Master In His Tomb

by Jack Holloway

  They hold ceilings up, that’s their only purpose.

  The focal point of the memorial is a life-size statue of a Russian general set upon a raised plinth, his gaze turned towards the ruins of Paris. He has a horrified expression on his stone face.

  Laid out around him are a series of staff officers caught in media res, and before him, in a carpet of statuary spread all the way to the stubby ruins that mark the start of the city proper, the calcified bodies of his men and his vehicles.

  It would have taken an age for even a battalion of sculptors to have carved this assortment of perfectly lifelike facsimiles, and therein lies the clue to their true provenance.

  These are the petrified remains of the last Russian army. The one I saw in Nan’s vision. The horror engraved forever on the General’s face was undoubtedly occasioned by seeing his moment of triumph turn to dust, as the stone curse spread towards him, turning his men to lifeless stone.

  Maybe not lifeless. I can hear a murmuring susurration passing between them just below the threshold of hearing. I walk up to the General, no, Marshal, and put my ear to his mouth.

  “Whatcha doin’ there Lumpy?” Ariadne asks.

  “This and that, young lady.”

  “K. If you’re gonna be like that I’m going to sort out the pony. She’s got burrs.”

  How strange. When I am close the sound stops entirely. I look deep into those petrified eyes.

  “Are you deliberately keeping quiet, Marshal? Don’t want to give anything away to a Vampire?” No response. That is true dedication to duty.

  This was a potent spell. I am horrified and impressed.

  A quick recce of the rest of the memorial reveals nothing else of interest. Common or garden museum. Abandoned. Large floodlights around the perimeter surrounding a series of well founded single-story buildings set around a central common with obelisks leading to the Marshal, and opposite a road winding down the hill on which we stand. The road is metalled and winds away west and north.

  Far away, on the other hills around the city I can see broken walls with ruined villages of a modern type atop.

  Someone is keeping this place in order. The guttering is clear and none of the spiky grass that seems endemic to the area is pushing its way through carefully repainted parking spots.

  I think we are where we need to be, given my reluctant sentinel’s clues. Other than my golem, where else would be a place of living stone and memory?

  As to why we were drawn specifically here, my guess is the sheer concentration of power that lingers in this place. Anything magical will be drawn hence in the first instance. A heavy stone on a taut sheet, mere gravel spinning in to its pull.

  Emmet is investigating some of the petrified vehicles, maybe seeking a kindred spirit. Animate stone is rare though I would rather Emmet’s existence than what waits here. The statues have some traces of who they once were, mostly pain and regret and they hiss out that pain endlessly so long as I do not approach them.

  That can’t stand. Humans aren’t built for eternity or its near relative, forever. Another to add to the list of things to deal with, once I have dealt with the business at hand. There is culpability here of those who once followed me and that makes it my guilt.

  Ariadne and our supply pony whose name I remember now is ‘Buttons' and not whatever I have been calling her to date, have gone to the barrier across the road next to the bunker guarding the entrance. The pony is shivering, and the witch is rifling through the saddle bags for something.

  “Anything interesting, young witch?”

  “Need the blankets. Buttons is cold. Got the burrs out though. She’s a good pony.”

  On the levered gate into the Memorial there is a metal sign stapled with some kind of rivets on to an older sign and another below it which had welcomed visitors to the “Russian War Remembrance Park – funded by donations from the Veterans Appeal of 2042.”

  I pry off the newer sign. The sensation of the rivets popping delightful, and read.

  A simple note underneath states that “When the darkness fell and the old world with it, only one nation stood tall and fought against the end. Catastrophe caused America to close its borders, recall its troops. The Union was still in its infancy forming from the dark Chaos of the Home Islands. When the Vampires rose from their dark crypts in both East and West and it was the Russians who drove them back.”

  “We remember you.”

  I snort. Dark crypts indeed.

  Scattered across the site are other plaques, numbered to give the eager tourist an indication of the order of events. I wander around them reading, each gives part of a description of the events I saw in Nan’s vision though a distinctly inaccurate one based on my first-going-on-second hand account.

  Some of the illustrations are ridiculous. Whoever engraved the vampires defending the city missed out every last one of their human allies, the refugee columns they defended, and basic anatomy classes.

  To the best of my knowledge each of the Masters was a relatively normal looking type, (peace Count Perkinas…) not a grotesque bat-wolf-man hybrid drooling blood and they were not snacking on small children chained to a suspiciously convenient wall.

  Though they did fire lightning from their hands. I’ll give them that.

  Ariadne and Buttons wander up behind me. The witch is slapping her hands together and rubbing the palms. It is cold here.

  “Well this is fecking jolly. Ariane always said this place was kinda cool, can’t see what she saw in it. Boring as a morgue.”

  “Ariane?”

  “One of the sisters. Lived round here, before.”

  “Pony looks cozy.” I observe.

  “She is! Who’s a good girl?”

  Buttons, apparently. The pony is luxuriating under our entire stock of travelling blankets and Ariane’s rain cloak.

  “The Pony is waterproof, Ariadne. You are not.”

  “I’ll get by. Hat’s pretty good for this pissy drizzle. It’s warmer nearer the Union.” She ties Buttons to the post, changes her mind and unties her. “I’m going to do some scavenging while you bore yourself to death with those signs.”

  Ariadne stomps off, pony in tow, I swear she is shaking from the cold, and starts pushing on doors to see if they open. I’m done with the signs. I’ll let her decide if she wants some help with the doors. Our next step eludes me.

  “Hmm. Theme park closed it seems.” Ariadne looks annoyed as door after door turns out to be sturdily padlocked. “Paris eh? Always wanted to spend a weekend in Paris. Should be careful what you wish for, you might just get it. City of lights and a gormless Vamp and a conversationally challenged Golem for company and all the fun of a burnt-out shit hole infested with fangers and their poor blood bags down the road.”

  “You forgot Hemlock.” I call out.

  “I never forget Hemlock.”

  “Where is that cat?”

  “Down with your Golem. Climbing stone Russians.” The furry little fat-ball is indeed leaping from head to head, vehicle to vehicle. Tail swishing. There must be mice down there.

  Ariadne notices the largest building on the site which I recognise as a gift shop. They propagate like cockroaches.

  “Think there’s anything good left in there?”

  Gift shops. “I doubt it.”

  “Going to just carry that around are you, Lumps?”

  I realise I’m still holding the replacement sign from the site entrance. It is faded but still legible close up, written in modern English with a tasteless bureaucratic tinge that runs through the Union’s signage like yellowed fat through a bad steak. A clue of sorts from my subconscious?

  It is headed with a variant of the old Union Jack that has a very fetching version of the old indivisible rune in its centre. So that’s from whence the Union came.

  “By Order in Council dated 23 9 2050 RT the Union NOTIFIES and WARNS all citizens of the FORMER PARIS PROTECTORATE (the PROTECTORATE) that the PROTECTORATE has been declared inactive with effect ON AND F
ROM 24 hours from the date of this notice up until such date as this order may be revoked by order in Council under the provisions of the Statute of Oxford (2035, C.1).

  All Protectorate citizens are INSTRUCTED to VACATE the area of the former PROTECTORATE immediately and make their way to Ruin or any other census district DESIGNATED in the notice displayed at CENTRAL HALL ROUEN where MDR support teams will assist any citizen with appropriate identification papers with resettlement to a new safe area designated by Local Authorities.

  Personal Possessions to the weight of THIRTY POUNDS will be accepted for onward transit subject to any limitations NOTIFIED by a duly appointed PROTECTORATE or MDR official. Any other possessions should be SECURELY STOWED in your emergency shelters for future collection.

  Any citizen who FAILS to COMPLY with this notice may be subject on summary conviction by Protectorate Tribune to a FINE of 2000 Protectorate Crowns and/or a period of penal servitude of UP TO 2 years (24 Months) in the areas beyond.

  God save the Union and its Council.”

  Under this is a short note which looks like an evacuation timetable and a reminder that any vandalism of Union property is a criminal offence even during periods that the local Protectorate is inactive.

  How very legalistic.

  I remember a couple of years before I was buried there was a court case involving the old riot act where there was the most ridiculous argument over whether the magistrate had said “God Save the King” at the end of the notice declaring a requirement to disperse. They hanged the prisoners anyway, but I suspect they knew that they had received a fair trial when they reached the end of the rope.

  I did spend a fair portion of my time in England. I never truly accepted the Council’s decision to set up our headquarters in the hell hole before us beyond the stone field.

  What am I supposed to find here? There is supposed to be a message.

  Emmet is still looking at statues, so I make my way to the shop where Ariadne is loading up souvenirs on to Blossom. I mean Buttons. Stupid name.

  “Ha ha! Bit sparse in there. But look what I’ve found Lumpy, my main man!”

  She is waving around another of those non-descript boxes and tubes with which this society seemed to be obsessed. This piece of flim-flannery appears to be a telescope with a glass front and has flashing buttons on the top.

  “Are you pointing that... thing... at me mistress witch?”

  “Oh yes! I always meant to ask one of you when I got the chance, you know given the whole movies and books and stuff not being consistent on it, but how are you with actual sunlight Master Lumpy?”

  “Actual sunlight as opposed to this lovely twilight? I am indifferent to it. I wouldn’t go out of my way to find it except if I were on holiday or there was a particular view, or I had some… OUCH!”

  Blasted woman has switched on what I now know must be a high-powered lamp of some kind. Probably running on the same electrical principles as the lights in the rest of these modern buildings but with a blue and more uncomfortable light that is doing a depressingly accurate impression of direct sunlight.

  It inflicts moderate discomfort! To my face!

  “That smarts! Turn it off!” I growl showing my teeth, which just gets my tongue a dose of sunburn. “Gahhhh…”

  Ariadne chuckles to herself and switches it off. “Sorry Lumps, anti-vampire torch. Can’t get them for love nor money round about the village. They used to use them round here for self-defence Ariane said, like carrying around bear spray. Clem won’t have them around; says they could hurt the kids’ eyes. But I’ve always wanted one! And now... I have four.”

  She stacks some more boxes containing the bloody things into the saddlebags. Then she looks up. “And they work!”

  I glare. My cheek is itchy from the light beam and my tongue feels like I’ve drunk a cup of tea straight from the stove, nay, the kettle. “I believe you owe me an apology young lady.”

  Though it comes out more as “I beleeb oo oh meh un-pologee young Aydee.”

  “Sorry Lumpy.” She chuckles. “You sound like a bee stung your tongue.”

  I reach for a mouthful of fresh snow. “It feels that way too and I know who’s to blame on that count.”

  “But we are going into Vamp central? I mean why else come here. and having these about will save me having to defend my honour from some young buck idiot of a Vampire who’s read too much pre-apocalypse romance or just fancies a snack.”

  “I don’t know.” My distress must surely be evident?

  She pauses for a moment. I get more snow. “Okay, I’m sorry Lumps. Wasn’t expecting it would actually hurt you.” She touches my cheek which does sting a little. “It looks okay. I have some salve somewhere in the packs if you want it.”

  “I’m fine young lady.” The snow is helping, and it takes a concentrated beam of sunlight to slow me down. “I am not saying you can’t come into Paris merely that I am supposed to have a message waiting for me here but I cannot find it.”

  “Message?”

  “Message.”

  “These are supposed to burn your lot to flinders. Guess you’re a bit tougher than the baddies down there?”

  “Baddies? Mistress of the Hunts is that how far we’ve fallen? And yes. If it hurts me. And it does. It will likely prove terminal for my less mature kin. If they stay still long enough for you to burn them up of course.” I pull a sour face. “Most Vampires won’t fall for an ambush of the sort you just pulled young lady.”

  She’s looking upwards. “Umm so if you like, sized up one of these by a factor of a hundred say, would that cause you any problems?”

  “Yes, it would cause me enormous difficulties.”

  She points. I suddenly realise what the big glass lamps set up around the perimeter of the war memorial are.

  “They must have had quite the problem with my relatives to have gone to all this trouble.” I grin. “Good job there’s no one around to turn them on.”

  “Just me and the pony. Plus Hemmie.” She mimes flicking a switch.

  “Not funny, Ariadne.”

  The cat is giving me a funny look from atop a Russian tank. Mischievous. I am suddenly glad he lacks opposable thumbs.

  “They did have a bit of a vampire problem back when people lived here. Ariane says…”

  “Ariane says. Ariane says. Why don’t you go and do some needlework with her…”

  “…you’d wake up in the middle of the night finding one of your creepy kids staring through a window.”

  “Hmm. They’re really not supposed to do that.” Why would any vampire do that? You’re either hungry and staring is like watching a banquet without an invite, or not and then people are just… interesting.

  “Got weirder. And there was some kind of civil war over who got to be head vamp with you not being around. Union decided it was too dangerous to keep people around when you’ve got thousands of creepies and fangers running about whacking each other with maces. And that brought in the fecking MDR and a bunch of Agents like your friend from the crawler who stuck their oar in and… and even then, they lost a lot of lads clearing the path out for the locals. Was a dumb place to set up in the first place but that’s the Onions for you? Always biting off more than they could chew.”

  She looks thoughtfully to the skies. “Didn’t end well for your toothy lads either, once they were out of the cities the Union pulled half a sky full of drones down on them. Got messy.”

  There is a creak from behind us.

  “Did you hear something?” I ask.

  “Yes. I think there’s someone in that bunker, Lumps. And they’re listening.” As if on cue the door to that building which appears to have been open for all the time we were speaking, slams shut with a hydraulic sounding hiss, followed by a dull clunk as it embeds itself in place.

  “Emmet...” I grab one of the pony’s thick blankets and move out of the assumed arc of the lights into the shelter of the lintel. The pony looks sad but that’s a price that I am willing to pay to av
oid a double dose of artificial sunlight.

  Ariadne moves forward covering the entrance to the bunker with her new toy. Emmet has made his way there too, and I take a look at the fittings. Solid. Designed to hold against a whole heap of force including the sort I can put out and it is covered in those machine-scented Union Sigils.

  Contract machines. Physically even Emmet would have difficulty getting enough of a hold to pull the door away given the lack of grips. It has to weight at least a dozen tonnes and chipping away at those sigils without a full scale ritual? We’d be here till summer.

  Getting in could be problematic. But my path is at least clear.

  Who would make a door you can’t open? I ponder for a moment. Emmet’s voice rumbles forth. “I’d suggest someone who wants you outside rather than inside Albie.”

  A blinding flash of the obvious, I deserve it, the burst of UV to the face must still be affecting me. Or the fall.

  “Don’t look at me, Lumpy.” Ariadne shrugs. Hemlock jumps on to her shoulder and tilts his head helplessly.

  “Lot of use you lot are.”

  25

  Sunny Jim

  Thankfully there is a break in this face-off of man against door and it takes the form of a crackle from a metal box set into the door fittings which has previously evaded my notice.

  “Hello?”

  “Well you took your time, Sunny Jim.” A traditional south German accent, Vs for Ws. Curt English. “You are one of them, aren’t you?”

  I look at Ariadne. She shrugs. “Least he’s not flipped the lights…”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m not getting your meaning. I’m one of what? And how can you...”

  Ariadne points up at another of those cameras I’d originally encountered during my interrogation by Mr. Johnson Pole.

  “Ah I see. Or rather you see. Ha ha.” This might be the message that was left for me. If it is, my feeling is that I would rather my friends had just left a note.