Exodus, page 17
Simon spotted a few of the groups that had small children. “Doesn’t anyone take care of them?” he asked.
“How?” Giselle’s voice sounded tired.
“There’s food in the city.”
“Going after it only makes them targets for the demons. Bait in a trap. It’s better if they leave. The Templar council hopes the civilians leave. That would free us up somewhat on our own course of action.”
“The French aren’t exactly happy with all the refugees that are piling up on their shores.” Simon had heard a lot of resentment about the situation after he’d landed in Paris and made his way to the English Channel.
“Can you think of another thing to do?” Giselle’s tone challenged him.
Simon looked away from her and at the dark cloud that hovered over London. “No.”
“Then until someone can think of something else, that’s the plan.”
Simon followed Giselle through the streets and alleys of Newington. Full dark had descended upon the city. All of the electric lights were out, and if there were any oil lamps still to be had, no one lit them. He’d never seen London that dark, though he had imagined it as a child when he’d read about the German night attacks on the city in World War II.
They hunkered down across Elephant and Castle Street from the tube station house. The house was a two-story stone box with arched windows. Some time in the past the structure had been painted dark red, but the paint was blistered and peeling from weapons fire or acid. The windows had been broken out and bodies littered the sidewalk in front of it.
The street had been named for a pub that had been built sometime in the 1700s. It had been rebuilt twice in the 1800s. The name had come from the Indian elephant and the howdah carried on its back, which had looked a little like a castle to early British travelers. But the symbol had been adopted by the Cutlers’ Company, which carried the image on their coat of arms. Later it was used by the Royal African Company for the slave trade the Stuarts had taken part in.
“They took out the subways a few years ago,” Giselle said as she eyed the street. “It would have been to our advantage if they’d left them.”
Simon silently agreed. His father had brought him to the area when he was a boy, familiarizing him with all of London the way Templar were supposed to do with the sons and daughters that would join them as knights. Simon could remember using the underground pathways, called subways in Britain while the Americans called their tube trains by that name, to get across the busy street. Now the streets were more European, featuring street corners and pedestrian crosswalks.
Back then, when the choice had been made to rebuild the Elephant and Castle area, city planners had felt the subways were too unsafe. Simon would have gladly taken his chances with muggers instead of demons.
Simon carried the Grenadier. He’d sheathed the sword down his back. He sat and listened, knowing that was what Giselle was doing.
Every now and again, the wind carried the sound of screams and roars, and the stench of dead things.
“One at a time, then,” Giselle whispered. She led the way, using the armor’s speed to get her across the street quickly.
Another Templar went next, following the order that Giselle had prescribed. Then Simon ran across with the cluster rifle in his arms.
He took up a position inside the tube station. The moonlight penetrated the gloom just enough to show the debris that had been left by looters and battles that had been fought there. Vending machines lay overturned on the floor. More bodies lay sprawled. The reek of death filled the interior so strongly that Simon had to open his mouth to breathe.
The rest of them crossed the street without incident, but a gliding shadow high in the air attracted Simon’s attention. He stood behind one of the broken windows that left him with a clear field of fire.
The movement drew his eyes naturally, and the Grenadier followed. As he watched, a Blood Angel landed on the side of one of the buildings across the street. The demon clung there like a locust or a bat, looking obscene and predatory. Moonlight glistened across the leathery wings.
Simon kept the Blood Angel in his sights but didn’t move his forefinger into the trigger guard. He’d been trained not to do that until he was ready to fire.
A moment later, the Blood Angel pushed away from the building, spread its bat-like wings, and took flight. It disappeared almost immediately without a sound.
As he turned around, Simon noted that even the Templar looked relieved. No expression showed on their faceplates, but their body language revealed it.
“They don’t come alone,” Giselle whispered. “That’s one thing you can always count on.”
They skirted the vending machines, which had long since been emptied, and the bodies. Simon grimaced when he saw that the corpses had been robbed. He doubted that the demons would have any use for human money, but he supposed there might have been some purpose for wanting personal possessions.
The Elephant and Castle station didn’t have an escalator. They took the steps down to the underground rail.
Over half of London’s tube system was aboveground. The rest of it was buried in the underground. There were two different levels of underground rail. The subsurface tubes were constructed using the cut-and-cover method, by digging a fifteen-foot trench into the earth, then covering it with concrete.
The Elephant and Castle station connected to the Bakerloo Line, which was one of the first to be constructed as a deep-level line. It had been bored using a tunneling shield and ran sixty feet underground for the most part. Except for when it nipped back to level ground here and there. Cut stone and iron rings framed the narrow tube line. Deep-level lines were smaller than subsurface lines, and they used smaller trains.
The Templar made their way around in the dark easily with their infrared imaging, but Simon couldn’t see much. He didn’t like having to rely on them to guide him, but he knew using the flash in his pack would give away their position. His imagination kept seeing demons that reached for him out of the darkness all around them.
“Place your hand on my shoulder,” Giselle said.
Simon found her after a moment and did as she suggested. He still stumbled over debris and bumped up against train cars that didn’t seem to quite be on the tracks.
“What about the electricity through the tracks?” Simon asked.
“All the grids are down inside the city. The power stations were some of the early targets the demons took down.”
Simon didn’t ask where they were going. He already knew, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.
Only a few minutes later, Giselle stopped. Simon felt her shift and knew that she was reaching over her head. A purple light glowed briefly in the palm of her mailed fist.
Then a section of the wall slid away. Simon couldn’t actually see it happen in the darkness, but he knew from experience what the terrible grinding noise was. He felt Giselle start forward, so he followed her.
A moment later, Giselle halted. The massive wall section behind them slid shut with a hollow boom.
“Speak your name,” a mechanical voice challenged.
Simon heard Giselle’s helmet flare open in the claustrophobic quiet of the room where they stood. He removed his hand from her shoulder. They were in one of the hidden checkpoints leading to the London Underground—the secret Underground that no one but Templar knew about.
When the city planners had first begun building the Underground as a means of travel under the city after so many of the people moved from the farms and the rural lands, Templar had been inside their organizations. The Templar had sworn to always protect the land and the city because their prophecies had shown that London would one day be in danger.
With their numbers hidden, the Templar had worked on projects throughout the city, establishing beachheads they could use in their eventual war against the demons. Even now, the work continued, as they hollowed out more and more space underneath London.
“I am Giselle Fletcher, Sergeant of the House of Connelly.” Her voice was clear and proud.
Sergeant? Simon thought, remembering that Giselle was the same age he was. Then he realized that with all the deaths at St. Paul’s Cathedral, field promotions had come rapidly. And there was the possibility that Giselle had made sergeant while he was gone. She’d always been ambitious, her eyes constantly on the prize.
“Welcome home, Sergeant Fletcher. Do you require anything?”
“I’ve got two wounded. They need treatment.”
“Of course. You also have two unauthorized personnel with you.”
That hurt Simon a little. He knew when he’d left two years ago that the Templar Underground would be closed off to him. At the time he’d departed, he hadn’t cared. He hadn’t thought he would ever care again.
But he did. A little. He walled that part of himself off and refused to be vulnerable. Templar were trained to seek out weaknesses in their opponents. At the moment he knew he was going to be viewed as one of their enemy.
“One is Simon Cross,” Giselle said.
“We knew that. He’s not—”
“He’s here as my guest,” Giselle said with an edge to her voice that immediately caught Simon’s attention. “As is the woman with him. I claim that right.”
“You may speak to the proper authorities regarding that matter, Sergeant Fletcher. Please come ahead.”
The wall in front of them suddenly parted. High-intensity lights flooded the checkpoint, stabbing into Simon’s eyes like daggers. He covered his eyes with one hand, but he kept his other one free—in case he was attacked. He had no reason to believe he was safe.
Giselle started forward and Simon followed automatically. The lights were still bright enough to be blinding. There was nowhere to hide.
Twenty
W hat have you done to Kelli?”
The angry voice woke Warren. He cracked his eyes open and blinked against the light, raising his right hand to ward it off. Someone had moved the curtain over his window.
“Did you hear me, Warren?”
Moving gingerly, Warren rolled over on his side. He was still dressed, almost, in the burned remnants of his clothing. He hadn’t wanted to face pulling his clothing off, fearful that so much skin and flesh would come off with it.
George stood at the opening, a cricket bat in his hands. He was tall and athletic, fair-haired and blue-eyed. He belonged to an amateur rugby team and was used to physical violence.
Warren looked at the bat. He didn’t want to be hit. George was powerful and the bat was hard. Even if the bat didn’t break his bones, it would tear his flesh. He still didn’t know if he was healing or merely lingering on the edge of death. He also didn’t know if the pain was leaving or if he was growing more accustomed to it.
“Don’t…hit me,” Warren said, sitting up. He focused on George, willing him to listen to him.
A crazed look gleamed in George’s eyes. Before the invasion, he’d truly been the fair-haired boy. Where Warren, Dorothy, and Kelli had barely gotten by, George had grown up in a world accustomed to wealth. He’d turned his back on his father, who had wanted to groom him for the family business. George had insisted on a career in art.
As it was, George was usually the one who mishandled his money. He’d never had to manage money, and he didn’t feel the same pressure as the rest of them because in the back of his mind he could always go back to his father and his father’s money. He wouldn’t have to live out on the street.
“Why shouldn’t I hit you?” George demanded.
“Because…I don’t…want you to.” Despite the fear that quivered through him, Warren met George’s gaze.
“I don’t care what you want.” George’s nostrils flared. He took a fresh grip on the cricket bat.
He’s scared, Warren realized. Of me. The feeling that went through him was curious. George had always been disrespectful and standoffish to him. Now George was afraid.
“You can’t stop me from hitting you right now,” George declared. He took a step forward.
Warren almost dodged back. Only thinking that sudden movement might rip open some of the burns kept him still. “Don’t,” he said.
“Why not?” George yelled.
Movement at the curtain let Warren know someone was out there. He thought it was probably Dorothy, mousey Dorothy who worked at the bakery and babysat for professional parents. She didn’t like confrontations, but Kelli and George sometimes made her ask Warren for extra money for the rent and utilities.
“Because,” Warren said softly, nonthreateningly, “I don’t want you to.” He tried to put more energy into the force he was directing at George.
George hesitated. He looked panicked and confused. “What have you done to Kelli?”
“Nothing.”
George cursed. “You’re lying, mate.”
“I’m not.”
“Kelli never cared about you, Warren. She hated you. She thought you were creepy and disgusting. And she hated the way you looked at her with those calf-eyes.”
That announcement hurt Warren. He’d always known he’d never stood a chance with Kelli, and most of the time he wouldn’t have wanted to. They had nothing in common. But every now and again, he’d thought she was humorous and attractive. And every now and again she’d treated him like he’d been a real person instead of just a flat mate who had extra money when they needed it.
“Before you got burned,” George said, “she wouldn’t have given you the time of day. Now she’s waiting on you hand and foot. It’s hard to get her out of the flat to go scavenge for food. And we need food, Warren. Water, too.”
Warren hadn’t known that. He hadn’t been conscious much for—for however long he’d been in bed. The sheets were littered with blood and stray bits of burned flesh that had torn free. The stench was suddenly noticeable too.
“I…asked her…to watch over me.”
“She’s acting like she’s been possessed. Won’t leave the flat.” George’s eyes hardened. “You did something to her.”
“No.” Warren’s voice sounded firmer and stronger. Some of the pain fell away as he concentrated on George. “She just…wants to help.”
George shook his head. “Not you, mate.”
“You want to help me, too.”
For a moment, George hesitated. Then he took a step back and cursed. “Stop.”
“What?” Warren tried to sound innocent.
“Just shut up!”
Warren sat still and silent.
“You should have died,” George snarled. “Burned up like you were, you should have died. Anybody else would have.”
“I didn’t. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
George laughed bitterly. “Yes it is. You’re disgusting to look at, you are. A proper fright.”
“What do you want?”
“If you’d died, I wouldn’t have minded you wasting the water, mate. If it didn’t take too long. But it doesn’t look like you’re going to die any time soon. Now you’ve done something to Kelli.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
George attacked without warning, swinging the bat off his shoulder straight at Warren’s head.
Self-preservation warred within Warren. If he didn’t move, he knew George would take his head off with the bat. But he was afraid if he did, he might fall to pieces right there on the bed.
Before he knew it, he reached up with his left hand as he wrapped his right arm over his face to protect himself. He caught the bat and stopped it.
Surprised, Warren looked at the bat. His left hand, still sausage-fingered and burnt black, had curled around the bat. Even though a meaty smack filled the room, there was no pain. There wasn’t even any blood.
George tried to yank the bat away. Despite his strongest efforts, he wasn’t able to. Not to be deterred, George lifted a big foot and tried to plant it in the center of Warren’s chest.
Warren shifted, sliding to the side far more quickly than he would have thought. He caught his attacker’s trouser leg, shoving it up and away. At the same time, Warren yanked the bat out of George’s hands.
George stumbled backward and got his feet under him again. Warren moved at once, sliding off the bed and getting to his feet. He swung the bat, hitting George on the side of the head.
Without a sound, George sprawled to the floor.
Breathing hard, trembling from fear and physical exhaustion, Warren looked down at his vanquished foe. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. Gazing at his left hand wrapped around the haft of the cricket bat, he was surprised to see that his flesh hadn’t torn open.
With a scream, Dorothy erupted from the curtained front of the loft and dropped to her knees beside George. She cradled George’s head on her lap. Tears poured down her cheeks from behind her cat’s-eye glasses.
“You killed him!” Dorothy shrieked.
Even though George had tried to kill him—And he’ll definitely give it another go if he’s still alive!—Warren felt bad about what had happened. He hadn’t intended to hurt George. He’d struck before he’d even known he was going to. Before he knew he could.
“He’s not dead.” Kelli came into the room as well. “George is still breathing.”
Warren had to admit that Kelli was calmer than she would normally have been. She sat on the other side of George and examined his head.
“Nothing seems broken,” Kelli announced.
Dorothy looked up at Warren. “You’re a monster! A horrid, horrid monster!”
“And you’re a twit,” Kelli replied. “Always mooning after George. Like he’d take some notice of you when he has all the other pretty little birds in hand. He shouldn’t have come in here and attacked Warren. I told him that.”
“He had to.” Dorothy brushed long hair from her face. “Don’t you see? Food and water are in scarce supply. He couldn’t just let Warren keep eating and drinking what little we had without helping us get it.”
“I didn’t eat,” Warren said. But he was hungry now. His stomach growled unhappily. He tossed the cricket bat away. “I didn’t even drink much water.”
