In one place we encountered things like mutated children, with insect eyes and bulging foreheads, scrabbling through the streets in packs. Naked, vicious, feral. I studied them carefully through my mask to be sure they weren’t in any way human and never had been. Molly wasn’t fooled for a moment. She threw fireballs at them, and they scuttled away, spitting and snarling at us. After them came horrid shapes made up of shimmering phosphorescence, as though burned onto the surface of the world. Passing through walls like smoke, leaving dark stains behind them on the brickwork. A great clump of bottle green maggots crusted around a huge alien eye sailed silently down one street, watching everything with a terrible malevolent joy. Great balloon shapes of rotting leather stalked the streets on long, spindly legs like stilts, slamming into one another endlessly, like stags in rut, trampling the fallen underfoot. And a storm wind full of razor blades swept down the street with vicious speed, the razors clattering harmlessly against my armour, and unable to pierce Molly’s shields.
I was starting to take such things for granted. You can’t be shocked and horrified and appalled all the time. It wears you out. So you become numb to the atrocities, untouched by the horror shows. Maybe that’s how you know when you’re going mad: when such sights no longer bother you. Madness is when all your nightmares have come true and you just don’t care anymore. I clung to Molly’s hand, and she held on to mine. As long as we still had each other and wouldn’t give up . . . the town hadn’t won.
Sometimes it seemed to me that I was someone else, a whole different person with a new purpose. And sometimes it seemed to me that Molly was someone else, someone I’d always known. There were times when we looked at each other and didn’t recognise the person looking back. Sometimes I walked alone, had come in alone, had always been alone in this awful place. And sometimes it seemed to Molly and to me that there was someone else with us. That there were three of us walking down the street together. He walked between us, his face always turned away, and I was afraid that if ever that face turned to look at me, I would see someone or something too horrible to bear.
But that didn’t last.
Whatever happened, the armour kept pulling me back to reality. The one truly solid thing in this place, it would not change and would not allow me to be changed. And Molly . . . was probably too stubborn to accept any reality other than her own for long. I don’t know if she experienced all the things I did. I didn’t ask.
Living cobwebs fell on us from above, crawling all over my armour, trying to hold me down and eat their way in. I pulled them off me in handfuls, crushing them in my hands and throwing them down to trample underfoot. My sanity was starting to get its second wind. Though I had to wonder what state the town’s survivors would be in when we finally got to them. The human mind was never meant to endure under conditions like these. The shattered reality of Little Stoke didn’t even have dream logic to hold it together. Being in the town now was like suffering an endless series of hammer blows to the mind. But Molly had said they were safe, protected for the moment, and I trusted Molly.
When there was nothing else left in the world to depend on, I would still trust my Molly.
Finally, despite everything the broken world could do to stop us, we came at last to the Old Market Hall. It was set right in the middle of the town, I was told afterwards, though such spatial references had become meaningless in Little Stoke. Molly and I had no trouble spotting the old hall; it was the only building that still looked like an ordinary, everyday building. It stood tall and proud, firm in all its details, inside a circle of normality: a sharply defined circle of normal conditions, surrounded by madness. The moment Molly and I crossed that boundary, it was as though a great spiritual weight had been lifted off us. I stopped and sighed heavily, stretching as luxuriously as any cat, enveloped in a palpable sense of pure relief. Molly laughed out loud and hugged me tightly. I hadn’t realised how much of a struggle it had been, how much strength it had taken to keep going and stay sane, until I didn’t have to fight any longer. My mind cleared in a moment, as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water in my mental face.
“I think this is the place,” said Molly.
“I think you’re right,” I said.
We both looked back the way we’d come, but the way we’d come wasn’t there anymore. The town had devolved into utter chaos, with nothing holding sure or certain even for a moment. We both shuddered at the thought of how long we’d spent fighting our way through madness. And then I drew a deep breath, and so did she, and we straightened our backs and held up our heads and marched right up to the Old Market Hall. The front door was wonderfully, reassuringly ordinary. I knocked politely, and we waited.
“There are quite definitely people in there,” Molly said quietly. “I can hear them. They sound like . . . people. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“It’s a bloody miracle in this place,” I said. I knocked again, a little louder. “Hello? People inside? We are people, too. We’re here to help.”
I could hear raised voices inside the old building, but the door remained closed. I was pretty sure I could kick it in if I had to, but that wouldn’t make the kind of first impression I was hoping for. So I moved away from the door and peered in through a window.
“A face! A golden face!”
“Don’t let it in! Monsters!”
“Don’t be silly; monsters wouldn’t bother to knock, would they?”
“He’s got a point.”
“Oh, you always agree with him! We can’t risk opening the door. We can’t risk letting the outside in!”
“We can’t hide in here forever, either!”
There was a long pause, and then I heard the sounds of heavy bolts being drawn back, and a lock turning. I moved back to stand beside Molly, and the moment the door opened we hurried forward into the old hall. The door immediately slammed shut behind us, and people busied themselves with the bolts again. The inside of the old building looked perfectly normal. The floor was solid wood that hadn’t had a decent waxing in quite a while; the walls were reassuringly straight and upright; and the high ceiling stayed where it was supposed to be. A perfectly ordinary, very human last resort. Packed full of people staring at Molly and me with wide eyes. They huddled together, looking very uncertain, as though they half expected Molly and me to turn into monsters at any moment. A lot of them didn’t look too happy at the sight of me in my armour. They knew nothing of Droods. Since the hall seemed such an ordinary place, I armoured down so everyone could see I was human. Molly dropped her force shield and beamed around her.
“The worst is over now,” she said to the crowd of survivors. “We’re here to get you out of this mess.”
They all cried out in relief or simple joy. Many hugged one another. Several came forward to shake me by the hand, smiling widely as my hand remained an ordinary, everyday hand. But a lot of them still looked shocked, hanging on by only their mental fingernails, not quite daring to believe the nightmare could finally be over. A spokesman came forward, a bluff, hearty type in a battered tweed suit. He smiled at Molly and me and shook our hands, the beginnings of hope in his eyes.
“I’m Geoffrey Earl, local vicar. Good to see you! Welcome to the Old Market Hall. You really are very welcome, oh, yes! We are the last survivors of . . . whatever it is that’s happened here.”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Eddie Drood; this is Molly Metcalf; we’re the rescue party.”
“I wasn’t sure there’d be one,” said the vicar. “Do you know what’s happened here?”
“Tell us the truth! Are we in Hell?” said a large, red-faced woman who’d pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She looked like she’d been crying a lot.
“No,” Molly said immediately. “You’re all still in the land of the living. So to speak. What you see out there is . . . local conditions. Outside the town, everything is still as it should be. The world goes on as it always has. We were rather hoping you could tell us what happened here.”
> The vicar shook his head. “It was just another day; we were in here planning the next harvest Sunday, and then . . . we heard this great sound outside, and when we went to the windows to look, we found the world had gone mad.”
“What kind of sound?” I said.
“A great scream,” said the vicar. “As though something had wounded the world. A few of us went outside to see what was going on; we saw what happened to them through the windows. None of us dared leave after that. We stuck close together. Praying. Waiting to be rescued. Hoping to be rescued . . . We were beginning to think we’d been forgotten. Can you tell us anything about what’s happened?”
“We believe this town was made the target of some appalling new weapon,” I said carefully. “Terrorists. We’re still working on the details. Do you have any idea why you survived, when so many didn’t? Why this building is . . . protected?”
“We believe it to be God’s will,” the vicar said steadily. “We all have faith in Him.”
Molly looked like she was about to say something unwise, so I quickly cut in. “As good an answer as any, I suppose.”
“Did you encounter any other . . . survivors, on your way here?” said the vicar, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re all that’s left.”
“Dear God,” said the red-faced woman. “Everyone’s gone? Everyone?”
“Hush, Margaret,” said the vicar. “Are you sure, Mr. Drood? There couldn’t be another refuge like this somewhere else?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I looked around the hall. “There’s some kind of protection operating here. . . .”
“And a pretty damned powerful one, at that,” said Molly.
“Don’t use such language here!” said Margaret. Molly looked at her, and Margaret faded back into the crowd. Molly looked slowly round the hall, and people gave way before her. She stopped abruptly, bent over and stared hard at the floor.
“Got it!” she said. “I can See it! There’s an object of power, really old and incredibly powerful, laid down under the floorboards. Eddie, we need to take a close look at it.”
“I really don’t think we should disturb it,” the vicar said quickly. “We are protected here; we can all feel it.”
“It’s got to be done,” I said. “We need to know what’s kept the madness out of here, in case this happens somewhere else.”
“Of course,” said the vicar. “I’m sorry. We’re all a bit . . . shellshocked. Do what you have to.”
The crowd started to mutter, and a few protested, so I put on my armour again, and they all went very quiet. I flexed my golden arms, and some of the crowd gasped, and said prayers, and even crossed themselves. I moved over to where Molly indicated, and then smashed a hole through the floorboards with one golden fist. The old wood cracked and splintered as my fist drove through, and my arm followed it down as far as the elbow. I yanked my hand back, and that part of the floor exploded outwards, leaving a jagged great hole. And there, lying revealed in the dark earth, was a single stone tablet, some four feet long by three. I armoured down and hauled it up into the light, and then laid it carefully on a nearby table. Molly was immediately there by my side, crowding in for a good look. The vicar moved diffidently in on my other side. The tablet was covered with long lines of writing in half a dozen languages, carved deep into the surface of the stone.
“Do something, Vicar!” said a familiar voice. “Make them put it back! You’re putting all our lives at risk!”
“Hush, Margaret!” said the vicar.
“I will not hush! I have a right to be heard!”
“We’re here to help,” I said.
“But who are you?” said Margaret, pushing her way to the front of the crowd again. She glared at me, and especially at Molly. “We don’t know you! You’re not from around here. And that metal suit of yours isn’t natural! You walked through Hell to get here, and expect us to believe that you emerged untouched? No. You’re part of the Devil’s work. You’re here to give us false hopes, and then steal our only protection!” She drew herself up and looked around her for support. “I say we take the stone back from them, and then throw them out, back into the Hell they came from!”
“Like to see you try,” said Molly.
“We can get you out of here,” I said, in my most reasonable voice. “Anyone else want to shove your only hope for an escape out the door, and hope someone else will turn up to rescue you?”
There was a bit of muttering, but that was all. Margaret realised she was on her own and shut up, still glaring daggers at Molly and me.
“We’ve all been under a lot of strain,” said the vicar.
“Understood,” I said. “Hang on a bit longer. It’s almost over.”
“Can we please concentrate on these writings?” said Molly. “Before the natives start getting restless again?”
There were dozens of lines of writing, still perfectly clear after who knew how many years buried in the earth. The stone itself could have been any age, but there was something about it that made the hairs on my neck stand up. Somehow I knew this stone was ancient. . . .
“Latin,” said Molly. “Greek, old but not classical, and I’m pretty sure that . . . is Aramaic.”
“That’s a very significant combination of languages,” I said. “Put them all together and they suggest Roman Britain. Some two thousand years ago.”
“Can you read any of this?” said Molly. “I can probably bluff my way through the Latin, but the rest . . .”
“This is another of those occasions when I really wish I’d paid more attention at school,” I said.
“So you can’t read it either,” said Molly. “Typical.”
“Perhaps I can help,” the vicar said diffidently. “It’s been a long time since I studied ancient languages at Cambridge, but . . .”
“Who said the age of miracles is over?” said Molly.
The vicar smiled at her. “Get us all out of here and I’ll look it up for you. Now, then . . . Yes. Yes. Most of this is pretty obscure, but one name stands out. Joseph of Arimathea. Well, bless me. . . .”
“‘And did those feet in ancient times . . .’” I murmured. “The man who was supposed to have brought Jesus to visit Britain, during his gap year. But why would he have placed such a powerful protection stone here? Did he know something bad would happen, in this place, eventually?”
“Maybe a certain other personage told him,” said Molly. “I think we’re treading on dangerous ground, Eddie. All that matters is that we now know how, if not necessarily why, this place is protected. But I am telling you, the power contained in this stone is not limitless. Maintaining normal conditions against the pressure from outside is using up a lot of power and draining the stone dry. If we don’t get these people out of here soon . . .”
“What?” said the vicar. “What will happen?”
“Absolutely nothing,” I said. “Because we are leaving right now.”
Something banged on the locked and bolted door. A loud, aggressive sound. The door shuddered in its frame, but the lock and the bolts held. Everyone stood still and silent, staring at the door.
“Nothing’s ever been able to get that close before,” the vicar said quietly.
Something went running back and forth up on the roof: something heavy, with too many legs. It ran up and down, never pausing, never stopping. Something hit the door again, hard. The light outside was changing, the normal daylight darkening as though suffused with blood. The survivors cried out and huddled together again as strange, distorted shapes peered in through the windows.
“The circle of normality is shrinking as the stone uses up its power,” said Molly.
“I told you not to let them disturb it!” shrieked Margaret, her voice thick with imminent hysteria.
“I don’t think the conspiracy knew about the stone,” I said quietly to Molly.
“Seems likely, if even your family didn’t know,” said Molly.
“Conspiracy???
? said the vicar. “Your people? What is going on here? Exactly who are your people, Mr. Drood?”
“We’re the good guys,” I said briskly. “Now hush—there’s a good vicar; we’re talking. I think the stone is a rogue element, Molly. No one knew it was here, because it didn’t activate until it was needed. The conspiracy didn’t mean to leave any survivors behind. The stone hid these people from the chaos, and the conspiracy . . . overlooked them.”
“How are we going to get all these people out of here, Eddie?” said Molly. “I can’t generate a field big enough to protect everyone if we have to walk them all the way back to the town boundary. And I sure as hell can’t teleport this many people out. So what are we going to do?”
“When in doubt,” I said cheerfully, “cheat! Or improvise, with extreme prejudice. The Merlin Glass got us in; with the stone’s power to draw on, I don’t see why it shouldn’t get us all out.”
Molly looked at me, and then at the stone. “Genius. You’re a genius! Have I told you lately that you’re a genius, Eddie? But . . . punching a doorway through all that chaos, and keeping it open, is going to take one hell of a lot of power. You could drain that stone really quickly. The hall would lose its protection, and the chaos would break in. . . .”
“Let’s not go there just yet,” I said. “Let us not even discuss it until we have to. Don’t want to panic the nice survivors, do we? Because there isn’t any other way to get everyone out of here. We could, of course, sneak off on our own and abandon all these good people. . . .”
“Well, I could,” said Molly, “but you couldn’t. You’re not made that way. Another of the things I love about you.”
“How do I love you,” I said. “Let me count the ways. . . .”
“Later,” said Molly.
She kissed me with sudden passion, and I hugged her to me, ignoring the scandalised mutterings from all sides. Then I sent her to watch the door and windows while I took out the Merlin Glass and activated it. It quickly sprang up to full size, to appreciative noises from the survivors, and I locked the doorway onto the grassy hill outside town. The image flickered unsteadily, coming and going in a very dangerous way. Not at all what you want to see in a teleport device. I took the Arimathea stone and placed it carefully under the Glass, and the image cleared and settled. The Glass had tapped into the stone’s power.