The revolution was here at last.
CHAPTER 7
ROSE HAD NEVER been more frightened in her life. Fortunately, her fear didn’t seem to extend to her legs, and so she pounded down the muddy driveway into the winding dark beyond. For a moment, she couldn’t remember which way the car was, and then the unholy howl from behind her jogged her memory.
Right. It’s to the right. Come on, you didn’t come this far just to get rubbed out by Fischer’s pet monster. She rearranged her position in her mind, and sprinted south down the road towards Frank and the car.
The creature they’d made was following her. One quick glance gave her an impression of long, tree-trunk sized limbs lurching over a canopy of trees. It wasn’t in a hurry—or perhaps it was merely confused. Mitchell Palmer’s body swung underneath the beast, strange fruit on a tree of crawling skin. Her steps slowed; she watched him sway, under the moonlight. Was it dying?
Please, God, let it die. Jesus, I can hardly look at it.
It sagged… and then, with a herky-jerk moment of decision, it began crashing through the woods toward her. Towards the road.
Feeling the fear choke her, she fumbled in her shirt for the bottle of Faith. Instead she found the pendant from Lucas. It was warm to the touch, and seemed to tremble when she squeezed it.
Focus on your fear.
She had no trouble doing that; the heavy stomp of the thing’s limbs behind her gave her an ample supply. She embraced the jumpy ugliness of her panic, pressing the thing against her forehead. When she did, the pendant grew burning-hot… and she felt the fear ebb away. Now she could focus.
Thanks, Lucas. I owe you one.
She saw the square canvas of the car’s roof under the moonlight, and sprinted for it. When Frank saw her coming back, he gunned the engine—this was no old rickety Ford, and it started easy.
“What took you so long?”
“Go! Drive!” The Buick was facing north—towards the Soldiers’ gruesome creature. When Frank saw the limbs moving through the trees, his eyes almost bugged out of his head.
“The hell is that? What the fuck did you—”
She slapped the steering wheel, and that seemed to bring him back. “I said go, dammit!” Frank cursed and jerked the gear into reverse; the car’s engine growled as he hit the gas and bounced down the road.
This new Host wasn’t fast enough to chase their car. Rose watched it recede in the distance with cold relief, and when she judged they were far enough, she let go of her pendant—which had grown blazing hot—ain her palm. Instantly all her fear rushed back, and she sank low in her seat, shaking.
Behind her, the beast watched them go.
In its brief, hungry existence, it had seen the bright light of Rose’s Humours and burned with a need to devour them. A drained shell loaded with hate and hunger, it was still learning to move its own deformed body. The men at the barn had served for a snack, but their hate was too clouded with fear—it wasn’t pure enough.
Lifting itself above the trees, the thing that had once been Palmer swiveled towards the east… where a cloud of city-lights, bright and flickering before the dawn, lit the clouds and turned the coastline to gleaming gold.
That city was roaring with emotions: crackling hatred, streaks of joy, and rumbling clouds of depression. The strongest pocket of sensation was gathered at one single point: a pillar of bubbling anger which seethed and writhed, attracting the Host like a moth to flame.
Mouth sagging open, aborted limbs grasping, the emotional parasite smashed its way through the line of trees, and slouched towards Boston.
Behind it on the farm, the five men who had been Drained of their spirits by the Host rose up, staring with hollow eyes… and followed it.
CHAPTER 8
CARLA COULD HEAR the crowd outside the jail, chanting for her release. Her cell was a tiny slit of open space with no windows, and a metal door with a slit that could only be opened from the outside. Crude accommodations… but at least this one had a toilet.
Outside her window, the army of protestors had swelled. Now their cheers seemed to shake the walls. The furious Italians had been joined by industrial workers, the union known as the “Wobblies,” and countless other rabble-rousers and downtrodden, furious immigrants. She had no doubt there were plenty of Soldiers in that mob.
It was a damn loud racket to try and sleep through. Eventually she gave up trying. She hadn’t seen a single person since her guard this morning—a flat-faced man who’d shoved a meal through the slot. No one had replaced him, when his shift ended. She supposed they had their hands too full to bother with guarding her.
Which was fine. After the beatings last night, her whole body ached. She’d thought accepting the Soldiers’ offer would protect her, keep her away from men determined to take a piece of her, their slice of glory. Yeah, right. Nobody protects Carla, except for Carla. Always look out for number one—that’s what I told Ronnie.
Not that it helped.
She laid on her bunk, eyes swelled by bruises, and seethed with rage against the rubes. They’d crossed a line. First they’d killed her husband, now they’d laid hands on her. To Carla Ponzi, there was nothing more important in the world than her own skin, and she had no intention of letting anyone get their hands on it. These fucking rubes were going to pay—she’d promised herself that.
When a squad of guards arrived to announce she was being moved, this time to Deer Island, she understood. They wanted her out of the city—her presence had attracted too much heat, in a town already bubbling with tension. Just a few blocks away, the anarchists Saco and Vanzetti were waiting to be electrocuted. Their trial had been a sham, just like hers.
Except Carla didn’t plan on getting executed.
When they cuffed her, she didn’t resist. “Easy, boys, a girl might get ideas...”
She was slapped, shoved at the door, and marched past a row of cells. She knew what they were trying to do: sneak her out the back, avoid the madness out front where thousands of angry people were demanding her release.
The light of the streetlights was too much, and she was blinded as they moved down the back steps. When she fell, they hauled her upright. The poignant smell of early morning sewage on the Charles floated into her nostrils, and scraps of birdsong came from beyond the prison’s walls. It was weak and intermittent between the roars of the crowd.
For days, she’d had nothing but abuse from the prison staff, but now they worked in competent silence. They were scared—scared of her, scared of the mob. Because as powerful as the BPD was, it was nothing compared to the throng of pissed-off sympathizers outside.
“What, no limo?” she asked as she was moved towards an armored paddy-wagon. Two guards climbed inside with her, and she didn’t like the look of them. Their faces said their prisoner Carla Ponzi would have several “accidents,” on the way to Deer Island.
A line of furious cops stood behind the vehicle, murmuring. Carla grinned at them. “You boys want an autograph?”
Someone slammed the doors shut. The wagon jerked to motion—and then slowed. A metal slot opened between the cab and the cell in the back.
“They’re blocking the street,” said the driver to her guards.
“So just run ‘em over,” said one. “They’re Commies, dammit. No one’s gonna miss ‘em.”
The driver paused. “There’s a lot. I don’t think we’d gonna make it.”
“Commissioner’s in the other car,” said the second guard. “Ask him what to do.”
The driver grunted, and disappeared. The floor bobbed as he stepped out of the wagon. The second cop wiped his brow; he was big, bald and dripping with sweat in the humidity. His police cap slid off his head. “Fuckin’ thing. Can you get that for me, Donovan?”
Donovan reached down—and the bald man drew a nightstick, bashing his scalp. Donovan fell stunned, and his friend squatted and hooked the rod across his throat. A minute of silent struggling, and it was over. Donovan slumped to the floor with a brok
en trachea, blood spilling from his mouth.
Carla shrank away. “Jesus. I… I’m guessing you’re a Soldier.”
“Take his gun.” The heavy man knelt and handed it to her.
“You guys ain’t exactly subtle. What are we gonna do about the body?”
“Revolution is never ‘subtle,’ Ms. Ponzi. It is glorious, and violent. Now, follow my lead: when we get out, it’ll look like we’re switching you to another car. Push that prick under the bench and hide him with this.” He handed her a folded drop-cloth.
She nodded, limbs throbbing as she obeyed. It was a stupid plan, but they had advantages. The chaos outside would disguise their movement—no one knew who was in charge, and by the time they found the body, she would be free. “You got a name, friend?”
“Hermes. Hermes Heywood.” When she shook his hand, it came away bloody. “My pop, Ezra, raised me for this. Took me years, to get in with these pigs.” He nudged Donovan’s body under one of the tin benches running along the inside of the vehicle. “I hope you’re committed to the Cause. Because if those cops smell a rat, we’re done for.”
Carla shrugged. “I’m devoted to me, Hermes. Ain’t nothing else worth it.”
He nodded. “Very well. Come on.”
They got out of the wagon. Camera-flashes and wild chants engulfed them. The gate of the prison was surging on its hinges, creaking under the weight of the crowd. The cops around her were furious… but seeing Hermes march her to the next paddy-wagon, they turned away. One of them spat on her, his red face tense and frustrated.
That’s it. Just keep simmering, assholes. Her freedom was so close, she could almost smell it. And it tasted sweeter than any perfume.
CHAPTER 9
THE SHOOTING at Holmstead Farm drew attention quickly. Police were called by nervous neighbors to investigate, but it was too late. The anarchists were gone, weapons abandoned on the grass.
It was clear the farm had been the site of conflict: warm rifle casings were found, and traces of Humours splattered on the soil. Fischer was recovered in critical condition, a pitchfork still lodged in his guts. The ambulance crew struggled to stabilize him… though many of the lawmen suggested he be put out of his misery. The prison system would not be kind, to a soft-bellied academic like him.
The Fomeroys were found fleeing through the woods, but they refused to talk. Something had shut their lips tight, some experience which had rendered them both too frightened to speak. The cops were left with the puzzle of the shattered barn, and the broken trees. And something else.
There were enormous footprints in the drive, the size of an elephant’s, but splayed in a starfish-pattern. The younger cops assumed this was some kind of hoax, and had a good laugh about it. But the older cops grew quiet, and thoughtful: they’d seen foul things in distillery raids before, things they didn’t like to talk about, and the sense of wrongness pervading the place was hard to deny.
The scene was cold. The level of danger, unclear. And so, no one called the bureau.
Some miles away, Aleksandra drove towards the city in the ice truck. Her hat was pulled low over her face. She was full of Rage, horns and elongated fingers pulsing with hate, yet she felt sober—she’d already shot one cop who’d pulled her over for speeding, sending a bullet through his eye when he noticed the claws. There were no witnesses, and it was too early for the shot to rouse anyone.
Traffic clogged the roads to Boston, even before dawn. Ponzi’s trial had caused riots, but it was also a lucrative opportunity. Peanut-sellers, hot-dog salesmen and more were taking advantage of the crowds along the Charles. Aleksandra was forced to take side-roads, squeezing the truck through alleys until she arrived near the prison.
Even in the early hours, it was a madhouse. Hordes of admirers were gathered in the midnight gloom: the curious, the angry, and protestors who’d been clamoring there for nearly a week. At the head of the throng, paddy-wagons struggled to make progress through the crowd.
Aleksandra pulled the truck off the roads, parked it behind a tannery, and breathed in the reek of Boston. Finally, drunk and filled with bloody thoughts, she slept. The guns in the back slept with her, bullets cold inside in their metal jackets.
Beyond the city, in the warren of sleepy neighborhoods, the God-Host crawled down slumbering streets.
Its footsteps woke children, and set dogs frantic. Every so often, it reached through a window to feed on the succulent emotions of early-risers. A couple making love in Needham barely escaped when a probing tentacle crunched through their window, seeking their passion. They scrambled out of bed and ran panicked to the basement, hiding behind canned goods and sobbing naked in each other’s arms. Frustrated, the Host moved on.
In its wake came the Drained men.
Each one was hollow, a wandering shell. But unlike normal Drained, they were infused with the same anger and terror as their creator. They wandered through dark streets, seeking some spark of emotion to bring them back to their former selves. Gray gibbets of flesh dangled from their lips, and their eyeless sockets swept the night. They claimed a policeman on the beat in Wellesley, and a few drunk teenagers in northern Dedham. No one witnessed these feedings: no one called in the cavalry. The Drained were soon joined by their victims, now just as hungry and lost as they were.
Eventually, Johnny Law caught on to what was happening. Cops were called out—and found their bullets a mere inconvenience, against men who did not breathe or feel. The Drained would not die, begging in whimpering voices for Mother to hold them, or for their long-dead lovers to forgive them. It was a march of the damned, and it was gathering steam.
Helpless to resist their needs, without any shred of identity to provide moral guidance, the God-Host’s army marched east.
And its numbers grew.
CHAPTER 10
“NOW, THAT’S some shit you don’t see every day.”
It was the first time Frank had spoken, since they’d left the farm. He’d driven white-knuckle, at breakneck speed; it was a miracle they hadn’t rolled the car. He and Rose were rolling past Jamaica Pond, taking the wide route towards Roxbury. The surface of the Pond was a sheet of flat obsidian, the park beyond silent under the setting moon.
It was a nice view. It almost helped Rose forget what she’d done.
First she’d made a Myth back at the Atlantic, and now she’d made… this thing. Both accidents, both seemingly irreversible. The men who’d died on the farm… She might as well have killed them herself. She had no love for the Soldiers, but whatever had killed those poor bastards, they hadn’t deserved to go out like that. And it was her fault.
I didn’t put Palmer on that cross—I didn’t hook him up to that stuff. This isn’t on me. I didn’t start this shit.
But she didn’t entirely believe it. Without their success turning her into a Host, the Soldiers might have abandoned their “project.” Without her actions at the gala, they might have given up, tried something else.
Instead, they’d gone all in with their experiments. And now… this.
The pair of them rolled to First Mithran Congregational. Morning dew clung to the hedges; crickets chirped under flagstones. Frank stared through the windshield, breathing hard.
“It was a monster,” he said. “A real, honest-to-God monster back there. Wasn’t it?”
Rose opened the passenger door. She was filthy, her overalls reeking of manure and human blood. She’d have to wash these duds—she couldn’t risk being implicated in whatever the fuck the Soldiers had done, back there. She needed to wash her hands of this thing.
Lucas... God, what am I going to tell Lucas?
“Frank,” she said, “you okay?”
He nodded, wordless.
“You’re a pretty good driver,” she said.
He nodded again. “Goddamn right.” He fumbled in his coat, for a flask. He tipped it to his lips, and she caught the whiff of rum. Rose thought she could use a drink, too. But this wasn’t over just yet.
“I guess… I gu
ess we didn’t get those Humours.” She swallowed, struggling with a desire to cry. You just keep screwing up. Sticking your nose out. Eventually you’re going to lose your whole damn head.
“Guess not.”
“Tell Gus I tried, okay?” she said, finally. “That thing wasn’t human, it wasn’t—” There was a flash of silver in her peripheral vision.
Frank was pointing a gun at her. It was a Derringer, tiny and toy-like, but deadly all the same. The absurdity of it sank in, and she sighed.
“Frank… Put that shit away.”
“Get out of the car,” he said. His face was flat and papery, the face of a gangster.
“Okay, okay. Just tell Gus I tried. Alright?”
He raised the barrel to point between her eyes. “I’m not telling him shit. You can tell him yourself.”
“Frank.” She held up her hands. “What is this?”
“You know what it is. Get out of the car.”
A deep well of anger bubbled up inside her. Of course they wouldn’t just let her walk. Of course they’d try and squeeze a little more out of her. What did she even have left to give? What did they want?
She probed Frank’s emotions. He was angry—probably with her, which she understood. But there was also a strong current of fear there, and deep, muddy uncertainty. Whatever he was about to do, he didn’t like it.
She got out of the car. “Frank. You don’t have to do this. Whatever Gus is planning… You don’t have to be a part of it.”
“Stop talking,” he said, and jerked his gun at the church. “Get inside.”
The lights in the church were on, standing out against a starless night. She obeyed, struggling to see a way out of this. Gus wouldn’t just kill her—he wasn’t stupid or paranoid enough to do that, not when she could be useful. So he must be working another angle.
Inside the church, electric bulbs burned in their sconces. Two gangsters sat in the pews, one on either side of Lucas. Lucas himself stared straight ahead, not looking as Rose came in.
Spirits of the Charles (The Mithras Cycle Book 1) Page 26
