pretty good, from someone who stood by and watched as his friends murdered innocents and burnt down their homes. But none of that matters now. Now, there’s just you and me. You’ve got a gun, and so do I. Unlike last time. Maybe you’ll shoot me, or I’ll shoot you. Neither of us is going to miss at this range. I guess you’ve got to ask yourself; do you feel lucky, punk?”
Morse turned and ran. He’d get away, and then come back and kill the beast. Kill them all. He could feel the ground pounding under his feet, and smelt smoke on the chilly air. He opened his mouth to scream, and the Sea Goat shot him in the back of the head.
—
Warriors of the Cross dragged the seven Councillors they’d found through the ruins of what had once been their town. Ruined buildings were ablaze to every side, flames leaping up into the night sky from blackened skeletal frames. Rubble and broken glass lay scattered across the deserted street, and the dead and the dying lay everywhere. The Warriors passed them by. They were celebrating. Some were drinking wine and spirits they’d looted from abandoned stores. They laughed and sang and kicked the Councillors to make them walk faster, or just for the fun of it. The seven Councillors kept their heads down, and said nothing. They all showed blood and bruising from severe beatings, and they knew better now than to make any protest or complaint. Three Councillors were already dead; shot down in cold blood because they were surplus to requirements, and to ensure the other Councillors would do as they were told.
Their hands were handcuffed behind their backs, and they each had a noose around their neck, with a Warrior on the other end of the rope to keep them moving. They trudged along, heads bowed t
hrough fatigue if not respect, and watched the ground carefully, not wanting to trip or stumble. If they fell, the Warriors just dragged them till they found their feet again. The soldiers thought that was hilarious. The Councillors had given up all thought of escape or rescue. There wasn’t even anyone left to see their shame. Those townspeople who had survived the constant shelling and the attentions of the blood-crazed invaders had either gone to ground or run for their lives. As if there was anywhere left to run, in Shadows Fall. The Warriors sang drinking songs mixed with hymns, and dragged the Councillors through the blazing ruins of Hell.
They finally reached the old Georgian house that had served as a formal meeting place for the town Council. It had been shelled like all the others, but the ground floor was still pretty much intact. The soldiers led the Councillors inside, encouraging them on with blows and kicks, and finally seated them around a table in what had once been their main meeting room. That seemed like another world now. The Councillors weren’t surprised the Warriors knew so much about them; the soldiers had already boasted of the spies they’d infiltrated into the town. The Lieutenant in charge of the soldiers pulled up a chair, dusted off the seat, and sat down facing the Councillors. He was young, barely out of his twenties, with a receding hairline and a constant, humourless smile. He smoked a thin black cigar and didn’t bother to take it out of his mouth when he spoke. The Councillors listened carefully to whatever he said. If they missed something, and the Lieutenant had to repeat himself, they were beaten.
“Well, here we all are,” said the Lieutenant. “Isn’t this cosy? Sit up straight, all of you. I can’t abide a man who slouches. Let us now get down to business. Of the fifteen Councillors of Shadows Fall, three are dead, and five are missing, presumed dead. So as far as civil authority goes in this cesspit of a town, you are it; and you are mine, body and soul. We were supposed to accept the town’s surrender from you, but I think we can take that as read. There’s no real opposition left anywhere, and what there is, is being mopped up even as we speak. Which really leaves us with only one thing we still need to talk about. Can you guess what that is, gentlemen?”
“Time,” muttered one of the Councillors.
“Got it in one. Old Father Time himself. We were hoping to reach him via the Sarcophagus in the park, but apparently our people are encountering difficulties there. So, you gentlemen are going to contact Time, and persuade him to surrender the Galleries of Frost and Bone to us. On the grounds that if he doesn’t, we will kill you all, one at a time, and then start executing groups of townspeople gathered at random until he does.”
“It’s not that simple,” said the Councillor, and the Lieutenant back-handed him casually across the face. There was unexpected strength in the blow, and the Councillor rocked in his chair. Blood poured in a steady stream from one nostril.
“Speak when you are spoken to,” said the Lieutenant. “If I want your advice, unlikely as that seems, I’ll ask for it. What’s your name, Councillor?”
“Marley. Patrick Marley. May I speak?”
“Depends. If I don’t like what you have to say, I might get annoyed with you. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
“We can’t just pick up a phone and talk to Time,” said Marley doggedly. “We each have a ring that Time gave us. We speak his name to the ring, and if he feels like it he’ll acknowledge us. If he doesn’t, he won’t, which usually means we have to send messengers to the Galleries to find out why.”
“All right,” said the Lieutenant. “Call him. And for your sake, he’d better answer.”
He gestured to one of his soldiers, who produced a ring of keys and unlocked Marley’s handcuffs. He wiped blood from his mouth, massaged his wrists, and then stopped as the soldier put a gun to his head. He lifted a blocky gold signet ring to his mouth, and spoke distinctly.
“Time, this is Councillor Marley. Please respond. I have been told my life and others will be forfeit if you do not.”
There was an uncomfortably long pause, and then there was a sudden silent thump, felt more than heard, like the striking of a mute bell, and Time was standing among them. He stood by the window, with his back to the flames and devastation, but the anger in his face made it plain he was aware of it. He appeared to be a cross between a living man and one of his own metal automatons; a cyborg hybrid of man and machine. Cables and machinery protruded from his dead white flesh, and half his face was painted ceramic. Marley had never seen him this way before, but kept his mouth shut. Presumably Time was showing the Warriors what they consciously or subconsciously expected to see.
“Don’t bother to threaten me with your weapons,” said Time flatly. “I’m not here; this is just an image I’ve placed in your minds. Relax, Marley. Help is on the way. I would have come sooner, but I’ve been rather busy. My helpers are spread rather thin at the moment.”
“He called you because I told him to,” said the Lieutenant. “He’ll do anything for me. If he knows what’s good for him. I have a proposition to put to you…”
“I know,” said Time. “I was listening. The answer’s no. The town is more important than its people or its Councillors. But you won’t have time to kill many more anyway. The town is awakening, and forces beyond your comprehension are rising against your petty army. Did you really think you could conquer Shadows Fall by force of arms? Fools. There are forces in the world that will not be denied or dictated to. You’ll understand soon. For the moment your sorcerer priests are strong enough to keep me from interfering directly, but that will pass. Listen to me, Lieutenant; it’s still not too late to stop this madness. Gather your men and leave the town. You won’t find what you’re looking for here or in my Galleries.”
“Nice try,” said the Lieutenant. “But if it’s not here, why are you so desperate to keep us from it? The executions will begin now, with Marley, followed by another Councillor every five minutes. After that, we’ll start dragging people in here and get creative. Feel free to watch.”
“I think you’ll find you have other, more pressing matters to worry about,” said Time. “Why don’t you look out of the window?”
He disappeared between one moment and the next, and the Warriors looked at each other uncertainly. Time’s voice rang on the air, cool and calm and eerily disturbing.
“I have unleashed my hound, Lieutenant, and soon you will hear him howling for your blood.”
The Lieutenant chuckled quietly, shaking his head admiringly. “Full of bravado, even to the end. I’ll see him kneel and beg for mercy after we’ve dragged him out of his hole.” He gestured casually at the soldier guarding Marley. “Take him outside, and hang him from the nearest lamppost.”
And then he broke off, and turned quickly to look out of the window, as from outside came the sudden sounds of shouting and gunfire, followed by horrified, agonized screams.
“Watch the Councillors!” snapped the Lieutenant to his men. “If they give you any trouble, shoot them.”
He looked out of the window again, and had he not had his back to them, his men could have watched the colour drain from his face. Out in the street, Warriors were dying.
The soldiers fired wildly, hitting each other as often as not, but the killer moved smoothly among them, slaughtering everyone he touched. His hands were like razors and a terrible strength moved in his spindly arms. He looked across at the window with his smiling turnip head, and mockingly saluted the Lieutenant. Jack Fetch had come to town.
He tore a bloody path through the demoralized soldiers, tearing men literally limb from limb with his unnatural strength. Bullets slammed into him from all sides, raising puffs of smoke from his ragged clothes, but since he was not alive and never had been, he took no hurt from any of it. He had no blood to lose or bones to break, and the damage the bullets caused to his unliving components healed in seconds, as though drawing new material from the air itself. His gloved hands closed like vices, and his slender form moved with a deadly grace and speed almost too fast to follow.
A
tank roared out of a side street and tracked Jack with its gun. He turned to face it and the tank fired. Jack Fetch dodged the shell easily, ran forward and grabbed the right-hand caterpillar track with both hands. It took him only a moment to lift the tank up and turn it on its side, shifting the many tons of steel as though they were weightless. The tank commander crawled out of the turret at the top, wildly waving a handgun. Jack seized the man’s head with both hands, and turned it through one hundred and eighty degrees. The sound of the man’s neck snapping was too quiet to be heard in the general din.
A soldier threw a grenade at the scarecrow. Jack caught it and threw it back. He was still close enough to feel the effects of the blast, but he stood unmoving and unharmed as the explosion destroyed everything around him. A helicopter gunship came screaming out of the dark, its hammering guns digging trenches in the street. It made two passes over the scarecrow, strafing him with thousands of rounds a minute, but he just stood there and took it. The helicopter banked around to make a third pass. Jack pulled a lamp-post out of the ground and threw it like a javelin. It smashed through the windshield, transfixing the pilot in his seat like a bug on a pin. The helicopter spun out of control and smashed into the side of a burning house. The explosion sent burning fuel out over a wide area. Soldiers ran screaming through the night like blazing torches.
Jack Fetch had stood far enough back not to be affected, and this raised a faint hope in one of the Warriors. He advanced on the scarecrow with a flamethrower, and Jack came to meet him with his unwavering smile. The soldier opened up as soon as he was within range, and liquid fire washed over the scarecrow. He burned with a bright flickering light, but was not consumed. He strode on, an unstoppable, unflinching juggernaut, and the Warrior threw aside his flamethrower and ran, screaming. Jack Fetch stopped and looked about him. The soldiers had fled. All that remained were unmoving bodies and the burning wreckage of the crashed helicopter, further down the street.