Exodus, page 10
“That was fourteen months ago,” Leah whispered raggedly. “I haven’t been back to see my father since. If something’s happened to him—” Her voice broke and she couldn’t continue speaking.
Simon tried to figure out what to say but couldn’t. Leah’s fears were his own, and he didn’t know how to deal with his own.
Angrily, with a trace of embarrassment, Leah slid away from him and resumed her place on the other side of the plane.
For a while, Simon tried to listen to the plane’s engines and the other whispered conversations around him. He wanted something to take away the guilt and fear that plagued him. She’s not my problem. But he felt like she was. She’d touched his emotions and made him realize how raw they were.
“Maybe your father made it out of London,” Simon said after a while. “He could be in one of the refugee camps.”
Leah ignored him. She turned on her side and pulled a worn coat up over her head, shutting him out.
Simon leaned back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. Her father might have made it out of London. Several thousand had. But Simon knew his father would never leave. Grudgingly, his stomach partially full, he drifted off to sleep.
But the demons waited on him there.
Nine
REFUGEE CAMP
OUTSIDE PARIS, FRANCE
S imon only stayed in Paris for sixteen hours, long enough to secure passage to Coquelles, not far from Calais. A heavy blanket of snow lay over the French countryside. Most of the meteorologists seemed to think it had something to do with the strange weather and power that seemed to gather over London.
On the tri-dee, storms roared through London’s streets without interruption, filled with jagged lightning and unaccustomed heat. Some of the reports that got out of the city said that an incredible black fog filled much of the sky and blotted out the sun.
“You’re sure you want to go there?” the truck driver asked after Simon had made the deal to help with the cargo in return for them taking him along.
“I need to,” Simon said. If he had to, he’d walk through the snow to get to the hell on earth dawning in London.
In the back of a cargo truck filled with supplies for the English refugees, Simon sat still and tried to remain warm. He’d arranged passage by agreeing to help the truck driver and his second with the loading and off-loading of the supplies. It was backbreaking labor, but they’d added sandwiches and wine as well.
The back of the truck wasn’t heated. He’d managed to buy a heavy winter coat, gloves, and a watchcap with some of the money he had left. There hadn’t been enough money left over to purchase a pistol and ammunition although he’d wanted some kind of armament.
Not that it would do any good against the demons.
His breath fogged out in front of him. Cases and buckets rattled in their restraints as the driver drove. Through the flaps at the rear of the truck, snow continued to come down in thick, fat flakes. Pristine whiteness, lit up by the moon, already covered the landscape.
Without warning, the truck jerked violently to one side. Boxes tumbled across each other and crates skidded across the metal floor.
Simon shoved both arms out, managing to span the rear compartment of the truck and brace himself as boxes fell all over him with bruising force. For a moment he thought the driver was going to lose his vehicle.
When the truck finally stopped, Simon pushed the supplies off and stood up. He stepped over the tailgate and down to the ground.
The driver and the handler stood at the front of the truck, gazing glumly down at the shredded left front tire. The driver cursed beautifully, and with real feeling.
“What happened?” Simon asked in French.
“I don’t know. It just went out from under me. Lucky I didn’t crash us into a tree and kill us both.”
The truck had left the road and plowed through the newly fallen snow. The fluffy whiteness came almost to the top of the truck’s hood. A deep path led back to the road.
“Hey.” The handler pointed down the road at a pair of approaching headlights. “Someone’s coming.”
The driver returned to the truck cab and brought out a roadside flare. He triggered the ignition and a blaze of sparks carved a hole out of the darkness before settling down to a deep ruby glow. He tossed it onto the road.
Simon waited, but he stood apart from the other two men. There were more good stories to tell at the moment than bad ones, but the tales of thieves and murderers still ran rampant. If the people in the other truck intended to do them harm, Simon felt he still had a chance to escape cross-country. He could survive in the harsh climate.
He stood silently at the truck’s side, taking advantage of the shadows. The vehicle was another truck from Paris. The new arrival was loaded up with supplies as well.
Leah Creasey sat inside the cab, but she got out with the driver. She looked swallowed up by the big coat she wore.
The drivers quickly sized up the situation, then the man who’d driven the wrecked truck came back to Simon.
“The truck,” the man said, “isn’t going to go anywhere. Even with the winch on the other truck, we’re more likely to get them stuck as well. Jacques and I will stay with the truck, but the other driver has offered to take you the rest of the way.”
Simon studied the older man’s face. Everything in Simon screamed to go, not remain stuck here. But that wasn’t how his father had brought him up. He’d been brought up to keep his word, and now—in the face of everything going on in London—that seemed important to do.
“I said I’d help you unload the truck in exchange for the ride,” Simon replied in French.
The driver waved the offer away. “It will be hours, perhaps days, before anyone arrives to help us, my young friend. You’ve said you have family in the refugee camps. Go. Go and take care of your family.”
Simon didn’t argue. He thanked the man and started for the back of the truck.
Instead, the driver of that one waved to him. “Up here. Sit in the cab with us. There is room.”
Staring through the frost-covered window, Simon saw Leah looking back at him.
“Hurry,” the driver said. “There are people much in need of these supplies.”
Reluctantly, Simon opened the door and clambered inside. Leah scooted over, but there was still barely enough room.
“It’s going to be a tight fit,” Simon said. “I can sit in the back.”
“Nonsense. We’ll be fine.” The driver engaged the gears. “Perhaps a little more warm than we otherwise might have been.” He smiled beneath his mustache. “Lucky for you we came along, eh?”
Simon nodded and looked out the window at the two men they’d left with the truck. Not so lucky for them. Then he breathed out and the window fogged, erasing them from view.
Hours later, Simon came awake as the truck driver changed gears and pulled off the main road. A sign beside the road announced Coquelles.
Leah slept beside Simon. Her head rested against his arm, rocking gently with the sway of the truck.
“Not much longer,” the driver said.
Simon looked down at Leah and thought about waking her. In the end he decided against it, thinking there was no reason for her to dread what she was about to find out.
“You’re planning to go to England?” the driver asked.
“Yes.”
“You have family there?”
“My father.”
The driver glanced at Simon. “Things over there…they’re not so good, you know.” Concern showed in his weathered face.
“I know.”
“Perhaps your father, he will be in the refugee camp. One can hope so, eh?”
“Sure,” Simon said. “Maybe he will be.”
But Thomas Cross wasn’t at the refugee camp.
The camp was a collection of featureless prefab buildings plunked down all around the small town that lay at the other end of the channel tunnel. For a time the underground and underwater railway line had been nicknamed the Chunnel but the name hadn’t stuck.
The prefab buildings had been added when the survivors first started coming over from England. From the stories Simon gathered, many of them had come over by the tube, almost reaching the other end from Folkestone, Kent, before the power had gone off. For days, several others had trickled through on foot, till finally the monsters had shut down all egress through the channel tunnel.
Monsters.
That was what they were calling them now. Simon knew the name fit. He’d read about them in the Underground nearly every day of his life.
The survivors were lost and traumatized. Most of them were still awaiting word of family and friends, but hope dimmed with each passing hour. Boats and ships seldom made passage across the English Channel now. More often than not, captains brave enough to take their vessels across the water were getting sunk. And there were precious few survivors left to pick up along the coast. The monsters hunted there as well.
With dawn breaking in the east, a golden glow in a vague dirty-cotton sky, Simon found the man he’d been told about. Bolivar Patel was a salvage expert who’d plied his trade in the frigid North Sea and in the English Channel. Tanned and fit, he was in his early fifties, spry and fierce. His East Indian heritage showed in his dark skin and hawkish nose.
Simon found the man in the cantina after hearing he’d arrived less than an hour earlier with a boatload of survivors. Most of them were children whose parents had stayed behind.
The cantina was crowded, serving out soup and bread to hundreds that came up with bowl and mug in hand. They had their choice between tea and water.
“Captain Patel?” Simon called.
The captain turned to look at him.
Simon knew his size made him stand out immediately.
“Do I know you?” Patel stood with a bowl of soup and bread in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. He wore dungarees, a khaki shirt, a thick woolen coat and a winter hat. A burn stood out against his left cheek.
“No, sir.” Quietly, Simon told Patel about his need to get to England, and of Horner’s message.
“Get something to eat,” Patel said, “then join me over there.” He waved toward a table in the corner where five men sat hunkered together.
Simon hesitated, then went and stood in line till he was served. He joined the men in the corner.
Patel quickly made introductions, identifying each of the men as part of his crew. Most of them had finished eating and now sat smoking.
“You’d have to be a fool to want to go there.” Patel pushed a chunk of bread across the bottom of his bowl to get at the last of the soup.
Anger stirred within Simon, but he kept it tightly under control. “My father is there.”
Patel eyed him warily. “Your father—” He sighed tiredly and wiped at his dark eyes. “You’ll have to forgive my bluntness, Mr. Cross. I’ve not much use for politeness these days.”
“I understand.”
“I hope so.” Patel chewed and swallowed. “But the sad truth of the matter is that your father is most likely dead.”
“I have to know.”
Patel stared at him a little while longer. “Can you use a rifle, Mr. Cross?”
“I can. And well.”
“We’ll see.” Patel grinned slightly, but there was no mirth in the effort. “These…creatures are almost unkillable.”
With what you’re using, yes. Simon ate his soup, finding it warm and tasty.
“If we see them, if we engage them, the guns we have are there only to slow them down long enough for us to escape. If I should be faced with the dilemma of you not leaving the boat to make room for a woman or child when we reach the other side of the Channel, you should know that I will kill you to make that happen.”
Looking into the man’s cold, dead eyes, Simon believed him.
“There won’t be a problem,” Simon assured him.
“Then be at the dock an hour before sunset.”
“Thank you, Captain Patel.”
Scowling, Patel stood and took his bowl with him. “Don’t thank me, Mr. Cross. By allowing you to do this, I’ve very probably just signed your death warrant.”
Ten
DOWNTOWN
LONDON, ENGLAND
C onscious of the night around him, Warren stood across the street from the building. The address matched what had been on the piece of paper the woman had given him. Trepidation, confusion, and curiosity warred within him. Curiosity was winning out, but he didn’t give in to it easily.
There was so much he wanted to know. And so much he was afraid of.
Remembering his mother’s curiosity about the arcane held him back. The interest had transcended, became more than curiosity and turned into obsession. In the end, it had gotten her killed. It had almost gotten Warren killed too.
The gunshots that had forever changed Warren’s life echoed inside his head again. The sounds triggered the smell of burned flesh, then a wave of sickness that turned his knees to water. He leaned heavily against the building behind him.
Bloated corpses lay on the sidewalk around him. The legs of another stretched out of a window within his reach. A trio of cats fed on it, safer there than on the street.
In the aftermath of the demonic invasion of London, many of the borderline domesticated animals—such as cats and birds—had turned feral again. During the fitful snatches of conversations he’d had with other scavengers the last few days, Warren had learned that some people believed animals had been affected by whatever evil magic now filled London.
It seemed only fair that the animals turn on the humans, though. The people that had once fed the cats and the pigeons in the park now stalked them for food. The immediate world was turning into a grim place.
You’re going to have to turn with it, Warren told himself. Or you’re going to die. He knew that was true. When no immediate rescue had come with several days now passed, he’d had to give up on it and direct his thinking toward survival.
Days had passed since the Hellgates had opened. There hadn’t been an hour that Warren hadn’t thought of the note in his pocket. Several times he’d come close by but hadn’t approached the building.
The structure was an older eight-story apartment building. Snow covered the street, the eaves, and the windowsills. No lights showed anywhere. If not for the people that Warren saw going in and out, he’d have thought the building abandoned.
There was something more there, though. Magic surrounded the building. He could feel it and recognize it for what it was.
But why hadn’t the demons discovered it? Unconsciously, he turned to look at the malevolent smoke from the Hellgates that permanently smudged the horizon these days. It was still there, still pulsing against the sky and doing whatever it was doing to ruin the city.
Reaching into his pocket, Warren took out a peppermint candy, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Then, knowing he really didn’t have a choice if he wanted to know for himself, he shoved his hands into his duster pockets and crossed the street.
“Who are you?”
For a moment, Warren thought the voice had come from the building. Instinctively, he retreated down the short flight of steps leading up to the building’s front door.
Then a big, blocky man with no neck and a bowling ball for a head moved out of the shadows and into the moonlight and snow. Cool green fires burned along the lines of the tattoos that covered his face. He’d shaved his head, showing even more tattooing there. Gold hoops dangled from his ears.
“Warren,” Warren stammered. “I’m…Warren.”
“What are you doing here, Warren?” The man had a Scots accent.
“I was invited.”
“You?” The man raised an eyebrow, arched sharply in doubt. “Who would be inviting you?”
“Edith Buckner.”
The man frowned. “She didn’t say anything about inviting you.”
“Maybe I made a mistake.” Warren started to leave. Before he reached the last step, though, he knew leaving was the wrong thing to do. That itch inside his mind tugged him back toward the building. He stopped and turned around, looking straight up the side of the building.
He felt the power inside the structure. It was strong, but it was unfocused, wavering, rising and falling like ocean surf pounding a beach. It was like a symphony, but rather than being in harmony, the notes were discordant and jarring. The vibration set his teeth on edge.
But he belonged inside. He was certain of that.
With meaty arms crossed over his broad chest, the big man still stared at Warren malevolently. His coat had opened enough to reveal the butt of the pistol he had hidden there.
Heart at the back of his throat, Warren ascended the steps again. He locked eyes with the big man, pushing with his mind the way he’d intuitively learned to do.
“I belong in there,” Warren said in an even voice.
“Not without an invitation,” the man replied.
Warren took the folded piece of paper from his pocket. He held it out.
“This is the invitation,” he said. He put as much confidence in his voice as he could, and he willed the bouncer to see exactly what he needed to see. “It’s the best invitation anyone could ever possibly have.”
The bouncer reached for the pistol under his coat, then pulled his hand away. He studied the piece of paper harder, then nodded. “Go on in.”
“What floor?”
“The eighth.”
Without another word, Warren entered the building. His heart pounded against his breastbone as he passed through the door. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten past the man. But he already felt stronger.
He took a torch from his pocket, switched it on, located the stairwell, and started up.
On the eighth floor, Warren felt the energy more strongly. It was like a river current, pulling him toward it. Even though he still considered turning back, he knew he couldn’t. Whatever lay before him in this life, it lay wherever the energy came from.
