London Under Midnight

by Simon Clark

  'Red for danger. Danger of death. Electricity.'

  'Damn.' Ped eyeballed the bloody light. It was nothing special; merely one of those signal lights that festoon the London Underground. Only to Mickey it represented danger. It was danger. Mickey saw it as a pulsating reservoir of electricity - a swarming hive of amps, volts and watts that were waiting to attack him. The kid probably imagined the light would fire a jet of crimson electricity at him that would blast through his body to make his bones pulse with that same blood-red light before burning the flesh from him. Mickey panted with sheer panic. Above him, the skinheads were descending fast. Soon the first boot would smash down on his brother's head.

  'Mickey. It can't hurt you.'

  'Red for danger. It'll burn.'

  'No, it won't. Look.' Ped slapped the flat of his hand against the light. It wasn't even hot, but try telling his brother that. Mickey just moaned and closed his eyes.

  One of the thugs shouted, 'Hey, Sparky? Sparky Lectric! We're gonna take you down to the live rail. You know something? A million volts go shooting through it. If you drop a rat on that it explodes. Boom!' The skinheads laughed. 'We're gonna pull your dick out of your underpants then stick it on the electric rail. Can't you just see what's going to happen to it? Just get that picture in your mind's eye. Your prick touching all that electricity. It'll go black. Shrivel up! Then your balls are going to get hotter and hotter… then boom!'

  Mickey's scream echoed along the cutting.

  Ped yelled up at the gang. 'Shut up! Can't you see he's scared?'

  The gang could easily have reached Mickey now, but they were laughing so much at his terrified screams that they had to hang on to the ladder as they roared with hilarity. This gave Ped a chance. He pulled the aerosol from his jacket pocket.

  'Mickey. Watch me. Please, open your eyes. See what I'm doing. I'm putting a circle around the light.' He sprayed a ring of florescent green round the red light. 'See, bro. I've closed it in. I've trapped it. Now it can't hurt you.' He reached up and yanked his brother's ankle. 'Now move!'

  Mickey stared at the red light with the gleaming boundary of green. In his eyes the paint had become the protecting force field. The magic shield that stopped electrons streaming from the lamp to sear his face. Gulping repeatedly, he quickly descended; so fast, in fact, that he stepped on Ped's fingers.

  'That's alright, bro. You can stand on my face if you want to. Just keep moving. That's beautiful. Yeah, beautiful, Mickey. You're doing the business.'

  Seconds later they reached the gravel base of the cutting. Across the rails he could see the gleam of canal water. Nearly there. He glanced up. The skinheads' anger at being thwarted from simply booting Mickey off the ladder had killed their fit of laughter. Now they were hell-bent on catching their victims. The ladder shook as their boots clattered on the rungs. The clatter became a thunder. It was so loud it made the ground tremble. For a moment he believed it was the force of those feet crashing down the ladder. Then a flicker of light raced across the horizon. 'Great,' Ped muttered, 'all this and a thunderstorm, too.'

  He grabbed Mickey by the elbow. After a train had passed, all lights as it clanked forward in the darkness, he urged his brother to move. Mickey's legs froze as he saw the dreaded live power rail in front of him. Running between the two rails that accommodated the wheels of the train, it was a thick continuous band of iron that even for Ped appeared to pulse with ominous energy.

  'For God's sake, step over it when we cross. Don't touch it.'

  But Mickey had clearly decided to go nowhere near it.

  'C'mon, Mickey. We've got to cross over the rails. It's the only way we can escape those guys.'

  Mickey shook his head.

  'Don't worry. I can make it safe.' Ped leant over the track. He'd use the aerosol to spray two parallel lines. Then Mickey could walk through with the protecting lines on either side of him. Okay, its protective power only existed in Mickey's imagination, but it would be enough. He painted the first green line across the live power line. However, as he tried to spray the second, only a hiss of propellant emerged from the atomizer. Not so much as a drop of green. Behind him, the thugs reached the bottom of the ladder.

  One shouted, 'We're going to fry your dick, too!'

  A train roared down the track. Ped saw its lights in the distance. Another twenty seconds and this wouldn't be a healthy place for two very good reasons. The gang, or the train, was going to leave their mark, and Mickey had locked up tight with fear. His eyes bulged as he stared at the electrified metal bar that fed the motors of the approaching train.

  Ped shook the aerosol and tried again. Just that fizzing sound. No paint. No way of creating a magical pathway for his brother.

  'I'm going to have to drag you across.' He seized Mickey, but the kid seemed to have embedded himself in the gravel. No amount of wild horses, nor desperate siblings, were going to haul him across the line of living death. As Ped tried to wrestle the man forward he felt a hard cylinder in his brother's jacket pocket.

  'Why didn't you tell me you had a can!'

  Mickey merely stared at the electrified rail without uttering a word. Ped dragged the can from his pocket.

  As he sprayed the green line across the track, he shouted, 'See what I'm doing? I've sprayed you a magic road. The electricity can't hurt you.' As long as you don't touch the live rail, was his unvoiced thought. 'Okay, Mickey. Run.'

  Mickey leapt over the rail like a gazelle. Ped followed.

  Behind him, those booted feet clattered over the gravel. To his right the train roared down at them. It was nothing less than a hell-storm of light and noise and movement. Twenty tons of electric-driven locomotive that would splatter any human standing in its way. Ped could swear that the carriage-work brushed a heel as he raced after his brother. Mickey didn't stop now. He leapt over the fence then ran down the slope to the canal towpath.

  Five seconds later he stopped. In the light falling from buildings across the canal three figures stood in their way. To one side of them were the glistening waters, on the other side ran a high fence.

  'Hell!' Ped screamed. 'There's more of them.' The gang must have sent some of its members down here. They had the foresight to appreciate that their victims might try to escape this way. The figures didn't move. They were purely silhouettes of ominous intent. Silently, they stood there, blocking the path as effectively as a brick wall.

  Ped was running short of options. Nevertheless, he grabbed his brother and dragged him into the bushes that formed a green boundary ten feet deep between this section of path and fence. With luck there might be a gap that would allow their escape. A moment later he knew that there wasn't. The steel fence hemmed them in. All the pair could do was crouch there in the darkness. The gang would find them. That much was sure.

  Then Mickey whispered, 'Those three…'

  'I know. The gang sent them to cut us off.' He sighed. 'I'm sorry, bro.'

  'They aren't skinheads.'

  Ped groaned. 'Don't start this now. They're not electric men. Electric men don't exist.'

  'No, they're not electric men.' Mickey spoke with conviction. 'They're not any kind of men.'

  Ped risked a peek through the foliage. Only it wasn't the three figures he saw, it was the gang of four with their shaved heads. This is where thug collided with something altogether more monstrous. And when the end came it was fast, brutal, bloody.

  Ped heard one of the gang snarl, 'Get out of our way.'

  Then came weird grunts as if a pack of hungry carnivores had found fresh meat. A second later Ped watched the thugs run back toward the track. They were howling in terror. The hunters now the hunted. It was too dark to see much but suddenly figures flashed by with the speed of panthers. They pounced on the skinheads in a furious maelstrom of movement. All Ped could make out was that the figures from the canal path were biting the men. He saw heads twisting from side to side as they bit through skin. Just for a second a blue-white face lifted itself from the frenzy of limbs. Ped ha
d the impression that the owner of that uncanny face had raised their head so they could swallow a massive mouthful of food. But what kind of food?

  The face was female. It was smeared with blood. Worse than the sight of blood was the expression of rapacious gluttony. Ped listened to excited grunts, then came a gulping as if thirsty people drank - no… more than thirsty - these were individuals maddened by thirst. They quenched their arid throats in an orgy of drinking. Meanwhile, the skinhead gang fell silent. After a moment of stillness came splashes from the canal as heavy objects dropped into the water.

  When it had been silent for a time Ped emerged from the bushes with his brother beside him. The path was deserted. Briefly, ripples ran across the surface of the waterway. Mickey watched something gliding through the dark waters. Ped made a point of not watching. A sixth sense warned him that his sleep would be haunted by nightmares for years to come if he did see what manner of creature swam there.

  Then came a scuffling sound from the bushes. One of the skinheads blundered by them; he wasn't interested in the brothers now. His blood-smeared face was furrowed with worry. He stared down at a heap of wet things in his hands. The thug carried his own intestines where they spilled out through a gash in his belly. As he walked he made gasping cries. Whether that was shock or pain Ped wasn't sure. All he could do was watch in stunned silence as that man cradled his own bloody entrails in his two hands.

  The brothers saw the shaven-headed man stagger back toward the railway track. The intestines were slippery. It must have been like carrying a mound of soft, wet pasta. A length of it slipped through his fingers. Clearly, he was so deep in shock that he never noticed the five-foot strip of flesh dragging behind him.

  'Electricity,' Mickey whispered. 'Danger of death.'

  The skinhead limped on, trailing his flesh behind him.

  'Voltage,' Mickey intoned. 'Amps.'

  The intestine dragged through the dirt, then across the first track where it touched the live rail. Violet lightning blasted up the bloody ribbon into the man's body. As he convulsed a howl of agony burst from his lips.

  Mickey stared as the man collapsed on the live rail that emitted searing flashes, which engulfed the body in an ocean of blue fire.

  For the first time in his entire life Mickey was calm as he nodded. 'Electric Man,' he whispered. 'Electric Man dead.'

  ELEVEN

  At midnight Ben Ashton walked down to the river to look into the water. The hermit in his boat atop the pole had warned that London was under threat. Only was that a threat from an actual, touchable enemy? Or did Elmo Kigoma mean a spiritual threat? He'd talked about Edshu the trickster god testing the city's people. If they passed the test then they would live, if not, they'd be destroyed. Although the hermit hadn't been able to reveal the identity of the Vampire Sharkz graffiti writer it did lend a different dimension to the article now. The plot thickens, as they say. He could draw Elmo's warning into the investigation of the mysterious graffiti. After all, Elmo was a famous figure now. He'd been featured widely in the media. For a while there'd even been 'Elmo Watch', a live observation camera that could be accessed by 'pressing the red button' on digital news channels. The downside of using Elmo's words was that many considered him a nut. Ben didn't think so. That's why he'd left the comfort of his apartment for this midnight riverside stroll.

  At the barrier between path and river Ben gazed down into the water. It reflected what appeared to be around a million city lights, so it was difficult to see past those shimmering glints on the surface to whatever might lurk beneath. Maybe Elmo's poetic use of language might have confused a simple explanation; maybe the old man had been talking about pollution in the river? After all, those exotic pronouncements about 'saving your life', and the touch of Edshu were Elmo's way of saying consume less; that the secret of longevity was a more Spartan diet. Yet Ben liked the man. He'd been impressed by the octogenarian's passion to save his fellow human beings.

  Thunder grumbled over the capital. In the distance forked lightning sped from the sky. Humidity combined with the heat to make even breathing uncomfortable. The rain, when it finally arrived after this hot spell, would be a relief. Ben stared into the river for a while. Patches of oil made iridescent rainbow patterns for the city's lights to fool around with and make gorgeous, if fleeting, artworks. Beyond that there was nothing he could see. Certainly nothing to threaten a city of seven million people.

  Okay, he told himself. Another ten minutes, then home to bed. Elmo's warning about a danger in the river was starting to look symbolic in some way that Ben failed to grasp. Not that the river appealed to him. To even glance at it usually brought back that old memory of the corpse in the water. Who needs ghosts when you have memory to haunt you?

  As he varied the focus of his eyes in an attempt to peer past that glistening surface of the Thames, his phone sang out. When he answered he saw the caller's ID on screen.

  'Raj,' he said before his caller could begin. 'You're more predator than editor. I'm on to it. I've another week before the deadline. I'll have your Vampire Sharkz artist in the next twenty-four hours.'

  'I'm not calling about the article.' The editor's voice was chillingly grave. Immediately Ben tensed. 'Ben, are you alone?'

  'I'm just outside my apartment.'

  Raj paused for a moment. 'There's no easy way to say this, because I know you and April Connor were close friends.'

  'April? What's happened?'

  'I don't have all the facts but I've just heard from a colleague of April's that she and her boyfriend were attacked a couple of nights ago.'

  'Are they hurt?'

  'Well, that's just it. Her boyfriend is in hospital with head injuries. But there's no trace of April… Ben, she's vanished.'

  As Ben stood there with the phone pressed to his ear the first drops of rain began to fall.

  TWELVE

  First came hunger. She opened her eyes beneath that scrap of carpet. Lying beside her was Carter. He groaned. So he was hungry, too. After lying inert for hours, not moving, not talking, not anything, not even having the desire to move, suddenly she couldn't stay still. April fought at the carpet that covered her as if it was an attacker. The hunger pangs surged inside her. Once more they weren't confined to her stomach. That ravenous craving spread out from her belly along her nerves to her fingertips.

  How can you feel hunger in your fingers? But she did. Her longing to eat pounded through every nerve ending. Eat, eat, eat. That's all that mattered.

  'I know you're hungry,' Carter murmured, his gold-tipped teeth glinted in the gloom. 'But take it easy.'

  'How can I take it easy? I'm going to die if I don't get something to eat.'

  'Those Berserkers might be outside. Then you'll be breakfast.'

  'Shut up, Carter. I want to get off this bloody island. I can't stand being like this. Feel my hair, why is it so sticky all the time?'

  He was barely a silhouette as he climbed to his feet. A grunt escaped his lips again as he pressed his palm to his stomach. 'I'm hungry, too, but you can't let it take control.'

  'Oh, God,' she gasped as the emptiness gnawed her. 'What's happening to me?'

  He put his arm around her. 'April. Trust me, sweetheart. I'll look after you.'

  'I'm dying.'

  'You're not. Remember what we did yesterday?'

  'Uh… I'm not drinking puddles. I've got to eat proper food.'

  'What is proper food?' His eyes were compassionate.

  'I don't know what you're talking about,' she snarled. 'Just please find me something to eat! I'm losing my mind! It's all I can think about.'

  'But you're not thinking about bread, or apples, or pastries, are you?'

  'Carter, shut up! And get your hands off me!'

  'Okay.' He stood back. 'We do what we need to to stop the hunger then we'll talk.'

  April's fiery glance raked the cottage room. Those three Misfires were there - two men and a woman. Once they'd been smartly dressed. Now their clothes would suit a
whole fright of scarecrows. They'd moved since April saw them last. Instead of sitting against the wall, the Misfires had walked to the door, but it must have been a grindingly slow process. If those things were in motion it must have been no faster than the velocity of a minute hand as it creeps around your watch face. They appeared to be in the process of leaving the room. Meanwhile, April's nerves blazed like she had a crimson furnace inside her head. She wanted to scream, stamp her feet, anything to vent some of that tension that crucified her.

  'Take it easy,' Carter repeated. 'We don't know if those lunatics are outside. If they see us, they'll attack.'

  Enough! she thought, unable to delay another second. The word food could have been a series of explosions detonating inside of her. She pushed the Misfires aside. One fell against the wall and stayed there. Another slammed back against the floor.

  'April, be careful.'

  She tore open the door then hurtled along the hallway to the front door. A second later she was through it and racing along that tunnel of greenery. This time the night was how it should be. Dark. Very dark. Trees were indistinct shapes. There was no weirdly bright moon in the sky. She ran across bare earth, the word food pounding inside her head. Food, food, food…

  Not at any price would she drink from that sordid tidal pool again; such an act of humiliating debasement made her burn with shame. I'll find proper nourishment and eat like a human being. That was the last rational thought before her mind cleared again. She groaned. She didn't want to do this. She couldn't believe she was performing this act. But here she was on her hands and knees sucking tepid water from the beach. The pool left as the tide retreated had evaporated to leave a solution rich in salt. It pricked her lips as she drank. That saltiness was the living, pulsating soul of the water. She wanted to ingest more than her body could contain. She swallowed vast draughts of it; sometimes the quantities were so great they spurted out of her mouth again. As her surroundings resolved themselves from the gloom she saw Carter kneel beside the same pool to gorge himself.