Department Zero

by Paul Crilley

  Muted laughter from the crowd. The old man frowns.

  “That was not a joke.”

  He waits while the laughter fades away into an uncomfortable silence. He surveys the crowd severely, then nods in satisfaction. “Good. And now, to officially open our exhibition, I give you Her Graciousness, Queen Victoria.”

  He steps aside, and the crowd applauds loudly as a huge brass-and-wood wheelchair trundles onto the stage. The chair is a monstrosity of design, gears and cogs in full view, whirring and spinning as the chair moves front and center.

  But the woman in the chair itself . . . The queen of England? Gross. She looks . . . drained. Empty. A bag of wrinkles that has been poured into the chair. I assume it’s nearly time for her rehousing, or whatever they call it. The one where her soul is moved into another body. But still . . . this is what she looks like after ten years? That’s some serious wear and tear. Unless she goes on a year-long drug bender before the rehousing. No consequences if she has a new body, right? That’s what I’d do.

  It looks like she’s fast asleep. One of the queen’s handlers shakes her gently. She doesn’t respond, so he has a quick, whispered conversation with another aide, then reluctantly pokes her in the ribs. Still nothing. The handler leans down, putting his ear next to her chest, then straightens up and gives her a hard slap.

  The crowd gasps in horror as the queen starts awake, looking around in confusion. “Alfred?” She peers ahead, taking note of the crowd. “Alfred, we’re not doing the swinger’s ball till I’ve been rehoused, I told you that.”

  One of the handlers leans down again to whisper in her ear.

  “What? Oh . . . Yes. Of course. I now declare this . . .” The handler leans down and whispers again. “. . . exhibition open. Jolly good.”

  She slumps back and closes her eyes. The chair reverses slowly along the stage and disappears into the wings again.

  “Great speech,” I say to a guy in a top hat standing next to me. “Very moving. Inspiring.” I wipe my eye. “I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but—”

  Top Hat gives me a dirty look and moves away. I grin and head through the closest door, to the first room of the exhibition.

  I move toward the glass display cases. The first contains two pieces of gray rock with Egyptian hieroglyphs on them. The little card pinned to the case says it’s The Autobiography of Weni.

  “Only two pieces of rock?” I mutter. “Couldn’t have been very famous.” Maybe he was the member of a boy band, the one who left before they hit it big.

  I lean closer and read the rest of the description. Apparently it’s the record of the earliest-known Egyptian military campaign. Boring. I move on to the next case. This one contains something called the Lachish Letters. A series of letters written in Ancient Hebrew on clay ostraca, says the card. I stare at the pieces of clay, then look to my right. There are another . . . sixteen cases of similar tablets.

  There are no more cases in this room, so I move through the door into the next. This room is much larger. There’s a huge skylight in the roof covered with a white dusting of snow.

  I walk across the tiles, moving past a group of men and women huddled in a circle. One of them mutters as I pass.

  “Wir bewegen jetzt,” he says. The guy looks really familiar to me. Slicked-back hair, small, round glasses. Why do I know that face?

  “Nein, wir sollen erst später auf heute Abend warten,” replies a blonde woman.

  I frown, trying to remember my high school German as I stop before the first case.

  My eyes widen in shock. It’s the spear. The Vienna Lance.

  It’s a bit of an anticlimax. It’s not even really a spear. More of a spearhead. It’s long and thin, about the length of my forearm, and has gold strips wrapped around the middle.

  The Holy Lance, says the card. Also known as the Holy Spear, the Spear of Destiny, and the Lance of Longinus. It is said that the Lance was used to pierce the side of Jesus as he hung on the cross.

  Wir bewegen jetzt. What the hell does that mean? We . . . go soon? No. That’s not it. We go now? No. We move now. That’s it.

  And what had the woman said back?

  Nein, wir sollen erst später auf heute Abend warten?

  I close my eyes and concentrate.

  We should wait till later tonight.

  Hmm.

  I turn slowly around.

  The group is now staring at me. No—not me.

  At the Holy Lance.

  And that’s when I realize why the guy looks familiar. I’ve only ever seen him in black-and-white photos or on the History Channel, but it’s definitely him. Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS and Hitler’s right-hand psycho.

  I open my mouth to shout for Graves. I don’t get the chance, because at that moment Himmler pulls a gun out and fires it into the air.

  “Jeder cool, das ist ein Raubüberfall!” he shouts.

  I concentrate. Everybody be cool, this is a robbery.

  The guests scream and run for the exits. But there are so many doors, it quickly descends into a chaotic riot of people tripping over each other in their rush to escape.

  I turn back to the case. No need for subtlety now. I pull out my gun and hit the case. The glass shatters, alarm bells erupting around me.

  I grab the spear. The Germans are coming toward me, shoving guests out of the way. There are two doors leading out of the room. Both are blocked. Shit. Haven’t really thought this through.

  A terrific cracking sound echoes above the screams and the ringing of the alarm. Everyone looks up just as the glass in the skylight gives way, huge shards of glass and snow dropping to the tiles.

  As well as some people, which is a bit odd.

  They slow down as they descend, and I see they’re attached to ropes. They’re also wearing balaclavas and holding guns.

  The Germans fire at them, the shots echoing loudly in the huge room. Some of the new arrivals flop loosely on their ropes then slam hard into the floor. Those that avoid the bullets land lightly and run straight toward me.

  I run in the opposite direction, clutching the spear tightly. The Germans see me making off with their prize and come after me too, both sides moving at an angle, ferrying me into a corner of the room.

  I try to zigzag toward the closest door, but a bullet hitting the tiles at my feet sends me scurrying back. I reach the wall. I whirl around, fire my gun at the closest attacker. He erupts into dust, and one of the others skids to a stop as he stumbles through the cloud that used to be his comrade. I shoot him before he can recover, but by this time one of the newer arrivals has reached me. He knocks my gun aside and then fumbles at my belt.

  I look down in confusion. “What—”

  I don’t get a chance to finish, because at that moment the rope he clipped to my belt goes taut and I’m yanked forward off my feet.

  I hit the floor and am pulled across the tiles, knocking assailants’ legs out from under them, sending them tumbling like bowling balls. I scramble around at my belt, trying to unclip the rope, but it’s too tight, and I’m still trying to hold onto the spear with my other hand. Graves runs toward me, firing at the Germans as he comes, but before he can get to me, I’m yanked up toward the broken skylight.

  I don’t make it. There is a flash of darkness, like smoke moving fast past my vision. A wet, guttural snarl and suddenly I’m falling, the rope severed by something razor-sharp.

  I hit the floor. Chaos all around me. Screams. Panicked shouting. Gunshots. I wince and roll over, squinting through the running legs.

  The Hounds of Tindalos.

  They’re galloping through the crowd, tearing people in half as they go, sweeping left and right with those talons on the back of their paws. Anything the claws touch liquefies. Skin, clothes, whatever. One lightly scratches a woman’s face. She screams in horror as her skin melts like hot wax, dripping off her skull to pool in liquefied fat and blood at her feet.

  Jesus. I search frantically for Graves. He’s up against the far wall, fi
ring randomly. (Hell, with all the different groups attacking us, he’s bound to hit someone on the other side.)

  I’m still gripping the spear tight against my chest. I loosen my grip, fumbling at my belt to try and unhook the rope. The screams and shouts are getting louder. I can smell blood and fear, the stench of bitter vomit and bile as the hounds slice open stomachs. Got to get out of here.

  I look around. Graves has vanished. The only people remaining in the room are those fighting for the spear. Luckily they’re distracted enough with each other that—

  The spear is yanked off my chest. I look up in surprise and see one of the second group holding it in his arms, eyes shining, a huge grin on his face. He looks at me, then turns and runs directly for one of the windows.

  I scramble to my feet. I finally manage to unhook the rope, then sprint after the thief. He’s already used the spear to smash a window and has disappeared outside.

  I follow, into the freezing winter night. I land on icy flagstones and slip onto my back. My breath explodes from me, and I find myself staring up into a bright, white light. I raise a hand, squinting against the glare, and see a huge zeppelin floating in the sky, black ropes snaking down from inside.

  A noise to my right. I roll over and see the thief sprinting onto the main road. I push myself to my feet and follow.

  No way that bastard is getting away with the spear.

  Chapter Eleven

  So here’s the thing. When I set off after the guy who stole the spear, I really didn’t expect to end the night chained to an altar in the ruins of St. Paul’s Cathedral while my blood is about to be sucked from my body by a group of insane (and unfit) cultists frantically working foot pumps in an attempt to bring the rotting corpse of a Martian invader back to life.

  But them’s the breaks, honey.

  And to be honest, it’s actually a step up from some of the stuff that’s been going down lately.

  But let’s backtrack a bit. After struggling to my feet outside the museum, I set off after the thief. The way through the streets is lit by gas lamps along the sidewalk and the spotlights of floating blimps displaying advertisements for child-friendly gin and cigarettes (that apparently cure ailments ranging from the common cold to a chest cough).

  The thief leads me into a more run-down area of town. One moment I’m moving past swanky hotels and well-lit streets, and the next I’m in an alley leading into an abandoned street with not a single person to be seen.

  Not even my target.

  I stop moving, instincts warning that I might be about to get jumped. I wait, listen.

  Nothing happens.

  I move cautiously to the end of the alley and peer into the ruined street beyond. Some of the buildings are half-destroyed. Rubble and bricks strewn everywhere. It looks like a war has been fought here.

  I frown at the sudden change in the city. I backtrack a bit and peer around the corner. Life and lights, people laughing and shouting. And behind me, darkness and ruin.

  I head back to the end of the alley and see a flash of movement in the distance. My prey, about thirty feet ahead of me. I hurry across the pitted street, moving past the abandoned shops and shattered windows. I follow after him as he turns into a narrow street. I glance up at the sign.

  Wawrick Lane.

  I move through the darkness, eventually sensing a huge building to my left. I look up and realize it’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. Didn’t Ash say this was ground zero for the Martian war?

  Wait. Didn’t she say something else? That this part of the city is supposed to be deserted because of the Martian germs and stuff? Crap. Am I going to get poisoned?

  I pause and sniff the air. Seems normal to me. And I don’t see anything floating around. Probably pointless worrying about it now. If there is anything in the air, I’ve already inhaled it.

  I continue pursuing the guy as he moves along the west side of St Paul’s, then turns left into the huge square in front of the cathedral. I hang back behind a stone fountain, watching as he jogs across the deserted concourse. He climbs the wide set of stairs, moving beneath the huge columned portico before disappearing inside the cathedral itself.

  A blimp floats across the sky, throwing a huge spotlight down onto the dome. The place resembles an overgrown tumor, the church now almost hidden beneath carpets of red-and-black fungus.

  I sigh. Graves isn’t going to miraculously appear in the street and save the day. Suppose I might as well get this over with.

  I sprint across the square, my trench coat flapping behind me in a manner I know looks incredibly cool. I move up the stairs and creep to the side of the open door. I peer inside.

  Nothing.

  I listen for a few seconds then get down onto my knees and slowly crawl into the cathedral. (Dignity? What’s that?) The tiles are cold beneath my hands. My fingers push through fresh mud: the thief’s footprints.

  I wait for my eyes to adjust. The dim light from outside creeps in through the door. There are pews to either side, the path between them leading to a large central space beneath the dome.

  The sound of footsteps echoes back to me. A match flares to life, and I see the thief standing before an altar on the far side of the central space. The golden light slowly increases as he lights a row of candles.

  I crawl along behind one of the benches to the far wall. I pause when I reach a doorway off to the side of the main church. A set of stairs leads up.

  I climb the stairs until I reach a wide gallery that circles the empty space beneath the dome. I get down on my knees and inch forward, staring down between the railings. The church is still dark, but the candlelight is expanding outward, touching the benches in front of the transept.

  And . . .

  And the thirty or so people sitting there watching the thief.

  I swear under my breath. I hadn’t noticed them from where I was crawling around on the floor. The people sitting in the benches wear dark robes, their faces rapt and attentive. They creep me out. None of them are talking. Just staring straight ahead.

  Goddamn it. More cultists? Well, I suppose I did ask for them, didn’t I? What’s the saying? Be careful what you wish for?

  “My fellow Dusters!” says the thief.

  Dusters? What the hell are Dusters?

  “We are close to bringing back our rightful rulers! We stand on the cusp of achieving our aims! Of resurrecting the Martian overlords. With this spear we can finally accomplish our task!”

  So . . . what the hell do I do now? I thought I was taking on one thief, but now it’s over thirty. This is a bit above my pay grade.

  The thief has put the spear down on the altar while he talks to the other fanatics. Perhaps I can sneak around behind and take it? The other side of the altar is still wreathed in shadows. They won’t be able to see me.

  I start to shuffle backward. At the same moment, the thief leans around the altar and touches a candle to something on the floor.

  The area behind the altar explodes into golden fire as oil poured into tracks hewn out of the tiles catches alight. The fire traces a path along the walls, illuminating the high ceiling, the nave . . .

  . . . and the twenty-foot-tall body of a dead Martian strung up on a wooden cross.

  I stop moving. That’s not something you see every day.

  It also blows my plan to hell. I shuffle forward again.

  The Martian’s corpse looks like a cross between an octopus and one of the Old Ones. Its skin is the same waxy beige color as those worms back at the safe house, but mottled with patches of black and green. Still, for something that must have been dead for nearly forty years, the corpse looks pretty damn well preserved.

  “Are you ready, my fellow Dusters?” shouts the thief.

  A sibilant sound issues from the Dusters sitting in the pews. I peer down at them and realize they’re actually hissing.

  “May earth return to the paradise it once was, the sibling of the great Mars. May humanity return to serve the true masters, the many-limbed ones
.”

  “The many-limbed ones!” comes the chorus of replies.

  The thief presses his hands together and bows slightly. “And now we must bring in the Blessed.”

  From somewhere off to the side a Duster appears and moves slowly toward the thief. She has something slung over her shoulder, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s a thick chain, trailing back into the darkness.

  I trace the links back until the first person emerges into the light, the chain attached to a collar around his neck. The Duster moves slowly forward, and I count ten men and women following behind. Their eyes are vacant, their heads lolling to the side as they drag their feet across the tiles. Drugged.

  The thief gestures impatiently for the Duster to hand the chain over. He takes it from her and attaches it to a metal cog, threading the links carefully over the teeth before locking it down with a hasp and catch.

  “Children of the revolution . . .”

  I almost groan out loud. Where the hell is this guy getting his material? The Mammoth Book of Clichés and Cults?

  “. . . now is the time. Now is the time we bring back our true masters, and we bow down in subjugation and lick the horrible black stuff from between their toes. Will we shy away in disgust? No. We will lick it and enjoy it, because we are worms. Worms in the eyes of the true gods!”

  The thief pulls on a lever, and the cog judders and spins into motion. The chain is pulled tight, the prisoners attached to it yanked high into the air so that they form a semicircle above the dead Martian.

  Interesting. I wonder what’s next. The orgy? That’s what people like this usually do, isn’t it?

  But nope. I’m wrong.

  The thief catches something trailing down from the prisoners. Some form of transparent tubing. I trace the tubing back and see it’s attached to needles taped to the prisoners’ arms.

  The thief then attaches the end he is holding to a second, thicker tube that has been inserted into the dead Martian.

  He isn’t. Is he?

  No.

  Is he?

  Is he . . . actually trying to give a forty-years-dead Martian a blood transfusion? With human blood?