Bermuda Jones Casefiles Box Set

by Robert Enright

  With the increasing force of the rainfall, the wind howled through the tombstones of the Necropolis. Slowly, each member of the Legion filtered out of the tomb in single file, their hands to their weapons. They walked with regimented precision, splitting into equal paths that fanned out around the structure and were slowly enveloped in the darkness. One of the creatures standing guard at the door joined as six separate entities entered the darkness of the Necropolis.

  One remained guarding the door, its weapon drawn and its eyes wide and searching. Inside, Mandrake stood calmly, hands behind his back as he waited for Argyle to be defeated swiftly.

  None of the creatures had even acknowledged the death of their own. Bermuda shivered in the cold as he struggled to his feet, the chill of the night biting at him with razor teeth. His skull trembled with pain as he reached for the top of the altar, trying to lift himself silently.

  Argyle was out there somewhere, outnumbered but willing to fight to save Bermuda’s life. Bermuda, much to his own surprise, found himself willing to fight for Argyle’s life too.

  Willing to die for his friend.

  Mandrake took a few steps towards the tomb wall, the bricks stacked precariously as they lost their fight with Father Time. The wind whistled through the cracks as he slowly slid his hand from its armoured glove. With an uncovered finger, he dabbed at the blood of his soldier that painted the wall.

  Bermuda pulled himself to his feet.

  ‘I would stay down if I were you.’ Mandrake didn’t turn. ‘I will turn you over alive, but I said nothing about mobile.’

  Bermuda froze.

  Mandrake turned, a horrifying grin across his scaled face.

  ‘Argyle will kill them. You know that, right?’

  ‘I think it’s entirely possible,’ Mandrake agreed, his hands returning behind his straight back. ‘Yet I know Argyle better than you and it’s his appreciation for life that will kill him. The Legion are many. They do not cry for a fallen comrade. They will surround him and he will kneel by their swords.’

  ‘Or they will die by his,’ Bermuda countered.

  ‘Time will tell. However, you should be worried, Bermuda. Argyle has broken his rank and defied his orders. Without a negotiation, your life now holds little value.’

  With the threat looming, Bermuda suddenly made a dash for the doorway. In an instant, he felt the cold grip of Mandrake lock onto his arm like a clamp. Without his glove, the Otherside pulsed from Bermuda’s body into his fingertips. Mandrake’s eyes widened with fury.

  ‘You are infected,’ he uttered. ‘You belong to my world.’

  ‘Get off me.’

  Before Bermuda could continue, he found himself hurled across the tomb and colliding with the wall for the second time that week. His spine cracked against the hard stone, the wind fleeing his body rapidly.

  Mandrake slowly eased the glove back over his hand, his face a mask of disgust, as if he had just used it to unclog a toilet. ‘Like Argyle you walk in both worlds, and like Argyle you shall be executed.’

  Mandrake took a few measured steps towards Bermuda as he writhed on the floor, his hand pressed against the small of his back. Mandrake smirked at the pathetic human before him. While his squadron hunted one mistake and sent him to the afterlife, he would do the same with another.

  He stepped forward again.

  Bermuda leapt forward.

  Catching Mandrake off balance, Bermuda launched his entire body weight into the murderous general, his shoulder catching him in the stomach below the breastplate. Mandrake stumbled back, growling like a rabid dog, but his mighty frame collided with the fragile stone wall. It collapsed, the thick bricks falling on top of him, slamming him to the hard ground. He roared in pain as the heavy stone toppled, the weight growing and crushing his legs to dust. Bermuda scurried back on his hands and feet, just out of arm’s length as Mandrake reached and clawed for him, his fangs gnashing wildly.

  After a few moments, the noise stopped. Bermuda sat a few feet from the trapped soldier, their eyes locked. The flames from the torch fizzled out as the rain burst through the gaping hole of the tomb. It sizzled gently, and a thin line of smoke washed away into the darkness.

  Mandrake went to speak, but was instantly shut down by the full force of Bermuda’s foot to the face.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Bermuda spat angrily before slowly easing himself to his feet. The base of his spine felt like it was on fire and he limped to the exit, stumbling over the threshold and onto the thick mud.

  Instantly the guard turned, its face a sheet of white, and it marched towards him, drawing its sword from the sheath that swung from its belt.

  Bermuda tried to push himself from his knees, but the mud had engulfed his legs like thick, gooey fingers holding him in place.

  He heard the blade freed from its holster, the moon bouncing from its clean steel like a floodlight.

  The deathly pale face stayed locked on him as the blade was risen.

  The soldier brought it down with full force.

  Argyle’s blade deflected the blow before Argyle launched a kick to the soldier’s chest, sending him back a few steps. The creature growled beneath its mask before lunging forward, swinging its sword with deathly precision. Argyle leant back, the blade swinging just above his chest, before he spun on his foot and flicked his own blade across the calf of his opponent.

  A spray of black shot up like a fountain, and the creature barked in pain as it dropped to one knee. Before another sound came from its gruesome mouth, Argyle spun his sword expertly before driving it down two-handed into the creature’s neck, severing its spinal cord and killing it instantly.

  Bermuda watched wide-eyed, having never seen Argyle kill with such brutality before. Without flinching, his partner drew his blade up with one hand, letting his former comrade slump lifelessly into the mud. As the sword swung from his powerful mitt, Argyle turned to Bermuda and offered him his other.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m fine, Big Guy.’ Bermuda smiled as he took the offer, his partner helping him to his feet and once again saving his life. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘You too.’

  They shared a smile. Bermuda then looked past Argyle to the dead creature that was slowly being surrounded by a puddle of black blood. It was as if Argyle had struck oil.

  Bermuda pointed at the body. ‘By the way, that was awesome.’

  Suddenly, the sound of twirling metal picked up in volume and Argyle dove forward, dragging Bermuda to the ground with him. As they fell to the ground, a razor disc cut through the air a foot above them.

  It would have decapitated Bermuda.

  As they hit the ground, Argyle ushered his scared partner to move, the two of them scrambling to their feet and shuffling through the shadows and into the darkness of the graveyard. As they passed a few rows of tombstones, they heard footsteps approach the dead body. A loud roar echoed through the grounds, shaking the trees. They reached a small yet sharp drop of about six feet, with Argyle helping his partner down. They leant back against the muddy wall, cloaking themselves in darkness. Mandrake’s voice bellowed from the broken building at the top of the hill, his words lost to Bermuda.

  Not to Argyle.

  ‘He is demanding our heads,’ Argyle translated as Bermuda fished his phone from his pocket.

  ‘I figured.’

  He had several messages and missed calls, the majority from Montgomery Black and all of them the same message just at various stages of anger. With the battery clinging valiantly to life, Bermuda raised his phone to his ear as he listened to his voicemail.

  It was McAllister.

  ‘Hey, it’s McAllister. I reviewed the files and all of our victims were either drinking here at Waxy’s or nearby. Rosie’s flower shop is also on a surrounding street. Anyway, I am at Waxy’s. Roses on. Parker is here. I am going to distract him. Get here as soon as possible.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Fuck?’ Argyle echoed.

  ‘It’s Sam.
’

  Argyle looked blank.

  ‘Detective McAllister. She called me an hour ago. She’s with Parker.’

  ‘I will distract them. You go to her.’ Argyle drew his sword again.

  Bermuda shoved him angrily. ‘No. Come with me.’

  ‘I must stay.’

  ‘But you will die, Argyle.’ Bermuda felt a lump growing in his throat. ‘You have to come with me.’

  ‘This is my fight, Bermuda. I will not run from it. These creatures have killed humans to face me. Those deaths will not be for nothing.’

  Bermuda raised both hands to his head, interlocking his fingers amongst his wet hair. He had to go – McAllister was in serious danger.

  Argyle reached out his hand and placed it on Bermuda’s shoulder. ‘I bet you ten pounds I will see you again.’

  Bermuda smirked, Argyle turning his own joke against him and once again proving to him that he was more than a monster. Whatever he was, Bermuda knew he was the best man he knew.

  His best friend.

  ‘I will gladly pay you when I do.’

  Argyle placed a fist on his chest as a sign of respect and Bermuda nodded. Argyle lifted his sword and in one leap cleared the six-foot back onto the tier above and, keeping low to the ground, moved swiftly through the cold. A moment later he spun the Legion soldier around, and with one swift slice of his sword, slit its throat clean open.

  Mandrake yelled another order and suddenly all the attention was back to the top of the hill. Argyle raced into the darkness, knowing he would be hunted by the five remaining Others who knew nothing but to kill.

  With the coast clear, Bermuda began descending the hill as quickly as he could, navigating through the fields of death, knowing they were about to be sprinkled with even more.

  As Argyle charged into the darkness to battle monsters, Bermuda made his way through the gate, covered in mud and hoping he wasn’t too late to stop a different monster entirely.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Argyle rested on his haunches, his blade held steadily over his shoulder. Ducked behind a large tombstone, he used the monument of death to plot another. The decades of training at the hand of Mandrake were flooding back to him, the perfection he expected from his soldiers. Argyle knew what was expected of them, each member of the Legion.

  They were not an army.

  They were a death squad.

  Argyle knew – he had led them to slaughter many, and he regretted every life that fell at his command. Mandrake, with his lust for blood, never batted an eyelid. The remaining five of those stalking him had seen horrors that would give even those of his world nightmares. They had trekked the dark fields for decades, eventually landing at the gates of his city.

  They were as feral as the Other Argyle had slain on that momentous land ship in London.

  Mandrake had weaponised them.

  Their loyalty was as fierce as their combat. There was no regard for life, be it their opposition’s or their own. They were the perfect squadron.

  They were the eight.

  Now reduced to five.

  Argyle held his breath, allowing the rain to run down his dark face and drip onto his blade, the water joining the black blood that ran up the steel like a tribal tattoo. As Argyle drew inwards, the sound of each drop bouncing off his sword echoed through his skull. The wind howled like a wolf on a full moon.

  The crunch of grass underfoot drew his attention.

  Zeroing in, he estimated the distance and time he had before the soldier was within reach.

  After slitting the throat of the soldier to draw them back to the top of the Necropolis, he had rushed in the direction of the fallen, knowing the soldiers’ flanking patterns. They would have regrouped at the corpse and would slice the Necropolis into four equal quarters and sweep the entire ground looking for him. One of them would guard Mandrake. From the glimpse Argyle had taken when executing the guard, the general was incapacitated and seriously wounded.

  He would wait.

  Another crunch as the soldier approached, its white-clad face slowly sweeping from left to right, looking for any sign of life. In both hands it clasped the circular blades, ready to end Argyle’s life without hesitation.

  One more step.

  Argyle spun and rolled over the tombstones, thrusting a heavy foot forward and catching the Other by surprise with a clubbing boot to the chest. It stumbled back two steps before drawing its fists up, the razor wrap shimmering in the moonlight. Argyle drew his sword and the two soldiers took a moment to acknowledge their duel.

  To the death.

  The creature swung fists like a champion boxer, the blades slicing the falling raindrops and narrowly missing Argyle as he ducked and weaved. Argyle ducked a fast right, but failed to spin in time as the left hook sent the blade into his arm, slicing the skin across his bicep. Without flinching he spun back, blocking the next blow with the solid band that wrapped his wrist. Deflecting the strike, Argyle swung his sword, the blade slicing through the flesh and bone of the soldier’s wrist like it was hot butter.

  The creature gurgled as a stream of thick, black blood chased after its severed hand before it tried to swing its remaining fist.

  But it too was severed from its arm.

  A sickening dark spray splattered its white mask, but before it could muster another noise, Argyle drew the sword back and lunged, plunging the steel through the armour and into the creature’s chest. Twisting the blade, he yanked it back, watching the creature drop to its knees, its life rapidly leaving it.

  Now reduced to four.

  Argyle, a few tiers down and hundreds of tombstones from the tomb, bent down and pulled the severed hand from one of the round blades, impressed by the craftsmanship. The edge was dangerously sharp – the blood oozing down his arm would testify to that. Hunching down to keep low, Argyle ran quickly through the mud, the pelting rain, and the darkness. He circled the vast, towered grounds that housed centuries of death.

  His steps were silent.

  Ahead and to the left, another faceless member of the Legion stalked the graveyard, a sense of death in the air. Without breaking stride, Argyle whipped the circular blade through the air, the metal spinning like a propeller as it sliced through the night sky before bedding into the soldier’s neck. Severing an artery, the soldier’s jet-black blood pumped down its chest like a shadow.

  As he approached, Argyle spun his blade from his back, and in one swift motion disembowelled the soldier. He moved on, not witnessing its innards fall to the ground but hearing the squelch as its intestines hit the mud.

  The body followed swiftly after.

  Another Legion fallen.

  Now reduced to three.

  As he rounded another corner, Argyle stopped behind a large tree. The leaves had long since deserted and the jagged branches reached for the sky like broken fingers. Argyle scouted the area. The faint outline of his next adversary was shuffling slowly between the protruding stones. Argyle was trained for combat, he knew that this was what he was trained to be.

  But the feeling in his chest wasn’t adrenaline or the thrill of the battle, the feelings he was ordered to feel to be a true soldier.

  What he felt was hate.

  Hate for the Legion.

  Hate for the vile commander who lay prone in his broken fortress.

  Hate for what they had forced him to be all those years.

  Suddenly, a searing pain overpowered his mind, and a burning roared from his side as the jagged blade sliced through his armour. The masked soldier pulled it back harshly, ripping through Argyle’s muscles and skin, the pain causing Argyle to stumble forward, his hands grasping at the gaping hole in his hip. The creature stepped forward, wielding its sword with both hands and slashing diagonally for Argyle, who dove and rolled just beyond its reach.

  With another lunge, the soldier thrust its blade downwards, missing Argyle as he spun away, its blade plunging into the deep mud. Wrenching at the handle like a demonic King Arthur, the soldier r
eached for its side blade in vain. Argyle had already launched his blade with as much power as he could muster, hurling it through the air like a spear. Covering the short distance between them in no time, his sword ripped through the chest of the Other, the propulsion sending it blasting through its spine and bedding into the mud behind it.

  Argyle could see the tomb through the gaping chasm in the creature’s chest as it fell forward, collapsing on its own blade and bleeding out within seconds.

  Argyle could feel his own blood pouring down his leg.

  It would hinder him.

  But it would heal.

  Now reduced to two.

  Yanking his sword from the mud with one forceful wrench, Argyle slowly limped up the slight incline, the broken walls of the tomb in his sight. At the door to the fallen building, the guard had been joined by his final comrade, the two soldiers putting on one final, united stand.

  It was to the death.

  Argyle knew that there was a good chance he would die at the top of this hill, overlooking acres of death. But he would face it like a true soldier, with pride in his heart and death on his mind.

  He would fight to the end.

  Whatever the end was.

  As he approached the final row of tombstones before the entrance, he scouted the two soldiers. Both of them towered over him, their broad frames wrapped in armour. Their white masks hid their dark eyes, but Argyle knew they were watching.

  Waiting.

  Argyle pressed a hand to his hip; it returned dripping with blood.

  Like Parker holding a heart.

  Argyle’s mind immediately jumped to Bermuda, his partner who had run willingly towards that murderous creature. The one that had left him for dead on this very hill.

  Parker would kill Bermuda.

  That much was certain.

  With his partner’s safety now fresh in his mind, Argyle took one deep breath, closing his eyes and pushing all the anger and pain from his body. He thought of his partner, his only friend in the world.

  Bermuda needed him.

  Ottoway’s voice filtered into his mind, reminding him of his primary objective.