by Chris Ward
In the Shadow of London
The Tube Riders #4
Chris Ward
Contents
Copyright
By Chris Ward
About the Author
Contact
Author’s Note
Renegades
1. Clawboard
2. Negotiations
3. Raine
4. Scent
5. Airie
6. Fighter
7. Tower
8. Match
9. Hunted
10. Recruit
11. Plans
12. Request
13. Remains
14. Names
15. Dreams
16. Reprisal
17. Fakers
18. Rally
19. Bait
20. Likeness
21. Fire
22. Intruder
London-Gone
23. Recall
24. Visitor
25. Crossing
26. Secrets
27. Suspicions
28. Benny
29. Basements
30. Home
31. Hunters
32. Revelations
33. Discoveries
34. Motherhood
35. Ideals
36. Collection
37. Reunions
38. Picture
39. Rescue
40. Guards
41. Machinations
42. Convergences
43. Rescue
Uprising
44. 2034
45. Invasion
46. Address
47. Betrayal
48. Saturday
49. Stirrings
50. Birds
51. Fadeout
52. Alliance
53. Coup
54. Burial
55. Entering
56. Tracker-Killer
57. Capture
58. Outside
59. Battle
60. Scatterings
Acknowledgments
Available now ….
They Came Out After Dark
Head of Words
The Man Who Built the World
Finding My World
“The Tube Riders: In the Shadow of London”
Copyright © Chris Ward 2016
The right of Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.
This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.
“Tube riding” is a fictional activity and should be considered highly dangerous. DO NOT attempt to recreate any of the stunts described in this book. The Author holds no responsibility for any injuries that may occur.
By Chris Ward
Novels
Finding My World
The Man Who Built the World
Head of Words
* * *
The Tube Riders Series
Underground
Exile
Revenge
In the Shadow of London
* * *
The Tales of Crow Series
They Came Out After Dark
The Castle of All Nightmares
The Puppeteer King
The Circus of Machinations
About the Author
A proud and noble Cornishman (and to a lesser extent British), Chris Ward ran off to live and work in Japan back in 2004. There he got married, got a decent job, and got a cat. He remains pure to his Cornish/British roots while enjoying the inspiration of living in a foreign country.
In addition to The Tube Riders Trilogy, he is the author of the novels The Man Who Built the World, Head of Words, Finding My World and the ongoing Tales of Crow series.
Chris would love to hear from you:
@chriswardwriter
www.amillionmilesfromanywhere.net
Contact
Thank you for your interest in my work. If you enjoy it please sign up for the
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Mailing List
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where you can get free stuff, special offers, and discounts on new releases.
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Also, you can chat to me on Facebook at
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Chris Ward (Fiction Writer)
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and follow progress on new books on my
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website or my blog
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Thank you for reading!
Author’s Note
In the Shadow of London is written in English. I have, however, used the style of English which appeals to me most. I have tried, where possible, to use British spelling, but in many instances I have used US versions of words rather than their British counterparts. This is entirely intentional, and is solely based on personal preference for the sound and feel of one word over another.
Part I
Renegades
1
Clawboard
The mob was trying to derail the train.
Up on the elevated Hammersmith and City railway line, a short distance from the ruins of Shepherd’s Bush Market and just back from where Goldhawk Road passed underneath the tracks, a ragtag group of men was hauling what looked like a thick silver rope up over the rails and passing it down to another group waiting on the street below.
A crane hook the length of a man’s chest was attached to one end. A short distance from the second group, an old double-decker bus lay on its side amongst the debris in the middle of the street, its windows smashed in.
‘Pull harder!’ shouted a bare-chested man from up on the tracks. Tattoos covered his back and his hair was dyed blood-red. ‘Get it looped through the frame!’
With a collective roar, the men in the street hauled on the wire rope. It stretched a few feet closer to the bus. Shards of broken safety glass crunched under their feet.
Across the street from the railway line, occupying the first and second floors of an old redbrick building which had a boarded-up supermarket metro on its ground level, was a local bureau of the Department of Civil Affairs. Concerned faces watched from behind windows protected from thrown stones by bent and twisted sheets of wire mesh. Another group of men crowded around the entrance, keeping the government’s enforcers trapped inside.
‘Haul! Come on, haul it!’
The men hauled, shouting and cursing. From somewhere further up the line came the faint blare of a train’s horn.
Crouched in the shadows of an alleyway between two nearby buildings, David Silverwood watched the mob with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. It was the biggest mob he had yet seen, and the skeleton crew of DCA agents inside the bureau building had not even tried to engage them.
With another collective roar of exertion, the men succeeded in pulling the wire rope as far as the bus. Two men hefted the crane hook in their arms and began trying to loop the wire around the rear window frame.
Sirens wailed in the distance. David crept back into the shadows of the alleyway to the lowered ladder of a fire escape and climbed quickly up to the third floor roof. From here he had a much better view of the railway line and Goldhawk Road heading away northeast towards Shepherds Bush Common.
The sirens were coming closer. A few streets away, two white vans threaded through the piles of debris, red roof lights flashing. David frowned. Just two? There was no way they could disperse a mob this size, but there were rumours that th
e DCA was spread as thin as it had ever been.
The large clock on the wall of an old post office across the street read 3:44. Six minutes until the next train, by David’s reckoning. A couple of miles up the track towards central London, where the rails went underground for the first time, was the abandoned London Underground station of Melling Road Junction. In the days he had hung out there, the trains had always come through every fifteen minutes, starting at five past the hour.
The vans came to a stop where an overturned car blocked the street. One of them made a hasty U-turn. David wondered if they would give up and go back, but then the back doors flew open and something stooped and cloaked leapt out onto the street.
No.
It couldn’t be. Not here.
Another followed, taller than the first, something silver glinting in its hands.
So … the rumours were true.
Two men in DCA uniforms climbed out of the back of the van. One made a sweeping motion with his hands and the two stooped figures dropped into a crouch and bounded forward, up and over the piles of debris and lumps of fallen masonry clogging the road, closing the distance to where the mob had gathered with unnatural speed.
David had never seen one, but he had heard the stories. In the last few weeks, the rumours had been everywhere.
He ran to the far edge of the roof, cupped his hands over his mouth and screamed, ‘Run! Huntsmen!’
A ripple of shock passed through the mob. The group in the street dropped the wire rope and scattered. The man with the powerful voice still screamed his commands, but only a hardy few were still listening as the rest climbed down from the elevated railway line, running after the others. As his last comrades deserted him, he walked to the bridge above Goldhawk Road and lifted his fists above his head.
‘Come on, you bastards!’ he screamed, beating one hand against his chest, brandishing a knife in the other.
Something whistled through the air and a silver bolt struck the man in the shoulder. A second took him in the stomach, and he tumbled off the elevated railway line to the street below. Moments later the first of the Huntsmen reached him, dragging him back into the shadows beneath the bridge. David lost sight of them both, but the sound of ripping, tearing claws, and the screams of a dying man came piercing out of the evening air.
The second Huntsman had gone in pursuit of the dispersing mob. It caught up with two men, claws slashing, downing them in one stroke. Then it dropped to one knee, lifted an arm, and something silver struck a third running man in the back, knocking him forward on to the bonnet of a burnt-out car.
The clock above the old post office ticked over to three fifty.
The train came roaring down the line out of the three-storey townhouses on either side of the tracks. Its wheels struck the wire rope and for an instant it seemed to slow as the wire went taut, dragging the bus a couple of feet along the tarmac. Then the wire rope broke free and the train powered across the bridge, roaring straight through the now-abandoned Goldhawk Road station and hammering on towards the Hammersmith terminus, disappearing between the residential buildings on either side of the line.
As the train’s engine roar faded away, David scanned the streets for the Huntsmen, but they were nowhere to be seen. The last members of the mob had long dispersed, and the streets were nearly deserted. A couple of DCA agents had taken a few tentative steps outside their bureau building, but while the two DCA vans were still parked further up Goldhawk Road, of their occupants there was no sign.
It was time to leave. David headed for the fire escape, but at the last moment a tickle of caution made him pause.
He squatted, lowering himself flat to the roof, then eased forward until one eye could peer down through the rungs of the metal stairs at the street below.
Breath caught in his throat. One of the Huntsmen was down there, sniffing at the ground like some kind of hound, its hood fallen back to reveal the top of a sparsely-haired scalp crisscrossed with silver wires.
‘Hey! Come on, let’s go!’
A uniformed man strode into view. The Huntsman snorted and looked up, growling at the newcomer.
‘Time to go, you ugly bastard.’ A hissing filled the air and the Huntsman jerked and squealed, a sound that made David’s hair stand on end. With one last glance up at the fire escape, it slinked after its handler.
It clocked me, he thought, remembering the way its human eyes had paused on his. It knew I was here.
The handler led the Huntsman back to the vans. The other had already returned, standing tall with its head bowed like a friar at prayer, only the silver crossbow held in curved claws giving it away as something monstrous. David didn’t wait to see what happened next. Finding his nerves again, he hurried down the fire escape and away into the streets, crossing under the railway line and heading in a gradual arc towards the east, back in the direction of central London.
A few streets away he came across a city bus picking its way through the debris. He climbed aboard, taking a worn, colourless seat among a clutch of glum, disillusioned faces.
He peered out at the trash-strewn streets, wondering what had just happened, and what it meant for his safety.
Twenty minutes later, he flipped the driver a coin and got off. He cut through a crowded market and across a sloping, overgrown park to a cluster of tall tenement buildings.
In the apartment he had called home for the last two years, he ignored his flatmate, Taku, who was slumped on a ratty sofa in their sparse living room, watching old movies on a battered TV that had a crack cutting diagonally across the screen from left to right. He unlocked the room he called his own and then locked it again from the inside, adding an extra padlock as a secondary precaution.
He sat down on the bed and tried to let himself relax.
The Huntsman had smelled him. Had it not been for the intervention of the handler, he might be dead. No one could kill a Huntsman, everyone knew that. They were as close to invincible as a creature could get. According to word on the streets, even the government could barely control them. That was why they had been locked away for so long until the kids calling themselves Tube Riders had been bold enough to escape.
Everyone he knew thought it was rubbish, this whole story about the supposed Tube Riders. What were they anyway, just some urban myth about kids who hung from the side of London Underground trains late at night, peering in through the windows? They were ghosts, apparitions, some said, the trapped souls of train suicides. They couldn’t possibly exist, and they couldn’t possibly have gone on the run from the government, causing an army of DCA agents to follow on their trail, bringing the Huntsmen back on to the streets.
Most people thought it was bullshit.
David reached under his bed for an old cardboard box pushed right back against the wall. He pulled it out and tossed aside an assortment of tatty books, dusty ornaments, and other junk to reveal a smooth piece of willow at the bottom. About fifty centimetres long, it had two rubber straps on one side and two metal hooks on the other.
He gave a grim smile as he lifted up the clawboard and blew away the dust. Unlike most people, David knew the rumours about the Tube Riders weren’t just idle street talk. He knew they were true.
Once, he had ridden with them.
And if the government was hunting Tube Riders, he might be in a lot of trouble.
2
Negotiations
Lindon slammed a hand against the wall, the thick muscles in his arms rippling. ‘No, Sammy. You’re not going.’
The teenager glared at him, his eyes defiant. ‘They need conscriptions, Lindon. It’s a job. It’s money. What else am I going to do?’
‘Go to school.’
Sammy rolled his eyes. ‘Says the gangster who never spent a day in school in his life. Yeah, right, Lindon.’
‘I’m not a gangster. I’m a free man.’
‘None of us are free.’
Lindon stared at his adopted brother for a long time. ‘If you join them, you’re no
longer my brother, Sammy.’
‘I’m not your brother anyway.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘No, fuck you, Lindon. At least I’m doing something. At least I’m trying to make a change for the better instead of wasting my life jumping in front of trains.’
Lindon grabbed Sammy by the throat and slammed him back against the wall. He lifted a fist, then paused with it hung in midair. Lindon’s fists had won many battles in abandoned factories and warehouses, but Sammy’s eyes were different to those of beaten opponents staring down the barrel for the last time.
They held no fear.
‘That’s right, Lindon. Come on, smash me up. Do what you want.’
Lindon dropped his hand and stepped back. ‘Sammy, don’t join them.’
‘I’m not joining them. It’s just work. They need soldiers. With any luck I’ll get stationed on the coastguard where all I’ll have to do is stare longingly towards France. Easy money, Lindon. Easier than any you’ve ever earned.’
Lindon said nothing. Sammy held his gaze for a few seconds, then patted Lindon on the shoulder, lifted his duffel bag, and left. Lindon stared at the door for a long time after it closed. Then, with one sweep of his arm, he ripped the nearest shelf off the wall and sat down on a kitchen chair, his head in his hands.
‘Has he gone?’
Lindon looked up at the doorway. Cah stood there, her mousy brown hair tied back from her angular face. She wore few clothes as usual, just a thin blouse top and a pair of shorts. He felt a momentary surge of arousal, but it quickly died away. Cah was too thin now. She had found her own way out of Mega Britain and was speeding towards it. There was nothing Lindon could do but watch and wave goodbye.
