Ghost Train

by Stephen Laws

  This is how I’m going to die! he thought. There was a kind of poetic justice about it. And then, he was being pulled into the corridor again. The soldier had grabbed the thing from behind and had succeeded in swinging it round. Diverted for an instant, it turned on the soldier, flinging Chadderton aside into the compartment like a rag doll. A howling, buffeting wind whipped at them as the Catalyst slammed the soldier to the ground.

  In the compartment, Chadderton struggled to his feet. The girl had fainted. He clambered towards the corridor and saw the axe lying amid the splintered ruins of the sliding door. The Catalyst and the soldier were beyond Chadderton’s line of vision as he stooped and grabbed it from the floor. A heavy, thumping sound was coming from the corridor as he emerged.

  Suppressing an involuntary cry of rage and nausea, he saw that the soldier was dead. The thing had knocked him to the floor and was stamping viciously and methodically on what was left of his head. The thing was chuckling now as it turned to face Chadderton, the soldier’s body still jerking on the corridor floor, fingers clenching and unclenching. Rage swelled within Chadderton. Raising the axe high above his head, feeling it clunk against the carriage roof as the Catalyst advanced towards him, he brought it down with all his force. Quickly, the thing’s arm flashed up to meet the blade and took the full force of the blow, diverting the weapon from its head. But the impetus of the blow swung the thing’s arm downwards, trapping its hand between the blade and the ragged sill of the broken window. The axe bit deeply through the thing’s wrist and embedded itself into the sill. The Catalyst’s severed hand twitched to the floor.

  Savagely Chadderton tugged the axe free and drew back. The Catalyst held up the ragged stump before its face. To Chadderton, it seemed that the thing was wondering at this new development. But it showed no pain and there was no blood. It was, after all, dead. It smiled. And continued to advance on Chadderton.

  Chadderton backed away down the corridor as it came, keeping the axe thrust threateningly outwards. He stepped on a body lying on the corridor floor behind him. He wavered and almost fell. Quickly regaining his balance, he continued to retreat as the undead thing lurched after him. And, as it came, a single thought screamed in Chadderton’s head:

  How can you kill something that’s already dead?!

  ‘Director of Operations? This is Brigadier Anderson. I’m giving orders that everyone is to pull out of King’s Cross at once. The same goes for your own control staff. I want you all cleared out of there immediately.’

  ‘What about the derailment at Doncaster?’

  ‘Four separate charges were laid and detonated. The lines were untouched.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, I know it’s impossible. But the railway lines were unmarked. We damaged the embankment but the lines are intact. We’re moving down towards you to try again. I don’t know what we’re faced with here, but the train is on its way and I want everyone out of King’s Cross . . .’

  ‘Brigadier! Hold the line! I’m getting a report that . . . there’s some kind of disturbance in the station down here . . . What? . . . Brigadier, something’s happening down here on Platform 10 . . .’

  ‘Put the Commander in Charge back on the line. I want everyone out of that place . . .’

  ‘The platform is glowing, Brigadier. Oh my God, I don’t believe what I’m seeing . . .’

  Silence.

  ‘Put my man on!’

  ‘I don’t believe it . . . it’s glowing brighter . . . the platform is starting to break up . . . My God, it’s splitting open . . . It’s . . . Oh my God . . .’

  The Ghost Train was on its way.

  Azimuth had tasted and was gone.

  Mark emerged from hiding, knowing that his mind had been tasted and defiled. Travelling back up the ruined corridors of his memory, he could see the complete extent of Azimuth’s pillage. His mind had been raped.

  Now Mark was once again in the driving cab, once again aware of the power that surged there. It had claimed and tasted everything that it had found in Mark’s mind. But he had hidden himself from it. Now, Azimuth had returned to the train, believing that it had completely absorbed Mark’s individuality. It presumed that his mind had been totally eaten and that only the physically living but empty shell of his body remained. It would return later and fill that shell with its own unholy force, reanimating it as its Chief Disciple.

  Now Azimuth flowed and surged within the walls, transferring its full essence into the thing which thundered on white-­hot rails towards King’s Cross Station. It had withdrawn from the Catalyst and Mark knew that he had bought Chadderton some time.

  The Time of Arrival was imminent; Mark was aware that Azimuth must concentrate on that above all things. Four times denied, Mark knew that it would never sense that he had escaped it. His consciousness, his will, were apart from Azimuth now. Here in the driving cabin, he knew that as Azimuth powered the train on towards Arrival it would pay no heed to the crumpled form which lay on the floor. Mark knew that he had only one chance for humanity. If he missed that chance, no hope would be left. Power surged and flowed above and around him. Opening his ravaged mind once more, he tentatively and hesitantly probed for the key.

  Chadderton raised the axe for another blow as the Catalyst continued to advance on him. Back down the corridor, a series of panic-­stricken, high-­pitched screams reached his ears. The Catalyst turned to look back and Chadderton swung the axe hard. But the undead thing had anticipated the attack. The ragged stump of its forearm lashed out and diverted the blow, the other hand seized his face and dashed him hard against the corridor wall. The axe clattered to the floor. Chadderton clutched at the grip on his face, somehow managed to tear himself free and lurched away. The screams ricocheted down the corridor as he struggled to regain his balance, expecting to feel the thing upon him at any second, expecting to feel that final blow of the axe. When he looked again, the Catalyst was lurching back along the corridor towards their compartment. Standing in the ragged gap of the doorway, Chadderton could see the soldier’s girlfriend looking down at his mutilated body. Her hands were pressed tightly to her chest as she screamed, unaware that the undead thing was making its way back to her, dragging the axe behind it. It could have killed him, but it had not. Obviously, thought Chadderton, it intended to finish what it had started with the girl.

  ‘Get away from there!’

  As Chadderton began to run after the Catalyst he saw the girl look up, still screaming and seemingly frozen in the shattered doorway.

  How can I stop it?

  He was almost upon the Catalyst again when a thought sprang into his mind, apparently from nowhere. It came in a way that made Chadderton think that the idea had been planted in his brain from somewhere else. It seemed like a suggestion from far away and, for an instant, Chadderton thought he recognised a trace of Mark’s presence in his mind.

  ‘Get Father Daniels’ flask from the compartment! The silver flask on the seat beside him!’ shouted Chadderton.

  The girl seemed unable to hear him as the undead Catalyst staggered towards her. She had stopped screaming now, but her gaze was still fixed on the thing as it drew nearer, like a small nervous rabbit entranced by a snake.

  ‘Damn it! If you want to live, get that flask! Move!’

  And then the girl vanished into the compartment. An instant later, she reappeared with the flask. The silver flask which contained Holy Water.

  ‘Throw the water at it! Throw it!’

  The girl was fumbling with the stopper and it seemed to Chadderton that she might drop it. In seconds, the Catalyst would be on her. Chadderton tensed himself for a forward leap at the thing if she should fail to do it in time. The stopper rattled to the floor and, in the next instant, the girl had stepped forward, her face stark and white as she jerked the flask at the shambling marionette. A jet of water ribboned through empty space and splashed across the thing’s h
ead and shoulders. And still it came on. The girl was sobbing; she jerked the flask again and water cascaded over the Catalyst’s chest. The thing began to raise the axe with its one good hand and Chadderton tensed to leap at its arm. But now the axe was clattering to the floor and the Catalyst had stopped. It began to open its arms away from its chest, looking down to where the water had landed. A low, moaning noise was beginning to issue from its throat.

  ‘Get back into the compartment!’ yelled Chadderton as a sudden premonition swept over him. Thin wisps of smoke were beginning to curl upwards from the thing’s shoulders and head, dancing in the wind which whipped through the shattered corridor window. Now the smoke was thickening and billowing, and the low moan was building and bubbling in the thing’s throat. The Catalyst clutched at its chest as smoke began to envelop its form. The corridor was filled with the stench of burning and the thing began to shriek in fear and pain.

  ‘Master . . . Master! MASTER!’

  With a sound like the sudden flap of a canvas sail, the Catalyst’s upper torso and head burst into thick, oily orange flame. The blast hit Chadderton, singeing his hair and eyebrows as he leaped back, shielding his face with one hand. Shrieking filled the corridor; the blazing marionette whirled and began to blunder in his direction. As the thing clutched at the corridor wall, flames transferred to the gristle and tissue which Chadderton saw for the first time was growing there. It hurtled towards him, arms outstretched and groping. Chadderton flung himself backwards from the fiery embrace, crashed to the floor and felt the undead fireball pass over him. He was burning again, just like that faraway time in that neatly-­trimmed back garden. His jacket was burning and he forced himself to roll over and over. The screaming was receding now and he squirmed round to see the burning figure lurching away from him down the corridor in the direction of the locomotive. Everywhere it touched, hungry flame leaped and licked at the corridor walls. Chadderton felt something flap over him and looked up to see that the girl had reappeared from the compartment and had thrown her overcoat across his burning jacket. She did it mechanically. Chadderton could see that she was in shock; it reminded him of the look on Mark’s little girl’s face not so long ago. He knew that the Catalyst was screaming its way back to its master, spreading fire as it went. Even now, flames were beginning to take hold of the corridor. The green creeper-­like tissue, which hung thickly at the far end of the carriage, was burning and sizzling fiercely. Chadderton took the girl’s arm and pulled himself to his feet.

  The Ghost Train was burning. There was only one way to go. Chadderton turned towards the rear of the train, dragging the girl after him.

  Thirteen

  Azimuth was stronger than it had ever been. It surged onwards and ahead to its ultimate freedom, glorying that its imprisonment on the lines would soon be over forever.

  Mark continued to probe secretly, keeping his existence apart from Azimuth, knowing that one mental slip on his part would be the end of everything. He saw the lines of force across the countryside, saw how they interconnected with the King’s Cross line; finally understood how the ‘connection’ had accidentally been made. He advanced down the King’s Cross line itself, towards London. Following the surging, pounding lines of force, he moved ahead of the Ghost Train, testing and probing.

  And then, he found what he was looking for: another line under construction which branched off from the main line a hundred miles ahead; a stretch of local line which extended three-­quarters of a mile but which had not yet been completed. A railway line leading nowhere.

  He felt danger and fled back to meet the train. But Azimuth was still unaware of his presence. He saw that the soldier was dead; saw the Catalyst advancing on the terrified young girl while Chadderton hovered behind it, unsure of what to do next. Mark decided to risk it, planted the thought in Chadderton’s mind, and then realised that he had made a mistake. Instantly, Azimuth had sensed him. Forces stronger than himself converged on him yet again, more dangerous and powerful than they had ever been before. It began to hunt, puzzled that it should have scented him when it knew that he no longer existed. Mark fought to hide, realising that he had found the way to defeat Azimuth, only to let it slip away from him because of his concern for two human beings.

  Waiting to be discovered, he suddenly felt agonising pain shoot through the fibre of Azimuth’s being. Azimuth turned aside from its search and brought its concentration to bear on the source of the pain, believing that this was where the unseen presence was to be found. The pain grew greater. Azimuth shrieked, the depth of its agony sending more spasms into Mark’s consciousness. Something was burning. And, as Azimuth turned aside, Mark seized his opportunity and plunged into the power source which permeated the atmosphere, knowing at the same time that he was laying himself wide open to discovery and attack. In an instant, it was done.

  Mark flowed ahead down the line, took control of the points, and switched. He felt the points move, felt the rails shift and lock. Using Azimuth’s own power, he fused the points so that they could not be altered. The Ghost Train had been diverted onto the line under construction. It had been diverted onto a line with no ending: a one-­way ticket to the limbo from which Azimuth had been summoned.

  Now, Azimuth had found him. A shock wave hit Mark full on. Azimuth tried to flow into his mind and destroy him but found only the ruins of his memories, the pillaged temple of his thoughts. It searched the ruins like a scavenger hunting for a refu­gee. It scented him and gave chase. But Mark was long gone to his place of safety. Howling and screaming in rage, fear and pain, Azimuth returned to the line and attacked the change which Mark had brought about. But the change had been made with its own power. The alteration in Azimuth’s line of force was immutable.

  The spasm of rage and pain which Azimuth now vented on the railway lines, stretching hundreds of miles back to Edinburgh, contorted and withered them like living tissue. Screeching and protesting, the lines buckled and curled upwards and sideways, like steel snakes in a fire.

  Mark doubled back and returned to his body in the driving cab. Azimuth surged and flowed through the fabric of the train, too concerned now to notice his presence as it tried with all of its strength to reverse what Mark had brought about. Energy crackled and flared in the driving cabin as Mark clambered slowly and painfully to his feet. He had forgotten the constant, gnawing pain in his bones. There was a great roaring sound behind him; some kind of commotion. Something was clawing blindly down the train towards the locomotive. Something that screamed and thrashed and spread fire. Fire.

  Fire.

  The danger signal registered with Mark seconds before the driving cab door burst inwards to admit the flames of Hell itself. He curled tightly down on the floor as a blazing fireball exploded into the cabin.

  ‘MASTER!’

  The screaming belonged to some abominable demon-­child that was in dying agony and which shrieked for help from its inhuman master. Mark felt his hair burning as he flung himself out into the living corridor which formed the bridge to the rest of the train. The bridge itself was burning furiously. The generator still pounded maniacally as flames licked around it. Frantically, Mark scrambled away from the cabin, feeling the searing blast on his back as the cabin erupted into flame. The force of it hurled him forward, pitching him down the corridor and into the mutated carriage ahead. He knew that the thing which had burst into the cabin had been the Catalyst. Now, its frenzied screams were drowned by a harsher, louder and more inhuman bellowing.

  Thick green steam curled and billowed in the carriage. The overhanging green cartilage and muscle hissed and spluttered, exuding a stinking odour. Flames leaped and danced sporadically. It reminded Mark of trying to burn a pile of wet leaves. Ahead of him, the next carriage was a raging mass of flame. There could be no way out.

  Mark turned to the carriage window beside him. Could it be done?

  Of course it can’t be done.

  They do it on T
V.

  But that’s not real.

  Two SAS men once did it for a bet.

  But they were killed.

  I can’t stay here!

  The wind will rip you off the roof. There’ll be nothing to hang onto. Your body can’t take it.

  Fuck it!

  Mark tore a suitcase free from the overgrown mass that had once been a seat and swung it at the all but absorbed window. The glass shattered instantly, tattered green creepers whipping out through the ragged gap. Mark could feel the suction on his body. He plunged through the smoke to the window frame and braced one foot on the window’s rim, reaching upwards and over into the blackness above him. A spurt of flame belched from the driving cabin as he forced himself through the aperture. The wind screamed and tore at his body.

  Chadderton dragged the girl after him down the train, the fire axe firmly clasped in his other hand. For a little while, she had wanted to return for the soldier’s body, but he had been able to convince her that by now the carriage they had been in was a fireball. Smoke curled and billowed around them as they pressed on, and Chadderton knew that the fire was creeping slowly but insidiously along the length of the train towards them. Somewhere above the roar and crackle he could hear another sound: a distant howling that could have been the wind but which he knew was more than that. As they stumbled into the guard’s van, he could feel the occasional shuddering which seemed to shake the train as if it were a living creature in agony.