The Revenant Express - (Newbury and Hobbes 5)

by George Mann

  The dining car was the obvious choice, or rather the adjoining kitchen, presumably with its stock of knives, cleavers, and other implements.

  Newbury treated the creature to another forceful kick in the chest, this time managing to narrowly avoid having his leg mauled by its grasping talons. It fell back against the window, and he bolted, darting past while the thing was off guard. He staggered out into the foyer area, gasping for breath, to realise people were screaming, hurriedly clambering up the spiral steps to the observation deck, or retreating to one of the nearby cabins and bolting the doors. Newbury hoped that meant the other passengers throughout the train were finally waking from their privileged torpor and realising the nature of the threat now manifest all around them.

  The revenant, as predicted, came lumbering into the foyer in pursuit, and Newbury waved his arms at it, drawing its attention while the last of the civilians scattered. This particular specimen had yet to develop the preternatural speed that made many of the infected so dangerous, but it nevertheless moved with surprising agility, and a few lurching steps brought it almost within reach again. Newbury backed away, leading it on.

  Of course, there was every chance the dining car was still inhabited by passengers intent on their supper, and Newbury knew that he risked exposing them to the creature, but he had little choice; if he died attempting to take it on out here, in the open, then they’d be just as likely to encounter it regardless, when it was done with him.

  He felt behind him as he walked, until his hand encountered the door that would lead them through to the dining car. He shoved it open, almost tumbling inside.

  Here, four sets of diners were still engaged in their evening meals, merrily sipping from wineglasses, leaning across the table to touch hands, or in the case of one portly chap, helping himself to his wife’s leftovers.

  “Well, we wouldn’t want such delicious food to go to waste now, would we?”

  Newbury staggered back as the revenant thrashed in the doorway, caught momentarily in the frame.

  “Get out! Everybody get out, now!”

  The portly man turned to look up at Newbury, dabbing his moustache delicately with a serviette. “Now look here, my man. You can’t just come bursting in here deman—”

  Newbury cut him off by unceremoniously grabbing the man’s head and twisting it around so he could see the revenant.

  “Ah. Yes, right. Well, sorry about that,” he muttered.

  Behind him, one of the other men started to scream.

  “I’m going to lead it into the kitchen,” said Newbury. “The rest of you get out. Get back to your cabins as quickly as you can, bolt the doors, and stay inside until someone tells you otherwise. Understand?”

  The round of murmured affirmatives was cut short when the revenant stumbled three steps further into the carriage, and lurched across at the dinner plate of one of the women, grasping a fistful of roast beef and forcing it into its mouth. It chewed on it with obvious pleasure, juices running down its chin. The woman, whimpering, seemed frozen bolt upright in her seat, her hands on her lap, her eyes flitting from side to side in terrified fashion. The revenant watched her with interest.

  Newbury reached across the portly man’s place setting and grabbed a discarded fish slice. It wasn’t going to do much harm to a revenant, but it should be enough to give the woman chance to flee.

  Newbury dropped his shoulder and ran, leaping into the air with his right hand raised above his head, and then, as he came down upon the revenant, bringing his fist down as if thrusting with a spear. The fish slice parted the creature’s flesh, and Newbury buried it deep in the thing’s exposed throat.

  It was a blow that would have killed a man, but the revenant, sustained by the unnatural virus coursing through its bloodstream, simply staggered back, blood spurting from its severed carotid artery. It doused the walls, showering the table and floor in a fine, red mist.

  Newbury grabbed the woman, hauling her from her seat and shoving her at the door. Her white dress and milky skin were speckled with stark crimson drops. Her eyes were wide with shock.

  “Go! All of you!” He turned, beckoning to the others, just as the revenant lashed out, catching him square on the shoulder and sending him spinning across one of the tables. Glasses, pots, and plates of food crashed to the floor as Newbury sought to right himself, throwing himself into one of the chairs as the revenant’s claws raked the tabletop, its talons scoring runnels in the dark wood.

  His shoulder burned where those same talons had punctured the skin, and he could feel warm blood trickling down his arm inside his shirtsleeve.

  Newbury dropped to the floor and rolled, before jumping back to his feet, fists ready. The other passengers had fled. In the doorway, beyond the lumbering form of the revenant, stood the portly man, wearing a pained expression, as if he somehow felt he couldn’t simply abandon this man who had saved his life, and was considering joining the fray.

  “Go!” bellowed Newbury. “While you have the chance!” Their eyes met, and then the man ducked away into the foyer beyond.

  Newbury heard voices behind him; the kitchen workers and waitstaff, he presumed. He backed up the central aisle, and the revenant watched him with malign interest, like a hawk studying the short, sharp movements of its prey.

  One step … two steps … Newbury turned and bolted for the door to the small kitchen. He heard the revenant growl as it started after him. He shouldered the door, nearly lifting it from its paltry hinges as he crashed through, right into the midst of the hustle and bustle. A waiter was berating one of the cooking staff in clipped French, while the others, standing at their workstations chopping and stirring, pretended not to be listening. They all looked up as Newbury burst in, and the waiter spun on his heel, ready to issue another tirade.

  “Revenant,” huffed Newbury, as the thing smashed its way through the doorway behind him. Almost instantaneously, the kitchen staff dropped their implements and ran out through the back into what Newbury presumed to be a storage area.

  He glanced at the counters: a chopping knife, a potato peeler … and a meat cleaver. He grabbed the handle and swung it around with a cry as the revenant fell upon him.

  The blade sunk into the creature’s neck with the satisfying crunch of bone. Its talons scratched feebly at the front of his jacket as its head, now only partially attached, lolled slowly to one side, oily blood welling up at the site of the wound, streaming down over Newbury’s hand and wrist. He released his hold on the cleaver and the revenant, its body still twitching, slid backwards, and thudded to the floor.

  Newbury stood in silence for a moment, his breath ragged, blood dripping from his hand, his shoulder burning with pain. All he could hear was the sound of his own inhalations, and the steady creaking of the train.

  How many more of them were there? If they were lucky, the infected still numbered in the single figures. On a train such as this, though, they could multiply exponentially, or worse, maim, kill, and devour their way through the entire passenger list.

  The outbreak stemmed from one wound, received in the engine room. The fireman’s quarters were further back on the train. That was the origin point. This one had obviously been drawn here by the scent of roasting meat from the dining car. If he were going to attempt to contain them, it would be towards the rear of the train, and he needed something to draw them in. Bait. Something that would call to them even more than warm, living bodies.

  Blood.

  Cringing, Newbury stooped over the corpse of the revenant. The foetid smell of the corpse turned his stomach, and he fought back a wave of nausea. Despite the obvious signs that the body had been ravaged by the infection—the pallid flesh, the talons, the yellowed eyes—the body, as he had previously assumed, was still relatively fresh. That meant the blood was still close to human.

  Newbury took a deep breath, and then rubbed his hands in the gaping wound at the creature’s throat, covering them with blood. Then, standing, he smeared the blood across the front of h
is jacket. It felt slick and gritty, and was already beginning to clot. Scarbright would never forgive him for ruining such a good suit.

  He’d sworn he wasn’t going to get involved. Amelia was missing, Veronica was dying, and for all he knew, he’d just killed the thing that had once been the train’s driver, meaning they were hurtling across the Continent with no one watching the controls. And now he was covered in blood.

  He grinned, and swept up the meat cleaver in his fist. Hopefully, this wouldn’t take long.

  CHAPTER

  26

  The alarm had clearly been raised throughout the rest of the train; people had scattered, abandoning the communal areas and retreating to their cabins to wait out the emergency.

  As Newbury marched through the carriages he encountered only a handful of stragglers, and each of them gave him a decidedly wide berth—doused in revenant blood and carrying a meat cleaver, he must have looked a fearsome sight as he strode through each of the carriages in search of the infected.

  Here and there he saw evidence of the creatures’ passing—a spray of dark blood upon a wall, a damaged cabin door, an errant shoe—but even the train guards were noticeably absent. They, too, must have retreated to the relative safety of their rooms. He hoped they were making preparations for a rescue, or at least a plan to deal with the situation somehow.

  He was in no doubt now that they faced serious delays—the train would have to be stopped, the surviving passengers and staff checked for signs of infection—but anything he could do to minimise that delay would be of service to Veronica. Finding a means to confine the revenants to one area of the train would hasten proceedings, and prevent any further innocents falling victim to the diabolical creatures.

  He only hoped that wherever Amelia was, that she, too, was safe. She was strong—and growing stronger almost daily—but she hadn’t been exposed to the world like Veronica; she hadn’t yet learned to handle herself in a fight, or to readily identify those who might mean her harm. He supposed in many ways that was a good thing—the life of an agent was not an admirable existence, dedicated to subterfuge, violence, and mistrust. Perhaps it was better that Amelia didn’t become hardened to the world like he and Veronica had. But then … he supposed that wasn’t his choice to make.

  He pushed through another set of doors, passing from one carriage into another. Here, a lone train guard was coming in the other direction—a cadaverous-looking man with a neat moustache and a heavy brow, which seemed to jut out from beneath his peaked cap. He started to say something in French—Newbury didn’t catch the entire gist of it, but it seemed to be a warning about returning to his cabin—but then stopped short when Newbury’s dishevelled appearance finally registered. His eyes widened, and he fumbled for his truncheon as Newbury strode towards him.

  “Out of my way,” said Newbury. “You don’t want to do that. I’m trying to help.”

  The man mumbled something, unsure of how to respond, and then Newbury was in front of him, shoving him aside as he pushed past and onwards down the passageway.

  “You might want to think about finding somewhere else to stand,” he called, over his shoulder. “The revenants will be along in a moment.”

  He knew for certain that one of the creatures had already picked up his trail—he’d heard it shambling behind him in the previous carriage. It had yet to make its move, and he hoped that if he were swift enough, he might be able to avoid any direct conflict with the creature or its brethren. His plan was to lure them to the end of the train—the last carriage in the line—and entrap them there. He had no idea yet if it would work, or whether he was simply going to get himself torn to pieces, but it seemed to him like the only option.

  He passed through into another carriage. Here, someone had clearly fared badly during an encounter with one of the creatures; a man’s legs protruded from the open door of a cabin, and glossy streams of blood were flowing into the passage. Newbury slowed, conscious of the other revenant coming up behind him.

  Cautiously, his back to the wall, he edged around the man’s legs, gripping the handle of the cleaver tightly in his fist. The inside of the cabin hove into view.

  A revenant was hunched over the carcass of the man, its hands buried deep in the hole that had once been his chest. The revenant was female—a former passenger, judging by her flower-print dress—and had its back to him as it gorged itself on the bloody remains.

  Newbury took another step along the passageway, and the revenant stopped, suddenly aware of his presence. It raised its head, sniffing the air and listening. Newbury swallowed. He heard the door swing open further up the passage—the other revenant, the one that had been following him, had entered the carriage, too.

  The revenant in the room twisted around to look at him. Its yellow eyes seemed to burn right through him. Blood dripped from its chin, and the fatty remnants of the man’s flesh were still stuck in its teeth. From further up the passageway, the shambling footsteps of the other one were growing louder, closer.

  Newbury steadied himself. He couldn’t take on two of them. Not here, like this. His only recourse was to outrun them, and hope the others picked up on his trail in the process. He was more than halfway to the rear of the train now—assuming he didn’t find his way blocked, there was still a chance he could beat them there.

  Decision made, he turned and ran. A thud from behind told him that the revenant from the cabin had set out in pursuit. He felt his heart quicken. Up ahead, the door to the next carriage loomed. He slammed into it, fumbling for the handle, and threw it open, stumbling through. The passage beyond was empty. Hurriedly, he slammed it shut behind him and ran.

  The door didn’t hold the thing for long, as it thundered through, splintering the wood in its haste to reach him. Newbury, though, was already at the next door, dragging it open and slipping past, drawing ragged breath as he moved into the next carriage.

  This one, too, was empty. He was through it in seconds, bursting into the vestibule of the adjoining car—only to find his path interrupted by the hulking form of a third revenant. He sighed, beginning to think his plan had been somewhat lacking.

  The creature was holding a dismembered human arm, still swaddled in rags, and it raised it like a club, baring its teeth in a vicious snarl. Newbury didn’t have time to stop. He charged it, swinging the meat cleaver in a wide arc.

  The revenant, caught off guard, fell back as the weapon bit deep into its chest. He felt it crunch through bone and wedge amongst the splintered rib cage. He yanked on the haft, but the weapon was stuck fast. Grimacing in frustration, he abandoned it just in time to avoid a swipe from the creature’s talons, which narrowly missed his cheek as he twisted past, darting for the door. Within seconds he was through and into the next carriage.

  He was starting to fear his plan was not going to work—the revenants were too strong, forcing their way through the doors. Even if he managed to succeed in trapping them, it wouldn’t be for long; he’d have to find a way to barricade them in, or else destroy them somehow.

  There were at least three of them now, probably more, in pursuit. He hurried through the next carriage, rebounding off the walls as he ran, shaken by the stuttering movement of the train.

  He rushed through another vestibule, and into another carriage. This was it—the final carriage of the long, snaking train. Rather than cabins, it was set out as another observation lounge, with rows of faded armchairs flanking the windows, small card tables and potted plants, and a rear door leading to a small viewing platform surrounded by a high metal rail.

  He heard a noise from behind and spun around on the spot, fearing the presence of another revenant. Instead, he felt a human fist smash into his jaw, knocking him sideways and causing him to topple over the back of an armchair and sprawl across the floor.

  Smarting, he picked himself up, pulling himself around behind the chair for cover while he got a measure of his opponent.

  It was a man in a smart black suit. He was clean-shaven, with two thin s
cars upon his face—silvery white lines from ritual cuttings, rather than accidental trauma. He was grinning manically as he watched Newbury get to his feet, and was brandishing a long, curved, bone dagger in his right fist. It was etched with a series of elaborate channels and engravings.

  This, then, was a representative of the Cabal; the man who’d left the corpse in his cabin; who had taken the book, and was most likely responsible for Amelia’s abduction.

  “Sir Maurice. How good to finally make your acquaintance. My masters send their regards.”

  “You fool!” said Newbury. “They’re coming.”

  The cultist smiled. He took a step forward, raising his blade. “No one’s coming. No friends from Scotland Yard, no assistants. You’re all alone now, Sir Maurice, and it is time to pay for what you took from us.”

  “No, you don’t understa—” started Newbury, but was forced to duck to one side as the cultist lashed out suddenly with his blade, nicking Newbury’s ear and drawing a stream of blood.

  Newbury wished he’d hung on to his cleaver—the revenants would be on them any second, and he was woefully unarmed. He feinted left, then right, sweeping up a small table lamp and swinging it up and around. The heavy iron base caught the cultist under the chin, causing him to stagger back, shaking his head. He grabbed for a nearby table, righting himself, and spat a gobbet of blood.

  “I was hoping you’d put up a fight,” he said.

  “It’s not me you need to be worried about,” said Newbury.

  The cultist turned at the sound of a low growl from the doorway. One of the revenants—a hulking male in the tatters of a fireman’s uniform, ribbons of flesh peeling from its face—loomed in the opening, its eyes flicking from one of them to the other, as if sizing up its next meal. Behind it, others were clamouring to get through the doorway. Newbury counted at least five pairs of limbs, scratching and tearing at one another as they fought for dominance.