Immortals' Requiem

by Vincent Bobbe (Jump Start Publishing)

  At least that door should hold the Twisted back, which was more than could be said for Cam and the Tattooist. Only a couple of seconds had passed since the window had been smashed through, but it felt like hours. They were exposed out here. They had to go on. There was no other choice.

  Cam looked back at the monsters standing between him and safety. There were two Twisted on the gallery with them: the two that had come through the window. They hissed and gibbered. The ORCs running up the stairs were screeching.

  First things first, Cam thought as he pumped the shotgun’s breach. The two zombies stalked the Tattooist. Cam stepped up to the Ifrit’s shoulder and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He pulled it again stupidly, and again, and again. With nothing else to do, he shook the Remington, as if that would fix it.

  The Tattooist raised the meat cleavers, and Cam saw they were glowing white-hot. Then he tore into the two monsters, the superheated metal instantly cauterising the nasty wounds. The first went down, its face hacked into unrecognisable, charred mincemeat. It fell to the floor, shaking violently. The second one joined it a split-second later, its steaming neck a stump, its deformed head rolling towards its approaching brethren.

  Ignoring the gruesome sight, Cam ran past the Tattooist and pushed the door open. They stumbled through it together and pushed it shut just as the first of the zombies reached the top of the stairs. It hooked clawed fingers through the gap and tried to push through the door. Cam put his shoulder to the sturdy wood and tried to force it closed. The Tattooist sent one white-hot blade slicing through the wriggling digits. The door slammed back into its frame, and the Tattooist dropped his cleavers and shot a series of heavy-duty bolts home. A steady thumping immediately began on the other side of the solid wood.

  They looked at each other for a moment. ‘Dow and Grímnir?’

  Cam shook his head. ‘They’re back on the other side. Cut off.’ The Tattooist’s flaming eyes were impossible to read as he stared at Cam. When the Ifrit picked up the scorching cleavers, Cam saw a heat haze washing off their surfaces. ‘Nice trick,’ he said.

  ‘I am a creature of fire,’ the Tattooist replied as if that explained everything. ‘Thank you – your toy saved my life,’ he said, nodding at the shotgun.

  ‘It nearly got us killed – stopped working …’ Cam trailed off as he looked at the shotgun angrily.

  ‘Yes well, it helps if you reload it. Come, we have to get to the Ring. They’ll find their way around soon.’ The Tattooist stalked away along the narrow corridor. Cam cracked open the gun and stared with bemusement at the empty tube magazine. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he said quietly to himself over the thumping and howling that came from the door beside him.

  Rowan's burst of automatic fire hit the thing – a crazed, freakish nightmare – square in what passed for its leg and punched it to the floor. It slid a couple of feet and then flipped back onto all fours. It hissed at Rowan.

  Rowan pushed Tabby away from him and unleashed another volley at the monster. The thing absorbed the supersonic rounds like they were midge bites. It began to stalk towards them. They were at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the ground floor. ‘Run,’ he screamed at his sister.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ she screamed back. Rowan cursed and fired again.

  The abomination was about the size of a pony and it stood on all fours, but that was where the resemblance ended. It was a flayed thing of weaving tentacles: a thing of madness that writhed and shifted in the darkness.

  To Rowan, it looked like an oversized octopus with hundreds of limbs, every one tipped with a wicked-looking six-inch claw. Each of the slime-coated, sinewy tendrils pulsed slowly, the ends flicking this way and that like an angry cat’s tail. They wrapped around each other to shape limbs and a corded, sleek body. Rowan imagined a bag full of worms, worked together to form a dead hyena’s rotting carcass.

  An eel-like trunk, about the diameter of a big man’s body, was at the core of the mass of thick tentacles. At the end of this was a twisted caricature of a canine head. Its huge mouth, with a v-shaped jaw, was crammed with a mismatch of serrated teeth. Slime oozed from its gaping maw and ran down the thick muscular tube that seemed to be the creature’s main body. It didn’t have eyes, but that didn’t stop the thing from facing in Rowan’s direction; he was certain it could see him.

  Rowan could not see its colour in the glow of the night glasses, but he knew instinctively the thing was the damp pink of an open wound. The creature roared again, a wet sound that rumbled menacingly in the darkness.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Tabby sobbed.

  Rowan had nothing to tell her. He aimed the L85A2 at the abomination and prepared to die. Then Mark appeared behind it, gun gone, sword in his hands. He spun into the creature without hesitation, and the blade slashed into its side.

  Rowan heard a wail as the blade bit. Finger-thick pieces fell to the floor where they flipped and jumped like landed fish. As the singing sword cut the monster, the tentacles that formed its mock body flared out in a Medusa’s halo. More of its pulsing, corded tendrils wormed around each other. The monster’s main head swivelled and arched to face Mark.

  One of the four limbs lost its rigidity and snaked up with ophidian grace, coming apart into nine or ten barbed tentacles that shot out to entangle Mark. Rowan saw two of them slam into him, impaling him, his body armour useless against the onslaught. Mark screamed and brought the sword down again, slamming it into the gaping mouth of the monster.

  ‘Run,’ he croaked. ‘Run!’ Rowan grabbed Tabby and ran, scrambling up the stairs, pushing the awful scene from his mind.

  Sharp-tipped tentacles writhed in his torso. Mark felt them tearing into his organs, ripping them up within his ribcage and gut. It was excruciating. The thing smelled like bleach and sulphur, a pungent acid stench that made his eyes water.

  Entangling limbs held him tight, and slime burned cold on his flesh. He struggled while the spikes inside his body did their vicious work. He managed to pull his sword arm free and swung it down hard, slicing some of the snake-like appendages away, freeing his other arm.

  The black sword sang its song of death, and the monster recoiled from the attack and roared its strange, gurgling roar. Before it could strike again, Mark pulled a grenade from his armour and yanked the pin out. The thing darted in towards him, its massive jaw open, to clamp around his body while its strange trunk coiled out to totally engulf him. Mark thrust the hand holding the grenade deep into the open mouth. The monster bit down reflexively, and Mark bellowed as his arm was severed just above the elbow.

  Tentacles slipped almost lovingly around him and pulled him in towards its oozing maw. Mark counted … one … two … three. ‘Fuck you,’ he hissed through the agony. Then the world exploded in a flash of white, made a thousand times brighter by the night vision goggles.

  Flame and shrapnel tore the monster to pieces and rushed out to catch Mark in a wave of heat, lifting him and tumbling his seared and shredded body up and over. The remains of the creature splattered him, raining down, covering the room in sticky, acrid viscera. Mark landed hard on the exposed bone of his injured arm, and groaned. He couldn’t hear anything; he knew his eardrums had been ruptured. The goggles were useless, battered and burned. The optics flashed away to nothingness.

  He pulled himself unsteadily to his feet and threw the goggles to one side. Reaching down, he searched frantically for the black sword and suppressed a sigh of relief when his questing fingers found its cloth-wrapped hilt. His flesh was already knitting itself back together as he staggered towards where he hoped the stairwell was, the black sword pushed out in front of him like a cane.

  For a few terrifying moments he felt only blank wall, then he found the door and stumbled out, tripping almost immediately over the bottom step. He fell awkwardly and dropped the sword again, thrusting out his hands to catch himself. One was missing, and he slipped sideways and banged his head against the sharp stone edge of a step.

  Cursing, Mark pull
ed himself back to his feet. Gathering the sword and sheathing it, he began to make his slow way up the stairs. His missing hand was growing back quickly, the flesh stretching and morphing. It itched. With the other, he pulled free the jagged shards of metal that were being forced from his healing flesh. He felt the burns vanish like dirt wiped off a kitchen surface.

  By the time he got outside, his body was intact, if filthy with the gore of the eviscerated creature. His clothes were burned and ragged. He looked down at his hands; the new one was clean, the old one was smeared in soot and grime and blood. Mark walked out into the open and took a gulp of clean air. Fittingly, it was raining properly. The heavens had opened, and thick stinging drops hammered into the ground, clawing it to mud. Mark raised his face to the sky and enjoyed the cold rain as it scoured his face.

  ‘Mr. Jones!’ The shout came from his right, and Mark turned. Rowan stood next to the old Ford Escort, its battered bodywork hiding its perfectly maintained engine. Mark saw Tabitha’s head in the passenger seat. He smiled in relief and walked over. ‘Jesus,’ Rowan said. ‘What happened? I thought that thing had you. I saw it stab you.’

  ‘It missed,’ Mark said flatly. ‘Let’s get out of here. I’ll drive.’

  He made to walk past Rowan, but the younger man reached out and grabbed his arm. Mark looked at his hand pointedly, but Rowan didn’t remove it. ‘What happened in there?’

  ‘I shoved a grenade down its throat,’ Mark said. He looked around. ‘Where’s Sergei?’

  ‘I don’t think he made it.’

  Mark looked back towards the station. ‘If he’s not out in five, he’s not coming out.’

  Five minutes later they both climbed into the car without a word. They drove in silence, each reliving their own private nightmare.

  By the time they had all showered, rested, and changed it was close to midday. Rowan put on combats and a white t-shirt and went in search of Tabby. She was still in the room a portly man called Jason had allocated her.

  Tabby was barefoot in blue jeans and a black top. She stood staring out of one huge window at a wide green lawn, which ran for about three hundred feet to a line of conifers. The sky outside was heavily overcast, and a lashing rain was pouring from it. Tabby had not bothered to turn any lights on, and the big room was as grey and cold and somehow as desolate as the world beyond.

  Moving over to her, Rowan placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder and she jumped. He hushed her and felt her relax, though she didn’t turn around. They stood together, staring out into the rain for a few minutes. Rowan didn’t know what to say; Tabby seemed so distant.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rowan answered.

  ‘Sam … he … I just don’t understand.’

  ‘He’s sick, Tabby. You didn’t see those things down there. Sam has fallen into something he doesn’t understand.’

  ‘I still love him,’ she whispered. ‘Even after everything he’s done. If he’s sick, then he can get better. You can bring him back, can’t you Rowan?’

  Rowan hesitated, remembering Sam’s severed head skittering along on tentacles. Tentacles like those had formed the body of the monster in the old station. ‘I’ll try, Tabby,’ he said after a moment.

  It was a moment too long. She began to weep. Rowan hugged her to him. ‘Shush, Tabby, don’t cry.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’ she asked, choking. ‘My husband kidnapped me and threw me in a pit, and then … had sex … with another woman while I listened. The things he said … I’m never going to get him back.’

  ‘It’s not Sam, Tabby. Sam’s somewhere else. We’ll get him back. If there is any way at all, we’ll get him back.’ They stayed like that for a while, Tabby folded up in Rowan’s arms, watching the rain gather into puddles on the perfect lawn below the window. Eventually there was a knock at the open door and a polite cough. Rowan looked over his shoulder and saw the man, Jason, waiting with a look of embarrassment.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said. ‘Mr. Jones would like to see Tabitha.’

  From the way Jason said it, Rowan knew that he was not part of the invitation. ‘We’ll be glad to see him,’ he said.

  Jason hesitated, as if he were about to say something. Rowan smiled at him, knowing his titanium teeth were a menacing sight in the gloomy room, and Jason’s six-foot frame seemed to sag a little. ‘I’ll take you to his office.’

  Mark sat behind his desk, absently watching the stock prices on one of his monitors. He was clean now, dressed in combat trousers, sturdy black Magnum boots, and a khaki t-shirt. His black sword was close to hand.

  Jason appeared at his door and ushered Tabitha in. Mark stood, and a smile began to etch the thin line of his lips. Rowan walked in after her and he frowned. He had not wanted the soldier here for this.

  ‘Tabitha, Rowan, have all your needs been taken care of?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Rowan said.

  ‘Please,’ Mark said, gesturing to a couple of seats opposite his desk, ‘sit down. Jason, would you be kind enough to leave us for a moment?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Jones,’ Jason said. He left the room.

  ‘A good man: he helps facilitate certain interests I have.’

  Tabitha stared out of the window behind Mark’s desk. She looked haggard and drawn, her pale skin almost translucent, her blue eyes wide and blank. Redness showed that she had been crying. Mark’s heart fluttered at the sight of her – all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and tell her she was safe. Rowan looked at her with concern. ‘Tabby?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said with a flat voice. Rowan did not look convinced.

  He turned back to Mark. ‘I have to thank you for helping to save my sister, Mr. Jones. Without you …’ he let the sentence trail off, obviously unwilling to upset his sister any further by speculating on what might have happened to her.

  Mark waved the thanks away. ‘I have very good reason for wanting to help your sister, Rowan. No thanks are necessary.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Tabitha asked, her eyes flickering towards his. ‘What do you know about my husband?’

  Mark sighed. ‘I am a hunter of these things. I have been hunting them for a long time. But the creatures we saw down in that cellar … changelings, monsters … I have not seen these before.’

  ‘What about Sam?’ Rowan asked.

  Mark did not like the way the conversation was going. He had not brought Tabitha to his study to talk about her husband. ‘You saw what happened to him at your house …’ Mark trailed off at the warning look Rowan shot at him.

  Tabitha picked up on the words, though. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Nothing, Tabby. You saw what he was like back at Mum and Dad’s; Mr. Jones just means that he was angry … out of his mind, you know?’

  Rowan looked at Mark for agreement. Mark avoided his eye. ‘Mrs. Autumn,’ he said, careful to be formal. ‘Your husband has run afoul of creatures of darkness, evil things that kill and maim on a whim. I believe he is now one of those creatures. I am sorry, but your husband is no longer human. Maybe he never was.’

  There was a long pause. Rowan seemed almost pleased that Mark had told his sister the truth. Finally, Tabitha looked at Mark. There was something in her eyes. ‘You say you have knowledge of these things, Mr. Jones – that you are a hunter of them. How, exactly, do we bring Sam back?’ Her expression broke Mark’s usually impassive heart.

  ‘These aren’t like anything I’ve ever seen before … I …’

  ‘Please, Mr. Jones,’ Tabitha interrupted. ‘Please be honest.’

  Mark sighed. ‘How do we bring him back? We don’t.’

  ‘Then what exactly is your interest in my husband, Mr. Jones? Why are you so eager to help me?’ Mark didn’t speak; he just looked her flatly in the eyes. ‘I see,’ she said. Then, wordlessly, she stood up and walked out.

  Rowan rose to go after her but hesitated. When she had left the room, he turned to Mark. ‘I know it neede
d to be said, but it could have waited another day or two.’ Then he left as well.

  Mark sank back into his chair and sighed. He wished he could have waited; he wished Tabitha could have had some time to get used to what was going on, but he didn’t have a day or two. In fact, he knew that short of a miracle, Tabitha would be dead by sunset tomorrow.

  ‘Couldn’t you people have invested in some better lighting?’ Cam asked as he looked around.

  If an inanimate object could have a doppelgänger, then The Tower at Dusk was the doppelgänger of The Tower at Dawn. An exact replica in every way, The Tower at Dusk was its dark opposite.

  Their names represented their most fundamental difference – the time of day that they eternally existed within. There were schools of thought that the two Towers were separate entities, existing in different places, but the most prevalent belief was that they were the same place, stuck in an odd temporal warp that nobody really understood.

  Whether The Tower at Dusk existed in the period before or after The Tower at Dawn had never been ascertained. One thing the denizens of the two Towers knew all too well was that the slip in time made a difference: The Tower at Dusk lacked sunlight, and therefore, vegetation. It was also warmer than The Tower at Dawn, having captured the heat of the full day. Its inhabitants had stamped their mark on their home as well, and it was this that first struck Cam after they had escaped The Tower at Dawn.

  After running from the Twisted, Cam and the Tattooist had made their way to a room containing a Fairy-Ring. The room was small and windowless, its corners lost in shadow, its ceiling hidden in gloom. Faint light came from the Fairy-Ring, which was comprised of a circle of metal candles, each one six inches high with a ghostly white flame hovering above it. Cam had noted with disquiet that at least a third of the flames had gone out.