“Any time.” Kayla barely breathes the words, but Tabitha catches them all the same. She lunges.
I grab Tabitha’s arm, haul her back. She fights against me. “Not now,” I hiss. “Any time but now. Clyde needs help now.” Tabitha strains once more then gives up, goes to stalk away then kneels next to Clyde again.
“You,” I say to Kayla, then lose my nerve. “Just... Jesus.” I shake my head. “He saved your arse from getting kicked. All of our arses.”
“Not what I was feckin’ asking.” Kayla shrugs, stays where she is, stares at me, as if daring me to disagree. I’m not about to. Kayla genuinely pissed off seems even more homicidal than she does in her usual bad mood.
I turn my back on her, kneel down next to Tabitha and Clyde. He has the laptop on his chest, like a knight laid to rest still gripping his sword.
Tabitha looks at me. Underneath the make-up she looks small and scared. “I don’t know what to do,” she says.
I don’t either. “Maybe the sound of your voice,” I say It’s the best thing I can think of. Because if Clyde would come back for anything, I think, it would be Tabitha. “Maybe that could ground him.”
“Yes,” says a weak voice, “I think that would be lovely.”
We both stare down at Clyde. He has one eye half cracked. With a grunt he lets go of the copper strips. “Ow,” he says.
Tabitha lets out a very un-Tabitha-like squeal and bounces on her knees. She dips her head down for an instant as if about to plant a kiss on his forehead, or cheek, or... well, that’s when she seems to remember herself. She pulls up sharply, sneers at Clyde. “Gormless prat,” she says.
Clyde cracks a tired smile. “I missed you too,” he says.
She smiles at that. I think of Devon, look at the two of them, and think maybe it wouldn’t be such a downgrade after all if Clyde decided to make the trade.
“If he’s all feckin’ right,” Kayla says, “can we get moving, grab this book and get the feck out of here?”
“What?” I ask. I’m so elated I even find that I momentarily have the balls to ask, “This place giving you the creeps?”
“Feck off.”
Together Tabitha and I get Clyde to his feet. Tabitha reclaims her laptop.
“That seemed to work,” I say to him.
“More or less.”
“More or less?” That doesn’t sound as reassuring as maybe I’d like from a man who just violated the rules of pretty much all the sciences I can think of.
“Well,” Clyde shrugs, “I do seem inexplicably to know fifteen ways to kill you with my little finger now.”
“Bloody hell,” I say, as I try to grapple with the concept of someone with Kayla’s skills and Clyde’s disposition.
Clyde cracks a grin. “Having you on, I’m afraid. Absolutely fine, actually. Bugger of a headache, but that seems to be it on the side effects front. Plus...” He bends and lifts up the mask that rolled free from the first man to fall. It is the only one left still in one piece. “Now we have an extra copy of me.”
“Oh fan-fucking-tastic,” says Tabitha, but she’s still smiling.
Using the straps of the thing, Clyde slips the mask up his arm until it’s on his shoulder. “Armor,” he says. “Never know when I’m going to get smacked on the shoulder. Could happen at any instant.” He’s grinning like a fool.
“So, you’re telling us,” I say, “that your copy is even thicker-headed than you.”
Clyde thinks about that one. “Hmm,” he says. “Yes. Bugger.”
“I’m not waiting another feckin’ moment.” Kayla stalks off toward a tunnel.
Clyde looks at her, shrugs at us, and then scampers after her. Tabitha and I follow in their wake.
Whoever carved this place seemed to think the monks would be enough to deter most people, and we don’t have far to go before we hit the main chamber of the temple. If anything, it’s even more cavernous than the one the monks were in. The sense of grandeur is different, though. The architects dialed down the pomp, and turned the sinister up to eleven. The light that filters down from the fissures in the ceiling is thin, weak, as if reluctant to enter. I kind of regret teasing Kayla about the place giving her the creeps.
But the book is there. It stands on a plinth that rises from a circular platform in the center of the room. No moss grows there; no water has collected. Even the light seems thinner there. It is as if there is a slight pressure emanating from the center of the room, from the book itself, a subtle throbbing in the air. Clyde rubs his temples.
“Goes right down my wires, that does,” he says and shudders.
“That’s our book, for definite?” I ask.
“No,” Tabitha says. “Planted a book so powerful it disturbs the bloody ether as a distraction. Dumbarse.”
Nothing has changed in Tabitha’s disposition, but I think I’m beginning to understand how she works a little bit more. That insult almost sounded like a form of endearment.
The four of us approach the plinth. I feel the resistance in the air and have to push harder with my feet to step up onto the circular platform—a small stage in the round.
For a moment it seems as if the walls around us fluctuate. There is a rustling from a dangling clump of ivy, a cracking sound from the thick roots. Then nothing. Just silence. Just stillness.
“Well,” I say, “at least that wasn’t creepy.”
“Just take it,” Tabitha says.
I reach out a hand. The book has a cover so black it could be a tear in reality. The spine is exposed. Age-stained pages sprout rotted twists of thread. The thing is over four inches thick. My hand pauses, shaking. The book is pushing back, pushing against me.
“How sure are we that this isn’t a horrible trap?” I ask.
“About as sure as we were that those four guys were statues,” Tabitha supplies.
“Excellent.” I nod.
“Oh, I’ll take the feckin’ thing.” Kayla reaches for it.
“Wait,” I say. I catch her eye. And it’s... well... She is not what I think. Or... Just... What if she’s not? What if she’s not? I can’t take that risk. I can’t let her touch this book.
“No,” I say, with a certain amount of force.
She rolls her eyes and goes to take the book. I reach out and snatch the book, grabbing it off the plinth, from under her fingers.
She looks at me. She could have beaten me if she wanted. It’s in her expression. She’s indulging me.
“Children,” Tabitha starts.
And then something starts to hum. A building whine that sounds like—
“Tell me that doesn’t sound like a generator,” Tabitha says. “Tell me.”
But it does.
Sparks suddenly arc across the floor, blue light sputtering from puddle to puddle. They crackle and spit. And then the walls start to rumble. A deep, thundering bass that starts in my gut long before it makes it to my ears. The noise builds though, layers upon layers of sound—stone grinding on stone, water splashing, roots rustling and cracking. The noise builds and then it’s not just the noise that is making me shake, but the very floor of the place quivers like a live thing. Clyde drops to one knee.
I look down at the book. And I really did like it when magic was something cool, when it was something Egg Shen chucked at Lo Pan in Big Trouble in Little China, and not something that tried to pound on me like a meat tenderizer.
The shaking intensifies. I have to grab hold of the plinth with one hand, the other clutching the book to my chest. Clyde and Tabitha are on all fours. Only Kayla stands free, seems to ride the shivering floor like a surfer navigating rough seas.
And then silence. Absolute stillness. Nothing. We all stand perfectly still.
“Maybe it’s broken.” Clyde speaks into the settling dust. “An old mechanism. The whole place is old. Maybe it just stopped.”
“Do you really believe that?” I ask. And I rather hope he does.
“Not at all.” Clyde looks miserable.
And it’
s at that point the stone plinth whips around like a spring sapling and hits me.
I stagger back. The plinth rears up like a snake. Then the broad flat top plunges into my midriff lifting me off the ground and slamming me off the platform and onto the ground.
The floor beneath me bucks like a bronco. I roll, head over heel, over arse and elbow. My head smacks into the floor. Then the floor smacks me back. A flagstone rises from the floor, catches me on the edge of my jaw. I sprawl back, fight for my feet, but there is no solid ground to gain purchase on.
I hear a crashing sound. Regular. Pounding. In a moment of nearly-grasped verticality I see the archway we came through contracting, slamming down the ground, a great blunt guillotine. The floor bucks again, sends me sailing toward it.
I scramble on the rough rock, find purchase in the space between floor slabs, jam my fingertips into the gap. The floor heaves under me. I hang on. Then the floor slabs slam together crushing my fingers.
I howl in pain, release my grasp. Then the floor bucks and I sail through the air once more. The gnashing doorway looms.
31
I snag my foot on a vine, spin away from the door. I’m still falling. Falling sideways. And then I stop.
I don’t know if I hit the wall or it hits me. It closes like a catcher’s mitt around me. Then I’m thrown. Then I’m flying down the length of the wall, a great propelling hand of stone, shoving me in a stumbling sweep. The doorway. It’s pushing me toward the doorway.
I do rather wish that fighting psychotic animated temples wasn’t in my job description. Or, at least that I was prepared to deal with it.
I can see Tabitha, Clyde, and Kayla all bunched in the center of the room, trying to keep out of range of the sparring plinth. Pillars detach from the walls, sweep in long arcs, try to crunch their bones. Jags of floor try to spear them.
But they survive, they succeed, they fight back. Kayla and Clyde can do this stuff. They can achieve things against these odds. They have talents here.
I heave myself away from the wall. For a moment I stand still. A tiny oasis of calm in the madness. I can see Kayla actually blocking blows from the wall with her sword. And they drive her back, they physically move her, but she’s OK. She’s on her feet. She’s mastering this situation, whatever it is.
Clyde has his hands up, has batteries hanging out of his mouth. Stone is hitting something invisible around him, some force field, some magic bollocks. Tabitha is huddled at his feet, clutching her laptop, as if somehow that will help, will let her survive, but it’s Clyde that is keeping her safe, doing the white knight shit. He can do it.
Me? All I can do is stand here until my feet get taken out by a stone a rock wall spits at me.
Another blow to the head. The world spins. I can’t tell if it’s really spinning or if it’s just my consciousness skipping a few beats. And there’s the wall again. I taste it. Feel it. I hear the archway slamming down. I fight for finger holds, for any hold. Heave myself off the wall again. Jump something. Trip on something else. Crawl away.
And then feet are running past me. Clyde holding Tabitha’s hand. Ta-ta, see you later. Nice knowing you. The pair of them fleeing the scene. And then I’m up, off the turbulent floor. Not sure how, until I realize it’s Kayla grabbing me, pulling me.
“Feck this for a laugh,” she says.
“The doorway—” I say, but then the doorway explodes. Stone dust fills the air. Kayla bats chunks away with her blade. Clyde is running forward, one arm outstretched, spitting batteries. More rock shatters itself on the invisible battering ram he holds out in front of us. I stagger along in their wake. And not for a moment does Clyde let go of Tabitha’s arm. And if he was looking to impress a girl, that is some pretty bloody impressive white knight behavior right there.
The masked monks’ room passes in a flash, then we’re all through the next archway. Into the next corridor. Running hard. Pushing past roots. Everything still. All quiet.
Then the light disappears. Behind us, the archway closes up. Shuts tight as a sphincter. We flick our headlamps on. We don’t need to know what’s happening. We hear the rumbling, the rock roar. The tight knot of rock is coming closer, the corridor clamping down to nothing, closing up, coming to crush us.
Kayla bodily shoves Clyde out of the way. Her blade is already a blur. Roots fly everywhere, and she carves a path forward. My head is still spinning. Tabitha loses grip on her laptop. Clyde pulls her on even as she grabs for it, even as the collapsing rock crushes it to a few plastic splinters. All the data, all the intel, all gone.
Then I’m gone too. Running. One foot in front of the other. Desperately trying to keep up with Kayla. Roots she missed explode behind me as the corridor shrinks and shrinks.
Then our headlamps light up a wall. A dead end. There is no welcoming archway, no light at the end of the tunnel. The other end of the corridor has closed up too. We’re trapped in a shrinking pocket of stone. As if two hands are squeezing the ends of the corridor. Coming to squeeze us. Trapped. Dead.
Clyde lets go of Tabitha’s hand. He pushes out with both his arms, braces his legs. He bellows something. Sprays batteries as he does it. The smell of ozone is crisp in the air. Static crackles in my hair. The air shudders, becomes dense. Like the book on the plinth. Everything is still. Then everything quakes. It’s like looking through a heat haze.
Clyde’s nose is bleeding. His ears are bleeding.
Then a detonation. An explosion. The rocks before us explode back, crash away. And there, right there—I can see our way out.
Now that is bloody impressive white knight behavior, right there.
But then rocks are falling. Earth is falling. Everything is falling. The whole place starting to give away, to cave in around us.
Our charge out is blind and panicked. I trip but don’t stop. I scrabble on all fours, on just my legs, just my hands. Anything that will propel me. We’re in the final chamber, then in the final tunnel out to fresh air, grubbing forward, onward, out, and up. Not thinking of anything but escape.
Then open air. Then sunlight. Then I breathe. A great gasp of air. I can feel everything shaking. My face, my arms, my hands. Exertion and adrenaline. I can feel a hundred cuts on me. My face, my arms, my hands. I can barely see in the sudden light. I can barely stand.
Around me, shadows flicker. Only slowly do they take shape. Surroundings and... People? Things that are moving for sure. They must be people. But which people? Who else is halfway up this mountain?
I try to make the newcomers out. I blink and my vision tears. I wipe with dusty, bleeding hands. I try to make sense of things. Then Clyde yells.
Things come into focus with an immediacy that startles me. I take a step back. Then what I see registers, and I take another two.
Olsted is there. The runner is there. And not just them. More Progeny. Our driver. Our pilot. And, Jesus, were they Progeny all along? On the flight over here? But why didn’t they just kill us then? Ditch the plane?
But there’s a dead body on the ground too. Someone I don’t recognize. And I realize that, no, the pilot and driver weren’t Progeny. They’ve been infected. Here. A Progeny came with Olsted and shot himself in the head. Simply sacrificed itself to propagate the species. Like an insect or something.
And, of course, there are their shock troopers as well. Their mutated monsters. Things like the student. Except these weren’t people once. They were animals. A couple look like cows, horns drooping around Minotaur faces. One was maybe a monkey, thick fur covering its limbs, a lashing tail, oddly human eyes. A spotted cat creature. Muscles move, almost ripping their flesh. They are awkward, hulking, trapped in their new frames, baying and howling. They are in pain. I can see it.
The runner is holding Tabitha. His fingers like steel wire on her throat, holding her up one-handed. And I wait for the crack of bone, for the spine to go. I can’t quite look at Tabitha’s face.
Something flashes in the runner’s hand. Something white and gray. His hand lances tow
ard Tabitha’s side. A knife. He has a knife.
Tabitha arches. Clyde bellows. The runner’s hand flicks back and forth, twice, three times, stabbing Tabitha in the side. Then red blooms against the blacks and grays of Tabitha’s outfit. A brief splash of color in this bleached world. And then he lets Tabitha fall.
32
The runner stands over Tabitha’s crumpled body. There is no expression on his face. No leer of victory. No sorrow. Utterly impassive.
“Give us the—” Olsted starts.
Clyde lets out a roar next to me. He’s a mess. Dirt and blood-smeared, half doubled-over, hand blocking the sun. But he sees, and he bellows. Something in the guttural nonsense language he uses to sling his spells. His hand comes out, and Olsted never finishes the sentence. He flies through the air. Slams into the monkey thing.
Clyde yells again. Another invisible shove sends the runner tumbling head over heel. Then the monsters close in about Clyde. About me. About all of us.
Kayla goes to work. Her sword flies. Blood splatters. I’m backed against the wall. Something with fists the size of my head, with fingernails the size of my palms, with great big bloody horns the length of my forearms protruding from its kneecaps, closes on me. And then it’s going down with a guttural scream, with something silver jutting from its throat. I’m soaked in blood. To the skin. It drenches my clothes and hair in one long hot arterial spray. I am screaming something incoherent even to myself as the thing lands next to me, the earth shuddering at the impact. Blood drips from my fingers. I stagger away.
Then something is around my neck, squeezing. An arm. I cough and more blood sprays from my lips. The arm squeezes tighter. I remember basic self-defense. Back from being on the force. Back from when my days were sane. I stamp my foot down, swing my head back. The toes crunch. The nose breaks. The arm releases. I push away, spin round. Our driver is there. No. Not our driver. Something wearing the skin of our driver. Our driver is dead. This thing will be too, very bloody soon.
No Hero Page 19
