The Revenant Express - (Newbury and Hobbes 5)

by George Mann

  Newbury heard more glass shattering behind him. He was running out of time. All that the cultist had to do now was keep Newbury fighting long enough for the revenants to break free. His own life was already forfeit, yet he was clearly intent on taking Newbury down with him.

  The train shuddered, and the paraffin lamp swung wildly on its hook, momentarily bathing them in light, and then sudden darkness. Newbury glanced at it, calculating the distance. Three steps. He moved, and the cultist circled, knife at the ready. Newbury took another step, and the cultist shifted, closing the distance between them.

  Over the cultist’s shoulder, the revenants were attempting to clamber through the broken windows.

  It was now or never. He reached up for the paraffin lamp as the cultist swept forward, dragging it off its hook and swinging it down against the man’s head. He felt the cultist’s blade slide into his upper arm as the lamp shattered, dousing the man in oily paraffin, which—exposed to the flame—ignited almost immediately.

  The cultist screamed as his head and shoulders were consumed by the sudden conflagration, and Newbury shoved him away, yanking the knife from his shoulder and tossing it through the railings to the tracks below.

  The cultist staggered back, attempting to smother the flames with his hands, but succeeding only in spreading the fire up his arms, and across his chest. Blindly, he stumbled back from Newbury towards the grasping arms of the revenants.

  They grappled for him, and he screamed again as their talons punctured his flesh, pulling him closer. They lifted him from his feet, dragging him bodily through the broken window and into the carriage. Newbury watched as the flames spread hungrily, first igniting the blinds, then the carpet, then the two revenants who had set about trying to consume the roasting man.

  Within seconds the entire carriage was ablaze.

  Newbury felt the heat of the fire against his face, even from the viewing platform outside. He flexed his damaged arm, testing his strength. He had nowhere left to go, but up. With the fire spreading, he had to get word to the driver, to stop the train. Worse, Amelia was on the other side of that burning carriage, held captive—if not already dead—at the hands of the mysterious Petunia Wren.

  Sighing, he cast around for anything he could use as a foothold, but there was nothing. He’d have to pull himself up on the railings and jump across. He didn’t fancy his chances, but neither could he see any choice. If he stayed where he was, he was likely to burn to death within the hour, regardless.

  Gritting his teeth, he grabbed hold of the railing and hauled himself up, twisting into a sitting position. He balanced precariously on the top of the railing, holding on for dear life as the train shook, rumbling over the metal tracks below. One false move now, and he’d be over the side, and dead.

  He scanned the roof of the carriage, looking for possible handholds. There was a slight camber, with a thin lip running around the edges of the carriage roof. If he could throw himself across and catch hold of that, he could pull himself up from there. Then it was a short crawl across the rooftop to the next carriage, where he’d have to kick out one of the windows and swing himself in.

  He knew it was lunacy, particularly in his present condition. But then, he supposed it had never stopped him before. Tentatively, he raised himself up, lifting one foot onto the top of the railing. He tested his footing. The railing was strong enough and wasn’t going to give way. He remained in a crouching position for a moment, breathing steadily, before raising his other foot, still clinging onto the railing with one hand.

  For a moment he rocked back and forth with the steady movement of the train, and then, with an almighty roar, he launched himself through the air towards the roof of the flaming carriage.

  CHAPTER

  29

  As the roof of the carriage swam up to meet him, Newbury realised he’d overshot. Instead of catching hold of the rim, he was sailing right over it, and he flung out his arms, his fingers grasping for purchase as he came down.

  He struck the roof with an almighty thud, and for a moment he thought it was about to give way and send him tumbling into the hellish pit of burning revenants below. It held, buckling slightly beneath his weight, and instead he found himself sliding dangerously off to one side, dragged by the momentum of the train and with nothing to grab hold of to prevent him from falling. He pressed himself flat and allowed himself to careen over to the camber, then swung his legs around at the last minute, jamming the tip of his boots against the rail, his palms flat against the thin metal roof. Slowly, he slid to a halt.

  He lay there for a moment, forcing himself to breathe. Beneath him, the tin roof was hot from the blaze, searing his hands. He wouldn’t be able to hold on for very long.

  The train was still hurtling through the gloaming, and showed no signs of slowing. To either side there was nothing but rolling fields of corn, punctuated by occasional farmhouses, distant and shrouded in shadow, like slumbering dragons, smoke curling from their chimneys.

  Up here, the force of the forward motion threatened to sweep him off every time he lifted his head. He was going to have to keep low and slide across on his belly like a snake, keeping one foot jammed against the rim to prevent him from slipping off.

  Cautiously he dragged himself along, inching over the smooth metal surface, clinging to each available rivet. His arms ached, and the stab wound throbbed dully, his shirt soaked through with blood. It felt cold and damp against his skin now—a constant reminder. He’d need to get it seen to as soon as he’d found Amelia.

  He laughed at himself, clinging to the roof of a moving train, barely holding on to to his life by a thread, and yet still making plans regarding the medical treatment he would need when it was all over. Perhaps he was more of an optimist than he’d ever realised.

  The train bucked as the carriage rolled over a section of uneven track, and his foot slipped, causing him to thrash frantically, almost skittering over the side before his other foot found purchase and he was able to halt his sudden, alarming descent.

  He dragged at the air, taking deep breaths and forcing himself to remain calm.

  Below, he could hear the sounds of the revenants howling grotesquely as they burned, thundering around inside the carriage. Smoke curled from numerous broken windows, inky and pungent, spiralling away into the night like broiling storm clouds.

  Soon the creatures would spread the flames to the adjoining carriages, if he weren’t able to close the remaining door and seal them in. Not that the door would hold the fire or the revenants for long—the only real hope was to stop the train and decouple the burning carriage entirely. If he made it off the damn roof alive, he’d make sure that’s what happened.

  Newbury resumed his crawl across the rooftop. It was painstaking work, shifting his weight carefully, creeping no more than a few inches at a time. His palms were beginning to blister from the heat, and he could sense the revenants below, their arms grasping through the windows beneath him, as if, even now, they could still recognise his scent.

  He risked a glance along the rooftop. He was close now. Another few yards and he’d be able to start planning his descent. He shifted his foot, prising it from the rim as he edged another few inches. And then the train hit a sharp bend in the rail, and he was suddenly sliding over the edge, his hands scrabbling at the roof, unable to find anything to grasp onto. He dropped, his legs swinging out as his fingers sought the rim, clutching desperately.

  They caught, smashing painfully into the metal runnel. He fought to cling on, his feet scrabbling at the window frames below, searching for anything that might help to prop him up. He had no more than a few feet to go, now, before he reached the vestibule area at the end of the carriage and could attempt to find a way back inside.

  Something growled, and he glanced down to see a revenant’s hand shooting out through a hole in a shattered pane, grappling for his ankle. He kicked at it wildly, swinging out of the way and nearly losing his handhold in the process. His fingertips burned. He tried
to peer into the carriage, but the smoke obscured everything but the hulking silhouettes of the creatures. He choked back on it, trying to ignore the horrific scent of roasting flesh.

  The revenant’s hand was still blindly searching for him, its talons scratching at the paintwork around the window. He was going to have to go past it.

  He cursed himself for setting out on this path in the first instance. What was it about, this self-appointed need to help in a crisis? Why couldn’t he just sit back like everyone else and allow the authorities to do their work?

  He eyed the revenant’s talons. He had two choices: Try to go around it, or use it as a foothold to boost him over to the end of the carriage. It was a risk—if it got hold of him, he didn’t know if he’d have the strength to fight it off and still maintain his grip on the roof.

  He sighed. He supposed one more risk wasn’t going to make much difference now. Working himself into position, he began to swing back and forth like a pendulum, using the motion of the train to his advantage. His fingers were growing numb, threatening to seize, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to continue, working up a good momentum.

  One more swing …

  Newbury let go of the roof with his left hand and allowed the momentum to take him. He reached out with his foot, planting it as firmly as possible on the revenant’s forearm, and then propelled himself forward, releasing his other handhold for a split second as he sailed through the air, parallel to the train.

  He heard the revenant issue a growl, and the arm twisted, grasping for him, but he was already past it, clutching hold of the roof again and pulling himself along. His feet flapped in ungainly fashion as he dangled, his arms about to give out … and then he was there, at the vestibule, beyond the worst of the flaming carriage.

  Getting inside was another matter entirely. There was a window here, probably big enough for him to wriggle through—but it was closed from the inside. He was going to have to break it.

  Crying out in agony, he hauled himself up and bent his knees, so that the soles of his boots were pressed flat against the windowpane. Then—clinging on with what was left of his reserves—began to hammer on the glass with his heel.

  At first the pane simply reverberated in the frame, and for a moment he thought he was about to be thwarted, right here at the end—but then the glass gave a satisfying crack, fracture lines spidering out from the site of the impact. He kicked again, and this time his foot went through, along with an attendant shower of broken glass.

  Swiftly, he kicked away as many of the jagged edges as he could, and then lowered himself in through the opening, feeling the ragged shards scoring his back through his jacket as he twisted and dropped to the floor.

  A moment later he was standing unsteadily inside the vestibule, his shredded fingers dripping blood.

  Newbury glanced up at the burning carriage. The door was still hanging open. Inside, he could see the bulky shape of a revenant lurching towards him through the pall of smoke, its clothes smouldering, its flesh scorched and black. It was heading for the door, having picked up his scent.

  Newbury reached for the door, and slammed it shut. “Oh no you don’t,” he said, his voice a dry croak. “You’re staying right where you are.”

  He turned and ran.

  The train was as empty now as it had been a few moments before, as he’d passed through in the other direction. As he ran, he called out for a guard, bellowing at the top of his lungs in an effort to gain attention.

  In the third carriage he entered, he saw a man in uniform stepping out from one of the cabins, frowning at Newbury as he came hurtling along the passageway.

  Newbury skidded to a halt, and grabbed the man by the front of his jacket. The guard looked alarmed, but didn’t put up any immediate resistance, clearly terrified by Newbury’s wild manner.

  “There’s a fire,” said Newbury, between gulps of air. “Back there, in the last carriage. The whole place has gone up. It’s full of revenants. You’ve got to stop the train before it spreads.”

  The man stared at him blankly, as if trying to comprehend what Newbury was telling him, to make sense of the terrible state of the raving man standing before him, clutching him by the front of his uniform.

  “A fire,” repeated Newbury. “Do you understand? You have to get the driver to stop the train.”

  Slowly, the man nodded, and then finally something seemed to register. He pushed Newbury away, and stirred into action. He closed the door to the cabin and set off at a run for the front of the train.

  Relieved, Newbury set out behind him—although with a somewhat different destination in mind: He was going in search of Amelia.

  * * *

  When he found her a few moments later, she was not, as he’d expected, in dire need of rescue, but propped up in the dining car, alone and feverish.

  She was sitting at one of the tables, her head lolling back, her eyes closed, and sweat beading on her forehead, pooling in the small of her throat.

  He rushed to her side, cupping her face in his hands, checking her pulse. She was burning up. She’d evidently staggered there in an effort to return to their cabin, and found herself unable to continue.

  He searched her hurriedly for scratches or other obvious wounds, fearing the worst. Had she encountered a revenant? Had she been infected? His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he checked her over, but he found evidence of only a few fresh bruises, and marks upon her wrists where they’d been bound.

  “Amelia? Amelia!” He slapped her gently upon the cheek, trying to bring her round. “It’s Maurice. What happened to you? Was it Mrs. Wren?”

  At this she stirred, opening her eyes. She didn’t seem able to focus on his face. She parted her lips, but no sound came out.

  Newbury cast around, searching for a glass of water. There was an overturned bottle on one of the nearby tables that still appeared to contain some liquid. He grabbed it and held it to her lips, drizzling it into her mouth. She gulped it down thirstily.

  “Don’t … don’t…,” she mumbled.

  “Don’t what?” said Newbury, dabbing her forehead with a damp serviette.

  “Don’t go in there,” mumbled Amelia. “Petunia … dead. Don’t go. Infection. Don’t…”

  Infection? He studied her for a moment—the shallow breath, the flickering eyes, the prickles of sweat. This certainly wasn’t the revenant plague. He had half a mind to disregard her warning—to go and investigate Petunia’s cabin in the nearby carriage. If he could ascertain what they were facing, then perhaps he could work out how to help her. He started to get to his feet, but Amelia grabbed his hand. She squeezed it tightly, until it hurt. She really didn’t want him going anywhere near the other carriage.

  “No,” she said. “I got out so you wouldn’t have to go in there. Stay here, with me.”

  “All right,” said Newbury. “But not here. Let’s get you back to our cabin.”

  Gently, he made a pillow in the crook of his elbow and scooped her up into his arms. She felt light and hot, like some drowsy, fey creature, and not the woman he had spent so many hours of intimate association with, helping her to heal; not his friend, whom he cared for deeply and profoundly, and hoped one day might become something akin to family to him.

  The healing rituals were at an end, of course—there was no way now that he’d be able to retrieve the book. The cultist was dead, and the secret of what had become of it had died with him. He looked down sadly upon Amelia’s upturned face as he staggered through the narrow doorway and out into the foyer on the other side, wondering how long she had. He could only hope that the work he’d already done would be enough to sustain her for a good while.

  He felt the train judder beneath him, and realised that the driver had applied the brakes. Finally, they were stopping. They could make it off this dreadful train, and away to safety, to somewhere he could get help for Amelia, before continuing on to St. Petersburg for Veronica’s new heart. He only hoped it would not be too late—for either
of them.

  Clutching Amelia close, he continued on to their cabin, where he laid her out upon her bed, fetched fresh linen and water, and remained by her side until the guards came calling to order them both off the train.

  CHAPTER

  30

  It was only now, standing in the wintery splendour of St. Petersburg, that Amelia had a sense of how spectacularly her guidebook had misled her.

  Back in England, she’d hungrily devoured the thing from cover to cover, and then again on the train to Dover, trying to get a sense of the place, of what to expect. She’d committed all sorts of facts and figures to memory—about the weather, the architecture, the language. None of them meant anything to her now. Oh, the details were all well and good, but what the author had singularly failed to put across was the sheer wonder, the spectacle—the magic—of the place.

  Standing there, in the heart of the city, she was lost in an icy fantasia. It was as if she’d left the real world far behind her, and instead been transported to this vivid wonderland, where moustachioed policemen swung sabres from the backs of magnificent white bears; where every building, as far as her eyes could see, glistened with a hoary rime of frost; where ice sculptures of dancing sprites—all angular and inhuman—caroused across the plazas, or nestled in the shadowy mouths of side streets as if waiting for the light to fade before springing fleetingly back to life. Even the frigid air smelled different. She filled her lungs with it.

  Overhead, diffuse storm clouds, smudged by an inky thumb, released their burden upon the provinces to the east, and all around her people hastened towards their destinations, heads bowed against the chill.

  Amelia started at a mechanical rumble from behind her, and turned to see a palanquin, embellished with golden fretwork, borne along by two bull-like automatons. Steam rippled from their brass nostrils, and the ground shook with the thunder of their passing. A thin, furtive-looking man peered out from inside the bizarre transport, like a sinner unwilling to surrender the safety of the confessional. She wondered what secrets he was hiding.