Shadows Fall

Mirren smiled at him. “I doubt that.”

  There was something in the Doctor’s voice and in his eyes that kept the aide from replying. He looked to the Colonel for support and reassurance, but he too seemed lost for words. Mirren leaned back in his chair by the fire, and looked calmly up at the Warriors. They’d thought remaining standing while he was seated would give them a psychological advantage, but it wasn’t working, and they all knew it. The scene was not a military interrogation; rather, it was more that of two errant schoolboys called before their headmaster. Mirren ignored the aide, and fixed his gaze on the Colonel.

  “It’s been almost a year now since I stumbled over one of your spies here in Shadows Fall. He’d been killed in a traffic accident, and they couldn’t find anything on him to identify him. So they brought him to me, and I raised his spirit and asked him questions. Imagine my surprise at the answers I got. But it turned out to be a fortuitous accident, for both of us. Even then I was experiencing… difficulties in my research, and I saw in you a chance for much needed extra financing, and a measure of protection from the enemies I was making. So I contacted your people and made a deal. I’d give you the information you needed on how to locate and break into Shadows Fall, and you’d give me what I needed. I’ve done my part; I’m waiting for you to do yours.”

  “First, you must release the Warrior spirit you called up,” said the Colonel.

  “Him? He’s long gone. It takes a lot of power to keep a spirit on this plane; I let him go as soon as I’d got all I needed from him.”

  “Then I see no reason to stay here any longer.” The Colonel smiled thinly. “We don’t need you any more, Doctor. We can overcome our difficulties with a little effort and application. And with our man’s spirit safe from you, you no longer have any hold over us. You were promised money, but you’ll have to wait for it. You’ll have your seven pieces of silver when the town is fully secure, and not before. As to your demand for protection; we need every man we have to press our attack. We don’t have a man to spare, and won’t for some time. I suggest you make other arrangements.”

  “The money doesn’t matter,” said Mirren evenly, “but my enemies are getting closer with every hour. I must have protection now, or it’ll be too late. You’re an officer; these things can be arranged. It might be possible for you to keep the money I’m owed. No one would ever have to know.”

  “Are you offering us a bribe?” said the aide. Mirren didn’t look at him.

  “Not to you, boy. You don’t have anything I need. But your Colonel looks like a man who understands the realities of this world.”

  “If I had time,” said the Colonel calmly, “I’d have my men drag you out of this house, and flog you within an inch of your miserable life. Perhaps I will anyway, once the town is secured. I am a soldier of the Lord, and beyond temptation.”

  “You all claim to serve the Lord,” said Mirren, “but I don’t think you know his real name. I don’t think you know who your superiors are really bowing to. I have talked with the dead, and they see much that is denied the living. You serve the Lord of Flies, Colonel. You’d better wise up soon, or you’re in for one hell of a shock later on.”

  The aide lifted his hand as though to strike Mirren, but the Colonel stopped him with a gesture. “Blasphemy. I should have expected as much. Congratulations, Doctor. You’ve convinced me you are worth taking the time to discipline. I have men under my command who understand everything there is to know about pain. After a short time in their company, you’ll tell us everything you know about this town and its defences.”

  And then he broke off and stepped back a pace, and the aide fell back with him. There was a shotgun in Mirren’s hands that hadn’t been there a moment before. Mirren rose up out of his chair, and the Warriors backed away until they bumped up against the wall behind them.

  “Get out of my house,” said Mirren. “I can’t trust you to protect me, so you’re no use to me any more. Leave. Now.”

  “We’ll be back,” said the Colonel.

  “I doubt that,” said Mirren.

  He escorted them out of the study, down the hall and out of the front door. He stood in his doorway, the gun covering both the Warriors, and watched as they strode off into the overgrown excesses of his garden. Branches stirred, though no wind blew, and the ivy pulsed like veins. The dark green masses of the garden heaved with life, and the Warriors stopped and looked uncertainly about them. Now, breathed Mirren, and the garden fell hungrily upon the Warriors. Creepers lashed out to ensnare the two men, and ivy sank into their flesh with little mewling sounds. Greenery tore the bodies apart like paper, and scattered the largesse about the garden. Flowers chewed on flesh, and roots sucked up the blood where it fell.

  Mirren nodded composedly. If the Warriors would not help him, he was forced to fall back on his own defences. Whoever fell in his garden would rise again in spirit to serve him, no matter where their loyalties might have lain before. When the dead finally came looking for him, he’d have an army of his own dead to defend him. He walked unhurriedly down the path, and the whispering greenery drew back to let him pass. He stopped and knelt down as something on the path caught his eye. It was a walkie-talkie. One of the Warriors must have dropped it. A thought came to him, and he smiled. He raised it to his mouth, and contacted the Warrior headquarters.

  “This is Doctor Mirren. Please send me more soldiers.”

  —

  For a long time, there was only silence. And then, in the darkness under the rubble that was all that remained of the Cavern club, someone stirred. He wasn’t sure who he was, but he hurt all over. Something heavy was lying across him, and he wriggled slowly out from under it. It felt like a body, disturbingly limp and unresponsive. Soft creaking and groaning sounds surrounded him in the darkness. He reached out cautiously with both hands and felt only space around him. He got his feet under him and stood up slowly, expecting to bang his head on something at any moment, and then reached upwards with his hands. His fingertips brushed against a mass of compacted rubble and jutting stone. It seemed secure enough under his fingers, even firm. Hart shrugged. There wasn’t much he could do about it if it wasn’t.

  He froze where he was as identity trickled back into his mind. James Hart, in the Cavern club, in Shadows Fall. Polly… He crouched down and felt around him in the darkness, and his hands found the heavy weight that had been lying across him. It was a body, soft and yielding and utterly still. He found the face, and a murmur of breath moved against his fingers. For the first time in a long time, Hart wished he hadn’t given up smoking. He would have killed for his old lighter right then. He crouched where he was, paralysed by an overwhelming sense of helplessness, and then someone moaned and protested feebly in a blurred, uncertain voice. The body stirred under his hands, and Hart carefully helped it sit up.

  “Polly? Is that you? Are you all right? Are you hurt?” He realized he was babbling, and shut up to let her answer.

  “I don’t know,” said Polly’s voice. “It’s too dark to tell. Everything seems to be attached that should be, but I’ve got a killer of a headache. What the hell happened?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. I think I remember an explosion, but that’s all.” His groping hand found hers, and he squeezed it reassuringly. It trembled constantly, like the heart of a captured bird. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a lighter on you? Or matches?”

  “No. Are we where I think we are? Underneath a whole lot of collapsed building?”

  “I’m afraid so. Don’t worry. We’re in an air pocket of some kind, and the roof seems solid enough. Someone’ll be here soon to dig us out. Try and stay calm.” He didn’t mention that the air was probably limited, and the less they moved around, using it up, the better. He didn’t think she was ready for that. He wasn’t sure he was.

  “Maybe they think everyone’s dead,” said Polly finally. “Maybe they’ve given up on us, and left. There could be tons of rubble above us.”

  “There can’t be that much, or the ce
iling would have collapsed by now. We’ll wait a while. If no one comes, we’ll just have to dig our way out.”

  He did his best to sound calm and casual, though his nerves were yammering at the unrelieved darkness. A sudden feeling of claustrophobia hit him, bringing a cold sheen of perspiration to his face. He lurched to his feet and tested the roof again. A stone block moved slightly as he applied pressure, and ominous creaks and groans sounded all around him. He snatched his hand away, but the sounds didn’t stop. Hart grinned harshly in the darkness. In for a penny, in for a pound… He pushed harder, and the stone slipped sideways and fell away, landing by his feet. A grey shaft of light fell down, pushing back the darkness. It wasn’t much, but at least he could make out shapes now. Polly turned her face into the light, and Hart fought to keep the concern out of his face. She was a mass of cuts and bruises, and shaking uncontrollably. And then he looked past her, as something else stirred in the gloom. There were two other people in the air pocket with them, lying crumpled together. One was trying to sit up. Hart scooted over to crouch beside them, and Polly gave a gasp of recognition as her eyes adjusted to the sparse light.

  “It’s Suzanne… and Sean Morrison. What are they doing here? Their table couldn’t have been anywhere near ours…”

  “Never question good luck,” said Hart. “It might turn on you. See if you can get them up and moving, while I very carefully make us a bigger hole in the roof. I think we’re not far from the surface.”

  He worked slowly and cautiously, enlarging the hole piece by piece, waiting every now and again as the mass of rubble shifted to new positions. He hadn’t a clue what was holding it up, but he had to take some chances. Finally he decided the hole was big enough, and he helped Polly and the other two clamber up out of the gloom and into the light. Hart was the last out, and then they moved quickly away across the sea of broken stone and metal to safer ground. Morrison kept shaking his head to clear it, and Suzanne was nursing what was very probably a broken arm, but otherwise they seemed to have come out of it reasonably intact. Polly was still trembling, and Hart put an arm round her shoulders. And then, finally, they looked around them; and wherever they looked there was devastation and bodies lying still in pools of blood. Here and there houses were burning, the flames leaping up unchallenged into the evening sky.

  “How long were we down there?” said Hart slowly. “It was barely getting dark when I arrived here.” He looked at his watch. “Three hours? That can’t be right. Can’t be. How can so much have happened in three hours?”

  “Do you think anyone else made it out of the club?” said Suzanne, grimacing as she tried to find a more comfortable way of supporting her injured arm.

  “Not from the look of it,” said Morrison. “It’s a wonder we got out alive. A miracle. What the hell happened to the town while we were buried? It looks like a war zone… There must be dozens of bodies. Dozens…” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and rubbed gingerly at his face. Blood had poured down from a long cut on his forehead, sealing his left eye shut when it dried. He worked doggedly to get the eye open, as though convinced the scene would change if he could only see it with both eyes. “Something bad must have happened here. Something really bad.”

  They moved out on to the deserted street, keeping close together for mutual support. Most of the street lights had been smashed, but there was a full moon and the light from the burning buildings. The smell of smoke was thick on the air. There were bodies and pieces of bodies everywhere. Most of the blood had dried, but some of it was still wet to the touch. Morrison tested it once, but only once. Some of the dead wore military uniforms.

  “We’ve been invaded,” said Suzanne. “Terrorists, or something.”

  “No,” said a sharp voice. “Not terrorists. Soldiers of the Lord. Stand still where you are, and raise your hands above your heads.”

  They all turned cautiously round, raising their hands. A single figure in a military uniform was covering them with an automatic rifle. He looked surprisingly young, but his face was set and grim, and the rifle was perfectly steady in his hands. He looked confident and professional, and quite ready to use the gun if he felt it necessary. The soldier looked coldly at Suzanne, who had raised only one hand.

  “I said, everyone raise their hands.”

  “She can’t,” said Polly. “She’s got a broken arm.”

  “Raise it anyway,” said the soldier. He smiled slightly as he watched Suzanne struggle to raise her other arm more than a few inches. Sweat ran down her face from the pain and effort. Hart scowled, but fought to control his anger. Trying to jump the soldier would just get him killed. There would be other times, other chances. The soldier finally tired of his game, and gestured to Suzanne to forget it.

  “We’re supposed to take prisoners, when the opportunity presents itself,” he said easily. “Never know when you’ll need a few hostages to keep the population quiet. Unfortunately, the rest of my squad have gone on and left me behind. The Sergeant didn’t think this pile of rubble rated more than one guard. But now you’ve turned up. Four sinners who’ve crawled up out of what should have been their grave. The only survivors of that decadent club.”

  “Decadent?” said Morrison. “You must not get out much.”

  “Shut up,” said the soldier calmly. “You four are complications. I don’t like complications. I can’t stand guard over you, and I’ve no one to hand you over to for safe keeping. So, the only sensible thing to do is shoot the lot of you. Nothing personal, you understand.”

  Before any of them could even start to say anything, the soldier aimed his rifle at Hart, and pulled the trigger. There was a quiet click, and nothing happened. The soldier looked down, confused, and Morrison stepped forward and punched him in the mouth. The soldier fell back a step, but didn’t fall down or drop his gun. Morrison took careful aim, and kicked the soldier solidly in the groin. The colour dropped out of his face, and he dropped to his knees. Morrison took the rifle away from him, and hit him on the side of the head with the butt. The soldier fell forward and lay still. Morrison grinned at him savagely.

  “Next time I hit you, fall down, shithead.”

  “I think we should all get the hell out of here,” said Hart, “before some of shithead’s friends come looking for him.”

  They set off slowly down the deserted street, unsure which direction to choose for the best. The street had the unnatural quiet of a bad dream. There was only the crackling of the flames, and their own footsteps. Everywhere they looked there was more devastation, more bodies. Men, women and children lying in awkward poses, watching their homes burn with empty eyes. Hart tried to think of something comforting to say to Polly, who was still trembling uncontrollably, but the words wouldn’t come. It was all too big, too overwhelming, to be reduced to some simple phrase or platitude. He’d seen any number of wars and rebellions on television, but none of them had prepared him for the reality of broken bodies, and the thick sooty smell of burning buildings. It was as though some angry god had reached down and destroyed the street in a fit of childish pique, punishing it for being too independent, too safe and unconcerned. As though its happy everyday reality had somehow offended a vindictive world.

  They all looked round sharply at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Hart led the way into the shadows of the nearest alleyway, and they watched in silence as a convoy of jeeps roared past, packed with armed soldiers. None of them paid any attention to the devastation they passed through, as though they’d seen so much of it that it no longer had any power to move them, one way or the other. The last jeep finally rounded the corner and was gone, and quiet returned to the scene.

  “We’ve got to get off the street,” said Morrison. “Stay out in the open, and those troops are bound to spot us eventually.”

  “Suzanne can’t go far,” said Polly. “She needs a doctor.”

  “Here’s as good a place as any to hole up,” said Hart, indicating the building next to them. “It looks like a shell or something h
it the roof, but fire never got a hold, and the ground floor looks safe enough. There doesn’t seem to be anyone home. You’ll be safe here while I go and look for some help. Assuming there is some still to be found in Shadows Fall.”

  “You can’t go,” said Polly. “It isn’t safe.”

  “I lead a charmed life,” said Hart. “And someone has to go, if only to find Suzanne a doctor. I won’t be long. Look after the women, Sean. Make yourselves comfortable, but keep your heads down. I’ll be back with help before you know it.”

  He flashed them all a quick grin, and hurried off down the street. The shadows swallowed him up, and he was gone. Polly shook her head dazedly.

  “We shouldn’t have let him go. He’ll be killed.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Morrison. “I’ve been checking the gun I took away from that soldier. There’s nothing wrong with it. Full clip of ammo. No reason in the world why it shouldn’t have worked when the soldier turned it on Hart. Maybe he does have a charmed life, after all. It could be why we all survived the wreck of the Cavern; because we were close to him.”

  “It just goes to show how tired I am that that actually seems to make sense,” said Suzanne. “Now can we please get off the street before I puke and pass out? Hopefully in that order.”

  —

  Father Callahan sat alone in his study, and worried. There was nothing to worry about; he’d been promised that everything would go smoothly. But still he sat in his study and listened sickly to a woman screaming outside in the street. The screams broke off suddenly, and the silence that followed was somehow worse. Callahan looked out of his window, and watched smoke rise from burning buildings. His hands clenched into fists as he tried again to tell himself it was all for the best. He’d always known that letting in the Warriors would inevitably result in conflict, but the end justified the means. The Forever Door had to be brought under the control of a Christian authority. It was far too important, too powerful, to be left in the hands of a pagan creature like Time, answerable only to himself. If the Door truly was access to the Godhead itself… Control of the Door inevitably meant control of the town too, but only temporarily. Peace would return once the Warriors had overcome all opposition, and then buildings could be rebuilt, and the innocent comforted. The invasion was a necessary evil, to bring about a greater good.