Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (48 page)

He forced himself to follow, ordering his obstinate limbs to run after her. She was out of sight by the time he moved ten paces. In another ten steps, the trees began to sway and his legs became unsteady. He did not know how far he made it before the darkness reclaimed him.

A blazing sun baked Marcus’ back as he lifted shovel after shovel of soot and ash. It seemed like digging and sifting black soot was all he had ever known. His face was nearly as dark as the charred remains of the building around him. He wiped his brow before moving a heavy beam out of his way, and picked up his spade again.

There had to be something there. He had to find something, anything that would tell him what had happened to her. His shovel struck another bone. He had found many already, but none that he could identify as once belonging to his beloved Emily. The femur he cast aside was clearly too large.

He resumed his laborious work, searching for what he feared to find. It did not matter how long he had to search. He would not rest until he had found her remains. Until that time, there would be no peace for his weary body or soul.

On the next shovelful, he saw something glint in the sun as the ash fell from his spade. Marcus dropped his tool, rummaging through the pile until he found the object in the fine silt. The ash-caked object was circular and smooth, save for the protrusion at its top, which reflected through the soot like dirty glass.

Marcus’ heart rose into his throat as he wiped it with his shirttail. His falling tears cleaned it further, revealing a golden circle and a delicate setting that clung to an elegant diamond.

His knees gave way and he sank back into the rubble, clutching the ring in his fist as he wept. He looked to the sky hoping for some divine solace, only to be blinded by the glaring sun above.

“Dr. Wells?” Marcus’ eyes squinted against the brightness.

“Dr. Wells?” The call came again. A lamp, held close to his face, shone with the intensity of a sun. With a gasp, Marcus came fully awake to a quiet hospital room.

Lying on clean, white linens, he soon noticed the firm pressure of the bandage wrapped around his temples, and saw the white cotton strips that held the dressings to his wounded shoulder. Nurse Pennysmith and Dr. Barrows stood next to him, looking down at him with a mixture of relief and concern.

“What—” he sputtered.

“Relax, Marcus. You are at St. Thomas’ now,” said Doctor Barrows, placing a hand on his chest to still him. “You were attacked. Was it the Ripper—?”

“You are in good hands, Dr. Wells,” interrupted Pennysmith with a glare at the Doctor.

“Emily . . . Emily? What happened?” Marcus blurted. His head swam with confusion.

His companions exchanged worried glances.

“That was a long time ago, Dr. Wells. You are in London, now, remember?” said Pennysmith.

Marcus furrowed his brow. His mind began to clear, and the vision of discovering Emily’s ring found its proper place among his darkest memories. The faces of the thugs flashed in front of him—first threatening, then lifeless and torn.

“Yes, of course. Emily is—I dreamed of her.”

“The police will be in later to take a report,” Dr. Barrows said, while closing his medical bag. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

“Thank you.” He sank back, allowing the pillows on the bed to support his aching head once more.

Some two months later, Marcus found himself again walking the street that bordered St. James’ Park. Since returning to his duties, he had avoided that route, opting for the long way home instead. He did not want to pass by the place again. He did not want to relive that memory—that dream. But the cold, drizzling rain forced him to choose the shorter path once more, cutting his near forty-minute walk from St. Thomas’ in half.

A cat’s call broke the dismal silence as St. James’ Park came into sight. The strained cry echoed the dark thoughts that Marcus did his best to suppress. Many times of late, he had again considered calling on Dr. Martin but had not yet found the courage to do so.

Lit only by lamplight, the park was shadowed and desolate. Marcus welcomed the silence as he pressed through the drizzle and soon came to the houses and cottages that hedged the park on its far side. Safely past, he ran his fingers through his thick hair, brushing away the anxiety. The patients he would attend on the day to follow soon replaced the fearful images in his mind.

One patient specifically occupied his attention. She was another victim of the killer still loose on the streets. Like him, she had sustained a serious stab wound to her upper body, in addition to many cuts, abrasions, and mild delirium.

However, the unauthorized treatment she received at the hospital caused him a great deal of concern. He would never have known if the patient had not complained of a burning sensation from an injection she had received. Unable to determine what treatment had been ordered, or even who had administered it, Marcus wrestled over the mystery. He could not allow his patients to be jeopardized by shoddy medical practice.

“Dr. Wells?”

Marcus started at the voice, and realized he had leapt clear into the middle of the cobbled street at the surprise. He pondered the feat for only a moment before returning his attention to the stranger that called his name. The owner of the voice was diminutive and older than himself. Despite his startling appearance at Marcus’ side, the well-dressed man did not look threatening. The stranger peered at him through narrow spectacles.

“Dr. Wells?” he said again, adjusting the fine bowler hat on his head.

“Yes?” Marcus regained his composure.

“I have been looking for you, good doctor.” The man’s flat voice betrayed a hint of German heritage. “I am afraid you must come with me.”

“Who are you?” Adrenaline coursed through his veins, the events of that terrible night ever present in his mind.

“I am called Otto. It is imperative, for your own safety, that you come with me immediately.” Otto’s cane tapped on the cobblestone as he stepped toward him.

“I am not going anywhere, but to my home. If it is all that important, you can find me at the hospital in the morning.” Marcus turned to leave.

“As you wish, Dr. Wells.” The mouth of the mysterious man turned down within the borders of its well-groomed goatee. He tipped his hat.

The scuffle of rapid footsteps told Marcus the stranger was not alone. Movement from the edge of his vision confirmed his fear, but he did not look long enough to see who it could be. Panic filled him as flashbacks of thugs and knives raced through his memory.

His feet pounded the street and his lungs heaved. He would not be herded and cornered like an animal this time. Never before had he raced for his life, and thankfully, he found himself far faster than he remembered. Taking no time to think of where he was going, he passed the park once more and turned down a side street, his pursuers still on his heels.

There were at least three of them by the sound of their footsteps. After the second or third narrow alley, he chanced a look behind. His eyes met those of an assailant in mid lunge. Hit squarely in the shoulders, he fell headfirst to the grimy street.

Feeling a trickle of blood on his brow, Marcus rose to his feet as quickly as he could. Two paces away, his attacker, a young Asian woman, stood ready for another assault. Three others ran swiftly to join her.

From behind, a small arm gripped Marcus firmly around the chest, and a pinch that he knew all too well stung in his neck. Otto’s calm voice came from beside his ear as the contents of the syringe emptied into his bloodstream. “For your own safety, good doctor.”

Everything went dark.

Stiff, aching muscles greeted Marcus when he awoke. Pain throbbed in his temples. This time, it was not a private hospital bed he lay on, but a hard floor. The stale smell of the room matched the weak, grey light coming through its only window. Whether it was dusk or dawn, he could not be sure.

Rolling over, he found a pitcher of water and a leg of turkey on a tin platter. The water was not cold and the meat was not hot, but they were welcome nonetheless. After satisfying his raging hunger and thirst, Marcus inspected his surroundings.

The view from the barred window showed that his room stood some three stories above the street. Between buildings, he could just barely make out the shimmer of the River Thames and what may have been the East India Docks. An overcast sky hung low overhead. He tried the solid oak door leading from the room, but found it, predictably, locked. He shouted until his voice was hoarse, but to no avail.

Once finally exhausted, he sat back on the floor and considered the faded and peeling wallpaper around him. What could the curious man and his henchmen possibly want with him? The hospital must have noticed his absence by now. A resident physician at St. Thomas’ would never miss a shift. The police surely searched for him, likely presuming him abducted by the rampant murderer.

Some hours later, the door latch finally clicked open. An Asian woman entered, and he eyed her suspiciously, recalling how he had been knocked to the ground before everything had gone dark. Marcus immediately thought of overpowering her and making a run for it, until her companion, an incredibly large and muscled man, followed, filling the doorway.

“Comfy, mate?” asked the gorilla of a man. A new plate of meat clattered on the floor, followed by a fresh pitcher of water. The burly stranger did not seem much interested in a response, and gathered the used dishes without so much as a glance at Marcus. He wore a set of common worker’s pants and a loose shirt hung from his broad shoulders, but his large, hairy feet were bare.

The woman, garbed in a red robe of oriental styling, strode to the corner where Marcus sat. Ebony hair pulled tightly back framed her square and serious face. Stooping, she grabbed his chin, forcing him to look her in the eye. He did not resist, for fear of her well-muscled counterpart.

“His head is healed already. He is far along.”

Her English, though abrupt and heavily accented, was clear. She turned his face to the left, and then the right, inspecting him closely, but not in the manner of a physician. While she worked, Marcus briefly considered making a hostage of her, but he quickly dismissed the idea—besides being unarmed, he could not see himself taking advantage of a smaller woman in such a way. She pulled back his shirt collar and unveiled the black scar on his shoulder. That, too, was thoroughly inspected.