Furnace 4 - Fugitives (14 page)

I saw a man behind her – tweed jacket, white hair –but I didn’t realise what he was doing until it was too late. Even as he lifted the candlestick I was running, leaping over a pew and stretching out a hand to block the strike. I was too slow, the huge silver club thumping down on the guard’s head, her hat crumpling. She dropped like a ninepin, wearing a look of surprise that was almost comical. The man snatched the gun from her hand before she hit the floor. He saw me coming and pulled the trigger, the shot zinging over my head. I slid to my knees, hands held up in surrender. At this range, if he fired again, he couldn’t miss.

For the few seconds it took the pistol shot to fade nobody moved. Then the priest strode forth from his altar, hissing his orders through an idiot grin.

‘Yes, the time has come to act. We shall honour you, Lord. We shall sacrifice in your name.’

He held up his hands to the heavens, foam spilling from the corners of his mouth.

‘We shall burn them.’

Burnt Offerings

I never thought there would be a time when I wished myself back in Furnace.

But as I knelt on the floor and watched that crowd approach, fear and desperation turning their faces into cruel masks, as I stared at the man who held me at gunpoint, knowing he would shoot me dead if I so much as moved, I found myself wishing just that.

It wasn’t that I would be safer in the prison. Of course not – these men and women were just that: men and women. They were weaker than me, slower than me. They were nowhere near as dangerous as the rats and the berserkers that had stalked the tunnels beneath general population. They were nowhere near as wicked as the wheezers and their filthy blades. And they’d have all run screaming, or dropped dead from heart failure, if they’d so much as glimpsed the warden.

No, it was something else that made me pray for Furnace, pray to be back in my cell. Because down there, so deep that no amount of screaming would ever reach the surface, I had a memory of the world as a
place where good things could happen. Even though we were buried alive I could still imagine life up here, people going about their business, smiling, laughing. Even though there was a small corner of the earth that was rotting away in madness and bloodshed, life still went on above us, it would always go on.

Now, however, nowhere was safe. There were no more smiles up here, no more laughter. That dead core was spreading outwards, infecting everything. It had only been a few hours and already these people were broken beyond repair. They’d had a glimpse of hell outside their window and their sanity had been snapped in two as easily as a dry twig. And they hadn’t seen the half of it, not yet. What would they do when they finally set forth from this cathedral and saw the streets running red, the monsters that were treading this city into bone dust?

It suddenly stuck me how easy this would be for Alfred Furnace, if what he had said was true. All he had to do was rock this one city to its knees and the cancer of fear would spread. The world would crumble all by itself.

‘Secure them,’ the priest was saying as he strode forward. He stepped over the kid on the floor, the boy’s face resembling a rough carving in mahogany, lumps like woody knots bleeding black sap. The man with glasses hunched over him, glancing at us with an apologetic expression. I knew that look, the one that said he was on our side but too afraid to do anything about it. I’d worn it enough times. ‘Fetch the lamps.’

Simon grunted, started walking towards the priest, but the old man with the gun lifted it towards the ceiling and fired again. I heard the bullet ricochet off the stone, scraps raining down over the pews.

The kid on the floor reacted to the shot, his eyes snapping open, bottomless pits devoid of colour. He stared at the ceiling, his lips peeling back to reveal stained teeth, his back arching as if he was in agony.

The smoking barrel dropped right at Simon, freezing him in his tracks. We were all standing in the centre aisle, the armed man closest to the doors, the rest of the crowd clustered around the priest, and the four of us in between them.

‘Time is short,’ the priest said. ‘We must exorcise the spirits from this child by slaying those who have engineered his possession.’

‘This isn’t necessary,’ Zee quavered. ‘We’re not demons.’

‘You and the girl can stand back,’ the priest said. ‘Your eyes don’t shine with the light of the devil. Your souls can be saved.’

Zee started to argue but Lucy grabbed his arm, pulling him away. He looked at me, arms held up, mouthing,
What can I do?
I shook my head, warning him to stay away. Then I met Simon’s eye, saw exactly what he was thinking.
Let them get close enough, then give them hell
. We closed ranks, standing shoulder to shoulder as we had so many times before.

An elderly woman had run to the altar, lifting a ceremonial lamp from the cloth. She hurried back with it, handing it to the priest. He walked closer, ten steps
away, then five, before coming to a halt. He made the sign of the cross over his chest, kissing the base of his thumb. All the time he circled the lamp in his hand, the oil sloshing inside.

‘I really wouldn’t do this if I were you,’ I said. ‘I’m sure God doesn’t take too kindly to killing kids.’

‘You’ve never read the Old Testament,’ Zee muttered.

‘You are not children,’ the priest went on, eyes bulging so much they looked as if they’d pop right out of his head.

‘They’re not children!’ somebody behind him yelled. The way they were acting reminded me more than anything of inmates inside the prison, the pack mentality that spread like wildfire, devouring common sense and reason. Right now these people were animals. They had their leader and they’d follow him into the heart of madness because it was safer there than standing alone.

‘Easy,’ came a voice from behind the crowd. I recognised Glasses Man, his words lost behind a deep growl of pain, like an injured animal. ‘Hey, guys, I think he’s waking up. Can I get some help here?’

But all eyes were on us. I backed up, feeling the hot barrel of the gun sting my neck. This was crazy, there was no way they could just burn us alive. But even as I watched somebody else had fetched a candle, a small man, younger than the rest, clutching it to his chest with both hands like a cross to ward off vampires.

‘Give me strength, Lord,’ the priest wailed. ‘Place your hand on me and give me the courage to do what
must be done. Accept this sacrifice, trust us to kill these devils in your name.’

He unscrewed the top of the lamp and held it up high, drops of oil spilling down his arm and onto the stone. Some of the crowd were stepping away now, their sense of reality returning.

‘Wait,’ said one woman near the back. ‘You’re not actually going to do this, are you?’

And behind it all that same pitiful moan of the kid on the floor, growing louder, deeper.

‘He’s coming out of it, I think. Will somebody help down here?’

Simon leant into me, a whisper dropping from his lips.

‘You get the gun, I’ll take the priest.’

I’d barely registered what he’d said before he darted forward. I felt the pressure of the gun leave my neck and swung my right arm back as hard as I could. It was a lucky strike, my elbow clipping the pistol just as the man pulled the trigger. The bullet went wide, thudding into somebody in the crowd and catapulting them over a pew. A mist of blood blossomed upwards, painting the faces around it, but I wasn’t paying any attention. I twisted my whole body, bringing my fist round hard into the gunman’s face. He’d probably never been hit in his life, especially by someone with a blacksuit’s punch, and the impact knocked him out cold.

By the time I’d turned back the cathedral had descended into anarchy. Simon and the priest were wrestling with the lamp. Simon may have been taller and broader
than the priest but the man had a psychopathic strength. Oil was spilling everywhere, glistening green and blue against their clothes. Most of the crowd were retreating now, reality forcing its way back through their wide, timid eyes. But two or three were doing their best to help the priest, punching Simon in the head and neck and trying to push him over. Zee was running along one of the pews, making for the skirmish, and I headed that way too.

The man with the candle got there first.

He held it out for a moment, his saggy face crumpled with panic. Then with a soft cry he let it tumble from his hands. It missed Simon, the flame almost guttering out as it tumbled earthwards. Then it landed in a puddle of oil and roared to life, the fire like a hand rising from the stone and grabbing both Simon and the priest in its embrace. Even with the flames around them they carried on wrestling, the priest refusing to let go of the lamp despite the fact it had become the centre of the inferno.

‘Simon!’ I cried, ignoring the clawing heat as I ran to his side. I threw a punch into the raging fire, feeling it connect with the priest. He staggered backwards, the lamp now welded to his hands. The flames had engulfed him and he reeled towards the altar, collapsing on the steps. He writhed for a moment, then was still. The fire, still hungry, began to chew up the carpet, catching hold of the altar cloth and the tapestries that surrounded it.

‘Alex, help me,’ said Zee, and I forced my eyes from the smouldering corpse to see him tearing coats from the kid on the floor. Simon was on his knees, beating at the flames
on his clothes. But the oil was burning thickly, smearing his fingers, stretching tongues of flame up towards his neck and face.

Zee gave Simon a shove, sending him sprawling onto his back. Then he pounced on top of the blazing body, slamming coats down everywhere he could.

‘Hold these!’ he yelled, and I did as I was told, crouching beside him and pressing the jackets over the flames. Zee’s hands were a blur as he slapped until the fire had been reduced to pockets of charred cloth that smoked weakly. He collapsed on top of Simon, all three of us coughing up a lung and panting for breath.

I scanned the crowd, waiting for the next attack, but with their messiah gone and one end of their haven blazing nobody would even meet my eye. Most were collapsed against the pews, puking and crying and all the other things you do when you realise you’ve become a monster. I should know. I’ve been there too.

The man with the glasses was doing his best to hold the kid still but the boy’s tremors had grown much worse. The boy was thumping up and down, each motion causing a squeal of wood as the pew was dragged over the stone. He was mewling, a horrible sound that reminded me of a newborn animal. And looking at the kid, that’s what he was like. He wriggled against the man’s grip like an oversized baby, gnashing the air, clawing helplessly at the plastic cuff, dribbling mouthfuls of black liquid.

‘What do we do?’ the man asked. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

I knew exactly. He’d woken up, roused by the nectar
that surged inside him, by the smell of burning flesh, of spilled blood, the cries of pain. I knew because the nectar inside me was firing up too, boiling in my veins. I felt the wound in my neck pulse as though there was something living in there. My arm twitched, the skin swelling, and I held it to my body as if that would keep it from expanding any more.

‘Get back,’ I told the man in glasses. He didn’t argue, easing the boy’s head off his knees and shuffling away. A spasm rocked the kid’s body, the pustules on his broken face bursting, his insect eyes never blinking. Then he opened his mouth wider than should ever have been possible and unleashed a cry of anguish.

Too late I realised what that cry was. It was a call for help, the same way a cub calls for its mother. And moments later, as the windows grew dark, silhouettes thrashing against the leaded glass, I realised that its call had been answered.

They’d found us.

Invasion

They came through the window hard and fast, led by the same berserker we’d seen at Twofields station. It pushed its fat, grinning baby face through the leaded glass, emitting that same spine-chilling giggle. Then it dropped the ten metres or so to the floor, snapping a pew and scattering bibles like leaves.

A window smashed on the other side of the cathedral, two shapes pushing through a vision of angels, not seeming to notice that the glass was cutting their skin to shreds. Judging by the amount of nectar that was spilling from them, streaming down the walls, those wounds would be closed before they hit the floor. They were both inmates who had become rats, their overalls scuffed and torn almost beyond recognition, their faces darkened by the fluid pumping beneath their skin. One had already grown enormous forearms, reminding me of Popeye. It bared its teeth at us, growling like a dog, then dropped, landing awkwardly and sprawling on its side. The second followed, scampering on four limbs towards the fire as though it was the first time it had ever seen one.

The only sound I could hear was, incredibly, laughter. One of the men in the crowd was chuckling to himself as he watched events unfold. Everybody else just stood there, breath held, as if by sheer collective will they could stop this from being real. I realised I was doing exactly the same, praying that if I was still and silent enough that berserker and its spawn would leave us alone.

No such luck.

The berserker advanced first, scrambling over a pew, moving on all fours. It sniffed the air, evidently catching the scent of the kid, loping towards him. Glasses Man was sitting on the floor, between the kid and the berserker. He shuffled backwards, his specs hanging off one ear, his hands held up.

‘I was just trying to help him,’ he said. ‘Please, I didn’t—’

The berserker lifted the man in its massive arms, throwing him across the cathedral. He hit a pillar with a chilling thwack, bouncing off into the shadows beneath a pew. It was the sound more than the sight, I think, that suddenly propelled everybody into action. Where there had been stillness there was now chaos as people ran, nobody choosing the same direction.

A woman thumped into me as she bolted for the main doors. She made exactly five steps before one of the rats got her, bounding up the southern aisle and cutting down between the pews. It leapt onto her back, teeth lodged in her throat, sending them both crashing to the floor.

I felt a hand on my arm, flinching at the touch before realising it was Zee.

‘Let’s move,’ he ordered, taking his own advice and running along the length of the pew towards the northern aisle, Lucy close behind. Simon was after them like a shot, not looking back.

I watched the second rat take down another member of the crowd, the man who had been holding the candle. It didn’t pause to feast but propelled itself up, felling another victim with a gargled cry of delight. Somebody threw a punch at the rabid inmate. It connected with a crack, but the creature didn’t show any sign of feeling it, using one hand to knock the fist away and the other to claw out the man’s throat. Behind it all was a backdrop of smoky flames as the altar continued to burn, the fire somehow making its way up the stone walls in search of fuel, finding the ancient wooden rafters.

‘Alex,’ Zee yelled from the other side of the cathedral. ‘Come on!’

I remained motionless, watching the berserker lean over the kid on the floor. Not that he was a kid any more. There was nothing of the child left in that swollen mass of blackened tumours that struggled to free itself from its plastic binds. With surprising tenderness the berserker grabbed the kid’s hand and pulled, the plastic snapping. Then it pushed the boy to his feet, nudging him with its snout the same way an animal might do to its offspring before it takes its first steps.

I can honestly say that it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.

The kid – the rat – took a hesitant step forward, then caught sight of somebody cowering behind a column. It moved clumsily but fast, so fast, covering a dozen metres in a second. And it knew exactly what to do with its prey, tearing into it with expert precision.

‘Jesus, would you get a move on?’ said a voice to my side. I realised Simon had come back for me, tugging furiously on my jumper. One side of his face was charred black but he didn’t seem to be in too much pain. ‘You’ve seen it all before, come on.’

Still I didn’t move. The berserker lifted its head, studying me from the other end of the aisle, then started moving, stepping over the still-warm bodies in its path.

‘Screw you,’ Simon said, retreating for the second time. ‘You wanna die, then go ahead and die.’

And that’s precisely why I wasn’t moving, I realised.

Because I wasn’t going to die.

The berserker reached me, towering up to its full height – a metre or more above my head. It grabbed me by the throat, the same way it had done before, turning its ugly head this way and that as if trying to get a good look at me. But it didn’t need to.

It knew exactly who I was.
What
I was.

With another infant chuckle it released its grip. Then it turned its back on me, scouring the cathedral for new victims. In a rush of anger the nectar detonated inside my head, firing off so many synapses that time seemed to unravel – the fire burning, the rats moving, the people screaming all in slow motion like a movie whose projector was running out of power.

‘Don’t you dare,’ I heard myself say as I watched the berserker slope off. ‘Don’t you dare!’

I ran forward, shoving the berserker in the back with everything I had. It lurched, using its forelimbs to stay up. But all it did was angle its head over its shoulder and hiss at me. I heard a shot from somewhere in the cathedral but I ignored it, my anger swelling up inside my head, making my vision flicker on and off. This was by far the worst thing that could have happened, worse even than me being torn to pieces, being eaten alive.

The berserker didn’t kill me because I was a part of its family, because it could sense the same life force in me that flowed through it, because we had the same father, and that man wanted to keep us both alive.

It didn’t kill me because it knew that I was one of them.

‘I’m not,’ I screamed, picking up the candlestick that had been used to brain the security guard. ‘I’m not one of you. I’m not the same as you!’

And in my head, out of nowhere, came his voice –that same impossible half-whisper, half-shout of Alfred Furnace.

But you will be.

I lifted the heavy candlestick, a solid silver bar that must have weighed as much as a lead pipe, and as the nectar forced a battle cry from me I brought it down on the berserker’s back. It hit with the same sound a car makes when it drives into a wall, a weird metallic clang that reverberated around the cathedral. The berserker toppled forward, falling flat on its face. But it didn’t stay
down for long, scuttling away and unfolding once again to its full height. This time the look it gave me was more threatening, but still it didn’t attack.

Another shot, and I glanced over to see Zee firing the pistol. There was one dead rat by his feet, the body twitching. Another had the sense to duck down behind a pew, the wood splintering as Zee fired. The berserker uttered a wet screech as it retreated, and the two remaining rats burst from their hiding places, following it towards the broken window. It ushered them up the wall and through the glass, leaping after them and pushing its way out into the open air. It looked back only once, and as its eyes met mine I once again heard that voice, reverberating around my head as if the very bells of the cathedral were ringing.

You will be.