Dead Air

by Ash, C. B.

  "There is a signal." Arcady said as quietly as his voice box could allow. Fortunately, when compared to the chaos of noise from within the boiler room, it was akin to a whisper. "Inside the room, I'm receiving a signal, but it makes no sense." The clockwork dragonfly turned his head slightly in confusion then looked to each of the others next to him. "You would call it 'gibberish'."

  O'Fallon, whose eyes never left the horrific scene, shook his head slowly, his mouth in a firm, flat line. In the room, the dead body twitched, then rose. Slowly, it swung to the side of the table and slid off to stand unsteadily on its own feet. The two men shouted and smiled in triumph, obviously on a job well done.

  The quartermaster swallowed slowly to get control of his stomach, due to both the heat and the garish scene. "If'n Ah na had a strong stomach, Ah'd be speakin' gibberish."

  "What?" Moira asked impatiently, unable to see into the room.

  O'Fallon turned a hollow-eyed gaze towards Moira. "Ye na wanna know. Just be leavin' it at they be makin' the zombies and they be usin' the statue ta do it."

  Moira shot a frustrated look at O'Fallon. "Well, how be they doin' it? We need ta know how so we can put an end ta it."

  Thorias smiled slightly. "My dear, that's simple. To stop the infection, you remove its root cause."

  "The statue." Moira replied.

  "An so we need ta be findin' a way ta nip it." O'Fallon said. "The hallway we be standin' in circles the collection a' boiler rooms like a barrel hoop. Moira, be takin' Thorias and Arcady with ye. Head back the way we came. Carlos and meself will be walkin' along this way. There has ta be a way in there, or a way we can get them out without gettin' ourselves caught. Last Ah ever wanna be doin' is bein' on that table."

  "It would be the last of my wishes as well," Carlos said dryly.

  "What if they catch sight of us?" Moira asked while she stood.

  "Yell ye head off. The rest o' us will come runnin'. Then? Well, we can be headin' ta somewhere we can make a stand." O'Fallon replied.

  "Luck, then." Thorias offered.

  "And ta ye also." O'Fallon answered.

  O'Fallon watched while Moira slipped back down the hallway with Thorias and Arcady in tow. Once they were out of sight, the quartermaster turned to Carlos.

  "Lets be off with us." The Scotsman said casually, though his attempt at bravado fell just short as he glanced into the boiler room one more time. The newborn zombie was slowly walking about the table as directed by the man with green-tinted goggles. O'Fallon shook his head slightly to shrug off the macabre scene and slipped quietly past the doorway. Carlos cast a brief glance in the doorway, but managed to keep pace with the quartermaster.

  No more than twenty feet past the first doorway, the two men happened across another one. This lead into another boiler room, much like the first, but devoid of any dead bodies. Once O'Fallon was certain the room was empty, he turned towards Carlos to relay what he had found.

  Carlos was not beside him like he had thought, but instead behind him. O'Fallon's instincts screamed a silent warning. The quartermaster started to raise his arm in defense, but instead a bright explosion of light blinded his eyes before everything spiraled abruptly into darkness.

  When O'Fallon came to, he found himself bound and seated on the floor of the second boiler room. He blinked slowly as awareness returned, then felt at the frayed hemp rope which bound his wrists securely together. The rope was tight enough that he could only just touch the knots with his fingertips at that uncomfortable angle. After a moment, he decided he needed a new escape plan.

  In the dim light O'Fallon could make out the same rope lashed about his ankles just above his workman's boots. Only then did his collection of aches and pains return to life, first among them his dislocated shoulder, now even more abused with his wrists tied behind his back. O'Fallon grimaced and looked around while he struggled for a way to loosen the knots.

  He was in the second boiler room, alone. His pistol and the knife from his belt lay on a barrel no more than three feet away. From where he sat, it might have been three miles for all the good it did him. The quartermaster sighed. He knew what he had to do and he knew it would hurt. After a deep breath, he drew his knees up close and slowly began to work his hands underneath him. The pain in his shoulder was intense and burned with an ache that nearly made him cry out. Eventually he slid his wrists up in front of him, then took a series of deep breaths to swallow down the scream. When the sharp pains returned to a dull ache, O'Fallon reached up to his leather vest and drew out a small knife from a hidden sheath. In moments, he had sliced the rope away and had recovered his weapons.

  "Blast it, where be that Spaniard?" O'Fallon asked the boilers, none of which offered any reply.

  Just then, a noise from the hallway caught the quartermaster's attention. He sheathed his knives, grabbed his pistol, and rushed to the door. In the corridor, a few feet away, a figure lay slumped on its side. Next to it was a bag. O'Fallon ran over to find that the figure was Thorias! The quartermaster touched the side of the doctor's neck.

  "Ye've a pulse, so ye just be nappin'." O'Fallon said. Just then he heard an angry buzz from the bag. The quartermaster smiled and snapped the ties loose. Arcady flew straight up and spun in a frantic circle.

  "Where? Where is he?" Arcady said in a tumble of words almost too fast for O'Fallon to follow.

  "Who's doin' all this?" The quartermaster asked in a harsh whisper.

  "The Spaniard!" Arcady shot back in as angry a tone as O'Fallon had ever heard him, or any clockwork for that matter, utter.

  Just then a woman's shout of pain and the dull sound of a body falling to the metal floor reached them. O'Fallon held a finger to his lips for Arcady to be quiet. As Arcady could not be all that silent when he flew, he instead landed on O'Fallon's shoulder. Carefully, they both eased towards the sound.

  Past the curve of the hallway, Carlos stood over Moira's prone form. The lady blacksmith lay sprawled on the floor, the ugly knot forming on the side of her head matted with bits of hair and blood. O'Fallon held his breath a moment until Arcady said in his lowest, most quiet tone of voice.

  "She is alive. I just can detect a heartbeat. Though what other ailments she might have, I would not know." Arcady explained.

  O'Fallon exhaled slowly. Instead of easing any tension he might have had, O'Fallon felt the heat in his blood rise. The entire trip onto this station, he had been chased, punched, beaten on and harried every step of the way. At last, he had a focus for his frustration. The Scotsman stood slowly, a dark and ugly look on his soot-smeared face. He took two steps forward to stand in the corridor a few feet behind Carlos.

  "Ah, señorita, I owe you so much pain for the time in prison you made me suffer. All from that fight in the tavern. We would have kidnapped the governor's son and been away quietly. Oh, but no. You, sweet señorita, had to be involved. Well now I've new partners, and I cannot wait until they make you into one of their zombies. You will make a wonderful little muñeca. Perhaps they'll let me watch, eh?" Carlos blew Moira's unconscious form a kiss. "Perhaps, they'll let me keep you when this is all over?"

  O'Fallon stepped farther out the darkness and closer to Carlos. Behind them, the dim orange glow of the boiler fires from the distantly open doorways cast O'Fallon and Arcady's knife-like shadows across the Spaniard and his victim. The Scotsman raised his pistol and pulled back the hammer.

  "Na count on it." The quartermaster said in a nasty tone.

  Carlos spun on his heel, his eyes wide in shock to find O'Fallon free and armed. O'Fallon did not waste time or further words on glib replies. His anger burned hotter than any boiler in the station, and all of it was aimed at the devilish Spaniard in front of him. With a cold stare the quartermaster squeezed the trigger, only to have his pistol click on an empty chamber. O'Fallon looked down in shock, his pistol empty. In all the rush, he had forgotten to check!

  Four feet away from the quartermaster, Carlos drew a wicked skinning knife from his belt with an insane smil
e.

  Chapter 17

  Carlos lunged. Almost too late, O'Fallon noticed the blade while it slashed forward, hungry for his death. The quartermaster turned, but not fast enough. The knife's edge ripped open his shirt and cut a thin line along the Scotsman's ribcage. O'Fallon hissed at the needle-like sensation, the metal parting flesh then leaving a narrow line of blood to mark its passing. The quartermaster ignored the pain and spun on his heel. Carlos and his knife continued past O'Fallon's left side. In reply, O'Fallon growled like a wounded bear and drove the cold metal barrel of his empty pistol across the Spaniard's face.

  Metal met bone and bone gave way with the sickening sound of wet sticks being snapped into pieces. Carlos yowled and scurried back two paces out of the Scotsman's reach. Meanwhile, O'Fallon nearly doubled over with a gasp of pain as his dislocated right shoulder screamed in furious protest against the rapid motion.

  Carlos blinked back tears. An insane light flickered to life in the man's eye. "For that señor, I will cut the beating heart from your chest while you watch!"

  O'Fallon sucked in deep breaths, desperate for anything to remove the pain. "Try it an Ah'll make sure ta hand ye manhood ta ye in a jar! Ah be sure any brothel will be makin' good use o' ye then!"

  The Spaniard spit into the quartermaster's eyes then rushed forward. Blinded, O'Fallon staggered back desperately wiping the spittle from his face. Just before the knife struck home, the quartermaster saw the blade and threw himself to one side. Carlos growled in anger, recovered his footing, and slashed wildly at O'Fallon's stomach.

  O'Fallon jumped back to land with his feet planted. Carlos stepped in and the Scotsman hammered a strong left hook to the Spaniard's face, mashing the man's already broken nose to a deeper pulp. Without thinking, O'Fallon followed this with a hard right fist that opened a cut over the Spaniard's left eye. Carlos yowled again while O'Fallon clenched his teeth and doubled over once more in agony, his right shoulder a writhing mass of white-hot fire that threatened to consume him.

  Carlos spat out blood onto his beard, then jammed a knee against the side of O'Fallon's head. Suddenly, any thought of a dislocated shoulder left O'Fallon's mind as the room spun around him. Again and again, Carlos rammed his knee against the side of the Scotsman's head until O'Fallon fell drunkenly to the floor, unable to stand.

  The Spaniard stepped back and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. Frustrated and angry, he turned to kick O'Fallon in the stomach. The quartermaster grunted and rolled onto his side.

  "Pay attention, señor, I don't want you to miss a moment." Carlos sneered and knelt down next to O'Fallon. The knife glinted ugly in the half-light of the hallway.

  Suddenly from the darkness off to the Spaniard's right, Arcady, who had been quietly waiting for a moment to help, leaped into the air. He slammed into Carlos' face at top speed, then jammed his metal legs into the man's soft flesh. The impact and stabbing pain drove Carlos into a panic. He dropped the knife with a howl and grabbed at Arcady, desperate to pull the clockwork insect off him.

  "You will leave them alone, Sirrah!" Arcady shouted in Carlos' ear while he clawed at sensitive ears and cheekbones.

  Finally, Carlos managed to pull Arcady free and toss him down the hallway. The clockwork, accustomed to strong winds, recovered himself in mid-air and soared back towards his victim. This time, Carlos had recovered his knife and was ready. Arcady darted around and toward the man, but Carlos dodged aside and attempted to swat the large metal insect to the ground. Both danced around the other in a deadly waltz. After a few minutes of this, Arcady dove down, then shot upwards, raking his insect legs across the Spaniard's already wounded face. The man yelled in pain again and staggered back. Just then, O'Fallon moaned while he regained his wits. The sound and motion distracted Arcady.

  "O'Fallon? Conrad? Are you well?" The clockwork asked in concern.

  Carlos then snatched the flying creature from the air. Quickly he flung Arcady against the metal wall with such force that it scratched a mark in the thick grime. Arcady bounced from the wall twice on the floor before he lay still, wings twitching spasmodically. Immediately, the Spaniard rammed a hard boot onto Arcady in an attempt to crush him. When the clockwork twitched again, Carlos stomped down once more, this time grinding his heel against the ground. A sickening sound of breaking glass echoed in the hallway. The Spaniard stepped back with a smug, self-satisfied look.

  "Now," he began, but was interrupted as he was launched from his feet as O'Fallon slammed a shoulder, hard and knotted from years of labor, into the Spaniard's ribcage.

  The two men careened across the hallway in a tight knot and slammed into the wall. Again, the sound of wet sticks being broken in a loose bag echoed in the hallway. Both men grunted in agony, slid off the wall and fell to the floor. A sharp pain lanced through O'Fallon's chest. He rolled slowly away from Carlos, his mind clouded by pain. The Scotsman clutched his chest that was covered in blood, panic-stricken at the thought that he would find Carlos' knife buried there. Instead, he found the start of a large bruise.

  He slowly rolled over onto his knees and looked to where he remembered Carlos had last been. The Spaniard still lay on the ground, his own knife jammed deep into his chest. O'Fallon slowly crawled over.

  Carlos coughed, blood began to bubble at his mouth. When he realized O'Fallon crouched next to him he spit at the Scotsman. "Come to watch me die, señor?"

  The Scotsman rubbed the spittle from his face. "Filthy bloody bugger. Why'd ye do all o' this? Be ye mad?"

  Carlos coughed again, a wet cough that O'Fallon knew meant the man's lungs were filling with blood. He would not last much longer. "Do what? The zombies? Or want to steal away the addled doctor for what is in his head?" Another cough racked the dying man. "I did it for money, señor. What else would there be? What should I care for something the doctor memorized? Why ... why would I care about controlling sailors or your Scotland Yard or anyone?"

  The Spaniard shuddered and coughed. When his coughs subsided he continued. "When I saw that witch, Moira, had come to join our little game ... well I knew I had found something better than money. Revenge. And perhaps a useful ... little toy." He smiled and laughed, but the laugh turned into a bubbling, red cough. Once the cough subsided, Carlos looked up at O'Fallon, and his features softened, his voice small. "Señor ... it is so cold." Then, the Spaniard sighed softly and lay very still.

  O'Fallon sat down heavily from exhaustion on the floor, and closed the dead man's eyes. "Insanity."

  At their feet Moira moaned slightly while she struggled back to consciousness. Meanwhile, behind O'Fallon Thorias moved as well.

  "O'Fallon?" Thorias asked weakly while he woke. "What's going on here?"

  "Well," the quartermaster took a deep breath to explain, but instead nearly doubled over in pain. "There be a bit much," he wheezed, "Carlos there, be workin' with them that make the zombies. Ah still na know who they really be though. Before Carlos passed on, he said they be after Dr. Von Patterson for somethin' he alone be knowin'. Ah be figurin' it has ta do with the statue. Seems 'them' be wantin' ta use it ta take control of people. Sailors, Scotland Yard and the like. Since we be comin' along, Ah figure we were ta be added inta the 'volunteers'."

  Thorias had crawled over to Carlos to check the man's vitals, but looked up at O'Fallon's last comment. "Heavens preserve us."

  Moira looked over at Carlos and involuntarily shuddered. She then hauled herself up into a sitting position and paused in shock when she saw Arcady.

  "Arcady!" She gasped, reaching over to where the clockwork insect lay. Two of his four wings were shattered so badly they hung loose on his back, the gossamer mesh crumpled. He looked up. One eye was dark, the lens cracked, the other glowed its usual ruby red hue.

  Thorias looked over, his face a mask of worry. "Is he ...?"

  "I am ... functional." Arcady said slowly with some effort. "Moira? I tried to help. I tried. I was not fast enough."

  "Shush now, ya braver than most I've ever met. We'll get ya fi
xed up. Just need time and a workshop." She said gently while lifted Arcady from the floor.

  Thorias stiffly climbed to his feet, stretched, then walked over to inspect O'Fallon. "You sirrah, will be the death of my bandage supplies."

  O'Fallon just grunted in reply, not willing to justify the doctor's remark. Instead the quartermaster looked over at Carlos' body, then past Thorias down the hallway as a thought occurred to him. "We be makin' quite a bit o' noise. Need ta get someplace quiet afore we do any more. Such as reload."

  Thorias frowned at O'Fallon's shoulder and the rest of his collection of wounds. "Agreed."

  Moira cradled Arcady to her and looked over at the two men. "An then what?"

  O'Fallon rubbed his nose. A stray thought crossed his mind that his nose was almost the only place he was not hurt. He snorted out a quiet laugh at his own morbid humor and looked over at Moira.

  "We be stealin' that statue." The quartermaster said flatly. "If'n we be wantin' any chance ta get out o' this. We have ta."

  Chapter 18

  The fog curled like a living thing over the rooftop, running above the corrugated metal and gathering in spots like grayish, ghostly pools of water. Higher up it snaked itself around lightning rods and the nest of antenna that rose towards the gray, stormy skies. Among the spectral blanket stretched along the roof, five individuals stirred a path towards the small shed that sat against the station's antennas. As they came closer, Krumer pulled away from the others and emerged from the fog at the corner of the small shed. He stepped up against the open doorway, gun in hand. Quietly, the orc waited and listened. There was not a single sound, save for that of his own heartbeat. He rechecked his grip, then nimbly jumped into the doorway, pistol leveled in front of him, pointed into the darkness.