by Dan Rabarts
From the middle of the pool of spilled blood, something disturbs the dog’s corpse. The dead animal slides sideways, pushed aside by a sinuous shape which quests upwards through the blood and rises, blind and serpentine, twisting. Matiu stares transfixed as the thing grows higher, brushing the ceiling and setting the lights to swinging, its monstrous form waving back and forth in mesmeric curves. Where it touches the floor, the surface boils and blisters, cracks like glass, splits and crumbles into sand. Matiu takes a step back, and another, to avoid being knocked over by the rising mass.
Something brushes his leg. The bowl, riding a wave of sand. His legs will soon be swamped if he doesn’t keep moving. The tentacle droops down and around, its tip splitting apart, revealing a toothless maw. Maybe not a tentacle, he thinks, numbed by the sight. Maybe a worm. The blind tip of the impossible thing probes the floor, its jaws finding the body of the dog. Dead or not, no animal deserves that sort of an end, to be ground up and vomited out.
Matiu aims the shotgun and fires.
The monster shrieks, a sound like broken glass scoring Matiu’s spine, and its head snaps sideways in a burst of ichor. The dog’s corpse is flung aside. The worm screws around on itself, seeking, while gouts of black gore pump across the shelves and onto the floor. Every instinct tells Matiu to run, but he holds his ground as it turns on him. He needs one more shot, right in the mouth as it closes in, to send it back into the void. If he runs, it’s all over. Not just for him, but for everyone. The worm snakes closer. He stands dead still, feeling the sand piling up around his boots, around his ankles. He keeps the gun trained on the abyssal creature.
It lunges.
He pulls the trigger.
The chamber clicks. Empty.
Matiu is knocked down by the blow, his ankle twisting in the drifting sand and the gun flying from his grip. The worm coils about and rises for another strike. Matiu tugs at his ankle and pain blooms up his leg, drawing a hoarse cry of agony. He reaches for the only thing he can see, hoping desperately that it might protect him for just a moment longer, long enough to pull his foot free of the sand and crawl away.
His fingers close around the bowl.
The universe screams.
Matiu cries out, awash in the remembered pain of one death, another, many many deaths pouring through him, one on top of the next, like a deck of cards and he the joker at the bottom of the pile, red and black shattering over him with the ringing of long-dead screams in his ears. He opens his eyes, unaware he’d closed them, and sees the bowl in his hands. It’s heavy, weighted with the sorrows of untold ages past. On its surface, the etched images of dog-headed soldiers writhe and twist, their spears slipping into spindle-thin victims while the unblinking eye of an uncaring god looks on. The dog’s blood drips through the soldiers, soaking into them, and is gone. When the worm descends again, it crashes into the bowl, shattering it between Matiu’s fingers and possibly also breaking several of his ribs. But Matiu is past counting his aches and pains. Scrambling backwards, he drags his feet from the sand, refusing to turn his back on the monster as it rears for another—probably final—blow.
The beast lashes out, falling with deadly speed towards Matiu, who lifts his hands to block out the sight of his imminent death, catching only a glimpse of the shape that leaps over him, nails outstretched, tail streaming behind.
Cerberus hits the worm with his full weight, tossing the creature’s head askance, teeth gnashing its rubbery flesh. Ichor jets from the wound as the monster twists away, writhing and shuddering, but Cerberus holds tight, the nails on his back legs scraping black, seeping lines in the monster’s flesh.
“Cerberus!” Matiu yells. Getting painfully to his feet, he holds himself upright against a glass containment crate, filled with ancient bronze swords and spears. Now is his chance to run—or hobble—away. He has no gun, nothing to drive the creature back. He can barely stand.
Yet a dog has the courage he does not.
Walk away, and run forever, or stand and fight.
Matiu was never one to run from a fight. Crouching, wincing against the pain in his ankle, he topples the glass box he’s resting on, hopping as his support falls away, and goes down on his knees in the broken glass to wrench out a spear as tall as himself, its edge gleaming bronze. Wrapping his hands around the shaft of the ancient weapon, Matiu staggers forward, feeling a thousand emotions wash over him; fear of the looming battle, the screaming talons of killing rage, sharp lances of pain and remorse, the sweeping black tide of death. This spear has known its share of war and suffering. It may or may not be sharp, but it was, once. It knows its purpose. Using it as a walking stick, Matiu limps forward to where Cerberus is clinging tenaciously to his prey.
He knows, Matiu thinks. He knows you killed his master.
Gritting his teeth against the flaming pain in his ankle, Matiu lifts the spear in two hands and hops forward, hurling himself towards the towering bulk with a grunt. The spear slides through the monster’s flesh with ease, and Matiu drives it in, his whole weight falling with him.
The worm writhes and bucks, its howl reverberating through the echoing chamber. Matiu fights to keep a grip on the spear as the beast rises up, lifting him off the floor. Black sludge boils from the wound, over his arms, burning him. Matiu cries out, clinging to the emotions cascading over him from within the spear.
Rage. Terror. Despair.
All of which, he knows, will be as nothing if the creature isn’t banished. He rides the thrashing beast as Cerberus continues to maul its head, concentrating his energy on the core of those resonances trapped deep within the ancient spear, sweated and bled into its latticework, imprinted there from decades of conflict. At the core of all these things is the knowledge that the warrior is human. The warrior fears, because he is made of soft flesh and fragile bones. Yet he carries the strength of his fathers, his mothers, of the nation he fights for. Because he is not a mere dog-soldier, a cur to be kicked by the enemy, but a being of will and desire and determination, and he can fight until there is no fight left, fight for what he most values. For love. For life. For the blood in his veins, for knowing that even in battle, he is more than just spear and shield and rage and fear.
In this, there is a flame that burns brighter than any shotgun; a blade that cuts sharper than any sword. Matiu bends his will to this flame, this blade, and the spear erupts into light beneath his fingers.
The monster screeches, and collapses.
Matiu falls, bounding off rubbery flesh and crashing face-first into a shelf. He reels, landing hard on the floor. Broken ribs, twisted ankle, and burned skin blaze with fresh pain as he skids through the soup of ichor, blood, and sand on the floor. The creature breaks apart, white flesh and black blood disintegrating into fine sand as it falls.
Matiu lies still, wondering for a moment if he’s dead, listening to the distant sound of sirens and of Cerberus barking, and then Penny is there, lifting him to his feet, and they stagger towards the service lift. She’s talking, but he’s not listening. What more could she have to say that could possibly matter?
CHAPTER 29
- Pandora -
“Mum, it’s OK. It’s just a burn,” Penny says.
“You two were in a fire?” her mother squeaks. “I knew working for the police was a bad idea. What kind of trouble have you got your brother into now, Pandora?”
Now? Since when did Penny ever get Matiu into trouble? He’s perfectly capable of raising hell all by himself.
Trying to ignore her mother’s comment, Penny pulls back the cheery pink privacy curtains to allow their parents into the triage cubicle, taking some comfort from the fact that Matiu’s look at the sight of their mother is more pained than when Penny pulled him from the museum basement.
“Matiu, baby,” Mum fawns. “Just a little burn? His whole arm is bandaged!” Penny badly wants to roll her eyes. Talk
about an exaggeration. Matiu has a burn on his forearm. It’s serious—and no doubt he’ll end up with a nasty scar—but it’s not the end of the world. Still, Mum has to run to Matiu’s bedside, picking up his hand and bringing it to her cheek. Matiu flinches, but he says: “Just a tiny scar, Mum. It’s not serious.” Oh yes, he sounds all jovial and nonchalant, but Penny’s not fooled, nor does she miss the glare he aims at her.
Mum is not appeased. “Not serious? What do you mean, not serious? Pandora says the doctors want to keep you in overnight!”
“It’s just to be sure there’s no infection, Mum,” Penny says, hoping any time now Dad will show some clemency and step in to placate their mother.
Penny’s moving a chair for Mum to sit down closer to her baby, when she notes Tanner’s big frame stalking through the triage aisle.
Shoot. How did he find them so quickly?
But, his eyes fixed ahead, Tanner doesn’t appear to be looking for them. Penny glances in the direction he’s headed, catches sight of the signage. She breathes out. He’s not looking for Penny and Matiu, just taking a shortcut to the morgue. Those other murder investigations must be keeping him busy. He looks exhausted, his jacket dishevelled, and his shoes, the same ones he was wearing last night, are hoary and dusty. So maybe now would be a good time to talk to him…
“Inspector Tanner.” Penny steps over the imaginary line marking the edge of the cubicle.
Tanner’s bushy eyebrows shoot up. “Ms Pandora. Aren’t you supposed to be with Clark this morning?”
“Yes, but something came up with the case. Could I have a quick word?”
Looking over Penny’s head, Tanner tilts his chin upward. “What happened to your brother?”
“A burn.”
“In last night’s fire?”
Mum looks up from fussing with Matiu’s bedclothes. “The fire was last night?” she erupts. “This happened to Matiu last night and you’ve only just called us now?”
“No, no, of course not, Mum,” Penny says hurriedly. “Matiu was just fine last night. This happened today. A completely separate incident. It’s a burn from an explosion caused by oxygen enrichment from a leak in the museum’s air purification system…” She trails off, realising she’s only made things worse.
Matiu is gritting his teeth, his spare hand clenched. That burn must hurt way more than he’s letting on to Mum. He needs a stronger painkiller.
Tanner says, “I’ll leave you to your family, Ms Pandora. Whatever you have to say, we’ll discuss it when your family is more…” Penny can see him searching for the word. “Settled.” He starts to move away.
“But this is important,” Penny blurts. “I know what happened to Fletcher.”
Tanner slows and looks about awkwardly. Penny understands his hesitation. Too many ears.
Thankfully, Dad knows enough to make himself scarce. “Kiri, I think now would be a good time for you and I to locate Matiu’s doctor and get some firsthand information about his prognosis.”
“Good idea,” Mum says, as Dad guides her away by the elbow. “And let’s order him a proper room while we’re at it. It’s like sleeping on the marae in here, everyone coming and going.” She glares at Tanner pointedly. “And all this chatter. How poor Matiu is expected to rest…”
Finally, their parents disappear round the corner, her mother’s voice fading. Tanner enters the cubicle, giving Matiu a salutatory nod while Penny pulls the privacy curtains closed.
The inspector leans against the chair that Penny had been moving for her mother, his bottom hooked over the back rest. “OK, so let’s have it. What happened to Fletcher?”
“Penny—” Matiu says.
“It’s OK, Matiu,” She pats him on the knee. “I’ll handle this.” Then, turning to Tanner, she says, “Darius Fletcher is dead.”
Tanner nods. “I figured as much. Hell of a lot of blood in that warehouse otherwise.”
“None of it’s Fletcher’s, though. The lab analyses tells us that it belongs to a dog, most likely one of Hanson’s fighting dogs. I’m not sure exactly whose dog it was originally, but I’m expecting the microchips Clark has at the farm will help us narrow it down…”
Still leaning against the chair, Tanner shifts his legs, moving his weight from one to the other. “Ms Pandora, forgive me if I seem a teeny bit callous, but with twenty fucking cadavers on my plate, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse about the dog. What the hell happened to Darius Fletcher?”
“Well, what we didn’t know—what his sister didn’t know,” Penny gibbers, “was before that night at the warehouse, Darius was already dying. The thing is, he had an aggressive blood cancer, which was why he was seeing Buchanan.”
“The doctor whose body you pulled from the fire yesterday? He was involved?”
“Yes, indirectly. You see, Buchanan’s treatment is still experimental. It involves preprogramming nanobots to bind with and digest specific cancer cells. Once injected into the patient, the bots circulate systemically, hooking up to cancer cells and then digesting them, while leaving the patient’s healthy cells intact. Only, it’s a painful process, the outcome isn’t guaranteed and, understandably, some patients get depressed, even suicidal. A couple of years ago I was involved in a case where one of Buchanan’s patients committed suicide.”
“You’re telling me that Fletcher’s death was a suicide? I’d like to believe that, but if it were a simple suicide, how did he manage to dispose of his own body, then? The room at the warehouse was locked from the inside. I saw it myself.”
Matiu groans softly. Frowning, he lowers his head and examines his bandage.
Penny ignores him and goes on. “Buchanan referred some of his patients, Fletcher included, to a private counsellor named Sandi Kerr, a woman who specialises in the spiritual well-being of the terminally ill. There’s evidence of Fletcher and Kerr being together, photos, internet messages and the like. But Kerr also works as an Egyptologist for the Tamaki Paenga Hira museum, and as such has established herself as the leader of a cult group involved in ritual sacrifice to the Egyptian god Osiris.”
“Ah, now wait a minute…”
“She convinced Fletcher that she could offer him new life if he were willing to undergo a sacrifice.”
“I hardly think…”
“Inspector Tanner,” Matiu interrupts. “These are really sick people we’re talking about. Not sick in the depraved sense, but desperately ill people who aren’t expected to ever meet their grandkids. People with no hope left. If you’re that vulnerable, you’ll try anything. Think about it: what did Fletcher have to lose?”
Tanner scratches his chin.
Penny decides to push on. “Remember the little bowl, the blacked out walls? We think Kerr meant to carry out the sacrificial ritual for him, but being too impatient to receive what he believed would be a new life force, Fletcher decided to do it himself, jumping the gun on her, and purchasing a dog from Hanson—”
“Where Clark is at the moment. He says it’s a bloodbath out there.”
Matiu nods his head, gravely. “Internal gang warfare,” he interjects. “A bit of money circulating and they all want a bigger cut. You see it all the time.”
“Exactly,” says Penny.
“Hmmm,” Tanner says, pensive. “You still haven’t explained why we never found Fletcher’s body. Was he even at the warehouse? Maybe Hanson had him knocked off and thrown in an offal pit somewhere.”
“He was at the warehouse,” Penny confirms, as Matiu closes his eyes. “Some years ago, the warehouse was the site of a fruit processing plant, where a radioactive source—a standard Cobalt 60—was used to sterilise the fruit. Only there was a spill, which the company quickly cleaned up, and then hushed up. But background radioactivity at the site is still high—high enough to cause Fletcher’s systemic nanobots to malfunction. They went bers
erk, consuming not only the target cancer cells, but also Fletcher’s healthy cells, and then, when they’d exhausted that food source, they consumed the dog as well.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe it.” Tanner picks up the scissors and twirls them in his fingers. Penny waits for him to take in what she’s said. Eventually, he replaces the scissors in the trolley. “OK, then what about all the blood?”
“In order to function, nanobots must first attach to a receptor on a living cell. The blood had already been spilled, so the bots were either too remote, or the cells were dead and therefore not recognisable to them.”
Tanner shakes his head, incredulous. “So you’re telling me that Darius Fletcher was eaten alive from the inside? And by the very technology intended to save his life. Jesus!”
“Yes, sir. And there’s more: Kerr managed to convince another one of Buchanan’s patients to submit to her sacrifice ritual. Hillsden. We found her today in the museum basement. We arrived too late to save her. The body is still there.”
“I did get a call about a ruckus at the museum this morning.”
Penny nods. “We left as soon as the uniforms arrived.”
