Embedded in its neck, a latch stone. Forged on the Otherside, it not only granted this beast entrance to our world, it allowed for it to interact too. Three people had been reported missing, with remnants of their bodies found in and around the car park.
Mark Courtney, a father of two and wealthy property developer. Betty Mulligan, a librarian and poster woman for the ‘Crazy Cat Lady’ community. Thomas Branning, a physics student who walked through the wrong car park while drunk.
All of them were gone, dismembered and digesting slowly within the hideous behemoth before Bermuda.
With a flick of his wrist, Bermuda threw his car into reverse, arching his neck back before slamming his foot down, the Civic launching backwards as the beast slowly moved towards them.
‘We seem to be moving away from the creature,’ Argyle stated, a slight agitation in his voice.
‘Yeah, that’s the plan.’
Bermuda reached the end of the road, the concrete merging onto the dual carriageway that cut through the city like an enormous vein. As he approached, he took once last glance back through his windscreen.
The giant beast roared loudly, its powerful lungs shaking the streets and rattling the cars that lined it.
It dropped again to all fours and bounded towards the car, nothing but death in its pathway as it raced towards them, like a dog chasing the postman.
‘Hold on!’ Bermuda yelled, wrenching the steering wheel and spinning the car completely as it joined the main road, a barrage of horns bursting into the air like an orchestra warming up. Almost clipping the large truck that was hurtling behind them, Bermuda slipped the car into first before it had completed its turn and stamped down the accelerator, the car bursting forward in one fluid movement.
‘HAHA!’ he exclaimed in excitement, his heart beating ferociously as the adrenaline kicked in. Argyle’s lack of enthusiasm quickly ended the excitement.
That, and the giant crash of the truck behind as the giant Other leapt through it, the vehicle exploding into a ball of flames as it emerged onto the dual carriageway, its massive, clawed hands slamming against the pavement as it raced towards them, sending debris hurtling against the buildings that lined the streets.
A light drizzle began to patter against Bermuda’s windscreen as he raced through London, his car careering round a corner and onto another main road, scraping the back of a black cab that was then pulverised by the chasing beast.
The bright lights of the city surrounded them like fireflies, buses and cars whipping through the nightlife that dotted the street as Bermuda veered between them, narrowly missing a group of drunken lads. As they turned and yelled abuse as the car dashed by, one of them found himself flying into the nearby wall, courtesy of an invisible monster.
A bus was sent toppling into the front window of Top Shop. Two cars were sent hurtling towards the closed exit of Tottenham Court Road Station.
Bermuda spun a left and hurtled onto the A4 towards West London, the rain now hammering down on his car. Argyle calmly sat next to him, the situation barely registering as a need to panic. Sirens wailed, as a platoon of police cars were now following the path of destruction which they would wrongly lay at Bermuda’s door.
Raindrops scattered the road before him as he weaved between the traffic, his foot pressed down and the acceleration rising. Cars whipped past and Bermuda scouted the mirrors, the large creature no longer in the rear-view.
‘Where are we going?’ Argyle’s calm words broke Bermuda’s concentration.
‘I don’t know, buddy. I’m kinda winging it here.’ Bermuda pulled the wheel, slipping the Honda Civic around a delivery van, and began to climb the massive concrete flyover that arched its way over Hammersmith. The magnificent bridge brought with it an incredible view, the capital lit up like a world on fire.
‘Where is the creature?’ Argyle craned his neck, his grey eyes staring through the back window. All he could see was the flashing of lights blurred by the rain.
Bermuda slammed on the brakes.
As if Argyle’s word had provoked an introduction, the beast leapt up onto the flyover before them, its legs ripping the metal barriers clean from the edge. Through the broken concrete they could see the Hammersmith Apollo, one of London’s most iconic venues, which had emptied. A well-known comedian having decorated its walls with laughter a mere two hours before.
Bermuda stared at the vicious beast, trying his best to recall the last time he had enjoyed anything resembling a normal Saturday evening. His mind wandered to Chloe, his beautiful daughter, as he pushed her on a swing – the moments he was starting to experience. The relationship he was starting to build.
A reason to be doing this.
Behind him, the sirens wailed through the air, the rain bursting with flashes of blue.
The beast waited, goading them to make their move. It snorted through its flared nostrils, its razor-sharp claws screeching across the concrete. The rain battered against its solid scalp.
Bermuda revved his engine.
‘Hey Argyle. You have your Retriever, right?’
‘Of course.’ Argyle patted the metal clasp around his wrist. The Retriever, born of a metal from his own world, was safely secured within, its endless chain coiled and the hook that had caught many an Other lay with it. ‘I am required to carry it at all times.’
‘Okay, well when I say fire … you fire that thing.’
‘Do you have a plan?’ Argyle asked, Bermuda letting down the electric window beside him. The cold and rain collided with his armour.
‘I have an idea. I wouldn’t call it a plan.’ Bermuda turned to his partner. ‘You’re gonna want to put your seat belt on!’
Bermuda flashed him a grin before turning back to the road ahead. The beast had leant forward, ready to spring at any moment. Bermuda took a deep breath and then hammered his foot on the pedal.
The car burst forward, ripping across the flyover towards the giant beast, the rain hurtling down upon them. Police cars chased, their lights adding to the night sky intermittent bursts of blue illuminating the bridge. Argyle leant slightly out the window, the Retriever ready and primed. The rain slapped him in the face like a cold, wet palm.
Twenty feet.
Fifteen feet.
The Other rose up on its back legs, its broad, muscular chest exposed as it let out a roar, a hard, guttural noise that shook the city of London.
Ten feet.
‘NOW, ARGYLE!’
Argyle lifted his arm and released. The hook shot forward, pulling the chain with it as it flew through the night sky and embedded into the meaty neck of the Other, that roared with agony. The hook burst into four as it pierced the skin, hooking round and latching in place. With its arm flailing in agony, the beast swung wildly, its other clawed hand ripping the skin of its neck as it tried to free itself.
Argyle pulled himself back into the car and Bermuda turned the wheel a full lock to the left.
Through the gap in the barrier.
He felt his stomach rise up as the car hurtled off the side of the Hammersmith flyover, the world suddenly feeling like it was in slow motion. Bermuda could feel the ground quickly race up to meet them, and just before it did, everything went black.
The car hit the hard concrete, rolling on impact, with large chunks of metal and shattered glass spraying across the empty pavement. The airbags burst, catching the two travellers as they rattled around like two lone coins in a piggy bank.
The chain of the Retriever tightened, snapping sharply and wrenching the monstrous Other over the edge. With its neck broken, it flopped off of the flyover, its back legs crashing through the roof and side wall of the Hammersmith Apollo, the legendary bricks scattering across the floor like a careless child’s building blocks.
The rain continued to batter the crash scene, pedestrians gasping in shock at the damage. Slowly, very slowly, Bermuda began to stir, a thick stream of blood pouring from a gash across his head.
His nose and eyebrow were also streaming
blood. His ribs, broken six months previously after he was thrown through a wall, were cracked and swinging loosely.
He could tell his wrist was broken as were the two fingers pointing in the wrong direction.
‘Are you okay?’
Argyle’s voice covered him like a blanket, safe in the knowledge that his friend was okay. He nodded, wincing in pain at the slightest movement. Argyle patted him gently on the arm with a blood-covered hand. His lacerations would heal at an unworldly rate. Kicking open what was left of the door, the mighty warrior stepped out into the rain, the water washing the blood from his dark skin. His right arm hung loosely, swinging gently from the last few tendons that hadn’t been ripped from their socket.
It would heal.
He always healed.
Calm, measured steps took him to the fallen Other, his heart feeling a twinge of sympathy for the death of his own kind. He may not have been as feral or as monstrous as the slain beast, but they were of the same world.
They were brothers in Otherkind.
Slowly murmuring a banishment, Argyle reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the latch stone, the vessel that was keeping the dead within its physical form.
He yanked it from the skin, watching as the Other slowly disintegrated, its life force trailing like a thin plume of smoke into the relic that Argyle held in his hand. He would be deposited back to the Otherside at HQ, for a proper burial.
Argyle bowed his head; the death of another Other hung heavily from his mighty shoulder like a pendant. The rain clattered around him, his blood trickling across the concrete where the slain beast had lain.
It was gone.
‘Don’t move!’
‘Sir, we have him!’
‘Keep your hands where we can see ’em!’
Bermuda winced in pain; the shouting of the police officers that surrounded his car only heightened the throbbing headache. He could feel the whiplash strapped to his neck, the stiffness keeping his head locked in one place.
The world around him was bright and blue, the lights of the police cars flickering like a faulty Christmas tree light. He had once again saved the city, his body was broken, and no one would believe him.
Just another day.
Two officers slowly approached the shattered window beside him, their steps careful and measured. One of them held his torch up, the light annoyingly intruding on Bermuda’s vision. With blood splattered across his usually handsome face, Bermuda slowly turned. He had caused a city-wide car chase, untold damage to a number of vehicles and buildings, and had ripped a hole in one of London’s oldest theatres.
With his impending arrest moments away, he treated the police to his best, bloodied smile.
‘What’s the matter, officers? Was I speeding?’
CHAPTER THREE
Bermuda’s footsteps crunched across the ash, remnants of burnt leaves that now carpeted the street. To either side of him, buildings flickered, alive with the flames that ripped through them.
Every night it was the same; he was beginning to anticipate the next part of his dream before it happened, turning a split second before his name was called.
Everyone he knew was just out of reach, all of them reduced to ash and spirited away in the wind. Their final look was of failure as he watched them die.
An ear-splitting roar echoed in the distance. The giant beast responsible for the destruction of the world was rampaging beyond the smoke. The sky was black.
The only light was that of the fire that burst through every window on the street. The lampposts that stood like pillars rumbled to ash as he passed them.
His ex-wife Angela waited for him. A mere few feet from the woman he had sacrificed everything for, he knew she would crumble as he touched her. He felt his arm reach forward, he watched her reduce to ash.
He knew what was next and willed himself to wake up. Straining to close his eyes, he wrestled his sub-conscious, trying his best to race back to reality and awake in whatever place he had fallen asleep.
‘Daddy.’
Her voice returned him to the apocalyptic street, the world ablaze as the ash danced through the air, twisting with the flaming embers of destruction. He was still there, moments away from watching the Otherside take what was most precious to him.
With tears streaming from his eyes, he turned to face his daughter. Her nightdress was stained with soot and her face was rife with fear. Her eyes, raw from crying, searched her father for any strains of hope.
Suddenly the shadows began to circle, thin, crooked fingers reaching out and wrapping themselves around her limbs.
Bermuda raced towards her, the street stretching as he failed to make up the ground. Each step echoed, drowning out the destruction of the world. All he cared about was his daughter, the need to protect her. As he bounded towards her, she caught his eye one last time, a realisation of the end.
‘Help me!’
He leapt, screaming for her as the hands ripped her body in several directions.
Bermuda jolted awake, instantly groaning in agony as his body reminded him of his injuries. Above him, a bright light burst through, blinding him slightly as it buzzed from its artificial beam in the ceiling.
‘Wakey, wakey.’
The Scottish twang made him wince further, the voice of a disapproving senior. Pushing himself up slowly, he felt the whiplash tighten around his neck like a dog lead, pulling him back to the bed. With a deep breath he pushed himself upwards, battling the stiffness of his spine and the sling that his arm rested in.
His ribs clattered freely, the bones shaking like a box of his favourite mints. Broken. Again.
He was at the BTCO headquarters, a secret underground facility that sat thirty feet below the Shard, one of the premium London tourist spots. The building itself, eighty-nine floors of manmade glass and wonderment, stood just outside London Bridge Station. The sharp, glittering building was glistening in the early winter cold.
Thirty feet below, Bermuda was slowly adjusting himself, his legs swinging gently over the side of the bed. Every movement sent pain rocketing towards his brain. His eyes slowly began to adjust to the glare of the fluorescent tubes that hung from the ceiling, the fuzzy outlines of the three people in the room gradually beginning to find their shape. One of them stood forward, the definition of his face matching the sarcasm of his voice, and Bermuda knew he would have been happier being greeted by a kick in the bollocks.
The Scottish voice belonged to Montgomery Black, head of the Committee, the board of senior officers and agents that oversaw the BTCO. Bermuda had lost count of the times he had felt the wrath of the old man and judging by the sneer that clung to his wrinkled, be-spectacled face, another encounter wasn’t far away.
‘What does the BTCO stand for?’ Black locked his hands together at the base of his spine, slowly turning away from Bermuda with a straight back and a disregard for pleasantries.
‘I’m okay, by the way.’ Bermuda flashed a glance to one of the other figures. ‘Aren’t I?’
Taking a few steps forward was Vincent, the most senior Neither working for the BTCO. His greyish skin clung tightly to his bones, his eyes a dark black, his nose thin and pointed. Like Argyle, Vincent had defected to our world, dedicating over half a century to building a workable truce between the Earth and the Otherside. Respected on both sides of the divide, Vincent was an archive of knowledge and expertise, working very closely with the other man in the room.
Lord Felix Ottoway III. The director of the BTCO.
Rapidly approaching his eighty-second birthday, he watched Bermuda with the kindness in his eyes he always had. He’d spent over sixty years in the agency, the clock ticking as the cancer continued to grip to his lungs, daring him to take his final breath.
Vincent’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘You have suffered a broken collarbone, broken fingers, and a broken wrist. You have a severe bout of whiplash and your ribs have been – how shall I put it? – re-shattered.’
Bermuda winced as he pressed a finger into his side, only to be greeted by a searing pain.
‘Other than that, no lasting damage.’
Bermuda nodded before turning to Black, who still wouldn’t look at him.
‘See? I’m fine. Almost died in the line of duty, but thanks for checking.’
‘What does the BTCO stand for?’ Black’s deep voice echoed through the basic room, reverberating off the empty walls.
On a small, white table to the side, Bermuda’s possessions lay messily, his clothes balled up on the floor below. Blood had dripped from the gash above his eyebrows onto the BTCO-issued white T-shirt. His toned arms hung from the sleeves, covered in the scrawling ink of the tattoos that covered his whole upper body. Incantations to symbols, all of which had been in a hope of warding off the onslaught of the Otherside. As he shifted uncomfortably, the pain bouncing around his body like a pinball machine, he couldn’t help but think they weren’t working.
‘Behind The Curtain Organisation,’ Bermuda droned, bored with the question already.
Black snapped round to face him. ‘Don’t be facetious.’
‘You asked.’ Bermuda rolled his eyes. He slowly patted his thighs, realising he wasn’t wearing his jeans, and immediately grateful they had left his boxer shorts on.
‘But what does the organisation stand for?’ Black’s voice seemed incapable of compassion.
Bermuda spotted his electric cigarette lying sloppily amongst his possessions on the side. He sighed. ‘Two worlds. One peace.’
‘Exactly. We are here to maintain the harmony that exists between our worlds. A truce that has stood the test of centuries, two worlds working towards a common goal. A peaceful existence.’
‘With all due respect, that giant hell-dog tried to rip me to pieces and didn’t seem to give a damn about what it had to do to get to me. So, you can cram that peaceful existence up your arse.’
‘Jones!’ Ottoway’s voice snapped like an outraged headmaster’s.
Black’s eyes narrowed with fury at the disrespectful agent who slowly pushed himself to his feet. Managing a few wobbles, he slowly made his way across the room, the pain riding his spinal cord like a rollercoaster. Lifting his electric cigarette to his mouth, he took a puff, exhaling loudly as the cherry-flavoured smoke clouded around the room.
Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set Page 36
