He turned the knob and pushed. The door swung open on the dark apartment.
The curtains at the far end were closed but there was a lamp, one with a burgundy shade and hanging fringe; its reddish light illuminated the swirls of patterned wallpaper.
He crept down the hall. Checked the bedroom, found the four-poster's curtains torn down and cast over a mound of bodies. They lay on the bed, on the floor, on the small chest of drawers: pale, streaked with dark blood, unseeing eyes. Patches of flesh missing — arms, chests, ankles. One, half her back flayed off. Throats a bloody ruin, their clothes stiff with the stuff.
Romantics; he recognised some of them. A corset, a cravat. A coach hat, flattened on the floor. Silver pins.
The barbecue stench hung thick.
The bathroom was next. Blood splattered the white surfaces like mould. A black dress, the velvet suggesting it was one of Mel's, hung from the curtain rail. The bath overflowed with limbs; the floor was covered in an untidy pile of semi-naked bodies, as deep as his waist. Old people, young people, children. Bloodstained jugs lay haphazardly on the floor and in the sink.
Kevin covered his mouth and nose, fighting the sensory assault and the memory of his night here with Mel.
There was music. Louder. Closer.
In the living room, Ambrose lay sprawled on the floor with his shirt torn open, a silver stake in his chest, mouth open, fish-like, a frown etched into his frozen brow, eyes staring at the ceiling as though trying to understand some vague truth just outside the edge of his understanding.
Blake sat on the lounge with Bella sprawled in his lap, her long hair spilled over his knees. Her top had been torn open, her bra pulled down to reveal her breasts. Her chest was covered with blood and bites, the flesh pale like raw chicken. The ornate hilt of a dagger protruded from under her ribs; blood had flooded from her mouth.
Blake's eyes shone green in the lamplight as he stared into a space close to the ceiling near the centre of the room. Kevin could see nothing there.
The song ended and began again, a moan of male vocals, a tragic air to the drum machine and guitar swirl. One name, floating over the insistent beat: Alice.
Melpomene's human name.
In the kitchen, on the stove, a fry pan sat piled with crisped strips of flesh. Next to it, a bowl overflowed with the blackened, curled stuff.
'What the fuck have you done?' Kevin said.
'You.' Blake's focus locked on Kevin. 'You!' He jerked to his feet, tumbling Bella to the floor with a solid thunk of skull on timber.
'See! See what you have done!'
He snatched up his cane — a thrust — and Kevin's pistol was knocked from his hand. A smooth twist, and Blake pulled the blade free. He flew at Kevin with jabs of the scabbard, stabs of the sword, punctuated by ranting.
'I can't write any more, don't you see?
'When she died, my muse died, too.'
'No one can take her place.'
'No one.'
'And it's. All. Your. Fault!'
Kevin pedalled backward. Bumped into a cabinet, grabbed a carved bust of some old man and smacked Blake across the side of the head with it. The poet fell to all fours. Kevin considering smashing Blake again, but he simply dropped the bust. The sword was in his guts. He pulled it out slowly. Two fingers higher, it might've got his heart.
Blake leaped at him. His white sleeves were dyed rusted burgundy, his face and throat covered, hands smeared. A blow jarred the sword from Kevin's hand.
Blake's fingers closed around Kevin's throat with manic strength. They crashed over a coffee table and rolled onto the floor. Blake came up on top, straddling him, gouging into his throat.
Kevin punched, a clumsy blow from this prone position. Blake tried to thump his head through the floor, in time with his repeated question, 'Where? Where? Where?'
Kevin scrabbled at Blake, raking his face, his throat. One hand jagged on something in Blake's pocket. He wrenched it out as his eyesight dimmed and starred, the only vision that of Blake's face, mouth flecked with pink foam, drool looping from his fangs.
Kevin flicked the lid off the fountain pen with one nail, reversed his grip and drove the pen into Blake's eye. The man reeled.
Kevin dived for the pistol.
Snatched it up.
Rolled.
Blake had pulled the pen free. Something gelatinous and red coated the tip.
Kevin fired. Blake collapsed in mid wail and lay still. Kevin retrieved the cane sword and drove it into the man's heart. He felt the tip hit the floor as he thrust down.
Once he'd got his breath, he went to Ambrose and then Bella. He pushed their lips up so he could be sure. Both had been infected.
He was kneeling beside Bella—
'Kev!'
He turned toward the shout.
What the fuck now?
FIFTY-NINE
It took a split second to process. Greaser stood in the doorway, with a man behind her. She was terrified and he was tall and broad, a hand on each of her shoulders, and another hand resting on her head.
The beamer threw Greaser to one side. She thumped into a shelf and crashed down amid a tumble of CDs and books.
The beamer charged.
Kevin wasn't even fully upright before the man hit him. They went down. The beamer was incredibly strong. His fists landed like sledgehammers. His third hand, poking from the front of his shirt, did little more than wobble and clasp. But it was distracting, scraping across Kevin's face and chest with metallic nails.
A massive thump to the ribs sent Kevin tumbling. He went with it, making the most of the space. Gun out. Gone in a flash of fist that left his fingers numb. Something broke inside with the next hit.
Greaser appeared. A tongue of flame flared.
'Run,' Kevin told her. 'Get away!'
She hit the button on the spray can again, a cigarette lighter out in front, and blasted another flame at the beamer.
The beamer shrank back, shook his head as the air filled with the stench of burned eyebrows.
Greaser triggered a third jet. The beamer reached through the flame, grabbed her hand and crushed it around her lighter until she fell to her knees.
Kevin yanked the sword from Blake's body and stabbed the beamer. The man whirled. Greaser was sent somersaulting across the sofa. Kevin ducked a wild backhand, dodged behind the beamer and launched himself at the man's back. He grappled him around the shoulders and buried his fangs in his neck.
The man reared up, drove backward, rammed Kevin hard into the wall. Again and again.
Kevin's fangs tore loose from the man's flesh, and he shouted again at Greaser to run. He dug his fingers at the beamer's eyes as he was rammed yet again into the wall. He lost his grip and slipped down. Took an elbow to the face, a knee to the guts. Slumped. The man loomed.
Kevin grabbed the beamer around the legs, managed to jerk him up and back. Twist. The window shattered. The man seemed to hang against the curtain for a moment. Hands flailed for the frame. The curtain tore. The third hand grabbed Kevin's shirt, more a tangle than a grip.
Kevin clawed for purchase, found none, was hauled up and out and down.
A whirl of city lights, lawn, sky. He smashed into darkness as solid as concrete.
SIXTY
When Kevin could see again, he was on his back on the ground. The Hill's Hoist was at a marked angle, and the beamer was skewered face down through the guts on the pole, saved from total impalement by the struts of the clothes line's arms. The man flailed against the tangle of wires and bent metal as he fought to free himself.
The hoist groaned, tilted. Kevin saw his slim chance.
He climbed up, an ungainly balancing act, and straddled the beamer. He grabbed a loose wire, wrapped it around one fist and then the other, and then noosed it around the beamer's throat.
With his knee in the man's back, he pulled with all his might, sawing the wire. The man roared, the sound ending in a choke and spray of blood. All three hands clutched for the wire th
at was slicing through his windpipe. Kevin's fists burned with an acidic agony, but he kept sawing.
The wire struck bone. The beamer's third hand flopped uselessly. He rocked side to side. Kevin fought to keep his balance. He pulled and pulled. One final heave and the beamer's vertebra gave, the wire finding the gap and slicing through, like a saw through a sapling suddenly finding only the final skin of bark.
Kevin tumbled from the hoist as the wire pulled clear. He sat, weary, hands paining, as blood bubbled from the stump of the beamer's neck. The bald head lay nearby, staring at him.
Movement caught his attention.
A man in a long black coat stood by the back door, arms folded, scowling.
Greaser bolted through the door.
Kevin cried 'no', but the man had already snatched the girl's hood and pulled her almost off her feet, reeling her into his embrace. A dagger appeared in the man's right hand; he held Greaser's chin with the other.
A flash of silver. Greaser's neck parted in a torrent of dark flood. She looked startled in the moment before he threw her to the ground.
Kevin started moving toward him, hands fisted.
The man pulled a pistol, bulky and undeniably ugly. The first round streaked toward Kevin like a laser beam; he was lucky to avoid the hit. The bullet sparked off the Hill's Hoist. Kevin, unarmed, took cover behind the lump of ruined barbecue as a volley of phosphorous sparked around him. He ran, making the most of the change of magazine, just got over the neighbour's Colourbond fence, feet punching dents as he hauled himself over the top of the sheeting, only to have bullets punch holes behind him.
He sprinted across the backyard, along the side of the house, leaped the fence.
More rounds chased him. Not all phos, he realised, as one pushed him into the footpath.
A car pulled up in front of him, smoke clouding from its tyres. The back door opened. The front passenger blazed at the gunman. Kevin threw himself in the back. The car took off. The door smacked against his legs, then slammed shut with the momentum of the car's acceleration as he pulled himself in. Bullets thudded into the vehicle. Someone grunted. The car kept going.
The passenger leaned around the seat to face Kevin. 'Hello again,' Argent said.
Silver parked on top of a cliff. They'd crossed the Story Bridge and doubled back to the river bank; the bridge was to their right, a solid flow of traffic crossing with rhythmic thumps. The city blazed across the water.
'C'mon,' Argent said, hitting Kevin on the shoulder, and Kevin realised he'd been staring without really seeing. Just Greaser, and the blood, and the expression on the suit's face as he'd pulled the knife across: totally blank. Totally uncaring.
'Weren't you trying to kill me last night?' Kevin said.
'Life's funny, isn't it?' Silver said.
'No.'
'The Needle's waiting. You can philosophise later.'
Silver tied a length of rope to a nearby post and threw the end over the cliff. Kevin stood on the lip, fighting a touch of vertigo, to watch her climb down the stone face to an opening.
'You next,' Argent said.
Kevin considered taking off his boots and using Taipan's power to gecko his way down, but he was so very tired and the stone looked remarkably smooth. As good as he was, he still needed something to hold on to. He regretted the decision as soon as the rope touched his injured hands. It was like gripping barbed wire. But he got down to Silver and she helped to steady him. She'd opened a grate, the bars clogged at the bottom end with plastic bags, dead branches and other flood detritus.
'Storm water,' she told him as he stepped inside, barely having to duck. 'Only panic if it starts to rain.'
Argent arrived and they walked on. Their breaths echoed; water dripped; footfalls scuffed. Shadows danced in torchlight as Kevin followed the pair through a network of dank, mossy pipes.
They emerged into a large chamber with what looked like a set of steps at the far end, a series of tunnels above, a pool of water at its base. Gas lamps hissed in the stillness, the air thick with damp and mould. The Needle was waiting for them.
Kevin sat next to him, immobile, numb. 'Greaser,' he said.
'Yeah,' Argent said. Dry blood caked his arm.
Silver passed Kevin a plastic bag of blood. It slipped from his fingers.
The Needle lifted the bag up to him. 'Drink,' he said. 'You need to heal.'
Fresh welts lined both Kevin's hands. Bullets ached in his back. The blood was tainted with plastic; it contained no memories, no trace of a donor.
That was something.
SIXTY-ONE
Reece stood in Thorn's VIP car park with Nigel, watching the Monaro being unloaded from a flatbed. No keys, of course. History repeating, most annoyingly. Perhaps this time he'd get to keep it. It was a fine machine; an ideal retirement present to himself, if it came to that.
Felicity had been unimpressed, to say the least, to find him in the Needle's lair.
'Nigel said you'd gone scouting,' she said. 'I hope you didn't spook them.'
'Gone when I got here, not long before your lot.'
Her frown showed she wasn't buying it. 'Why didn't you report it?'
'I knew how thin you were stretched. Besides, I'm on sick leave.'
She'd sworn at that, but laughed when he excused himself to go impound the Monaro. 'Second chance, hey.'
'Everyone deserves a second chance.'
She hadn't reacted to that. What had he expected? That she'd confess? Beg forgiveness for betraying him; promise to make up for it somehow? As much as it hurt, he couldn't blame her for allying herself with the stronger side. Now, as the Monaro was pushed into a garage bay, he wondered: did any of them deserve a second chance?
'You get your phone back?' Reece asked Nigel.
'Yeah. What was that about, boss?'
'Operational necessity, sport. Trying to keep you out of the shit.'
'I had to call it in, boss. You know that, right? I was worried.'
'Yeah, we've got each other's back. It's all good.' Reece congratulated himself on maintaining a friendly tone, on not calling Nigel 'Judas'.
One of Marshall's Familiares approached. It was a relief to go with her. Whatever Marshall wanted had to be better than making small talk with Nigel.
'You could've rung,' Reece said as they rode the lift.
The woman wasn't up for small talk, either. There was sweat on her forehead; her jaw was tight with tension. She showed him into Marshall's office and closed the door behind him. Reece caught a glimpse of her taking position in front of the entrance as the timber clicked shut.
Marshall sat at her desk, collar undone, sleeves down, butts piled high in the ashtray. 'You lost him?'
'I got the car.'
'Jesus, Reece!'
The silence stretched out as she ground out a half-spent cigarette and promptly tapped a fresh one from the packet. Offered him one as an afterthought, which he declined.
'Roll my own,' he said.
She lit, inhaled, blew smoke. 'I wish you'd rolled Matheson.'
Silence again, but for her breath, pushing nicotine in and out of her lungs.
The alarm sounded. They stared at each other. Reece was reaching for his gun; she was ditching her ciggie, when the phone rang.
One hand covered her free ear; the other held the phone in tight. 'Heinrich?' she said, brow furrowed. 'Ambush? … The tunnel? … Our people?'
She stared at Reece over the phone, eyes blank computer screens behind which data would be tumbling like waterfalls.
'Get to cover,' she told the person on the other end of the line, then stabbed the connection and said to Reece. 'You heard?'
'Heinrich, ambushed?'
'In the Clem7. There was an incident, not long ago. An entire apartment building massacred. They're saying the grease monkey. Heinrich was on his way to check it out. Word is, it was Security that jumped him in the tunnel.'
Reece swore, stood by the door, gun in hand.
Marshall was rifling fil
ing cabinets; pocketing thumb drives, tapping keys on the computer with precise stabs of her fingers.
A knock, a call: he opened the door. 'We're in lockdown,' Marshall's Familiare reported, 'but no one will tell me why.'
'Get out if you can, Sue,' Marshall told her.
The lift at the end of the corridor gave a muffled ding, and the Familiare gave a wry smile.
'Not taking visitors, madam?'
'Oh, Sue.'
The Familiare turned her back to the door, a hand on her holster. Reece closed and locked the door.
'They were too quick for us, Reece,' Marshall said, reefing her gaze from the blank door.
'That they were.'
'I must be slowing down, working to vampire time. You got a car ready?'
'No, but I'm sure you do.'
She cocked an eyebrow at that, a lift of the side of her mouth; most fetching. Human. 'Fancy a drive, Hunter Reece?'
Tempting. 'I'm not a Hunter anymore.'
He thought she was going to argue. But all she did was nod, respectful, a little morose. And then, 'You've got my number.'
She left through the side door, which he knew would give her access to the red lift. She wouldn't be headed for the car park. More likely the executive basement floor, where there was rumoured to be an escape tunnel leading to various exits, some dating back to World War II; or, knowing her, striding with stiff back and not a care in the world, straight through the foyer.
A ruckus outside the door gave him enough time to holster his pistol, lean on her desk and pick up the phone.
The door splintered open. The room filled with GS. Newman pushed through the mass of black uniforms.
'Reece, I might've known you'd be here.'
'I could say the same about you, Newman. Back from the beach, I see. How was it?'
Veins bulged in the man's neck. He looked as if his bug eyes were about to pop out.
Reece hung up the phone and propped himself on the edge of the desk. His heartbeat was deafening, his shirt clammy with a sudden sweat. He was very much alone here. No one would miss him.
The Big Smoke Page 24
