“That much decay in just a few hours?” said one of the policemen. “No way. Dead for days, maybe weeks …”
An argument began, conducted in low voices. Jackie asked if she could go home. She was told that she could. She did not look back as she followed her faint trail through the wild grasses. She was on the road before she began to think.
Dead for days. Dead for days.
She thought of Josh at school, still unaware of what had happened to his friends. She could not understand what had happened to Sallie, Jon, Zoe, and Ben. All she could be sure of was that a violent, destructive force was loose.
So this is what it feels like … to live in fear.
***
The edge of the Interloper city was in sight when what looked like children appeared. Naked and cowering, two little girls with dust-matted hair ran out of a side-passage and clung to a startled Clarke. The technician tried to shove them away but Forster could see the man was unwilling to risk injuring what may have been real kids.
“Tasers!” Forster shouted. “Knock 'em down!”
The children began to wail.
“Help us! We want to go home!”
Half the squad seemed to be scrabbling for Tasers, with the rest looking on, confused. Forster heard a mournful sound behind him and turned to see another thin figure approaching. This one appeared to be a young woman, clutching a few scraps of dirty clothes around herself. Forster had seen plenty of refugees, and thought he had long ago perfected the art of ignoring them. But this one's face reminded him of someone. He felt old memories stirring, and with them, confusion.
Mission! Focus, man! Overwhelming odds, it is not a human being.
He raised his shotgun, made a stabbing motion with it.
“Get back!”
The woman held out stick-thin arms. The face that looked pleadingly into his was, he could not help noticing, very lovely. It reminded him of an altarpiece of the Virgin Mary in his school chapel. Every Sunday for five years he had stared at the unearthly visage, come to associate it with all that was good and pure.
Cheap tricks!
Forster fired into the beautiful face. It staggered back. There was a spray of blood, showing black in the strange light. The figure fell. There was a startled yell behind him, and Forster turned to see one of the small Interlopers had clambered up Clarke and was biting his face. Other thin, pale figures appeared. The heavy boom of shotguns and the crackle of Tasers were interspersed with screams, curses, scuffling. Clouds of red dust rose to obscure what had become a vicious close-in fight.
“Regroup!” Forster bellowed, as something struck him hard between the shoulder blades. He managed to beat off his assailant with the butt of his gun, then ran into the middle of the fray, hitting out left and right. The Interlopers were fast, but in the enclosed space, the sheer number of people striking at them offset their advantage.
“Withdraw to the gateway!” Forster shouted, shooting point-blank into the face of what had, a moment before, looked like a scared child. For every attacker that went down, at least one guard was also disabled or killed.
“Drop the wounded, save yourselves!”
Forster followed his own advice and made it back to the gateway. Half-blinded by dust, he at first thought the portal had closed. But as he got nearer, he saw that the sphere of darkness was still hovering. He glanced back and saw a dark-clad figure pounced upon by two pale, naked Interlopers.
Down to me, he thought. Sole survivor. Not for the first time.
Forster ran onto the stone platform and hurled himself into the dark globe. The weird, directionless light of the Phantom Dimension vanished, along with its dry, thin air. He found himself falling onto a patch of snow, rolled, and hit a fallen tree trunk. A shower of snow fell over him as the tree juddered. He panted, his breath visible as spurts of white vapor filled the crisp winter air.
Forster struggled upright, brushed snow off his jacket, and went to pick up the shotgun that had fallen a few feet away. As he moved over the snowy ground, he noticed the trail of boot-prints that led into the clearing.
Only one set of tracks going out, he thought. What a bloody fiasco.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the air shimmer and grow dark. The gateway was still open. He snatched up the shotgun, pumped another shell into the chamber, and waited. A crouching shape tumbled through, small and pale. Forster fired just as the Interloper was emerging from the sphere of troubled air. The creature gave a shriek and fell to the forest ground.
Forster took off his pack and opened it, took out a grenade – souvenir of a more orthodox job. He tore out the pin with his teeth and flung the small, gray ovoid into the gateway. There was a reddish flash and a sound like a distant rumble of thunder. He calculated that, if it had fully emerged on the other side, it would at least buy him some time.
With luck, it killed most of 'em. But whatever's happening in their world, I need to get moving in this one.
Forster got up and started to dodge between the trees, moving quickly but not running. He reloaded the shotgun as he went, using up the last of his cartridges. Every sound he made seemed way too loud. He kept glancing back, expecting any attack to come from the gateway. It was only when a small deluge of snow fell just ahead of him that he thought to glance up, and saw a small figure crouching in the leafless, black branches above. Forster began to raise the gun as the Interloper dropped down upon him. He fired but missed, cursing at the fast-moving target.
It would have to be a small one.
Chapter 7: Revelation, Two
After Frankie returned with a camera, Denny suggested that she and Zoffany go get the best evidence to support their case. Close-ups of an actual Interloper.
“You mean filming Lucy?” asked Gould.
“Yep,” Denny confirmed. “That's a case where a picture is worth a thousand words.”
“Yes, but most of those words will be along the lines of 'fake',” Gould protested. “It will be like that alien autopsy film.”
“Except that we know the Interlopers exist,” Denny pointed out. “And by the same logic there must be a whole lot of people around the world who know it, too. England is hardly unique. Interlopers must be known to some governments, quite a few scientists, maybe reporters. My guess is they're all waiting for someone else to make the first move – claim to know about real monsters, and get called crazy. At first.”
She paused, smiling at the group.
“Well, I'm nominating us as the Crazy Committee. How about it?”
“Sounds reasonable, in the circumstances,” said Jim, ruefully.
“You're not coming?” asked Frankie, brandishing her camera.
Denny shook her head.
“I saw enough of that particular – person when it tried to kill me,” she said. “So don't get too close.”
After Frankie and Zoffany had set off for the sub-basement, Gould asked, “What's the real reason for you not wanting to go downstairs?”
Denny glanced around the three men. She felt she could trust Gould and Jim up to a point, but Davenport was a relative stranger.
“Those things have a range, when it comes to mind-reading,” she said carefully. “I think it's a few yards, at most. There's something I don't want it to know. And yes, I am keeping it to myself for now.”
Gould shrugged, sat down at a PC and tried to get more satellite data. At first, it seemed as if the system was malfunctioning. The screen showed what looked like orange smog across much of the earth's surface. Then it occurred to Jim to ask if it had been swamped with data.
“The idea is to find gateways,” Gould said, trying to get a clear image. “There'd have to be millions of them to overload the software.”
“What if instead of pin-point gateways there were lots of broad regions?” Jim asked. “Would that foul it up?”
“We can't be sure of that,” said Davenport.
“You sound kind of unsure yourself,” Denny said, filming the screen. “Maybe you could describe what
this equipment is supposed to do, Ted? Keep it short.”
“Look,” Davenport said, getting up. “I know you mean well, but this goes against my training and my gut tells me it will end in tears. If you don't mind, I think I'll just take some unpaid leave.”
After he left, Denny looked at what remained of the Crazy Committee, then took out her keys. Gould leaned forward, peering at the dull, purplish stone as she dangled it in front of them. Jim gave a low whistle.
“I guess I can trust you guys,” she said. “If we can find the other talisman, maybe we can do that old-school military thing – take the fight to the enemy? By which I mean, get some actual footage of the Phantom Dimension, and release it to the world tomorrow.”
“How?” Jim asked. “They know we're planning to scout along the tunnel, and that's the only gateway we know of.”
Denny put her key ring away, leaned back against a desk, and folded her arms.
“Yeah, but the gateway can't actually be on the line, can it? I mean, trains would be going through into another dimension. People would notice. Questions in parliament, right?”
“How does that help us–?” Gould began, then paused. “Oh. Oh, I see your point. But if you're wrong …”
“You want us to go into the tunnel between trains?” Jim asked.
Denny pointed at the map of the Tube. Between Hobs Lane and Wyndham Road was a disused side tunnel. It was, they had agreed, the likeliest place for a gateway. It was closer to Hobs Lane, and Denny had estimated that it would only take them ten minutes to get there.
“But,” Jim protested, “the rails will be live. And there are only a few inches between the train and the tunnel wall. So if we get it wrong–”
“We get turned into hamburger,” Denny said simply. “And then we get grilled.”
***
After the last of his patients had left, Russell Wakefield went to look out at Branksholme Woods. The group of SUVs was still parked in a rough triangle, a few yards from the edge of the forest. There was no sign of movement. Wakefield shrugged, reasoning that it was none of his business. He thought he saw movement under the trees, something pale darting between trees.
“Play the hero, get yourself killed,” he muttered.
He went into the lounge, poured himself a Scotch, and then turned on the TV. A local news bulletin was just ending. The presenter was talking about missing children, and a 'scene of carnage'.
Frowning, Wakefield picked up his phone and checked the news feed. It did not take him long to find the story. 'Farm killings – police appeal to the public for information.' He scrolled down and found that the crime scene was about twenty miles away. 'Concern is mounting', he read, 'for two young children who are missing'.
He thought of the Hawkes twins, who had returned from the Phantom Dimension, and their Interloper doubles, who had vanished. Then he put on his coat and decided to go and check. At the last moment, he paused and went back for his medical bag, and made a few preparations. Then, bag in one hand and phone in the other, he set off up the snowbound slope.
As he neared the unmarked vehicles, he caught sight of movement at the edge of the woods. Some snow fell from a heavy-laden branch with a hiss. Wakefield raised his phone and filmed for a few moments, focusing on the area. Then he played back the footage. There was no sign of any living creature. He looked up again, and listened. All he heard was the squeak of compact snow as he shifted his weight slightly.
No birds, he thought. There are never any birds when it happens.
Then there was a dull booming sound that echoed along the ridge. Wakefield had lived in the country long enough to recognize a shotgun being fired. He half-ran up to the nearest vehicle, tried the door. It was locked. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement, a pale shape that darted out of sight as soon as he turned to stare. He flattened himself against the side of the SUV and speed-dialed 999.
“Police, yes. Emergency. I think there's been an accident involving a number of people …”
He spent what seemed an eternity arguing with the emergency operator and then a bored desk sergeant. Fortunately, Wakefield, in his role as a former medical examiner, still had some influence. That, and the location he gave, seemed to galvanize the officer into a response.
“A unit will be with you shortly,” said the tinny voice. “Do not attempt to tackle criminals yourself.”
“Oh, I won't,” he murmured, ending the call.
Wish I hadn't sent that bloody talisman to Denny Purcell, he thought ruefully.
He put the cell away and took out a hypodermic loaded with morphine. It had worked before, albeit for a short time. As he slipped the protective plastic cover from the tip of the needle, he heard a fast, rhythmic crunching. It was coming from somewhere on the other side of the SUV. He did not move, but held his breath, hearing the small footprints grow closer. Then they stopped.
A shock ran through him as something leaped onto the roof of the SUV. He crouched, rolled forward into the snow, and felt claws rip the back of his coat. The Interloper paused for a split-second, its long, razor-toothed muzzle agape. Then it leaped down, arms spread. He brought up the needle, but the creature easily knocked it aside.
“No more tricks,” it hissed. “Bad doctor.”
It brought its funnel shaped mouth down toward his eyes. The creature was smaller than he had feared, for all its speed and strength. Wakefield heaved it off him with the frantic strength of abject terror. But as soon as it landed in the snow, the monster sprang back to attack again.
He flung a handful of snow in the creature's face and felt a twinge of satisfaction as it gagged. The Interloper was bounding toward him again, colorless talons reaching for his face. He kicked at it, but it dodged so that his foot barely struck its shoulder, and resumed its attack.
I'm dead, he thought, but continued to kick and fling snow.
A dark figure appeared at the edge of the woods. As soon as Wakefield saw the man, the creature paused and spun round. The newcomer was already raising a gun as the Interloper leaped sideways towards the cover of the vehicles. The shot missed the dodging creature, and Wakefield felt the wind of it pass his head. Then the stranger fell to his knees, and Wakefield realized he was watching someone on the edge of exhaustion, or worse.
Wakefield felt around in the snow. He found the needle when it jabbed his thumb. Swearing, he picked it up and staggered to his feet, started to run towards his savior. As he got closer, he saw that the man was wearing a black, unmarked uniform. Great tears were visible on the left sleeve, and now Wakefield could see that the cloth was stiff with dried blood. A nametag read FORSTER. The name was vaguely familiar.
Did Denny mention a Forster? Or was it that Jim bloke?
Wakefield shoved the trivial thought aside and knelt beside Forster, whose eyes were half-closed. The doctor checked for major damage as best he could and found no evidence of severed blood vessels. For a moment, he considered giving the stranger a shot of morphine but then decided against it.
“Come on,” he said, lifting Forster with one arm while picking up the shotgun with the other, “let's get you inside.”
The man tried to speak, and a gout of blood spurted out of his mouth.
Crap, thought Wakefield. Internal injuries. He might not have very long.
“Other–” coughed Forster, blood dribbling over his torn tunic. “Other one.”
It took the doctor a long moment to work it out. By the time he did, he could hear twigs breaking behind them as a small, fast-moving creature bounded towards the edge of Branksholme Woods. At the same time, the first Interloper appeared from between two SUVS. It was also running on all fours.
“Wait,” croaked Forster.
This time Wakefield got it. The closer the creatures were the less easily they could dodge. He raised the gun, pointed it one-handed at the first attacker. It instantly scampered sideways, reminding him of a spider with too few limbs. The sound of the second creature grew louder then stopped.
“Can't move!” he said despairingly. “You'll bleed to death! Forster!”
“Leave me!” the other man gasped. The snow by his mouth turned pink.
“I'm a bloody doctor!” Wakefield shouted, angry now as well as scared.
But he saw the logic of Forster's argument. He got up and started a crouching run towards his home, scouting the SUVs. It was impossible to keep an eye on both Interlopers, impossible to protect both himself and Forster.
Any trick I try, they'll know about it, he thought. Always one step ahead. Unless –p
Wakefield thought of Forster, probably a professional soldier, always cool and collected in battle.
Thoughts clear and focused, always well-defined.
Wakefield tried to visualize an attack on the first Interloper. He conjured up a clear image of him throwing himself flat and firing the shotgun under the SUV, hitting the entity in the legs, crippling it. Almost before the scenario had played out in his mind, the Interloper darted out from behind its cover and Wakefield shot it. The creature leaped into the air, blood spurting from a wound in its torso. When it landed, it darted forward, but more slowly than before. He brought the gun butt up and around, caught the being under what passed for its chin, and it fell back, stunned.
Behind him Wakefield heard a weak cry, and turned to see Forster driving a knife into the flank of the smaller Interloper. Reloading, he fired, but this time the creature dodged easily and then charged at him. This time Wakefield summoned up blind rage, and swung the gun like a caveman swinging a club.
***
“There are no guards on your prize specimen?” asked Frankie, as Harriet Zoffany led her along the sub-basement corridor. The whole area seemed deserted. Frankie was using a basic GoPro to document the Romola Foundation's work. But, as Denny had pointed out, taking pictures of PCs and filing cabinets would not galvanize public opinion. They needed something truly graphic.
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