The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (18 page)

I tell him, and five minutes later we’re there. I get out and thank him.

Alex grins. “Don’t worry about it. Just remember to keep the safety on that pistol—until you need to use it.”

I watch the car pull away. “First break of the day,” I say. “And it only took until 2 pm.”

“Yeah,” Lissa says, as we walk through the hospital grounds, heading straight for the morgue. It almost feels like coming home. “But what are we heading into?”

We both have a fair idea. The Wesley’s feeling even worse than it did yesterday. Bile’s rising in my stomach. My body’s already reacting to this place and the creatures it contains.

And it gets worse as we get closer.

A park borders Wesley Hospital on one side, the train station on another. Coronation Drive is nearby, I can see the tall jacarandas that line the river. The Wesley is a private hospital but a big one, with new
works always being constructed. Cranes and scaffolding generally cover at least one side of the building.

It should feel like a place of healing, not this sick-inducing death trap.

“Thank God,” says an orderly, a fellow I recognize. His eyes are wide and wild. I can smell his fear. “Where have you lot been?”

“Busy, John. Busy.” I don’t have time to go into the details.

“At least we have these,” John says. He lifts his sleeve, there’s the bracing symbol tattooed on his arm. It’s a good idea. Most orderlies working the morgues and mortuaries have them. You only need to see one Stirrer, and feel its impact on you, to change your mind.

“How many?” I ask.

“Seven.”

I swallow uncomfortably. I’ve never seen that many Stirrers together in my life. This is bad, really, really bad. It’s one thing to hear Morrigan talking about Regional Apocalypse, it’s another, much more visceral experience, to face it alone.

“We’ve got them tied down. But someone is going to hear the screaming. You’ve got to—”

“I know what I’ve got to do,” I say, a little shortly. I don’t really want to do it, but I have no choice.

Dealing with seven Stirrers strapped to gurneys is not something I’m looking forward to. The first thing I encounter are their screams. Another orderly comes at us. “You need to do something!”

“That’s what I’m here for,” I say.

I walk into the room. Lissa follows me in, though she keeps her distance from the gurneys. A Stirrer could draw her straight through to the Underworld. I don’t want her here with me—it’s too dangerous—but, Christ, I’m glad she is.

Their presence (or absence) is choking. It’s like stepping into a room with no air. It’s freezing in here and condensation has turned to ice on everything, a sort of death frost. The Stirrers are flailing on
the gurneys, held down tight, but not tight enough for my liking. I look at Lissa. She shrugs. She hasn’t seen anything like this either.

I’ve heard about the world wars, how these things were common at the front where there was so much death gathered in one place. But this is inner-suburban Brisbane.

I sigh. Take out my knife and slice open a fingertip. Once the blood is flowing I reach out toward the first one.

“Can’t stop us,” it whispers, and then the others are taking up its cry, their voices not quite right. More gurgle than chant.

“This isn’t good,” Lissa says.

I look at her. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Just thought I’d say it.”

“Can’t stop us,” the Stirrers chime in.

Yes I can.

I press my bloody finger to each Stirrer’s hand. They still for good.

But the last one, a bulky fellow, snaps a hand free of its constraints. His fingers clench around my wrist. Bones creak and I wince. I yank my hand free and swing my blood-slicked fist at his face.

“Can’t stop us!” he howls, then is gone, my bloody touch stalling him. I get out of that room as quick as I can.

That took more blood than it should have. The Stirrers are getting stronger.

I glance at John. “These won’t stir again, and I’ll return if I’m alive.” I don’t tell him how unlikely a proposition that may be when charted against the days—no, the hours—ahead. “But there will be more. I rather suspect that everyone who dies will be… reinhabited.”

I incline my head at his tattoo. “You might want to brace as many rooms as possible with this.” I give him a tin of paint. There’s a few drops of my blood in it and it should provide some limited protection for the hospital at least.

John frowns, as he pockets the paint tin. “And where will you be?”

“If I can come back, I will. I’m just not sure that it’s an option.”

I’m still a bit shaky as we walk out of the hospital. Stalling takes a lot out of you. One or two is bad enough, but seven is off the chart. Morrigan was right, we’re nearing some sort of tipping point. The Stirrers can sense something is wrong. I can imagine the queues of Stirrer souls just crowding around waiting to get into newly dead bodies. Humans have become prime real estate in a way that hasn’t happened since the darkest days.

A basketball center’s to the right of us, on the other side of the train line. There must be a couple of games going, I can hear the screech of shoes, the indignant shriek of whistles.

“We need to get the system up and running again,” I say to Lissa.

She shakes her head. “Sorry,
you
need to get the system up and running.”

“Well, running might be a good idea,” says a familiar voice. Don’s ghost is standing by Lissa. They circle each other.

“Where’s Sam? Is she alive?” I demand.

Don shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, Don. Really, really sorry,” Lissa says.

Don fixes her with a stare. “You know how it is.”

His form flickers. He blinks.

“What the hell happened?” I ask.

Don grimaces. “I feel stupid.” His irritation is without much edge, though. He’s already sliding away into the land of the dead, though he manages to fix me with a stare. “It’s Morrigan.”

“I knew it,” Lissa says. “All that polite bullshit. All that sympathy. What an absolute dickhead.”

“The bastard tried to pomp me, too. But I managed to—” he glances at Lissa. “Christ, how do you keep this up?”

“It gets easier.”

Don shakes his head like he doesn’t believe her. “Morrigan’s decided he doesn’t need to hide now. And there’s something you
need to know: every time a Pomp dies, he becomes more powerful. Whatever presence or energy they have, well, he gets it. That’s something he let slip.”

Which means he must be pretty powerful now if there’s only him and Sam and me left.

“But I was speaking to Morrigan this morning, at Mount Coottha,” I say, feeling the blood drain from my face. Then I do what anyone would do in that situation—start with denial. “It can’t be him. He didn’t look powerful at all. He told me—”

“Well, he’s a fine actor. Must be, to have pulled all this off. Steve, the bastard shot me,” Don snaps. “How much more of a definitive delineation of betrayal do you need? We have to get you out of here, out of the city. Morrigan’s holding off on killing you now.”

“I met Alex,” I say. We’re running out of the car park and onto the road, then around under the train tracks and into the basketball court’s car park. My head is spinning. I really thought I could trust Morrigan. It had been a good feeling, having a central point in all of this, the idea that someone was guiding the ship again, and now…

Don grins. “My Alex, a good boy. Total Black Sheep. I love the kid. Was going to go to the footy with him on Sunday. Broncos match. Hate the Broncos, but the boy’s dead keen.” Don shook his head. “I couldn’t believe it, about Morrigan, I mean. I started trusting him when you made it alive down off Mount Coot-tha. I think that was the plan all along. No offense, Steven, but Morrigan reckons he can kill you off when he likes, when the rest of us are done with. But he doesn’t count—”

Don’s gone with a soft sound like the ringing of a tiny bell, a sparrow cutting through him, pomping him, its wings whirring. I’m still blinking at the sight of Don sliding out of non-corporeal existence, trying to understand why Morrigan might be keeping me alive. The bird flits past me.

It’s one of Morrigan’s sparrows. The inkling twists sharply in the air and hurtles toward Lissa.

I’m running at her, trying to get in between her and the sparrow. If it gets there first then I’m alone. I just make it, the sparrow hits my chest hard enough to hurt. It thumps off and onto the ground, and I stomp down. Little sparrow bones crunch beneath my boot. And then it sinks away into a tiny puddle of ink and feathers.

Hope that hurt you, Morrigan.

And then there are more of them. And more.

Someone slows in their car beside me, and then picks up speed. I don’t blame them, I must look insane thrashing and swinging at the little birds. I dance around as one sparrow, then another and another and another, descends. They’re all around us. I can’t do anything about it.

But something else can. Crows crash from the sky, like the eagles in
Lord of the Rings
. If someone had started yelling “
The crows are coming! The crows are coming!
” I would have cheered. The black birds are cawing and crying, snatching sparrows out of the air with their dark beaks in a maelstrom of wings above and around us.

Then the crows are gone and the only remnants of the melee are inky puddles.

“That was…interesting,” Lissa says.

“Wasn’t it just,” I say.

We look at each other. There’s another player in the game. The sparrows are Morrigan’s; the crows, they belong to Mr. D. So maybe he’s not as in the dark as we believe.

I’d seen Morrigan form an inkling once, at a party. He was charming then as usual. We were talking about tatts, comparing our ink. My cherub had gotten a few appreciative comments, newly cut. Then Morrigan, one never to be outdone, had said, “That’s a fine tattoo, boy, but can you do this?”

He’d pulled up his sleeve to the first Escheresque tangle of sparrows that ran from his sinewy biceps and over his back. He whistled then, a shrill, short note, and a bird pulled free of his flesh. “Inklings are quite simple once you get the hang of it.”

The sparrow flew around the room, picking up snacks and bringing them back to him.

It had appeared effortless, until I saw him later, coming out of the bathroom. He’d been a bit shaky on his feet. I could smell the sweat on him, even over his cologne. I didn’t want him to have a stroke, still, I’d respected his pride and just quietly helped him to a chair. If only I had known what it would come to… Well, I would have kicked the legs out from under him.

That had been one sparrow, now we had seen tens of them. And he was using them to pomp the dead. Don was right, Morrigan’s powers had increased incredibly.

S
o what do we do?” I ask, staring at the ink-stained ground. “I can’t see how I can keep you safe.”

“First we’re going to need cover,” Lissa says, and heads back toward the hospital car park. I follow, hurrying to keep pace.

“You’re going to have to bind me to you and this realm,” Lissa says.

“I’m unfamiliar with the process. I’ve heard of bindings, but never seen it done.”

“There’s a reason for that. OK, a couple of them, the first being that it’s old. You wouldn’t have come across it unless you’re particularly interested in the history of pomping. And there really isn’t much written about Pomps. It takes quite a bit of research.” Lissa smiles, a little too mockingly for my liking. “And, no offense, you don’t exactly strike me as the studious type.”

I take immediate offense at that. “Morrigan never exactly encouraged it.”

Lissa nods. “Well, we know why now. Anyway, people don’t talk about this stuff, in the specific. You have to really dig. The process is… It’s a little confronting.” She flashes me another smile. “But if we don’t do it, I’m worried that Morrigan will pomp me, and you need me.” She’s so right, but I rail against that a little. She can see it in my face, and her laugh is both affectionate and mocking. “Don’t you try and suggest otherwise, laddy.”

We’re under the cover of the car park. “OK, so how do I do it? How do I bind you? It sounds pretty kinky, you know.”

Lissa reddens, just a little, and I get the feeling that she’s more embarrassed for me than anything else. “Well, it sort of is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most of these types of ceremonies involve blood, but in this case that’s not enough, because you’re not pomping, you’re binding.” Her eyes seem to be having trouble meeting mine. “You’re going to need semen. Your own semen.”

“Here?” I turn in a quick circle. There’s no one about, but this is a car park. Of course I’m sure there’s been plenty of that here, but not mine. “I’m supposed to—”

“This is no time to be squeamish, or prudish,” Lissa says impatiently. “There might be a whole flock of bloody sparrows on their way.”

“Pressured is the word that comes to mind, actually.”

“Performance anxiety, eh? Well, I’m dead, it’ll be our little secret. Besides, I’ve already seen you naked.”