London Underground: An Unofficial Legend of The Secret World (Unofficial Legends of The Secret World Book 2)

by Blodwedd Mallory

  But that wasn’t in my nature. With a ripple of light and a sizzling tingle, I stepped through the portal into London.

  The portal let me out under an overpass for light rail near a cab parked at the curb, startling the hell out of its driver, who had been minding his business waiting for his next fare.

  “Sorry!” I said as I looked over my shoulder for traffic, then stepped out onto the street. I could see a sign on the overpass that read “Borough of Ealdwic, London.” Based on the correspondence I’d had with Miss Plimmswood, the lady who owned the flat I’d be renting, this was the right place. I walked through the arched brick overpass.

  Ahead of me two police vans were parked blocking the entrance to the borough beyond. I could see a theater marquee that said “Albion” in bright white lettering on the right side of the street. Sirens rang in the distance, and I could hear the dull roar of traffic. I approached the police officers standing in front of a barricade behind the vans and asked them how to reach Temple Hall.

  “Sorry, can’t let you through without authorization,” the police officer on my left said, holding up his hand. He had on a bulletproof vest and was carrying a submachine gun of some sort. I was confused as I thought police in London didn’t carry any arms beyond a nightstick.

  I dug through my backpack and pulled out the letter from Richard Sonnac I’d received inviting me to London last fall. I held it out to his partner.

  “I don’t know what that’s supposed to be, but it’s not—”

  A sandy blonde-haired woman with a chin-length bob and a black trench coat stepped up beside me and showed the officers her badge. “Alright lads, Detective Inspector Shelley, she’s with me.” She took my arm and brought me through the barricades into the borough. We stepped a few paces away from the officers, and she leaned into me and said, “Do us both a favor and don’t go flashing that letter around out here. The boys on the cordons haven’t been briefed. As far as they’re concerned, this is all just ‘heightened awareness’ after the terrorist attack in Tokyo.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “But I don’t deal with the bureaucracy, I deal with the truth. About the secret London. About the Templars.”

  D.I. Shelley looked me up and down skeptically, taking in my bags, and added, “I’d say, ‘I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into,’ but you have no idea. Even I only get as involved as I have to, for the sake of us little people.”

  She stepped back to the cordon barricade and called back to me in a louder voice. “You’ve seen it on the news? The Tokyo incident? That’s what happens when your new crowd lets things get out of hand.”

  Anger filled her face and D.I. Shelley stepped back my way, pointing her finger at me. “Not here, not on my watch. That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal.”

  At my look of alarm, she relented. Perhaps she realized this was all incredibly new and confusing to me. “You’ll be safe inside Ealdwic. Go see one of the prophets prophesying up the road, by the tube station. They’ll fill you in on the kind of crazy you’ve got ahead of you. Best be prepared.”

  D.I. Shelley walked away from me back to the cordon a second time, yelling “My sincerest condolences!” over her shoulder.

  I sighed and turned back toward the street in front of me, which was narrow and made of cobblestones. I could now see the theater clearly on my right. It was called the Albion Ballroom. I noted that bands were scheduled on the weekend nights. That might be fun if I ever had a social life again.

  On the left side of the street was a high wrought-iron fence, enclosing a city park. On the right, two- and three-story buildings that looked like shops with apartments above them lined the street—May Queen Market, the placard on the theater said.

  Perfect! My new flat was No. 5-F May Queen Market.

  Small cars, much smaller than I was accustomed to seeing in the U.S., were parked on both sides of the street without care for direction or traffic laws. Luckily, I wasn’t going to be driving here anytime soon as far as I knew.

  London was five hours ahead of Maine from a time zone perspective, and it was late afternoon here. I needed to find my new apartment before it got dark. I saw a small sign on the front of a building with a blue door and approached to read it.

  “Are you lost, dear?”

  I looked up to see an older woman with short, white hair wearing a jaunty brown hat with a blue flower standing on the sidewalk next to the door. She’d spoken in a warm, pleasant voice that was a lovely change from the welcome I’d had from the police. With a light pink jacket, a white and red polka dot blouse, and a brown plaid skirt completing her ensemble, she looked like a wonderful, crazy old aunt.

  “I might be,” I said, glad for the friendly voice and bit of help.

  “New to town?” she nodded.

  I smiled wryly. “Is it that obvious?”

  She leaned over, putting a hand to the side of her mouth, “The bags were a dead giveaway. My name is Miss Plimmswood, and I’m the landlady here.”

  I set down my bags and shook her hand happily. “I’ve come to the right place then. I’m your new tenant, Blodwedd Mallory.”

  “Well then, come along Miss Mallory, and let’s go look at your new flat together.” She turned and entered the blue door. I picked up my bags and followed.

  Inside was a small foyer with a stone staircase on the right leading to the second floor and a mail area with boxes on the wall on the left. We marched up the stairs, me still lugging the bags, to the second landing. I looked hopefully at the doors to the flats there, but she rounded the corner and started up the stairs again to the third floor. I sighed and resumed climbing.

  “The deposit for the flat is £150. I’ve just had it cleaned and painted.”

  I stopped in my tracks and blanched at the cost. I hadn’t factored a deposit into my plans. I had a few hundred dollars in my checking account but hadn’t had a chance to convert any of it to the local currency. My mother had taken care of arranging for the rent to be paid.

  Miss Plimmswood, looking back over her shoulder, gave a light chuckle. “Oh, you won’t find anything much cheaper than that here, my dear. That is if you fancy a roof over your head and a door that locks at night.”

  “Perhaps you can point me in the direction of a bank when we’re done,” I said sheepishly. “That is if you’ll give me some time to get the deposit to you.”

  She nodded in agreement and stepped out onto the third-floor landing, taking out a large keyring from underneath her jacket. The keys clanked and clattered as she sorted through them.

  “Ah, here it is,” she exclaimed, pulling out what looked like an ancient skeleton key. She thrust it into the lock on a door marked 5-F on the left side of the landing and pushed it open.

  I stepped up and peered inside.

  A small, but cheerful, living room greeted me. The space was furnished with a futon couch, a small armchair, and a coffee table. A bold, multicolored rug lay on the wooden floor beneath them, and a floor lamp sat in the corner. A set of dark wood bookshelves lined the back wall. I’d look forward to filling those when I had a chance. The ceiling was sloped down toward the window that looked over May Queen Market, following the contour of the roof. There were two doors visible in the corner across from the front door.

  “This door leads to the bedroom,” Miss Plimmswood said, stepping into the flat and walking across the room to open the door on the left. “And this one,” she said, pointing to the door on the right, “leads to the kitchenette. The water closet is accessible from the bedroom. It has a tub with a hand-held for a shower.”

  I peeked into the bedroom. Along the back wall near a small window was a bed with a metal head- and foot-board. A modern-looking wooden wardrobe, Ikea perhaps, was directly inside the door propped against the wall. The bed didn’t have any sheets, but the mattress looked firm and clean. On the far side was a door, which I assumed was the bathroom Miss Plimmswood had referred to.

  Well, at least it was a step up
from my old dorm room. It was practically a luxurious space in comparison to that.

  I stepped fully inside the bedroom and smelled the faint scent of fresh paint drying and noted the clean wooden floors and window sill, and straight, smooth walls. It might have been a relatively small flat, but the space was well cared for, and I liked Miss Plimmswood. I could do worse.

  “This will be great,” I said, setting my bags down on the floor in front of the wardrobe with a smile.

  “Excellent, dear,” she said. I walked her back to the front door, and she explained how to get to the nearest bank while she took the old skeleton key off her key ring and handed it to me. I shook her hand again, and Miss Plimmswood said good-bye, closing the front door behind herself, leaving me alone in the flat.

  What a whirlwind of a day! Exhausted, suddenly, by the sheer newness of it all, I turned the lock on the bolt, walked back into the bedroom to the bare mattress of the bed, kicked off my shoes, laid down, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tests

  June 15, 2012

  I awoke refreshed the next morning. It was time to explore a little and present myself at Temple Hall.

  I dug through my suitcase and found a clean blouse. It was wrinkled from being in the case all night but still better than the one I had slept in. I finished the rest of my morning routine in the small bathroom, then grabbed my backpack, and stepped out of my new flat, locking the door carefully behind me, ready for the day’s adventure.

  D.I. Shelley had suggested I check out the street prophets and Miss Plimmswood had directed me to a bank called Bartleby & Daughters just off Redcrosse Circus, on the way to Temple Hall. Two items for my to-do list today.

  May Queen Market looked quite as I’d left it the day before, with people coming and going. I wandered eastward, noting a pub called The Horned God on the corner by a roundabout just a couple of buildings up from my flat. That was handy. I was looking forward to trying some English beer before too long. And, since I was in England, not the United States, I was old enough to buy some.

  On the left was Ealdwic Station, a stop on the Underground. The road curved north after the roundabout and turned into Antiqua Way, and I followed it past the station, noting a fish and chips place, a small Post Office, and a barber shop on the right side of the street. I was pleased with my choice of flat rentals. There were lots of convenient shops near it that would be handy as I learned my way around.

  Just past the station, there was a small square with some kind of mural in the bricks, where a few people had gathered. A strange looking man stood atop a wooden box there, his back to the park behind him, wearing a sock puppet on his left hand. What was with the English and these eccentricities?

  It occurred to me that this was probably one of the street prophets that D.I. Shelley had referenced, and I decided to step closer to him to listen.

  “Too late to start recycling! Hehe!” the sock puppet raved in a squeaky falsetto. It was fashioned as a tiny king, wearing a gold crown and carrying a small scepter.

  “Who is this?” I asked a man standing next to me in the crowd.

  “This here’s the Fallen King and his puppet, miss,” the man said with a smile. “He’s a barmy one, he is.”

  The puppet continued its rant, as the gathered people pointed at it and laughed. “To go to raves to save the gorillas! To cash out those Anansi shares! There's a storm coming, mondo storm. Paint your glass houses shut!”

  I felt nervous at the puppet’s words. They seemed to echo an all-too-familiar theme about the coming of dark days. I found the performance gloomy and weird.

  The puppeteer—the Fallen King—was no less strange. He had a long, bedraggled overcoat with a red and green winter scarf that looked uncomfortably warm for the late Spring weather. His head was covered by a red hood-type of hat plastered with fetishes and pins, and he wore tiny round spectacles that hid his eyes over a scruffy beard and mustache.

  The Fallen King looked out over the assembled crowd, catching my eye briefly, before continuing in a deeper, smoother voice, gesturing wildly to punctuate his sermon. “You don't have to take his word for it. This is a warning from the sun. It says it's old and tired and scared of death. It says you've lived as young gods for too long! Spoiled children who only need to wish for something and it'll come true!”

  He looked conspiratorially at his puppet, then turned once more and bellowed bombastically at the crowd. “Well, those days are gone now and won't come here again! Hahaha! Sorry! I'll show you how it all goes down, through the medium of unreliable narration. A vision of the future. This could be your lucky day!”

  “Tomorrow and all the ones after...not so much,” The Fallen King continued in a much lower voice, turning back to the puppet. “It's a hot, wet day. You ever notice how the apocalypse always comes on a wet day?”

  I jumped as thunder rolled in the background, competing with the nearly constant police sirens. An afternoon storm was moving in. I felt weird. Uncomfortable. The little square smelled like ozone, too many people, and old urine. The noise of the sirens was making my head hurt. I shook it lightly to try to clear my thoughts and scratched my neck. It had begun to itch madly while the crazy prophet ranted.

  “There's the smell of warm air and stale piss. The atmosphere is electric. I mean actually electric, sparking off the tracks, lifting and snapping your hair.” His voice was mesmerizing. I could feel myself becoming separated from reality. I stumbled on the cobblestones where I was standing.

  “A voice over the speakers that you don't hear. You itch. The Black Signal sounds...Lights out,” he concluded.

  I tumbled unconscious to the pavement.

  I came to on a cold tile floor. My ears were ringing, and I shook my head in confusion. Where was I? I looked around in a dazed panic, struggling to focus my eyes. Groggily, I pushed myself up on my elbow to survey the scene.

  Oh gods. I was back in the dream, in the entrance to the subway platform in Tokyo, on my back against the tile wall that I’d hit before waking up a couple days ago. Why was I here again? One minute I was listening to the Fallen King and the next thing I knew I was here. What had just happened? Was this a dream or not?

  “Get up, Sarah!”

  Adrenaline spiked as I realized I was not alone. Rose, Mei, and Alex were here too and still thought I was their friend Sarah.

  Right.

  Ugh, I really wanted to know who Sarah was and why she was here in the subway because she kept bringing me here in these dreams.

  We were on a landing between escalators headed down to a subway platform below, and they were preparing to fight. I scrambled to my feet and grabbed the shotgun beside me on the floor, as the team prepared to open fire on the Filth-infected.

  “Don’t let it get on you,” Rose cautioned, her white toque bobbing with emphasis. “Don’t even breathe in.”

  “It’s reacting to us…like it knows we’re coming,” Mei said with alarm, as she pointed at the escalator stairs below us.

  Filth covered the floor of the landing in pools. A swarm of Filth-infected people started running up the escalator stairs from the area below, their feet pounding on the metal. Mei swept the katana in a wide arc, cutting at the monster closest to her. Rose blasted down the escalator with both barrels. I pumped my shotgun and began shooting at our attackers, as they screamed and growled and hissed at us. I shut down the parts of me confused by the everyday clothing and focused on their tentacled, tar-covered heads as I found my targets.

  “This stuff can’t think,” Alex growled as he let loose a ball of flame. “It's a cancer. Cancer doesn't know you're coming, it just is.”

  We cleared the landing and started down the escalators ourselves to the next landing. Another metal gate blocked our entrance to the platform itself. I realized the group of monsters we had just killed had been locked between the two gates and that it was entirely possible there was a far larger group of infected below. I swallowed hard at the thought. Even if this was only a dream,
it was very real.

  Mei worked on the gate lock while we caught our breath.

  “New plan: fight chaos with chaos,” Alex announced. “Keep the bastards at a distance then take them out.”

  Mei stopped working on the lock and looked over her shoulder at him with disbelief. “That’s your plan?”

  “Well, it’s a plan,” he grumbled.

  Rose turned to me. “When the gate opens, you’ve got point, Sarah. Make every shot count.”

  I opened my mouth to ask what point was, but Mei swung the gate up, and the group charged down the last set of stairs. I moved quickly to catch up to them, shotgun at the ready.

  “Incoming!” Alex shouted.

  Screaming started as we moved forward and a half-dozen survivors who didn’t appear to be infected yet ran shrieking by us and up the stairs we’d just gone down. I pointed the end of my shotgun away from a woman in business clothes as she pushed past me, terrified and running for her life. A horde of infected followed close behind them. Mei jumped forward to engage them. Alex and Rose fanned out in hopes of creating a wall of protection for the survivors to escape.

  I stepped forward to Rose’s right and opened fire on the nearest Filth-infected man. He collapsed when my shot hit him in the chest, filth oozing out of the wound and forming a puddle beneath him. I sidestepped around him and moved toward my next target.

  There was hardly time to think! Adrenaline thrummed through my body as wave after wave of the Filth-infected attacked us. I backed up as one got too close to me. Alex finished him off. I nodded thanks and jumped over the puddle of filth left by his body, to engage the next.

  There was a break in the waves of attackers, but the floor was covered in a viscous black ooze from the bodies of the Filth-infected we’d killed. Dozens of transformed people, from all walks of life, lay dead on the floor, their bodies mutated by the infection. There were women and men, dressed in everything from business casual to street clothes, in the group of corpses.