Shadows Fall

by Simon R. Green

  They stamped the snow from their boots, rubbed their hands together to get the blood flowing again, and then Hart led the way through the broad, intersecting corridors of the Gallery of Bone. He knew the right way instinctively, as though he belonged there. Everywhere they went was still and silent, and nothing moved in the darkness but them. The portraits on the walls were dark and empty, with nothing left of the scenes they were supposed to show. Which, as far as Hart was concerned, raised an interesting question; where were the people and creatures some of those portraits were supposed to be guarding? Were they still somehow held in place, or were they running loose in the Gallery; hiding in the dark beyond his light? It was an interesting question, but not one Hart felt like sharing with his companions. They were concerned enough as it was; the last thing they needed was something else to worry about. He pressed on, paying just a little more attention to his surroundings. He was pretty sure he’d be able to tell if something was lurking nearby, just as he knew other things, but it was all too new for him to be able to really trust it yet.

  They walked on, none of them saying anything, and the tension in the group was thick enough to cut with a knife. The Gallery wasn’t supposed to be like this, ever, and they all knew it. And what that implied about Time’s condition was increasingly worrying. Old Father Time was supposed to be immortal, and powerful beyond belief, with mastery over Time and Space and anything that hung around the edges. The thought of anyone, or anything, powerful enough to affect Time was disturbing on a very basic level. They walked on, and the darkness pressed in close around them. Every now and again they’d come across one of Time’s metal automatons, the gleaming clockwork figures standing motionless, frozen in mid-movement, as though the force that motivated them had been cut off suddenly, without warning.

  They headed for Time’s inner sanctum, feeling more jumpy all the time, ready to start at any suspected sound or movement. But there was never anything except the dark. The only sound was the soft slap of their feet on the polished wooden floor, quickly swallowed up by the quiet before it even had time to echo. It was like walking at the bottom of the sea, with light and sound and freedom far from reach. Hart stopped suddenly, and the others stopped with him. There was a sound not far ahead, quiet and muffled. It took Hart a long moment to realize it was the sound of someone crying. He started forward again, rounded a corner that hadn’t been there a moment before, and found Mad sitting slumped before the door of Time’s inner sanctum. She was crying quietly, openly, with the slow jerky tears of someone who knows that hope is gone, and only the inevitable remains. The tears shook her with every breath, and had made thick runnels through the grey makeup on her face. She looked like a young girl dressed up in an older sister’s clothes. Hart knelt before her.

  “What is it, Mad? What’s happened here?”

  It took Mad a moment to get control of her voice. “Time’s dying, but it’s far too early. He ought to have months left in him yet, but something’s eating him up from the inside. He’s going to die, and I don’t know if he’s going to come back this time. You’ve got to do something.”

  “We’ll do what we can,” said Hart. He didn’t want to lie to her, not now. He helped Mad to her feet, and she sniffed and knuckled her eyes as he pushed open the door and led the others in. The room was large, but not uncomfortably so, though there were no fittings and furnishings, save for a plain, functional bed in the middle of the room. And lying on that bed, under rumpled blankets, Old Father Time.

  The varying details of his appearance and surroundings had been put aside, as though he no longer had the time or energy to bother with such fripperies. He was just an old man lying in a bed, breathing noisily through his open mouth. He seemed a thousand years old, a small wrinkled mummy of a man for whom each breath was an effort. He looked only seconds away from death, as though it might claim him at any moment. Hart stood at the bedside, looking down at the dying man with a mixture of compassion and annoyance. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn Time was doing this just to get out of answering questions. The others crowded behind him, but didn’t approach the bed, as though they were too awed or too nervous to get any closer.

  “I don’t get this,” murmured Ash, at Hart’s shoulder. “So what if he’s dying? He’ll just come back again as a baby.”

  “You’re right, you don’t get it,” said Morrison, not bothering to lower his voice. “Time’s life cycle may be continuous, but it’s regimented to the second, so that it ties in with the needs and cycles of the town. Something’s sucked the remaining months of his life and power right out of him. Which means he’s helpless to do anything about what’s happening in the town until he’s died, been born again and matured out of childhood. And that could take days. Anything could happen in that time. Anything.”

  “Cheerful sort, isn’t he?” Ash said to Rhea. She shushed him without taking her eyes off the old man in the bed.

  “Who would have the power to do something like this to Time?” she said finally.

  “Good question,” said Morrison. “If you come up with an answer that won’t loosen our bowels too much, feel free to share it with us.”

  They moved a little closer, none of them sure what to do next. Mad sat on one side of the bed, sniffing occasionally and holding one of Time’s wrinkled hands in both of hers. She looked at the others, and her face said Do something. And then Time opened his eyes, and began to speak in a low, breathy whisper.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you all here today. You’re here because it’s time you knew what’s really been going on in Shadows Fall. Listen carefully; I doubt very much if I’ll have the time or the strength to go through this twice. The Wild Childe is a physical manifestation of entropy; a living reminder that all things must pass, whether they want to or not. It’s supposed to be spontaneously created by the unconscious mass mind of the town, when the population becomes dangerously large. It’s a safeguard built into the system, for when I am incapable or unwilling to do my job. There are forces in the universe that will not be denied.

  “There are always some who are supposed to go through the Forever Door, and don’t. The system allows for that. They settle in the town, become real, live out a normal lifespan and die. Only sometimes, they don’t. They find a way to hang on to life long after they should have passed on. Too many of them, and the town becomes too big, too unwieldy. Things start to break down. The Wild Childe is supposed to manifest at this point, and persuade the trouble-makers to pass through the Door. He’s an archetype, called up from the collective unconsciousness of the town, which means he has incredible power to draw on, if he should find it necessary to send someone through the Forever Door by force. But he was never supposed to be a killer.”

  Time broke off, and for a moment all he could do was gasp for air like a drowning man. Mad squeezed his hand hard, and finally he was back in control again. He resumed his lecture, and his voice actually seemed a little stronger. “The town’s population is nowhere near large enough to have given rise to the Wild Childe spontaneously. Something, some outside force, has brought it into being early, and corrupted its purpose. That’s why it’s been possessing others instead of creating a form for itself. Now it’s running loose in a thousand bodies, dancing to someone else’s tune, and it won’t stop until every living creature in Shadows Fall has been sent through the Forever Door, one way or another.”

  There was a long pause before they realized he’d said all he had to say.

  “All right,” said Hart, “who’s behind it? Why does he want to kill everyone? What can we do to stop him?”

  “You can’t,” said Time.

  His eyes closed and he stopped breathing, and it was some time before they realized he was dead.

  —

  It was the day of the Wild Childe, and they were everywhere. Throughout the beleaguered town of Shadows Fall, thousands of men and women with the same grinning face ran rabid through the streets, killing anyone who was not them,
and gathering in crowds around the few remaining pockets of resistance. Blood ran in the gutters, and sometimes the possessed would stop to kneel and lap at it like dogs. Inside the Sheriff’s office, the Deputies Collins and Lewis nailed boards across the windows while Suzanne and Polly barricaded the doors. Outside, the screaming was deafening, and there was a constant thunder of hammering fists on the other sides of the doors. The Wild Childe wanted in, and deep down the defenders knew that eventually he would find a way.

  Collins and Lewis poked their guns between the nailed-up boards and fired off a few shots every now and again, whenever the press of surrounding bodies seemed too great, but they had to make each shot count. Ammunition was limited. They’d never had to rely on guns before to keep the peace in Shadows Fall. The Wild Childe had guns they’d taken from dead Warriors, but luckily there was even less ammunition for those. The two Deputies shot to kill, even when they thought they recognized the face before them. They had to, because the Wild Childe would not be stopped by anything less. There was nothing human left in them; nothing that could be reasoned with or appealed to.

  Suzanne and Polly had guns the Deputies had given them, but so far they hadn’t found the courage or the desperation to use them. They sat together at a table, and Polly watched as Suzanne laid out a pack of playing cards she’d found in a drawer. Some of Hart’s power still moved within her, and she saw things in the patterns the cards made. She saw the mob running loose in the streets, drunk on blood and suffering, and she saw its name, Wild Childe, though it meant nothing to her. She was trying to see a safe way out of the Sheriff’s office, and then out of the town, but wherever she looked, the Wild Childe looked back. There was no way out. No way past the Wild Childe, and the madness he’d brought to town.

  The two Deputies suddenly opened up with a fusillade of shots, and Suzanne and Polly looked round quickly, their hands going to their guns lying before them on the table. Collins moved away from the window, and hurried out of the room. The two women jumped to their feet, guns at the ready.

  “What is it?” said Suzanne. “Are they in the building?”

  “No,” said Lewis, picking off his targets with cold efficiency. “The mob’s chasing some of their victims this way. There’s only a few of them, one human and three anthropomorphics, but they’re all armed, and they’re holding the killers back. Collins has gone down to open a side door for them. If they get that far.” He stopped firing, and looked puzzled, craning his neck this way and that to get a better view between the boards. “The mob must really want these people; they’ve forgotten all about us to concentrate on the poor bastards outside.”

  “What can we do to help them?” said Polly.

  “Not much,” said Lewis. “Collins will stand by to open the side door if he gets a chance, but he won’t put us at risk to rescue them. It’s all down to the poor bastards outside. They’ll have to make their own luck.”

  Outside in the street, Scottie the Wee Terror threw himself at the grinning man before him and tore out his throat with a practised snap of his jaws. He wasn’t a particularly big dog, but he had a lot of teeth. He hit the ground feet first and looked quickly about him for a new victim. His studded leather jacket was torn and bloodied, some of the blood his, and someone had torn the safety pin from his nose, though he couldn’t remember when. Peter Caulder fought at his side, firing his two machine pistols in practised bursts. The ex-Warrior was dog tired and bone weary, but his aim never wavered. He had vowed to protect the Underworld of the Subnatural with his life, and though his faith had been proved false, his word was still good.

  Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat stood back to back, their guns uncomfortably warm in their paws from too much use. There had been a time, not all that long ago, that the Bear had thought himself incapable of killing. Time and circumstance had proved him wrong. With the Wild Childe it was kill or be killed, and the Bear wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. Many of the Underworld of the Subnatural had refused to kill, for many reasons, and Bruin Bear had watched them die till he couldn’t stand it any more. He picked up a gun, and was surprised how easy it was to use.

  The Sea Goat had a gun in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. He laughed and roared insults as he fired, in his element at last. The Bear tried not to listen to him. He concentrated on the matter at hand, cutting down any of the manic horde who got too close, and felt a little of himself die every time he pulled the trigger.

  The mob pressed forward on all sides, and the three animals and one human ran before it, this way and that, maintaining a respectful distance from the horde with their guns. None of the manic faces before them seemed at all afraid to die, but they showed a certain primitive caution, as though not wanting to throw away their life for no purpose. Caulder stopped suddenly as a wall loomed up before him, and a brief surge of panic flared up as he realized there was nowhere left to go. He put his back to the wall, and Scottie crouched panting at his feet, his eyes just a little wild. Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat were quickly there beside them, and without having to say anything, they all knew they’d got as far as they were going to go. There was no room left in them for despair, only determination. They lifted their guns one last time, and then a door opened beside them, and an arm reached out to drag them in.

  They threw themselves into the opening, and someone slammed the door shut behind them in the face of the howling mob. They lay in a heap on the floor, happy for the moment just to lie there and get their breath back as the mob hammered futilely on the locked door. The Sea Goat was the first back on his feet, gun in hand, still somehow clinging to his bottle of vodka. He glared at the figure before him, and sniffed loudly.

  “Took you long enough to let us in. Any longer and those assholes would have walked right over us. Who the hell are you, and is there another way out of this place?”

  “You must excuse the Goat,” said Bruin Bear tiredly. “I used to know why, but I’ve forgotten.”

  “I’m Collins,” said the Deputy. “And there’s no way out for any of us. Come and meet the others.”

  “Are they all as cheerful as you?” growled Scottie.

  They quickly joined the others, found vantage points from which to fire at the mob outside, and took it in turns to tell their story. They were all depressingly similar.

  “We’ve tried radioing for help,” said Suzanne, “But there’s never any answer. The phones are dead. I think the wires have been cut. For all we know, we could be the only ones left alive in Shadows Fall.”

  Polly shivered briefly. “Don’t. I can’t believe that. There has to be someone else out there. If we can just hold out long enough, they’ll come to rescue us.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” said Scottie, scratching his ear with his back paw. Specks of dried blood fell to the floor. “The crazy people are all over the place. We’re all that’s left of the Underworld of the Subnatural.”

  There was a sudden crash from the floor below, and a roar of triumphant voices. Everyone looked automatically at the door. Beyond it lay an open corridor, with two lifts and a stairway giving access to the floor below. The sound of broken glass and furniture being thrown about was clear and distinct, even above the animal growls and screams of the Wild Childe.

  “Damn,” said Collins tonelessly. “They’re in the building.”

  The Sea Goat took a quick drink from his bottle, and bared his blocky teeth. “I’m still waiting to hear if there’s another way out of this death trap, though I have a sneaking suspicion I already know the answer. Don’t all speak at once.”

  “There’s no way out,” said Lewis. He turned away from the window, ejected a spent clip from his gun and slipped in a new one. “If there was a way out, we’d have used it. We’re not going anywhere.”

  “It’s at times like this,” said Scottie, “that I wish my creator had stuck to paperback thrillers. I didn’t ask to be created.”

  “We can’t just stand here and wait for the mob to come and get us!” snapped Suzanne. “If you wan
t to give up, take a walk downstairs and get it over with. I am going to set up more barricades, at least partly because I’d feel such an idiot if I just gave up, and help arrived a few minutes later.”

  “She’s got a point,” said the Sea Goat.

  It took only a few minutes to disable both the elevators, throw furniture down the stairway, retreat back into the reception area and jam the heaviest desk up against the only door. They reloaded their guns, took up defensive positions behind overturned tables, and waited. The uproar from below showed no signs of abating, though there couldn’t have been much left to smash. Bruin Bear hugged his gun to his furry chest, and felt more sad than anything else. He’d done many things he knew his creator would never have approved of, in the interests of survival, and now he wondered if he’d made the right choice after all. He was less than he once was, he knew that. He’d been special before. Guns wouldn’t work near him, and bad things didn’t happen to him and his friends, because… because he was Bruin Bear. But being special hadn’t been enough to save his fellow creatures from the curse of the Wild Childe, so he’d taken up the gun, to try and force the world to be the way it should be. He’d cast aside what made him unique, and little good it had done him. He was still going to die, and his friends with him. A door opened behind him, and he spun round, his thick finger on the trigger. Sheriff Erikson blinked at all the guns pointing at him, and raised his hands. Everyone let their breath out again, and lowered their guns a little.

  “Sorry, Sheriff,” said Collins. “With everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten you were still… sleeping it off. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” said Erikson. “I feel fine. I know I was… out of control there, for a while, but I’m better now. Really, I’m feeling just fine now, and I’d like to help. If you’ll give me my gun back.”