Ghosts, Gears, and Grimoires

by Unknown

  “Once we’re down there, Miss Hayes, we must keep very close,” Rupert said as they climbed down the ladder. “That’s my tactical evaluation.”

  “Keep focused on the mission, Sir Marris.”

  * * *

  “My God, that is disgusting. What have they been doing down here?”

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Rupert announced, turning from the morgue’s door, and hiding his face in a handkerchief.

  At the end of the ladder, the Royal agents had found a whole underground base, a system of stone corridors and wide rooms that probably dated back to the previous century. All of the chambers were empty, though they also all showed signs people had lived there until very recently: occasional bits of garbage, strange furniture-shaped holes in the dust.

  After a few minutes of exploring, Baylynn and Rupert found a room with a red cross hanging outside its door. It was a clinic, with cots, bandages, water tins and medicine cabinets, though all medicines had been taken away. There was even a small morgue, where they were greeted by a horrific sight.

  At least ten corpses were stacked in the small room. There were drainage channels in the stone pavement, leading to a hole in the center of the floor, yet pools of bodily fluids stagnated in the morgue’s corners.

  They didn’t know what had killed these men, but it must have been some powerful disease. All of them showed wrinkly red marks on their bodies, which were entirely, or almost-entirely, hairless. Baylynn also noticed that some of the corpses appeared to be toothless as well. Judging from the infernal stench, they had died expelling everything they had held inside them.

  They weren’t enemies of the Crusaders. She was sure of that. She had no respect for those criminals, but nor did she think them capable of torturing people with such a disease, even if they controlled it. Moreover, the corpses whose chests were visible all displayed the Crusaders’ cross tattoo.

  She closed the morgue door, muttering a few words of prayer. She didn’t really know who would hear them, but she prayed nonetheless.

  Sir Marris was still coughing in his hankie, facing a dark corner. Baylynn went to the medicine cabinet where she’d noticed a few empty containers behind one of its ajar doors. Inside, she found even more vessels, though all empty. Their labels were handwritten. They all bore two simple letters: KI.

  She noticed another empty jar on the floor, and bent forward to examine it. KI again.

  Chemistry wasn’t her forte—she was more into poetry, anthropology, foreign languages, and less conventional arts. “Sir Marris, what does KI stand for, in your scientist lingo?”

  “KI. That would be potassium iodide.”

  She noticed an ecstatic note in his voice, and sighed deeply once again, still bent forward over the container on the floor.

  “Sir Marris, I’m about to turn. I hope I won’t find you looking at my knickers when I do.”

  When she did turn, Rupert was coughing again, and staring at the same corner as before—almost convincingly.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, they found the man, the child, and the bomb.

  They found them at the end of a long stone corridor. The same cold light bulbs lined the ceiling here too. They passed under a large stone archway, and stepped inside a tall chamber.

  A narrow underground canal ran through it, the water coming from one large circular opening in the chamber’s wall and disappearing down another. A small, arrow-shaped steam boat floated in the canal, beating rhythmically against its stone bank.

  The rest of the room was filled with tables, chairs, and wooden boxes. The boy was sitting on a box, his back against the wall. He was probably eight or nine, and he was hugging his own knees. He barely registered the strangers’ entrance.

  Lying on a wooden table far from the child, a huge metal device dominated the scene. It captured both Baylynn’s and Rupert’s eyes, majestic and cryptic as it was. It looked like a big stove or chest, but there were odd, alien dials all over its surface. Wires and glass tubes linked the two ends of the oval-shaped device together.

  A tall man stood before it, checking the values displayed on its many dials. He was soberly dressed—and heavily armed, with guns and a short sword.

  He barely bothered to look at them when he heard their steps, and immediately turned back to his machine, pulling a small lever in its surface.

  “You’re Crown agents, aren’t you?”

  Baylynn looked at the boy. His expression was totally helpless. She hated when children were involved.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  The man at the device glanced at her quickly. “Who, the boy? He stayed behind when the others left. His mother left him here some time ago and he hasn’t been very talkative ever since.

  “I reckon she’s the whore who informed you people, am I right?” He spun on his heel and faced the agents.

  “We have been informed,” Baylynn said, standing tall, “that you’ve built some kind of weapon, and that you’re about to use it on British soil. Our source tells us that such a weapon would bring death to many of our own countrymen. We’re here to investigate, and to destroy any such weapon.”

  The man snickered. “That surely was one talkative whore.”

  Rupert nodded toward the metal device. “Is that it?”

  The man seemed honored by Rupert’s attention. “It is indeed.” Joy lit up his face. Baylynn noticed he was missing a couple of teeth. “A beautiful thing, I tell you. Took us ages to finish it, but we did it, finally. I’d introduce you to the people who designed it, but they’re all gone, as we’ll all be presently.” Miss Hayes’ face showed no sign of amusement. “Turn that hellish thing off, whatever it is. We saw its power already, and it’s nothing you shall unleash on British soil.”

  The Crusader looked at them, puzzled.

  “We saw the morgue,” Rupert elaborated, with a grimace of disgust. “We saw the illness you’re trying to harness.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and again he laughed, this time a rude guffaw. “You think that’s our weapon? A—what, an ‘illness’?” He waved away the very idea. “That’s like looking at a blunderbuss and seeing only a club. What we have here,” and he gave the device two loving pats, “is the fire of the Gods.”

  Seeing they didn’t understand, he added, “People tomorrow will be wondering whether there really ever was a Birmingham. The disease you saw is but an... after effect.”

  Baylynn and Rupert exchanged a swift look.

  “If what you say is true,” she said, not admitting anything, “then turn the device off. Why would you want to use such a thing on your own soil?”

  He looked at the floor, suddenly serious. “What the queen of England still doesn’t understand is that this is not a war. This is not an invasion. This is an apocalypse.

  “You people in London talk about re-conquest, talk about resistance.” Those two words, spoken so proudly in all the pubs of free London, came out of the man’s mouth wrapped in disgust. “There are no such things. Judgment Day has come, and it’s all around us. It’s the final battle between the forces of good and those of Satan.” Perhaps this one really was one of the first, hardcore Crusaders. “No tomorrow follows Judgment Day. It’s victory or death, and Heaven in both cases—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Baylynn cut in; she despised every word he spoke. “You’re coming with us to London. You have a lot to explain to our scientists.”

  Rupert looked at her, puzzled. “Do we leave the device here?” She shrugged. “I don’t think it’s going to explode, but I wouldn’t touch it anyway. The Crown will know what to do with it. Perhaps they’ll even manage to get the Professor up here.”

  The Crusader scratched his head. Miss Hayes realized with horror he’d taken away a few tufts of hair, which were now stuck to his hand.

  “Is there a way I can convince you to leave this place with me as allies in a war against the powers of e—” he began.

  “No.”

  He sighed, and then opened his arms, in
viting crucifixion.

  With due carefulness, the constables approached him. Rupert took a pair of handcuffs from his belt, coming at the man from his left.

  Neither agent really expected the Crusader to give up so easily, but they weren’t ready for the swiftness with which he acted. A quick flick of his left wrist released a long syringe from his sleeve to the palm of his hand. With tiger-like speed, he drove the syringe toward Rupert’s neck. Sir Marris tried to stop him, but the needle was too quick. Rupert fell to the floor, where he shook for a second, and then was still.

  The crusader’s right hand now held his short sword, and was already warding off Baylynn’s Irish blade.

  Rage filled the young woman at the sight of her fallen friend. She pounced upon her opponent, who had to move back in order to avoid her attack.

  Guessing the reason for her wrath, he said: “I gave him a sedative. Merely a sedative. I wouldn’t want any fellow human to die in a less than glorious way.”

  This stopped Baylynn’s assault for a second.

  The man eyed her saber, and saw the triskelion on its guard. His eyes widened. “I suppose I should be honored the queen has sent the Irish Fox to fight me.”

  Baylynn didn’t like it when people called her that. She usually spotted a note of despise in the very words. Not this time though.

  “Is that thing really going to explode?” she asked.

  The man nodded. “In a few minutes we’ll all be dust.” Miss Hayes decided she believed him—and went for the final cut. The ease with which her saber pierced his thick neck shocked and startled her. If she’d managed to strike him so easily, though, it was only because a shot had been fired the instant she moved to attack.

  Both fighters froze. The dying man let his sword fall, blood streaming from the corners of his lips.

  Baylnynn turned slowly, genuinely terrified. The child was kneeling beside Rupert’s body, the constable’s gun firmly in his hand.

  For a terrible instant, Miss Hayes thought she would die down there in cursed, haunted Birmingham, failing her mission and letting Rupert die too. Then she realized she wasn’t bleeding, she wasn’t even wounded. She turned and saw a rose of blood spreading on the Crusader’s shirt.

  “My mum’s no whore,” the boy said in a thick Midlands accent.

  * * *

  Rupert regained consciousness a few minutes later. The first thing he noticed was the wind whipping his hair.

  “Where are we…?” he managed to mutter, his mouth horribly dry.

  “Heading south,” Baylynn answered, “and let’s hope we don’t find any Rahab patrol.” She was driving the arrow-shaped boat down a broad channel that ran through the English countryside. They had left Birmingham behind them, though the city’s skyline—consisting mostly of countless dead chimneys—was still visible not far away.

  “Is he dead?” Rupert asked, as he slapped his vest clean and sat up.

  “Who, the Crusader?” Miss Hayes asked. She glanced quickly at the child sitting beside her. She had tried to ask him a few things—was he alright? was he hungry?—but he hadn’t said a word after that single sentence underground. “Yeah, he’s dead. I stabbed him.” She didn’t add anything more.

  Rupert stumbled forward a few steps on the speeding boat and sat beside the other two in the front.

  “It’s good to see you’re fine, Miss Hayes,” he said.

  Baylynn knew that what he really wanted to say was Sorry I left you alone down there. Sorry I got myself knocked out.

  She smiled at him.

  “It’s good to see you’re fine, Sir Marris. I think you should ask the queen for a raise in your salary.”

  Rupert smiled back. “I can’t help but notice that your clothing is still quite minimal.”

  She let out a final deep sigh.

  The Crusader had said they only had minutes, so she hadn’t gone back to pick up her battle-gown. Of course, there was also the issue of the man still bound and gagged there, but she really mourned the loss of her precious garment. “Yes, I thought we—”

  And then a blast of light turned the whole world the purest shade of white. Had they been looking toward Birmingham, they would all have been blinded. Had their mouths been closed, their eardrums would have been perforated.

  The shock wave uprooted trees all around them, and pushed the channel’s waters into a high, unnatural tide. The steam boat was lifted up and sent flying for thirty or forty feet.

  It landed on the grassy bank, splintering into a hundred pieces.

  * * *

  Everything hurt.

  Rupert sat up too quickly for his own good, his blood running away from his brain, and for a terrible second, he thought he would faint. He bit his lips hard, as if that could help him stay conscious. It worked.

  His right leg hurt like hell, but he could move it, so he knew it wasn’t broken. He staggered to what was left of the boat from which he’d been so violently ejected.

  The boy was getting up a few feet away.

  There was a constant ringing in Rupert’s ears, and so he couldn’t be sure if the child was crying or not. He just went to the boy and took his hand. Then they both moved to a large plank of wood that lay on top of a tall, slender body.

  “Oh dear God,” Rupert muttered, half a prayer, “oh, please, no.”

  They moved the plank away.

  Baylynn was still breathing. Seeing her chest lift sent a wave of relief through Rupert—so strong that his knees nearly buckled beneath him. He tore a strip of cloth off his shirt and used it to tourniquet the stump of her left arm.

  “We need to carry her,” he said to the boy, or at least he thought he did, as he couldn’t hear anything yet. Anyway, when he put his arm around Baylynn’s waist, the boy did help him to lift her from the ground.

  Before they left the remains of the shattered steam boat behind, Rupert turned one last time toward Birmingham. There didn’t seem to be much of a city left. Instead, a towering mass of death-black smoke, rose toward the sky, taking the form of a colossal mushroom.

  * * *

  And so, Baylynn Hayes gained her black eye-patch and her mechanical left hand. When in later years she would build her legend, fighting the Rahab, the Crusaders, and other and worse scum, stories would start to circulate about how she had won herself those wounds. People would say that her missing eye was able to see the lies behind a person’s words, and that a single stroke of her left hand could easily kill a bull.

  About the Authors

  (in order of appearance)

  Eric Del Carlo: Eric Del Carlo’s fiction began appearing in small press magazines in 1990. He has since hit the pinnacle of the science fiction field with appearances in Asimov's and Analog. His novels include the sword and sorcery series Wartorn, which he cowrote with Robert Asprin, and the urban fantasy novel The Golden Gate Is Empty, which he collaborated on with his father Victor Del Carlo. He lives in his native California. Look for him on Facebook with questions or comments.

  John Lance: John Lance lives in New England with his lovely wife, their two daughters, and his loveable dog. He enjoys spending time with his family, reading, writing, and working in his garden. His stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including Under a Dark Sign, Misunderstood, and Zombified: Hazardous Materials. You can find more information at www.johnmlance.com.

  Stephen Sanders: Stephen Sanders is primarily known as a poet. He regularly performs with “The Seadog Slam,” a pirate poetry troupe, at Renaissance fairs and festivals throughout Texas. Sanders also writes and performs as “The Steampunk Poet.” You can see him at “Steampunk November,” AMA-Con, ConDFW and All-Con. His works are included in Characters: The Buffalo Soldier and Other Poems, A Nest of Pirates, Echoes from Other Worlds, Takin’ the Prize, Songs for a Mechanical Age, and A Year on the Train to Dallas. Sanders can also be heard on “Maiden Voyage,” “A Night at Devil’s Tavern,” and “The Call,” all CDs of pirate-themed poetry. He’s the current Vice President of the Fort Worth Poetry Soci
ety and a member of the Poetry Society of Texas. If you want to know more about him, simply do a web search for “Stephen Sanders” and “poetry.” Mr. Sanders has wanted to expand his horizons to include more prose and we took his desire deadly serious for this collection. His contribution, “The Horrors of War,” is a well-researched tale of terror based in historical fact and dedicated to the proposition that there is nothing more horrible than the evils that human kind does to one another.

  Wynelda Ann Deaver: Wynelda Ann Deaver lives in Northern California with the Princeling. They love looking for mermaid’s hair in the ocean, woodland sprites, magic dust in the everyday and even, gasp, trolls under the Golden Gate Bridge. The Princeling has grown up with his mother talking to invisible people she calls characters. She has been talking with Watham longer than the Princeling has been alive. Both Wynelda and Watham are incredibly happy that she has stopped trying to force him to rescue a princess then stand around in a room doing nothing but guard duty. Now they both can focus on tormenting Mary Jane while raising boys into men.

  You can find more of Wynelda Ann Deaver’s invisible friends (The Golden Apple and Other Stories, Dragon’s Champion) where fine e-books are sold or at the Mocha Memoirs Press website. She also has a story in Avast, Ye Airships!, also edited by Rie Sheridan Rose. Currently, Wynelda is working on several different projects. If you’d like to learn more, visit her at www.wynwords.wordpress.com.

  Amy Braun: Amy Braun is a Canadian urban fantasy and horror author. Her work revolves around monsters, magic, mythology, and mayhem. She started writing in her early teens, and never stopped. She is the recipient of April Moon Books Editor Award for “author voice, world-building and general bad-assery,” and the One Book Two Standout Award in 2015 for her Cursed trilogy. She has been featured on various author blogs and publishing websites, and is an active member of the Writing GIAM and Weekend Writing Warrior communities. Her short story, “Engineered Deceit”, is part of her Dark Sky series.