Shadows Fall

by Simon R. Green

  “Have you finished?” said Clive, cuttingly. “Surprisingly enough, I had managed to work most of that out for myself. May I remind you of whose fault it is that the Warriors believe we are such hot stuff? Who told them we had personal contact with Old Father Time, had blackmail material on every member of the town Council, and helped design the town’s defences?”

  “All right, so I got a bit carried away… the point is, we will both be carried away in matching body bags if we don’t stop messing about and get the hell out of here. Which means, to get back to the point, we don’t have the time to be arguing over non-essential items like these!”

  He made a grab at a stack of tape cassettes, but Clive snatched them up first. “I can’t leave these! These are my Benny and the Jets bootleg tapes!”

  “Clive, our time and suitcase space is severely limited, not unlike your brain. We have to stick to essentials.”

  “You’re taking your teddy bear.”

  “He’s a mascot.”

  “Pathetic! If you can have your bear, I’m having my tapes.”

  “All right! Anything for a quiet and hopefully prolonged life. But no more luxuries!”

  They continued their packing in silence, watching each other like hawks. Clive glanced at the glasses of lemonade on the dresser.

  “I still say we ought to take Mum with us.”

  “She wouldn’t go without Dad, and we haven’t the time to dig him up. She’ll be safe enough. The Warriors aren’t going to harm a nun, are they? No; they’re going to have much more important things on their mind. Like what to do when Shadows Fall gets its act together and starts kicking the Warriors’ ass all over the countryside. I mean; it’s not as if they had any chance of winning, is it, the poor bastards?”

  “Well, yes,” said Clive. “There is that.”

  They both chuckled unpleasantly, and snapped their suitcases shut.

  “Right,” said Derek, trying to sound organized, “All we have to do now is phone our various employers and explain we won’t be in tomorrow. We have in fact come down with something sudden and drastic and highly contagious.”

  “With spots,” said Clive. “Spots are always good for upsetting people.”

  “Right. All over?”

  “Mostly around the unmentionables. That’ll do it.”

  Derek felt briefly itchy all over, but rose above it. “While I’m doing that, you take the cases downstairs and load them into the car. As soon as I’m finished, we’ll head straight for the park, and hide out there till it gets dark.”

  “Wait just a minute,” said Clive. “What’s this wait in the park till it gets dark bit? You never mentioned that before. I wouldn’t spend a night in the park if I was armed with two bazookas and a flame-thrower! In case you’ve forgotten, the park has this nasty tendency to fill up with dinosaurs the minute it gets dark.”

  “Exactly! That’s the whole point! No one will think to look for us there. I mean; would you do it if you didn’t have to?”

  “I do have to, and I’m still not doing it.”

  Derek sighed heavily, “I think in a previous incarnation your brain must have been used as a doorstop. The thing to remember is that the Warriors are coming, in force, and will be here very soon. Anything that will give us a scrap of advantage has to be a good thing. And it’s not really all that dangerous. I mean, given the size of the park, and the size of us, what are the chances of a brontosaurus just happening to stumble over us?”

  “Pretty damn good, the way our luck’s been going lately.”

  They broke off again as Mrs Manderville came in with a tray and two glasses of lemonade. They all nodded and smiled at each other, the boys took their lemonade, and Mrs Manderville left, happily humming something about a train wreck. Clive looked at the glass in his hand.

  “It’s not as if either of us particularly liked lemonade…”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Derek firmly. “We’re still going to have to empty all these glasses before we go, or Mum’ll be upset.”

  Clive looked at the dresser. “If I have to drink five glasses of lemonade, I’m going to be upset. My mouth’ll shrivel up permanently.”

  “We’re not going to drink them, you pratt. We’ll pour them down the toilet.”

  “Oh, we can’t do that,” said Clive. “You can’t just throw away good lemonade. I mean; there are millions starving in China.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Pack the lemonade up and send it Air Mail? Go downstairs with those cases and get the car started.”

  “All right. Give me the keys, then.”

  Derek looked at him. “I thought you had the keys.”

  “No; I haven’t got the keys.”

  “If you’ve packed them in that bloody suitcase, I’m going to tie your legs in a square knot. Turn out your pockets.”

  Clive scowled unhappily, and emptied out his pockets on to the bed. It took some time. Derek stared at the growing mound of not particularly sanitary objects with the kind of fascination usually reserved for especially unpleasant car accidents. He also decided that if he had to sneeze at any time in the future, he definitely wasn’t going to ask if he could borrow Clive’s handkerchief. The keys were the last item out, of course. It had been that kind of a day. Clive put it all back into his pockets, apart from a lump of chewing gum he removed from his handkerchief and stuck behind his ear for later.

  “Who gets to drive?” he said suddenly.

  “I do,” said Derek. “I’m the eldest.”

  “I’ve got more experience.”

  “Yeah, at reversing into things.”

  “That was an accident! My foot slipped.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m driving. Mine doesn’t.”

  “You know,” said Clive thoughtfully, “we still haven’t really decided where we’re going when we leave here. I still like New York. Or Hollywood. Somewhere glamorous and romantic.”

  “You want glamour and romance, you can forget about New York. That’s not a city, it’s evolution in action. I’d feel safer with the dinosaurs. No; I think we’d better stop by Switzerland first. That’s where the Warriors said the bank with our money was.”

  “Oh yeah; get the money first. Then Hollywood, and as many groupies as I can get my tongue around.” Clive scowled suddenly. “You know, I’m starting to feel just a bit guilty about disappearing like this. I mean; there are graves waiting to be dug. We’ve never let people down before.”

  “We’ve never been faced with imminent bloody death before, either. If Father Callahan’s worried about a few graves, he can roll up his sleeves and dig them himself. Bit of hard exercise wouldn’t do him any harm. They say he’s a secret eater, you know. Munches biscuits while he takes Confession.”

  “Oh, I don’t like to think of the Father digging graves,” said Clive, just a little shocked. “That wouldn’t be proper…”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Derek. “He’ll find some other poor mugs to do the digging. Probably hand it out as a penance. Three Hail Marys, and I want six foot of dirt shifted before you go home.”

  “Don’t let our Mum hear you talking like that, or she’ll wash your mouth out with soap again.”

  “Take the suitcases down to the car,” said Derek firmly. “I’ll start phoning round.”

  “Are you going to ring Sadie, and tell her goodbye?”

  “Don’t see why I should. She’s your girlfriend.”

  “No, she isn’t,” said Clive. “I thought she was your girlfriend.”

  They looked at each other. “No,” said Derek. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Well, that’s all right then. We don’t have to ring her. I never did know what you saw in her…”

  —

  Father Ignatius Callahan stared glumly at the empty candy jar. There should have been enough chocolate and vanilla fudge in that jar to last till the end of the week, and here it was empty and only Thursday. He used to have more will power than this. He sighed wistfully, and t
urned the jar upside down to empty out the few remaining crumbs on to his palm. Chocolate flared briefly on his tongue and then was gone, like the fading memory of a kiss. He arched an eyebrow as the simile crossed his mind, and then he looked down at his prominent stomach and sighed again. Apart from his stomach he was in pretty good shape. In fact, for a man only a few months short of forty, he was in damn good shape. He exercised every day, jogging in the mornings and walks in the evenings, but still his taste for candy betrayed him. There was a time he could eat practically anything and burn off the calories through sheer nervous energy, but a man slows down as the years accumulate, and these days he only had to sniff at a cookie for his waistline to expand another inch. He’d cut down a lot, since his waistline hit forty before he did, but he still allowed himself a little chocolate and vanilla fudge now and again. As a special treat. A quarter pound of each, per week. No more. But here it was Thursday afternoon, and already the jar was empty.

  And Lent was coming up soon.

  He scowled determinedly. He could beat this. He’d done it before; he could do it again. Less food, more exercise, and a damned sight more will power. He wasn’t going to sit around stuffing his face and slumping into fat, like his father had. Callahan felt a familiar urge to look around and see if his father was watching him, and aware of his disrespectful thoughts. He fought down the impulse sternly. His father had been dead of a heart attack almost twenty years now. He didn’t have to fear the man’s spite and vindictiveness, his sudden angers and flying fists. He was free. He was safe. He didn’t have to be scared any more.

  Callahan’s scowl deepened as the old hatred burned in him again, the helpless rage of the defenceless child against a vast and overpowering parent. Vile man, evil man. Callahan smiled shakily at how easily just the thought of his father could still disturb him, even after all these years. He concentrated, and deliberately put aside the anger, denying it power over him. He was a man of God now, a man of peace, and there should be no room left in him for hate. That was from another time, another life, and if he couldn’t find it in himself to forget or forgive, he could still pray for the strength to live his own life, free from his father’s ghost. He smiled sadly at the familiar thought, and shook his head. How far we come from what we were, and how far we always are from what we would be. There was a sermon in that, somewhere. He looked about him for pen and paper, and then the front door bell rang, and he lost track of the thought. It didn’t matter. It would come again, if it was worth anything. He got to his feet, carefully put the lid back on the candy jar, and went to see who had come looking for him. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

  He opened his front door and found himself face to face with a man wearing gleaming black body armour, set off with brave flashes of red and blue, and topped with a long dark cape. The man was tall and blockily muscular, with the body of a young and active man, but his hair was grey shot with silver, and his face was heavily lined. Lester Gold, the Man of Action, the Mystery Avenger, grinned at the surprise on Callahan’s face.

  “Hello, Nate. Sorry to drop by unannounced, but something’s come up. I need to talk to you.”

  “Of course,” Callahan said quickly. “You’re always welcome here, you know that. Come on in. You’re looking… good.”

  Gold seemed even larger and more imposing as he stepped into the cramped hallway. Callahan shut the door, and then belatedly shook the hand Gold put out to him. It was a large hand, flecked with liver spots. An old man’s hand, but the grip was firm and strong. Callahan frowned slightly as he led the way down the hall and back to his study. Gold was looking good. There was a bounce in his step and a gleam in his eyes that Callahan hadn’t seen in a long time. But then, he hadn’t seen Gold in costume for nearly three years now. It had been his understanding that the Mystery Avenger had retired. Something must have happened. Something really important, to have changed Gold’s mind. Callahan felt the first faint stirrings of unease, but he clamped down on them hard as he waved Gold through into his study. For a moment they busied themselves settling comfortably into the two chairs by the fire, and then Gold leaned forward and fixed Callahan with a steady, disquieting gaze.

  “Strange things have been happening in the town,” he said flatly. “Strange even for Shadows Fall. Disturbing things.”

  And then he broke off, as though uncertain where to start, or how much it was safe to reveal. Callahan waited patiently. The Mystery Avenger’s costume was even more impressive at close quarters, almost overpowering, but the face was that of a man with doubts, troubled by dilemmas of the soul. Finally Gold sighed and leaned back, his powerful hands resting uneasily on the arms of the chair, as if they felt there was some important business they ought really to be about.

  “How long have we known each other, Nate?”

  Callahan smiled. “Must be almost twelve years now. Most of it seemed to make some sort of sense at the time. Yes; almost twelve years since I came knocking nervously at your door with a copy of your very first magazine in my hand, for you to autograph. You were very gracious, and when you showed me your private collection of memorabilia, I thought I’d died early and gone to heaven.”

  Gold laughed. “You don’t know how thrown I was. I’d never had a priest as a fan before. How’s your collection going these days?”

  “Pretty good. There’s still a few items I haven’t been able to get my hands on, but I’m keeping my eyes open. It’s the price that puts me off, these days. You wouldn’t believe what some of the rarer comics are going for. But you didn’t come here to talk about that. What’s the problem, Lester? How can I help you?”

  Gold leaned forward in his chair again, as though bracing himself, and his eyes were suddenly very cold.

  “Nate; what can you tell me about the Warriors of the Cross?”

  Callahan raised an eyebrow. “Now there’s a name I didn’t expect. What do you want to know about them?”

  “Everything. Who they are, or were. Their purpose, their reason for existence. The name has been cropping up in prophecies and warnings just recently, all across the town, but no one seems to know anything about them. I was headed for the Library, but I’m hoping you can save me a journey.”

  “Do you see them as a threat to Shadows Fall?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I really don’t see how. They’re a fringe group of extreme fanatics who believe in the imposition of their particular brand of Christianity through brute force. Militant hard-liners to some, Christian terrorists to others. They preach revolution and hellfire, and fund all kinds of right-wing governments across the world. Heavily into faith healing and fund raising. They’ve even got their own satellite broadcasting system. They’ve been investigated several times on charges of brainwashing and programming their converts, but nothing’s ever been proved. They’ve been hailed by some as Christianity’s last chance for survival in an increasingly secular world. But why their name should suddenly be appearing in prophecies concerning Shadows Fall is beyond me.”

  “The prophecies see the Warriors as some kind of threat. One seer even used the word invasion.”

  “No,” said Callahan firmly. “I can’t believe it. If anything like that was in the wind, I would have heard something by now. I promise you, Lester, we’re in no danger. It’s much more likely we’re all feeling the strain of the recent murders. Helpless, frightened people will grab at any gossip or rumour if it seems to promise an answer. We mustn’t allow ourselves to be caught up in the hysteria; it’s important that people like us keep our heads. People look up to us. But you already knew that. You didn’t come here for a briefing on the Warriors of the Cross. Something’s worrying you, isn’t it? Something… spiritual.”

  “Yes,” said Gold, in a voice so quiet Callahan could barely hear it. The big man’s hands had closed into fists, and he looked at the floor rather than meet the priest’s eyes. “I’ve been to the land beneath the hill, and spoken with the Faerie. I’ve seen… strange things. Disturbing things.”
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  Callahan nodded slowly. “You shouldn’t have gone there, Lester. It’s no place for a Christian. The land beneath the hill is an evil place, steeped in sin and wickedness. No good can come of it, or the creatures that live there.”

  “They’re supposed to be immortal. They were very beautiful, but so cruel… civilized, but still savage.”

  “They’re full of contradictions.” Callahan struggled to keep his voice calm and even. Gold had come to him for comfort, not a stern lecture. “Lying is a part of their nature. They know nothing of faith or certainty. They are immortal because they have no souls, so when they die they are denied Heaven or Hell. They have rejected God and cursed his teachings. They’re demons, Lester; everything you saw or thought you saw was nothing more than glamour; sorcerous illusions designed to hide their true hideousness. In reality they are vile and awful creatures, ugly beyond belief, living in a squalid hell of their own making. Their gold is false, their food is poison, their word is worthless. They exist only to tempt Man away from his faith and his duty.”

  “You really don’t like them, do you?” said Gold, and Callahan had to smile.

  “Sorry; I was getting a bit worked up, wasn’t I? Trust me, Lester; the Faerie are evil, and nothing good can come of them. How did you come to meet them?”

  “Sean Morrison…”

  “Sean? Say no more; if ever a soul was born to trouble, he was. He has a fine singing voice, and entirely too much charm, but there’s no room in him anywhere for the holy word. He’s a Pagan, damned by his own arrogance and folly. You’ve fallen in with bad company, Lester. These are troubled times; we must cling to what we know to be true.”