Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  Copyright © 2019 by Gareth Clegg

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and scenarios are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For my Family (immediate & extended)

  The Wednesday Night Crew

  Antz Howley, Kevin Allmond,

  Nick Simpson, Skye Alterskye

  But especially for Jayne, my beautiful wife who has supported me through it all and kept me on track when I was struggling to focus on getting another two thousand words out that day.

  I love you all.

  Contents

  Get a Free Copy of Fallen Angels

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Dear Readers

  Get a Free Copy of Fallen Angels

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  YOUR FREE BOOK IS WAITING

  FALLEN ANGELS is a collection of 19 short stories including a few set in the Fogbound universe during the invasion which takes place before the events of FOGBOUND: Empire in Flames.

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  1

  Fingers of toxic red fog clawed at his clothing as he stepped over yet another dead body. Sir Pelham Simmons stalked the Fogside wastes with his rifle slung over his right shoulder. His greatcoat hugged him tightly, holding the fog at bay.

  An acrid smell hung thick in his nostrils: too thick. He coughed and tapped his respirator. He thumped it again, harder this time, and gasped as cold air hit his throat with a taste of charcoal. Damn, I need to change these filters. He blew a long breath between his lips and bent to inspect the night’s latest victim. A tangled mass of hair splayed around the young woman’s head where she lay face-down in the filth.

  He rolled the body over with the tip of his boot. Crimson tears streaked her pallid face, dark veins prominent beneath the skin.

  He’d seen plenty of tainted before, but this was just a child, fifteen at most.

  Rubble shifted close by, sending his hand leaping to his belt. Drawing his Webley service revolver, he spun, bringing the weapon to bear.

  Two shadowy figures skulked into view through the waist-deep blanket of red. A thick web of dark veins writhed beneath their skin, groping for an exit from their fleshy prison. Thin tendrils of red weed snaked from bloody eye sockets tasting the air, sensing him.

  He kept the pistol aimed at the nearest. The other moved, trying to flank him—not intelligent, more instinctive—and unlikely to give up an easy meal.

  The Webley barked out two shots, breaking the silence, and the creatures slumped to the ground.

  Wings thrashed behind him, and he ducked, hands protecting his face as he was buffeted by dark shapes. A couple of strikes to his leather gloves, painful but not enough to draw blood, then they scattered. A dozen crows faded into the pre-dawn darkness, their raucous laughter ringing in his ears. Damned birds.

  One of the weed-ridden creatures was struggling back to its feet, tendrils whipping about in a frenzy. Simmons fired another round into the centre of its head, dropping it for good this time. Damned bleeders.

  He needed to get moving and quick. Bleeders travelled in packs, and the gunshots would draw more of them. He’d ridden his luck enough for one night.

  He returned to the girl and tipped the peak of his wide-brimmed hat. With a sigh escaping his dry lips, he lowered the pistol. “I’m sorry there isn’t a better way, girl. But I can’t let you become one of them.”

  A single crack echoed around the ruins, and he stepped back, reloading his revolver. He knew she was already dead, that she wouldn’t suffer, but it didn’t make it any easier.

  Now he had to get to the city, to safety.

  He clambered over the rubble remains of collapsed buildings, picking his way through the scorched and shattered stone. As much as he’d like to quicken his step, he couldn’t risk it. A twisted ankle or a break here could prove fatal.

  What was that?

  He dropped to one knee, sinking into the eddies of scarlet around him. His breathing felt like a blacksmith’s bellows, and his chest ached from the bad air, but he waited with the revolver aimed back the way he’d travelled.

  He strained, listening for anything that might indicate pursuit.

  A series of howls echoed in the distance, dull through the dense fog. More bleeders.

  A sharp crack of splintering bone cut through the night air. With a shudder, he stood, turning to leave. He didn’t want to hear any more—he had enough trouble sleeping as it was.

  Whitechapel Gate loomed above the thick fog ahead. Simmons trudged forward. It had been a long night, and his feet ached like hell. He couldn’t wait to get back to his lodgings and out of his fog-gear. A relaxing soak in a hot bath and then, perhaps, sleep.

  He hadn’t found the man he was hunting, but the net was closing in. Eyewitness accounts of his target, a killer named Maddox, placed him amongst the Red Hands. The gang conducted their shady business in the flooded streets south of the river. He’d need to speak to the watermen who transported folk across the deeper sections to see what more he could learn. But that could wait till tomorrow.

  The gate, a solid slab of metal wide enough for a dozen men, fused into the wall’s outer structure which towered over fifty feet into the chill dark sky. He pressed the intercom button and waited.

  A groggy voice sounded from the metal grille. “Papers.”

  Simmons thrust a sheaf of yellowed parchment at the lens. Energy crackled as an arc-lamp burst into life.

  “Hold them closer,” the voice said with a yawn. “Name and business?”

  Simmons prodded his gloved finger at the wax seal at the bottom of the travel permit. “My name is Simmons, and I’m on official business. Now open the damned gate.”

  “Registered man catcher, eh?” The voice dripped with contempt. “Your paperwork seems in order. Stand back.”

  Light sliced through the fog as the lens swivelled, scanning, probing for hidden danger. Three metallic thuds rang like gunshots as bolts released, metal grated as the segmented steel door rolled up into the wall providing an entrance into the city.

  Simmons ducked through, stridin
g twenty feet to the midpoint of the tunnel. The dim lighting flickered from green to red, but he didn’t need telling to stop. A familiar hum grew to a roar as turbine fans spun into action. The last remnants of fog fled the screeching gale to rejoin the vast red sea outside. He’d turned through a half circle with his arms out before the intercom crackled. “Turn around, arms—”

  “I know the drill.”

  He completed his rotation, fingers reaching to slacken the respirator, as the outer door clanged shut behind him. The turbines slowed to a dull drone as he pulled the mask free. It surrendered with a loud sucking sound, and he scratched at his moustache and mutton chops—Damn, that feels good. The itch had been bothering him for hours. Maybe he should shave them off, but after thirty years, military habits died hard.

  Green light flooded the tunnel again as the door ahead clanked open onto a dirty, cobbled street. A single streetlamp illuminated a lone uniformed figure, lounging with boots on the guard-post desk. The man’s black uniform collar gaped at the neck. Simmons smiled. Even the Black Guard let standards slip on the graveyard shift.

  If an officer caught the young man in that state of dress, his reprimand would be both sharp and severe. But it seemed unlikely any of the Black Guard’s top brass would pull a surprise inspection at this hour. They were more likely sleeping off a skinful of whisky, cigars or something much stronger.

  He held his papers to the grilled window, but the guard waved him through without a glance.

  The usual mix of buildings greeted him—some intact, most ruined with rubble spilling onto the cracked cobbles. Spotlights scoured the streets for curfew-breakers, and in the distant centre, the great Inner-City walls thrust into the night sky. Lights zipped away as black carriages, reserved for the military and ruling elite, sped beneath rail tracks suspended high above the ground.

  Only a few short years ago, that would have been me. Simmons suppressed a laugh as he crossed into the fortified city of London.

  Home once again.

  2

  Simmons rented the rooms, and though they were far from what he’d been used to, they suited his needs. Number twenty-three sat on the corner of Wentworth and Commercial Street. The three-storey terrace dominated the end of the row in a better part of Whitechapel.

  His lodgings, the entire top floor, comprised a large sitting room, two bedrooms and a study. He wasn’t extravagant, but the reclining wingback armchair was a small indulgence he’d allowed himself.

  As he fiddled with his key, the stairs creaked, and a soft yellow light crept upwards. Leaving the intricate lock, he reached under his jacket for the reassuring presence of his service revolver.

  “Sir Pel?” came a whisper from the foot of the stairs, “is that you?”

  He leaned over the mahogany bannister. “I’m terribly sorry Mrs C, I thought I’d been the soul of discretion creeping in.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, dear. I was already awake.” She lowered the lamp. “The fire’s been on all evening, so there should be plenty of hot water. I know how you keep irregular hours. Have yourself a nice bath, and I’ll bring you breakfast around eleven.”

  “That’s ever so kind, Mrs C, but it’s unnecessary.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s the least I can do. I’ll fetch you some nice kippers from the market first thing.”

  Before he could argue, she retreated into her room, returning the staircase to darkness. He suppressed a chuckle. Sometimes she acted more like an overprotective aunt than a landlady.

  Mrs Colton lived on the ground floor and was a pleasure to deal with, but refused to address him as anything other than Sir Pel. He’d asked her to just call him Simmons but to no avail. Reluctant to give up the pretence she hosted a knight of the realm under her roof, she took every opportunity to let her friends know all about it.

  Simmons returned his attention to the infernal lock that protected his rooms. Yes, it may be the pinnacle of modern security, but it was a pain in the backside to open. It didn’t help that he struggled to remember the first turn. So, yet again, he endured the electrostatic discharge as he completed the final turn.

  “Damn it,” he said, shaking his right hand, trying to ease the painful jolt that shot up to his elbow. How difficult can it be, you senile old goat? Anti-clockwise first.

  Once he managed the first turn, reflex took over and the other five followed in rapid succession. He smiled at the loud click, and as the door swung inwards, the complex mechanism whirred and ticked as it reset. In less than a minute, it would be ready to unleash another shocking blast against any unwarranted access.

  “Sir Pel?” Mrs Colton’s voice carried through the metal-bound entry to his rooms. “I’ve brought you breakfast, fresh kippers like I said last night.”

  “Just a moment, Mrs C.” Simmons crossed to the door, his head thick this morning as if someone had stuffed it with cotton wool. The brass dial in the centre of the mechanical lock spun effortlessly at his touch. A series of cogs and flywheels whirred before they aligned and heavy bolts retracted with a dull clank.

  He pulled the door open to find his landlady with a large tray. Wisps of steam rose from the silver teapot and covered plates, flooding his senses with the smell of buttered kippers and kedgeree.

  “You shouldn’t go to all this trouble on my behalf.”

  “Nonsense, it was nothing, whipped it up in no time.” She smiled, tilting her head. “It’s Darjeeling. I know it’s your favourite.”

  “Where on earth did you find Darjeeling?” Getting decent food in the Outer-City was difficult. Fresh tea was a luxury only seen in the Inner-City coffee houses or the kitchens of the nobility. “You are a miracle worker, my good lady.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and she averted her gaze. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Sir Pel. I can sniff out a good deal when new shipments arrive at the docks, that’s all.”

  “There’s a clipper in from India?” he asked, taking the silver tray.

  “The market was full of news from across the ocean, and a good haul of fresh fish too. I got a few pieces of halibut to put into that refrigeration unit you bought last month too.”

  “You are a treasure, Mrs C.” He placed the tray on his desk and turned to reach into his waistcoat pocket. Realising he was still in his dressing gown, he turned. “One moment if you please.”

  He rushed back to his bedroom, pushing the door so she wouldn’t see the mess of clothes on the floor from last night, and found his wallet. Returning to the sitting room, he pulled two notes and thrust them into her hand. “Next month’s rent.”

  “Oh no, sir. That’s far too much. And it’s not due for two weeks.”

  “Nonsense, I have it now, and so shall you. It’s a little over our usual agreed rate, but treat yourself to something.”

  “Oh no, Sir Pel, please—”

  “I insist. You have looked after me like a king during my stay, and the food you conjure up is nothing short of divine. Please, buy something nice for yourself. Something frivolous, perhaps a new ball gown?” He felt the grin spread across his face. “Yes, then I shall take you dancing.”

  He seized the unsuspecting woman, waltzing her around the room and back to the door. She tried to speak as she laughed. “No, Sir Pel, stop. You’ll have me swooning and tripping down the stairs to my death. What would my Arthur say?”

  With a wink, he replied, “I’d think your dear departed Arthur would say ‘Bless my Soul. Well, if that isn’t the finest dressed landlady in all the Outer-City’ and I would have to agree.”

  “You are wicked,” she said, a frown creasing her face, “making fun of an old lady so.”

  “My dear woman, it’s the truth. We will go dancing, and you shall be the belle of the ball once again.”

  “We’ll see,” she replied with a snort. “Now eat your breakfast before it goes cold, and enough of this silliness. Some of us have important things to attend to.”

  As she turned to leave, the frown changed to a sly smile. Simmon
s’ mood lifted at the sight. The thought of Mrs Colton with a spring in her step through the day and the smell of the kedgeree had despatched any remnants of his headache.

  He threw the thick velvet curtains aside, revealing a bright grey sky, motes dancing in the shafts of light flooding into the sitting room. Taking the tray from his desk, he laid his table and set his mind to destroying the excellent breakfast.

  Turning right from his lodgings, Simmons followed Commercial Street to where it crossed Whitechapel High Street. The crash of hammers and the hiss of steam, from the quenching of near-molten metal, drifted from the Commercial Smithy. Intense flashes of controlled lightning pushed ozone through the air, and he wrinkled his nose as the sharp smell hit him. Welding was the new way of connecting metal, only the old-guard still relied on heated bolts and rivets.

  He crossed the serpent-like mass of tramlines covering the High Street and continued along Leman Street to the H Division headquarters of Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police Force. It was approaching midday, and he wanted to catch up with any news or new jobs posted since his last visit.