The Smog (The Sentinels Series Book 3)

by David Longhorn

  “Can we be sure?” asks the fat man.

  “No more of this!” shouts the leader. “Even if they could harm the girl, doing so here would simply aid us. An imperfect sacrifice, of course but still at the focus of the Star.”

  Emily realizes she's not dreaming, the table, the room, and the men are real. She tries to get up, to shout for help, but can only manage to move her head, and gasp.

  “Ah, she's coming round!” says the leader, leaning over her. “Good. She must be aware of the process.”

  “Are we sure that the sacrifice doesn't have to be on her birthday?” asks the fat man. Some of the others make noises of agreement.

  “The chosen one is in her seventh year. That is all. Birthdays are a trivial human custom! Sometimes we attribute magical influences to the most trivial things,” says the leader, clicking his fingers.

  A man brings a long, narrow box to him. He opens it but Emily can't see what's inside, the lid is in the way. The other men start chanting a word that Emily knows, as the leader lifts a big, pointed knife with a gold handle out of the box.

  “Ess-Ka-Ton, Ess-Ka-Ton, Ess-Ka-Ton.”

  “Move her onto the mat,” says the leader, gesturing with the knife. “We don't want to ruin a perfectly good piece of oak.”

  Emily sees the Raggedy Men standing behind the bad men. She hears them whispering again, understands them better than she did before. She screams at them in her head.

  I want my Mummy and Daddy! You have to do what I say!

  The tallest Raggedy Man nods, and the three vanish.

  ***

  “This is wrong, stop this!”

  Rachel reaches over the desk and slaps the microphone to one side.

  Herbert James puts down his script, raises a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Really, Mrs. Rubin, I don't think that's a very professional approach, especially when a fellow author is reading his work!”

  “What's going on, why aren't they doing anything?” she demands, pointing at the trio in the recording booth. They are as still as waxworks.

  “Mesmerized, you might say. Enchanted. Different words for the same thing.”

  James carefully folds his script, places it in a folder, and gets up.

  “Millions of Londoners, plus similar numbers further afield, all doing nothing, thinking nothing, unable to act for many hours,” he smiles. “Easy meat for the ones I just conjured up. They will be grateful, though I'm told some do prefer a chase. They'll not be disappointed either. The Ghost Man becomes the Demon Raiser!”

  “Why didn't this spell affect me, then?” she demands.

  “For the usual reason, my dear. You are a seer, your bloodline is blessed with ancient mysticism and all that silly, pagan nonsense,” he says, stepping around the table. “Piddly stuff, your so-called powers, and we'll soon be done with it. Now, do I have to use violence, or will you simply come and see your daughter? She's just upstairs.”

  ***

  An hour after he ordered it, Churchill's Rolls Royce sets off from Downing Street at a snail's pace, a truckload of Air Force troops going ahead to clear the way if necessary. The nervous official, whose name Churchill has learned is Beamish, sits opposite the prime minister. Churchill shuffles a few improvised notes, wondering how much of his wartime material he can re-use in a pinch. He has trouble reading, vision blurred thanks to the foul air.

  “Got a pocket square, Beamish?”

  The civil servant hands over a handkerchief. The old man dabs his eyes, starts coughing, and soon doubles over, gasping for air. Beamish pulls a metal cylinder out from under his seat, helps Churchill fasten on a plastic mask.

  “Thank you, young man,” says Churchill, “I might have keeled over there. Smart thinking. If you want Garmouth's job when this is over …”

  Before the official can start to express his gratitude there are shouts, a flurry of rifle shots, a terrifying roar. Beamish twists round, cranes to see past the chauffeur's head. There's nothing but gray, then a deafening crash and a huge boxy shape comes spinning towards them. The truck scrapes along the road, throwing out sparks. The chauffeur throws his hands over his face as the vehicles collide, and the limousine is slammed backwards.

  “God almighty!” shouts Churchill. “Back up, man! Get us out of here!”

  The chauffeur is already changing gear and twists around to look into the gray nothingness behind them. As the big car screams into reverse, Beamish sees something enormous, with four legs and two heads on long, serpentine necks. Both heads are chewing on writhing uniformed bodies.

  ***

  “Ah, good, we're all assembled,” says a man holding a vicious-looking dagger as James enters the boardroom, holding Rachel firmly by the arm. “And the mother, too! Wonderful.”

  “Get away from her,” screams Rachel. She tries to hurl herself forward, but the Ghost Man grabs her by the other arm. The room is full of them, anyway.

  I'd have no chance, she thinks, despair welling up. This isn't fair, it can't end like this!

  “Why did you bring her here?” asks Wetherbell. “That wasn't part of the plan! Just kill her, Garmouth!”

  “Patience! I thought it might be a good idea to sacrifice them both,” says Garmouth. “After all, if the blood of the daughter carries so much power, her mother's can't be negligible. Remember, there's no luck, only fate. She came right to us when we planned to have her dealt with elsewhere.”

  “You can't do this!” cries Rachel, understanding little but the threat to Emily. “You're crazy! You'll never get away with it!”

  “I think we will. And we're not insane, merely ambitious,” replies Garmouth. “The world's new masters have just crossed over, we must make their bridgehead permanent. Is the child conscious, Skelton?”

  “Just a little drowsy,” replies a morose man, “fine for our purpose.”

  “Very well, hold them both down,” says Garmouth.

  Another member of the Order joins James in forcing Rachel to her knees. She starts to scream for help, a third man shoves a wad of cloth into her mouth, almost choking her.

  “Not that there is help to be had, but we need to focus,” says Garmouth.

  Emily is struggling too, but Rachel can't see her clearly as the men holding her down are in the way. Garmouth moves to join the group around the table, begins to chant in a language Rachel doesn't recognize. At intervals that he invokes, Eschaton is echoed by the others.

  Something starts to form in the air above the group around Emily; a vortex of flickering reddish light. The chanting grows louder, more insistent, as the gap into another reality gapes wider. Rachel glimpses hideous faces and no-faces growing nearer, beings that should never have existed are now about to infest the world.

  “Great ones, accept this sacrifice of innocent blood,” cries Garmouth, “and through the power of this child, break down the walls of the mundane!”

  I can't let them do this, Rachel thinks. I'll do anything to save her! Anything.

  She gulps once, twice, tries to choke herself. The damp material is hard to swallow, but it slowly works its way down her throat. She battles against her gag-reflex, throws her head back, swallows again. Her throat is blocked. She sees James and her other captor staring intently at the imminent sacrifice, distracted, but their grip just as firm. The sodden gag is firmly wedged in her throat, now, and she starts to panic. The sound of chanting grows distant, a roaring noise obliterates it, and Rachel passes out.

  She opens her eyes. At first, nothing seems changed, but then she notices that she's free to stand. She does so, looks back at her tormented body, the lump bulging out the flesh of her throat. The second surprise, James and the rest of the Order are frozen in place.

  Am I outside time, somehow? Free to move between the moments?

  She rushes over to Emily, sees Garmouth holding the dagger across her child's throat. You bastard! She tries to grab his arm but her fingers pass straight through his.

  But London's ghosts are substantial, now. Why can't I t
ouch him, hurt him?

  Because I'm not dead. I have to die if I'm to have any hope of saving her.

  She looks back at her body, arched in near-suffocation, still very much alive.

  “Mummy?”

  Rachel looks down to see Emily staring at her, eyes wide with panic.

  “It's okay sweetheart,” Rachel says, “I can help, just hang on.”

  “Mummy, I think the man's going to chop my head off! I can feel the knife pushing down!”

  Rachel looks more closely at Garmouth's hand.

  Oh God, it's still moving! Time's slowed for me, not stopped!

  Again, she tries to grab the killer's hand, again she makes no contact beyond a slight tingle like a mild electric shock.

  Please God, she prays, please help me die to save my child!

  She looks back at her body again, sees no change. Then she sees movement behind James as someone enters the room.

  “Tony!”

  He grimaces, not meeting her eye, moves quickly to the table, and grips Garmouth's hand. Rachel watches as he twists the man's wrist back, and there's a distinct snap. Then Tony disengages the dagger from the stiff fingers. A few more snaps, less loud. Before Rachel can speak, the dagger is buried to the hilt in Garmouth's chest.

  “Tony! What's happened?”

  He shakes his head, still avoiding her gaze.

  “Don't make me look at you, yet, please,” he says. “I couldn't bear it. Let me just do this, then I can go.”

  He frees Emily, lifts her gently from the table, and carries her past James to the door of the room, lays her at the threshold. Then he turns back and again, with care, removes the wadded cloth from Rachel's throat, frees her, while being indifferent to how much damage he does to James and the other conspirators.

  “There, you can help her now. She'll need your help for a long time yet,” he says. The cloth falls from his fingers, and he staggers slightly. “That's all I can do. I think I've used up my credit with the Sentinels.”

  “Tony, no! I can't lose you! We can't lose you!”

  She runs to him, enfolds him in her arms, kisses him, cries. Nothing can make him look at her, embrace her.

  “Why, why did it have to be you? I would have died for her!” He speaks over her head.

  “I fell in a just cause, you see. They remembered me from last time, listened to me in their way. They have their own ideas of honor, of course. They found a way, with Emily's help. Oh, I can't do this.”

  He holds her at arm’s length, wiping some tears from her face.

  “And you need to live for her. You'll be yourself again in a moment, my love. When you can, run. Take her and run. They're coming to finish the job.”

  Then he is gone. A swirl of darkness forms in the air where he stood, and the first of the Sentinels appears.

  Epilogue: London, December 1952

  “Here you go, small port and lemon for the lady,” says Graeme, putting the drinks on the corner table.

  “Thanks, love,” says Sandy, “and cheers!”

  Graeme raises his half-pint to her, takes a mouthful of bitter beer, and tries not to splutter. He struggles to think of something to say, looks around at other couples chatting, and wishes he could steal some of their words.

  “Come on now, what's up?” asks Sandy, putting down her glass.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “It's over now,” she says. “No more smog, no more detonators, no more . . . well, no more of all that nonsense.”

  Graeme takes a deep breath, looks at his girlfriend.

  “I ran away, Sandy,” he says, in a low voice. “I ran away and Steve got killed by this monster, and that wasn't right even though he called me a wanker. I ran away! And then the monster wasn't even there. But Steve was. Most of him, anyway.”

  “No more of that,” she says, reaching out to touch his cheek. “You were brave enough on our first date, remember that?”

  He nods, pleased and embarrassed all at once.

  “Well, not everybody's going to be a hero to the world, fighting monsters and all that,” she goes. “But you're a hero to me. Come on, give us a kiss!”

  He does, and even enjoys the ribald comments from the old men playing dominoes at the next table.

  ***

  A light dusting of snow gives the capital a festive air. The hospitals are still crowded with casualties ten days after the smog mysteriously dispersed overnight, with cases ranging from respiratory problems to serious injuries, many sustained in mysterious circumstances.

  Rachel sits in the waiting room, glances at the morning paper she has just bought.

  THOUSANDS DEAD. WIDESPREAD LOOTING. MR. CHURCHILL PROMISES FULL INQUIRY.

  Yeah, there's gonna be a big, fat report. Looting's a lousy cover story, she thinks, but if people would rather believe it, what can you do?

  She turns to an inside page, reads,

  BBC BLOODBATH – SCOTLAND YARD STILL BAFFLED.

  She gives up, and just stares at the wall clock. Eventually, a nurse calls her into a private room, and she enters to see Charlotte sitting up in bed. They greet each other awkwardly. Rachel sits by the bed, hands over the newspaper, waits for the nurse to leave.

  “No Emily?” asks Charlotte, her voice neutral. “She's all right, though?”

  Just change the subject, please, Rachel thinks. If I have my way, you'll never go anywhere near my daughter, again.

  “She's fine, she wanted to come, but I said she should wait, see how things go. She's been through a lot.”

  “How's Nate?”

  “He's fine, too,” replies Rachel. “We, Rubins, are a tough breed. That's not the first sock in the jaw he's had. Says it takes him back to the old days, reporting on dock strikes.”

  “Good, that's good.”

  “So,” says Rachel, “what's the verdict from the doctors? Full recovery, plans for dancing on tables at the Coronation?”

  Charlotte shakes her head, smiles, and Rachel notices one side of her face is slack.

  “They say I had a sort of stroke, probably linked to the damage done back in '45. So my dancing days are over. I'll be walking with a stick for the rest of my days.”

  Rachel tries to find words, fails.

  “Could have been worse,” says Charlotte, with a trace of her old gaiety. “Anyway, some chaps prefer a girl who can cook.”

  Rachel can't help but laugh at this.

  “I know,” says Charlotte, “but I can learn. I'll have plenty of spare time, now.”

  We'll never be friends again, thinks Rachel. We both know it, but will never say it.

  “I'm sorry I couldn't be at the funeral,” Charlotte adds, looking down at the paper.

  “That's all right, it was a quiet affair, and anyway,” Rachel pauses, looks out at the white-shrouded city. “I have a feeling we're still a family, in a way. That he's watching over us.”

  They talk some more, desultory words, almost empty, and then Rachel gets up to leave. They make promises to keep in touch.

  Maybe we will, Rachel thinks. Stranger things have happened.

  In the corridor, she sees them again, the Sentinels.

  “You guys still hanging around?” she asks.

  A janitor pushing a cleaning cart turns to look at her, shakes his head, and walks on.

  One ghost opens fleshless jaws, whispers urgently.

  “A noble sacrifice was made. The realm was saved.”

  “I know that,” hisses Rachel, starting to walk straight at them. “I wake up to it every morning.”

  A fourth figure appears behind the Sentinels, and she stops.

  “I'm sorry, my love,” says Tony. “I wasn't fast enough, clever enough, or strong enough to stay with you both.”

  “Don't say that!”

  She runs to him, ignoring the ancient ghosts, but this time her arms pass through Tony and she almost falls. He's gone, too, but she hears his voice as the Sentinels flicker and fade.

  “I'll be watching over you, and Emily.�
��

  It's not enough, she thinks, as she makes her way out of the hospital. But we all have to make do in this world.

  ***

  Rachel emerges into the weak sunlight of a London winter, crosses the road to a small park where there is a little pond. Nate is holding Emily’s hand as the girl tries to introduce Bradshaw to the ducks.

  “Hey guys!” Rachel shouts.

  Emily abandons the ducks and run to her mother, is scooped up and swung round.

  “You having fun?” asks Rachel.

  “Yes, but Granddad is worried I'll fall in,” replies Emily. “Even though it's not very deep.”

  “Us old guys worry about all kinds of stuff,” says Nate, making his way slowly to a bench and sitting down. “If I'm gonna stay with you guys, you'll have to get used to it!”

  “Is Auntie Charlotte going to get better?” asks Emily, as Rachel leads her back to the edge of the pond.

  “Sure, she'll be fine! It's just that the doctors say she shouldn't have too many visitors. Especially the smaller, noisier kind!”

  Emily nods, crouches down, makes encouraging noises to a duck. The bird keeps its distance.

  “They like people to feed them, but I haven't got anything,” the girl complains.

  “Well, we can't always have what we want,” says Rachel.

  She looks down at the wary duck, and for a moment glimpses four figures reflected in the dark green water. When she looks up she sees just one standing opposite them. Tony raises a hand, gives a tentative wave, and is gone just as quickly.

  “I don't think Daddy saw me waving back!” says Emily, matter-of-factly. “But there's always a next time.”

  * * *

  Bonus Scene: Detected

  They leave the car about half a mile up the road and walk the rest of the way.

  “Bloody hell, it's dark out here!” says Kevin, lumbering along, burdened with gear.