by A. L. Knorr
“With an injury like this, he could be bleeding internally,” Marcus pressed, his voice growing urgent. “We need to get him to hospital ... now.”
“She knows, Marcus,” Jackie said soothingly. “She knows.”
I wanted to thank Jackie, but I was too busy searching the level we were on for access. There was a chance that a maintenance corridor could lead us to another station or at least a shaft to the surface. We just needed to find the door.
There!
I sensed the steel door in the north corner of the platform, concealed in a patch of shadow. I could just see a dingy sign saying MAINTENANCE ONLY. Thankfully, we didn’t have to cross into the larger patches of daylight and there was plenty of cover between us and Daria. A small knot of men had just passed, so I figured now was going to be our best chance to reach the door unmolested.
“Marcus,” I turned to him with my voice coming out in a rushed whisper. “Can you carry him?”
Marcus nodded and without a word carefully scooped up Uncle Iry as though he were a child. Iry sucked in a breath through his teeth at the movement, his fist shaking as he clutched at Marcus’s shoulders.
“Stay close, follow me.”
We scuttled from one patch of cover to the next, pausing only long enough to make sure we hadn’t drawn any unwanted attention, following a winding path. Once, as we hunkered behind a pile of broken concrete, I was sure that Daria was looking right at us, but after one eternal heartbeat, her gaze moved on.
The door was rusty and filthy, but still solid and locked. I applied my gentlest ministrations to the deadbolt on the inside and it slid back with a soft scrape that set my teeth on edge. I pulled the door open with both will and muscle, but the scrape of rusty hinges had me looking over my shoulder for fear of discovery.
Marcus, carrying Uncle Iry, strode towards me just as one of Daria’s minions emerged from behind a stack of coiled wire, weapon raised to crush the back of the porter’s head. Before I could scream a warning, Jackie, who was behind Marcus, tackled the minion. They smashed into a stack of corroded piping, raising a terrible clamour, before crashing to the floor.
A cry like hounds on the scent rose from every corner of the building, and a glance up revealed Daria looking down at us, a hungry look in her glowing eyes.
“Run!” I screamed as I stepped around Marcus to help Jackie. “GO!”
Marcus threw me a torn look as we passed, but with taurine huff, he went through the door.
Jackie was on her knees and had dealt a solid blow with a pipe to the ambusher, leaving him senseless on the floor.
“Come on!”
Summoning willpower, I mentally dragged huge bails of wire to block our pursuers.
A second ambusher leapt from the top of a stack of pallets as Jackie stumbled through the pipes rolling across the floor. He landed on Jackie’s back, the axe handle in his hand scything down. The bludgeon was torn from his hands and jutted from Jackie’s back like a pump handle.
“Jackie!” I rushed toward her, sending a volley of pipes at her attacker.
She staggered forward, almost to the door when I reached her and put my shoulder under her arm. A long shard of glass had been driven into the handle and now impaled my friend.
“Just go!” Jackie coughed, sending blood across her chin.
“Never! Come on!”
We lurched through the door.
I directed my anger into a final desperate act, dragging the door, the girders in the wall, and the surrounding piping down to block pursuit.
Chapter Twenty-Three
We staggered down the corridor lined with pipes. Jackie wheezed and choked with every other step.
“Almost there.” I gasped for air and adjusted my grip around her waist, trying not to think about the warm blood dripping on my hand. “I think ... I can hear ... a train.”
It wasn’t a lie either, as a few yards back, I’d heard a rhythmic pounding drawing near. I refused to believe it was anything except a way out.
I looked sideways at Jackie and forced a smile that was a lie.
Her head lolled frighteningly with each step, but she kept her feet under her. Each breath she drew was a little weaker, a little thicker. Her chin and shirt were darkly stained. She coughed again, her head snapping forward, and we were stomping through a spatter that glistened black in the stale gleam of the overhead safety lights.
“A little further,” I said, unable to keep the sob from my words.
My back felt like a single knotted mass, and my legs burned with each step. I tried to sense what was ahead, desperate for some sign of hope, but panic and exhaustion scattered every aura into meaningless static.
“One foot … in front … of the other ... atta girl.”
The pounding stopped to return moments later with an accelerated pace. Could that be a train?
Jackie lurched to the side, and I couldn’t keep us from bouncing off the side of the passage. There was a sharp crack, and Jackie issued a weak, rasping cry. The axe handle tumbled to the ground behind her. The glass had broken off, and a quick look confirmed that there was now only an icicle lodged next to her shoulder blade. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination or not, but before I turned back, I swore it sank deeper.
“It’s ... not … not that bad,” I lied again.
We were nearly on top of the source of the sound when the corridor ended; the door hung open.
“See.” I forced another manic smile as we squeezed through the door.
I nearly collapsed when we stepped through into what looked like a utility room with a single mesh gate on the far wall. Marcus was the source of the pounding, throwing himself against the gate repeatedly, drenched in sweat, while Uncle Iry sat, terrifyingly still, his skin ashen, on the floor propped up against a wall.
“Marcus!”
The porter turned, eyes wide with urgent terror. He rushed to take Jackie from me.
“I got her,” he said, checking his grip as Jackie cried out in pain.
“Careful,” I wheezed, stumbling drunkenly towards the gate. “Her back.”
“Got it,” he grunted, but I didn’t have the energy to check.
I squared off with the gate, my sweat-blurred vision reluctantly focusing on the lock. With a growl, I punched out, weak and sloppy, but enough to snap the battered latch off.
A sweep of my hand dragged the mesh away to reveal a stretch of stairs leading up, and up, to a distant shadowed doorway lined in daylight. The sight of that crisp, clean glow made me want to cry.
I turned back to Marcus and Jackie, rallying my strength.
“I’ll take her,” I said as I resumed my post at Jackie’s side. “Get Uncle Iry. Up the stairs and we’re home free.” Stairs that look like Mount Everest.
I didn’t know where we would emerge, but at this point, even if we came out in front of Scotland Yard, I would call it a win. They might arrest us and throw away the key, but even prisoners get medical treatment.
“Come on, luv,” I whispered in Jackie’s ear as I took her full weight from Marcus. “Just a few more steps, then you can rest.”
Jackie dragged her face upward, now ghastly white––which made the smears of bright blood look even worse––and gave me a pink-toothed grin.
“What … are … we … waiting … for,” she wheezed in a thick, wet voice.
I forced another smile, but I couldn’t keep the tears from beading at my eyes.
“That’s my girl,” I declared around the lump in my throat. “Marcus, we’re ready.”
His affirming grunt was followed by baleful howling from far behind us. Despite the hot sweat drenching me stem to stern, a shiver of cold ran up my spine, and I broke out in goosebumps.
“Let’s move.”
---
With a final burst of energy against the service door, we plunged into sunlight.
The air was cold, clammy, and utterly glorious after the smothering stale air of the tunnel. My eyes stung and watered from the sudden brightnes
s, but I forged ahead, practically dragging Jackie. Marcus puffed behind me, even his great strength taxed to the limits by the steep climb carrying my uncle.
Once I was sure he was clear, I commanded the door to close and twist on its hinges. The memory of that howling gnawed at my nerves, and I wanted as much space between me and our pursuers as I could manage.
My eyes adjusted; we were between tall buildings in a sidestreet barely big enough for a Mini-Cooper to roll down. To the right was a bustling street across which I spied a blue banner.
“Kaplan,” I gasped, recognizing the sign even as I read the letters emblazoned on it. “Marcus, I know where we are!”
The Kaplan Language School was near Bloomsbury Square Gardens just east of the British Museum. A well-trafficked and well-policed area, we’d quickly draw attention and get emergency services called. It would mean answering some awkward questions, but I wasn’t sure Jackie could hold on much longer. I couldn’t believe she’d made it this far.
Without another word, we moved towards Southampton Place.
We’re going to make it! The joy of that realization lifted the crushing oppression that had reduced my world to putting one foot in front of the other. I heard the rumble of the street beyond, felt a slight breeze slide across my face and smelled the pungent aroma that was beautiful, enduring London. I savoured the moment.
A strange buzzing sound intruded on my joy, and I looked up to find a small drone hovering above us.
The dizzying euphoria slipped away, replaced by needles of icy dread that slid into my belly from every angle. It could have been some tech-geek who stumbled across us as he took his newest toy for a spin, but deep down, I knew we would never be that lucky.
Ducking my head, I quickened my pace and took some small relief that I heard Marcus moving in time with me.
We had to reach the street.
We were so close.
Behind us, a series of heavy impacts on metal echoed in the small street. Daria’s hunters had reached the door. Their impromptu weapons were ill-suited to tackle the locked and twisted security door, but I was under no illusion that they would be frustrated for long.
Just a few more steps.
Our escape route disappeared as the back of a large dark van swung into the street. There wasn’t room for a person to squeeze by, let alone allow me or Marcus to carry our wounded.
Desperation flared, but before I could bring my will into focus, the doors of the van swung open on a curious sight. I stopped dead in my tracks, and time slowed.
Four people in dark blue uniforms leapt out, manhandling a pair of stretchers. Protective plastic bags similar to what I’d seen emergency medical personal touting hung from their shoulders. Boots pounded on the pavement as a pair stopped by me while the others skirted by at a quick trot. The pair worked with quiet confidence, laying the stretcher out.
“W-What?”
Gloved hands of one helped me support Jackie while the second looked her over.
“W-who?” I stammered stupidly.
“Severe laceration,” the partner, a grave-looking woman with freckles and a crooked nose, announced. “Possible puncture into her right lung.”
The man helping me––lean, salt-and-pepper beard, cigarette stale breath––nodded, then looked at me and spoke in a slow, calm tone.
“Alright, ma’m, let’s lower her onto the stretcher, face first, nice and easy.”
I tried to force my brain to work, to follow the instructions, but an incredible crash sounded behind us. I looked past Marcus and the pair of medics securing Uncle Iry to another stretcher. The security door swung listless and useless. Our stiff limbed pursuers emerged, blinking in the light, weapons in hand. Their eyes were inhuman pits of darkness and locked on us.
“I suggest we load them quickly,” came a smooth, unhurried female voice.
I whipped my head back and spotted a tall, striking woman with hair the colour of steel. Her knowing eyes told me she couldn’t be a day under fifty, but her complexion would have shamed a woman half her age. She wore a cream-coloured suit and had one pearly high-heeled shoe propped on the bumper of the van.
The howl rose behind us, but with the medic’s help, I lowered Jackie onto the stretcher.
She was secured in seconds, then moved into the van. The medics chattered in clipped, professional tones and to someone on the other end of a radio. Apparently, Jackie needed emergency surgery.
Uncle Iry was carried into the van by his team. He was limp on the board, but his fever bright eyes followed me as they carried him into the van.
The tall woman in the suit, gracefully slid into the back of the van and held out a hand.
“Please, come with us,” she said in a tone that was surprisingly cool and confident considering the maimed behind her and the pack of demon-driven hunters coming towards her. “We can help them and keep you safe.”
I felt Marcus at my back, felt his expectant presence asking an unspoken question. Do we risk it and go, or stay, fight, and almost certainly die? The trust implicit in his waiting touched my heart but also left me incredibly weary.
I heard the jerky footfalls of Daria’s minions.
Uncle Iry was still watching me from inside the van.
With a heavy sigh, I took the woman’s offered hand and hopped in.
“I’ve got questions,” I said flatly as I shifted to let Marcus squeeze in behind me.
The van was moving before the doors closed, and I had one last look at our pursuers.
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” the tall woman replied as she drew the doors shut with a dull thump. We were in the street, and I had to hold the grab-bar as we zoomed between cars at reckless speeds.
The interior of the van was lit by bright LEDs set into the roof, and I could see the medics were attending to Uncle Iry and Jackie.
“Let’s start with an easy one then,” I said, doing my best to act like I wasn’t about to collapse. “Who are you, and who do you work for?”
The woman’s eyes flashed with amusement, and a small smile played at the corners of her lips.
“Not nearly as easy as you might think,” she said, “but since partnerships are based on trust ...”
She held out her hand again.
“My name is Jody Marks, and I represent The Nakesh Corporation, otherwise known as TNC.”
Something in the way she said it made my skin prickle, and when my hand rose to shake hers, it almost felt compulsory.
“Partners?” I asked, our hands still interlocked.
Marks nodded.
“I certainly hope so. After all, you are not the only one who wants to stop Ninurta’s return.”
I stared at her, torn between skepticism and a desperate hope that this wasn’t all some cruel joke.
“I’d always hoped,” I managed with a rough swallow.
Marks nodded and settled back into a small seat built into the wall of the van.
“Hope no more, Miss Bashir. You’re not fighting this war alone. Not anymore.”
Epilogue
“Vhere did zhey go?”
The small man nervously clutching a tablet nearly jumped out of his skin at the growled question.
“Umm, uh,” he stammered as his fingers performed a jittery tap-dance across the tablet’s screen. “We don’t know for certain, but we do know the owner of the uh, uh, the vehicle they escaped in. It took some backtracking through dummy corporations and false titles, but eventually, our forensic financials team found the real owner.”
A single heavy brow arched over a watery blue eye, waiting.
When no further information was forthcoming, a portly frame rolled forward, pressing against the desk as his malevolent glare penetrated the trembling young man.
“Who. Owns. Ze vehicle?” he snarled, a wet, guttural sound.
“Sorry, s-sorry,” the small man stammered. Seeing his superior’s growing ire, he practically squeaked. “Nakesh! The Nakesh Corporation owns the vehicle!”
/> The swollen bulk sank back, settling like some dormant volcano in the sullen light that filled the room. Thick, calloused fingers stroked an oily beard.
“Vhat iz Marks up to now?” he rumbled the question deep in his barrel chest.
“Perhaps, she—” The little man fell silent when the watery eyes impaled him with a single sharp look.
“No matter.” The corpulent creature swivelled his high back chair at a glacial pace to view the source of the throbbing light filling the room. “Very zoon it von’t make a bit of difference.”
The blue eyes squinted through a vast tinted window at the molten metal running along channels towards a pit in the floor. There was tin for Marduk, lead for Nergal, copper for Inanna, mercury for Nabu, silver for Zuen, gold for Utu. A vast sarcophagus of pure lead had been placed over a huge but withered body at the outset. The sarcophagus had melted as the six other metals had poured in
The pit was nearly full, and even the heat shielded, air-conditioned viewing box had grown warm and stuffy.
“Very zoon,” he said again, as the metal pool reached the brim of the pit.
The small man swallowed, squeezing his tablet to his chest with white knuckles, before clearing his throat.
“Eh, excuse me, sir, but how soon?”
Before the ponderous mass in the chair could angrily call for silence, the light of the hellish pool throbbed seven times and a dull bass note that shook the bones reverberated through the room and seemed to echo across infinity.
Both watchers held their breath, for once equals in terrified awe, as a vast skeletal hand rose from the centre of the seething pit.
Don’t miss the exciting conclusion of the Rings of the Inconquo series!
Every family has history, but hers might be the end of the world as we know it…
Ibukin “Ibby” Bashir is Inconquo, an inheritor of ancient power and with it an unending duty to stand against the darkness. She can bend and shape metal to her will, but she is still only human, she feels and bleeds. A fragile guardian, still she stands.
