He slammed his head against a beam of the cross, giggling, his hair flying in a fuzzy halo round his head.
She grabbed his scalp. “Stop! Stop it!” She reached inside, to Twist him… and there was nothing. Only a few bubbling scraps of rage, sorrow and resentment—and these were fading fast. They’d almost completely emptied him of his humanity.
And yet… there was something, something separated from the usual scale of human emotions. A bulging and pulsating mass of thoughts which seemed to belong to Palmer, but also to something else. When his scalp began to bleed, she saw his blood was glowing white.
He’s like me. They’ve been filling him with Humours—with his own grief and terror. But why? What for?
“They were right. We deserve nothing but death.” His head hung low, rolling on his neck. “Death…”
“I said stop it.” She lost her patience and Twisted the last remainder of his emotions, suppressing them. They disappeared, vanishing into the subconscious mass of roiling madness inside him. All that remained was a cold, blank void.
“Palmer? Mr. Palmer?”
He swung silently, on his restraints.
“Hey. Hey, come back.” She nudged him, shook him. He didn’t react. “Shit. Shit…”
She sawed through the last remaining cuff, grabbing him as he dropped. She pulled his limp form off the platform, laid him on the dirt and hay, pulled his hair back—and she had to stifle a shriek.
His eyes were gone.
In their place were twin tunnels of some mushy gray substance, stretching down into his head. In the light of the projector she saw those holes curving into some other place, deeper than the back of his skull, some other place she felt a horrid curiosity for—
Rose closed her eyes. It was obvious he’d been Drained by distiller use; she shouldn’t have messed with his mind, not after a trauma like that. She had done something to him, broken the last shreds of him. Once again, her “gift” had damaged someone. Destroyed him.
I just wanted to help. That’s all! I just… I just wanted to…
She felt for a pulse. It was there, despite his cold skin and those terrible eye-holes, and she could see his chest rising and falling. His body still functioned—which meant someone might be able fix him. She would get him out of here, and someone would help him. Someone …
A patter of applause came, from the far side of the barn.
Edwin Fischer was sitting in an armchair in the corner, shrouded by darkness. His spectacles were pulled down, twin bowties pulled tight around his neck. He wore a white lab-coat and several tweed shirts, and rose up clapping. “Well done! Well done, madam!”
“Stay back!” She raised the scalpel. She had no idea if it would stop a madman like Fischer, but she was willing to find out.
“Beautiful.” He strolled into the lamplight. “I’ve never seen anything like that. You haven’t just Twisted our Host—you’ve scoured him! There’s nothing left.” He pushed the glasses up his nose; they flashed in time with the projector. “I’ve never seen holes that deep. You’ve outdone yourself!”
“Fuck you.” She rose, pulling the drained man with her. His head flopped like a rag doll. “I’m leaving. You stay right there, or I will cut you. Anarchist nutball.”
He glanced over his shoulder, as if someone else was there. “Me? Gosh, miss. I think you’ve got the wrong fellow. I’m Edwin Fischer—I’m a patriot, see.” He spread his arms. “I’m going to dissolve this country, and build Utopia. You can help, if you like—it makes no difference to me.”
“After all I did, to find you... Back at the Atlantic.” She wished she had a gun, in that moment. “You were working with them, the whole time.” She swallowed. “You were my last shot, at getting rid of this. I needed you!”
“Getting rid of the gift?” He strode to a telephone on the wall, its exposed wire running over the ground towards the door. “And after all we’ve done to you. It’s a crime, the ingratitude of our Hosts. I’m going to call the Queen on you, missy—see if I don’t!”
“Get away from that phone, or—” Then the Fomeroys burst through the door, arguing in their heavy accents.
“Yah, but he doesn’t need a diet,” Ed said. “He’s Babe fuckin’ Ruth, you know?”
“I’m just sayin’ he’s gonna die young—”
Then they caught sight of Rose. Their mouths flopped open, like someone had cut their puppet-strings.
Dick recovered first. “It’s that skirt!” He pulled a Colt 1911 from his back pocket. “The hell’s she doing here?”
“Who gives a shit? Kill her!”
Rose dove for cover, pulling Palmer with her. Dick opened fire, shooting from the hip—and the bullet went wide, hitting Fischer’s leg and sending him down.
“Eeaugh! You idiots!”
“Goddammit!” Ed slapped Dick. “Why’d you do that? Now he’s gonna dock our pay!”
Rose’s fight-or-flight instincts took over. She tucked Palmer into one of the stalls; wood wouldn’t stop bullets, but it screened him from view. How to get rid of the brothers, though? They might be stupid, but you didn’t need to be a genius to murder someone. Just very persistent.
As Fischer rolled on the ground screaming, his bloody leg illuminated by the projector, she struck on an idea.
More shots rang out; bullet-holes peppered the stall. In the dark, they hadn’t seen which direction she’d gone. She grabbed the cable running into the projector and hauled on it, tugging the device toward her. The thing rocked back and forth, in a dizzy ballet of lights. She heaved it into the stall. Damn, it’s heavy! Hope you like movies, boys…
She staggered from behind the wall, projector at the ready; its flashing light momentarily blinded the Fomeroys, who threw up their mutated hands.
“Augh!”
“Should’ve stayed in Springfield, assholes!” She grabbed a pitchfork from the wall and clobbered Dick over the head with it. He dropped, his gun bouncing away.
The whole world was a flashing tunnel of white light and dancing shadows. When she’d dropped the projector it had fallen sideways, filling the wall with images of the Klu Klux Klan and stuttering frames of burning cities. In the blinding madness, she saw Ed Fomeroy coming after her, bug-like mandibles on the corner of his lips.
He flailed at her with a knife, but she stabbed him in the leg with the fork, eliciting a scream. When he stumbled, she kicked him in the chest and he crashed through a stall door. Both boys lay groaning and whimpering, the fight knocked out of them.
“Anarchy… prevails…”
She turned. Fischer was behind her, struggling to tie off a belt around his leg. She smashed his projecter with the pitchfork, and returned to Palmer.
“Time to get out of here, old man.” She was leaning down to slice the rubber tubes when a whooping siren came from the farmhouse.
Right. They’re Soldiers.
And ‘soldiers’ implies they have an army.
CHAPTER FOUR
ALEKSANDRA WAS holding a gun to her head. Through a haze of vodka, it seemed a very sensible thing to do. If Mario Buda really was inside the radio, he would give her some sign, some reason not to blow her brains out. Some proof she wasn’t crazy.
Then she heard the gunshots at the barn. Her head snapped back, eyes narrowing, the sound cutting through her intoxication and stirring a core of furious vigilance. The Cause. The Cause is in danger.
She ran through the possibilities: cops, Bureau men, possibly a gang hit. No matter the foe, her course was clear. If they killed or took Palmer, the revolution was over.
To hell with Fischer and waiting. It’s time—time for the tide of blood!
She threw on trousers and shirt, forgetting to button in her mad rush to the kitchens. A few other Soldiers stood there in civilian garb, their game of cards abandoned at the sound of shots. They seemed frozen, staring at the window. Inaction might cost them their lives—if this was a police raid, they would be sitting ducks.
“Idti! Idti!” She realized af
ter she’d shouted she wasn’t speaking English, and only Nikolai—the big man with a beard—understood her. The other two, Lisowski and Zhang, simply sat there staring. Furious, she switched languages. “Go! Get off your asses!”
They blinked. Her mind caught up with her, and she closed her shirt, firing a round into the ceiling to get their attention. The crash of the shot made them flinch. “I said, fucking move!”
They leapt to action, grabbing rifles and rushing to the door. Each was grim-faced and ready for war: they lived a life of painful alertness, always waiting for the government to find and destroy them. There was a shriek from the barn as they emerged into the night. Fischer. Well, if he is martyred, at least he will die in glory.
“Go! Kill anyone you find. I will start the Tide!” She staggered around the side of the house, moving towards the storm cellar, as the men sprinted for the barn.
She nearly plunged down the stairs, vision blurry, and had to catch herself a the stone wall. She relished the chilly silence here, so much like a temple… or a tomb. It was cold for a reason—it had to be, because of what they were storing in the cellar.
Hundreds of gallons of Humours sat around her, laid end-to-end in iceboxes. A pneumatic pump was in the center of the room, hooked up to their generator. When she flipped a switch, the slumbering death around her would move up rubber tubes to the barn, and then…
Once upon a time, there was a tavern.
She wove her way between the boxes of ice, their silence ominous and pregnant.
Where we used to raise… a glass or two.
She primed the pump with swift, vicious jerks of its handle. She twisted the ignition, and the thing snarled to life.
The pump began to churn. “Remember, how we laughed away the hours… And dreamed of all the great things we would do…”
Machinery gurgled and churned; rubber tubes jumped. The cylinders full of Rage, Misery, and Lust began to bubble and drain. The Humours, purchased or stolen from a dozen different states, oozed into the pump. And from there, they climbed the stairs…
She checked her pistol’s clip; it was a Namba, imported Japanese and resting strangely in her palm. Only five rounds; she would have to retreat to the armory for more. If there really were pigs outside, she wanted to die a glorious death—for the Cause. Pausing, she snatched a cylinder of Rage from an ice-box, tying off the rubber tube so the pump wouldn’t lose pressure. She unscrewed the top, and tipped the Rage to her lips. Its hot, bitter taste poured down her throat. Just a sip—any more, and she might lose herself. Become something else.
It went down smooth, despite the bitter after-taste. She bent double as the energy raced through her, fingers lengthening into claws. She was filled with visions of hate stolen from Palmer’s mind, her limbs trembling with fury.
“Those were the days, my friend… We thought they’d never end…”
No one should go into war, she thought, without a good drink first.
CHAPTER 5
ROSE HEARD shouting. She went to slice the tubes in Palmer’s arms, but a shadow fell over her, illuminated by moonlight.
“Die!”
Fischer lunged at her in the dark, a syringe of Misery in his palm. The needle scratched her arm, but didn’t sink in; she twisted aside, grabbing his absurd bow-tie and hurling him into the wall. He rebounded and came at her again, and she kicked him in the stomach. He came once more, and her hand reached for a weapon, fell on the shattered pitchfork—
The whisper of tines entering his flesh was soft, almost intimate. She plunged the fork into his stomach, impaling him, and he tumbled to the dirt. The syringe shattered. For a moment, everything went quiet.
“Okay,” she said to herself, still shaking with adrenaline. “Okay.”
The Fomeroys were still down. Ed was stirring, though, and Dick was murmuring and groaning. She needed to get those needles out of Palmer’s arms, get him out of here—
Something trickled under the doorway, sizzling in a curving line toward her. At first she thought it was a dynamite fuse, it burned so bright: but it was some sort of liquid, travelling through the rubber tubes.
The ones attached to Palmer’s arms
She leapt towards Palmer, but before she could do anything he flailed to life, hlimbs spasming. She froze, watching in horror as the Humours poured into him, spreading up veins in his arms and neck. Glowing, pulsing. When they reached his neck, his mouth flopped open and he began to scream.
“THE GATE, THE WAY, THE WAY THE GATE—”
“Oh, fuck this!” She made for the door. She’d survived a Humour injection, but that had been only a few liters—this looked to be more like a small brewery’s worth. And not watered down, either.
She sprinted out the barn door and a shot whizzed past her leg, banging off the barn-door hinge and striking sparks. She threw herself at the ground, crawling through tall grass. Gotta get out of the line of fire—
And away from the barn. Once that stuff warmed up inside Palmer’s body, it was going to go off. She didn’t know how long she had, and she wasn’t sticking around to find out. Figures were approaching from the farmhouse, gun barrels flashing. She saw the source of the pipes: a cellar door bright with the red luminance of Rage.
Something erupted, inside the barn. But instead of the eerie all-consuming light she’d experienced, an unnerving sub-audible wave of noise blasted out of the building, rattling the roof and sending shingles tumbling into the yard.
She stood, and another bone-shaking wave of energy slammed out of the barn. Rose was thrown off her feet, into the grass. Moments later a Soldier with a Thompson rounded the corner and began spraying bullets across the field. She pressed her face into the dirt, acorns and crab-grass shoved against her cheek…
There was a crunch of shattering wood. Rose looked up, just in time to see something long and dark smash its way out of the barn, and wrap around the gunman’s throat. It was like a length of ground beef, gray and diseased, writhing with unwholesome movements. It hauled the man inside the barn, and she heard him screech.
There’s something alive in there. Something big.
That red glow in the barn grew stronger; the energy emerging from it was nauseating. Something immense lurched inside, cracking the walls.
She tried feeling for emotions, and pulled her thoughts away instantly. There was a deep pit of rage and sadness inside that building—but it had no person behind it. Normally, when she reached out, she felt something there: a personality, no matter how foul, holding emotions in check and controlling them.
This thing just felt… raw. Exposed spiritual bones and tendons, with zero human control. And it was strong. So strong.
She got up, and began to run. Screw Gus, and screw the job. Lucas had been right: something bad was coming, something beyond reason, and she didn’t want to be here for it—
There was a horrible rending crash, and the men turned their guns at the barn, firing on instinct. She glanced over her shoulder to see enormous tendrils of raw-meat pink, shot through with reddish light, ripping through the barn. Splinters of wood rained, and a heavy chunk clipped her shoulder. She barely felt it, picking herself up and hauling ass down the driveway.
Gotta get back to the car.
Behind her, something half-formed and made of pure Anarchy pulled itself from the building.
CHAPTER 6
ALEKSANDRA WATCHED her infant god emerge, with the giddy delight of unwrapping a Christmas present. It was horrible to watch, of course, but birthing pains always were.
The Myth they’d created was a horrible mix of a spider and man, towering thirty feet high, with Palmer’s body swaying from its belly like an umbilical cord. He was melded to the thing, fused there, and she wasn’t sure whether to pity him… or be jealous of him.
The upper body didn’t have a mouth or face, but was screaming all the same: the tortured scream of a sudden, hateful existence. This Host-god knocked down the remaining walls of the barn, and reached out towards a Soldier. The man w
as crushed to the grass, shrieks of terror cut short. Then another leg descended, slimy tendrils clamping over his face.
It was feeding on him.
Of course. Palmer’s Drained, she thought. He’ll be searching for more emotion—the same flavors we just pumped into him. It’s the only thing his empty mind will understand.
Beautiful.
And the beast would keep feeding, until it was satisfied—or until it harvested half the souls in Boston. Aleksandra found herself laughing, wild and reckless.
She went inside to the kitchens, poured herself another drink, and dumped half a cylinder of Rage into the glass. She hurled the rest onto the lawn, where it sputtered and sizzled before disappearing. She dashed a liberal amount of vodka into her mood-legger’s cocktail, and a little soda-water. Now the mixture was a meaty pink, bubbling and hissing. She moved to the porch and raised it high.
“A toast, Father!” She drained the glass. It burned her throat and brought memories of violence. It tasted like scorched licorice, but the rush… the rush was delicious.
Her anger was close to the surface at the best of times, and now it burst from her forehead in sprouting horns, a barbed tailed ripping free from her back. Her skin turned a blotchy crimson, and her chest heaved, lungs expanding to feed the new circulatory system of her hateful body.
The mutations slowed after that—she’d built up a tolerance to them, from Fischer’s therapies. God, but she was so angry. It felt good: it felt like triumph. Tonight would be her tide of blood, at last. Tonight the capitalists would perish.
She watched the Host-god drain her Soldiers, and saw it turn towards the lone figure at the end of the drive. It lurched, clumsy and newborn, towards Rose Sweetwater. What was that little ferret doing here? No matter. She was outdated, now, an irrelevant experiment. Their success was finally at hand.
Run, run, fast as you can.
She smiled, teeth elongated and sharp, and then she began loading the furniture truck with guns.
Spirits of the Charles (The Mithras Cycle Book 1) Page 25
