Whitechapel Gods (18 page)

The cries of the damned hammered on Oliver’s ears. He struggled to keep his concentration amidst rising panic.

At last, Aaron nodded; then his eyelids began to flicker again. Oliver hung for an endless few minutes as his impromptu companion performed whatever inward gyrations the contact required. Doubt worried at him—
What are you thinking, allying with this horror?
—but he quashed it with logic: one of these unholy creatures was easier to deal with than three. That made sense, didn’t it?

Aaron jerked and came back to himself.

So? What’s the word?

Aaron shook his head. “I can’t tell. I know he understood.” Aaron took a deep breath, rubbed his abdomen absently with one palm. “But this doesn’t feel right. What if he turns on us after…”

And suddenly Oliver was hanging from a fence, with his left arm cramping and a stick of dynamite in his right hand.

The ground rushed up to meet him. He landed squarely on the already-injured ankle, toppled forward, and slammed cheek first into the brick. His stomach clenched and he barely had time to tear the mask off his face before yellow and white vomit surged up and out. After that, the scalding air rushed in and he hacked up more vileness. Vomit be damned, he slapped the mask back over his mouth and took long breaths until his lungs settled back from convulsions to mere searing discomfort.

Bugger.

He pushed himself up and leaned heavily on the wall. His pack and rifle lay where he’d left them. The lamplight guttered out, disturbed by its rough treatment. A few minutes of exhausting struggle found a match struck and the flame reluctantly wiggling back to life.

A silver, eyeless snout regarded him from just past his shoes.

“Jeremy?” Oliver said.

The rat shook its head.

“Aaron?”

Jeremy ducked his head and clicked backwards and sideways without turning. Oliver lifted his gaze slightly and found the glinting brass eyes of his choir staring back. They’d stepped off to the sides. A clear path spread in front of him, out into the dark.

Jeremy backed some more and ticked three times.

“Jesus. Give me a minute.”

Oliver took a pull from his rapidly emptying water flask and fixed his mask. Then, with aching joints and muscles, he collected his gear and his rifle and pushed himself to his feet. He kept the dynamite and the matches in his pocket.

Jeremy turned and scuttled away. Oliver followed at a slow limp. When he’d gone twenty feet he heard noise and turned.

Ticker hounds and clickrats and half-human Frankensteins gathered behind him. He stepped forward and they followed. He started again at a steady pace, and they trailed behind him like a herd of cattle…or a pack of wolves.

Guess we know his answer, eh, Aaron?

Albright had fallen with a bullet in his throat.

Kinney had died screaming with a hound tearing into his belly.

Sims had crawled nearly thirty yards with a severed arm before the Boiler Men cooked him like a pig with their copper rods.

Phineas had just vanished, and he’d last seen Thomas Moore assaulting a Boiler Man with his bare hands.

And who had run away and hid himself in the shadows of old Mile End Road?

Bailey crouched behind a piece of rotted and soggy wall, once the façade of a building, and clutched his rifle to his chest. It was an old Enfield from his days in the army, made in ’41, and it had seen him through worse snags than this.

Worse than metal beasts impervious to bullets at war with metal men equally impervious?

He silenced his own thoughts to better hear the movements of the enemy.

The Boiler Men had been waiting right at the base of the rusted stair. Phineas Macrae had been the first to spot them. They might have been waiting for hours, not needing air or rest or water. Luck was with the queen’s agents, however, as the Ironboys were some ways off and facing away from the stair, as if waiting for someone to return to it. Bailey had ordered retreat, hoping to slip away and circle around outside their field of vision.

Then the dogs had come at them, tearing out of old shop doors and from beneath the uneven flagstones of the street. Nothing Bailey’s crew had thrown at them had done anything to slow them down. Then the Boiler Men had caught them, charging impassively into the fray and killing everything in sight with Atlas rifles firing as fast as Maxim guns and copper lightning rods lancing through the perpetual night. At some point Bailey had ordered retreat and fled.

There had been noise, then silence. Now there was only the thudding footfalls of the baron’s soldiers patrolling the perimeter of the street, and the shuffle of their guns poking into cracks and beneath rubble.

Bailey held one lapel of his vest over his mouth and sucked a breath. His mask had vanished in the fighting, along with his lantern and half his ammunition. He squatted, sweating, and fiercely willed himself not to cough.

He wished for a moment he was back in India, where the heat was not so oppressive and the enemy died like men aught to. But Boiler Men did nothing like normal men. Even their movements were strange, executed with the confident, measured precision of creatures who knew themselves to be invincible.

A foot fell on the other side of the wall. Time to move on.

Bailey sucked one last burning lungful of air, blinked the soot from his eyes, and crept backwards from his place of concealment. The old shop’s floor had rotted and fallen through, and had formed a shallow crater into which Bailey retreated. He slipped silently into a viscous pool at the bottom, cursing the lack of light.

The Boiler Men seemed to have no need for illumination, and thus hid their movements. Worse, Bailey could not see far enough through the smoke to determine how visible he might be. Did the sides of this hole provide any cover at all?

He exhaled his held breath quietly and drew another through his lapel. The Boiler Men could not be stopped with a single Enfield rifle. It would be at least another two or three hours trekking though these depths to reach the base of Aldgate Tower. Bailey had no mask, no eye protection, no water, no food, and thirty rounds of ammunition that were useless against such adversaries anyway.

But the tape had to be retrieved. No matter the cost, those horrid godlings of Whitechapel had to be dealt with.

“Praise to England,” he muttered to himself. “God save the queen.”

The oily liquid moved.

Tentacles shot out of the pool at the base of the hole, entangling his legs with terrible speed. In an instant the faithful Enfield was readied and a shot plunged into the opaque waters. Whatever lay beneath spasmed with the impact. The tentacles contracted, shredding though Bailey’s trousers with serrated metal edges. The sting of sliced skin shot up through his spine, followed by the blazing fire of slime in the wounds. A second shot shattered the water’s surface, sending up bits of metal and gore. The tentacles shuddered and fell limp back into the pool. Bailey staggered from the water, collapsing on the bank of the hole.

A ness. Damn it—how could he have been so careless? He tested one leg to see if there was any tendon damage.
Flesh, mostly. Good. First order is to get out of this blasted hole.

He planted the butt of his rifle in the muck and pushed himself up.

A shot rang out, and a portion of Bailey’s arm exploded.

Another, and a force like a charging elephant bore him to the ground, smothering his face in the clinging mud. White pain flared in his back and abdomen.

His gasp drew in the unfiltered razor smoke of the downstreets. Choking, he clawed at the slick, cold earth and cursed every machine built since the dawn of history.

The ground shook with the approach of iron boots.

How many worlds They have consumed, I cannot fathom. How many small creatures They have leashed to serve Them—I cannot count them all. How many ghosts have been thrown screaming into Their bellies, I dare not guess.

What I do know is that They will continue in Their way until the end of the universe, for They are machines, and machines do only one thing, over and over.

—II. xvii

Pennyedge had to be killed.

In the short time since retrieving Scared’s precious tape, Bergen had discovered he could not bring himself to take it back to its creator. He knew he couldn’t stomach serving that troll one instant longer. The horrid things he’d done to maintain his cover mounted on his conscience with each step, freed to haunt him by the act of mercy just performed. He had to escape. He had to bring the tape into Bailey’s hands and rejoin his true comrades in arms.

His cover might have been blown anyway. Scared would not have sent his child-killer along if he didn’t at least suspect.

And so Penny had to be killed. Mulls as well, as an inescapable consequence. That saddened Bergen a bit, for Mulls, if he had escaped Scared’s trap and been raised by decent folk, might have become a decent man. Penny was a monster and Bergen spared not a scrap of remorse for him.

The question was
how
to do it. Penny was sharp, and as silent as a snake in the ferns, and was at every opportunity manoeuvring for a killing stab on Bergen. He probably wouldn’t strike until Bergen led them to within sight of the rusted stair, which gave him perhaps two hours of time.

He passed up several opportunities to take his shot—times when Penny was beyond the range of a good lunge and scanning the dark after some suspicious sound—because Bergen was unsure of what to do with Mulls. How many shots would it take? Would the bullets even hurt him through all those mechanical growths? Mulls might have to be down long enough for Bergen to hit him with the steam rifle, and that was a long space of time indeed.

They passed a mound of sodden and collapsed debris on their right. Bergen heard the click of metal tines on stone. He drew his sidearm with his left hand, and aimed it into the dark. Penny spun the wheel on his flasher, then dropped into a crouch and spread his arms, knife in one hand and striking rod in the other. Mulls, after a moment’s delay, brought his rifle up to his shoulder, though he apparently did not see anything to aim at yet.

A clickrat scuttled into the radius of their electric lights. Mulls let off a rough chuckle.

“Ha. Just a littl’un.”

“Quiet!” Bergen hissed. The clickrat stopped and began to make buzzing and ticking sounds. Bergen tuned it out and listened to the other sounds of the dark around them. He let his ears guide his weapon, until its aim rested at the top of the mound.

“Come out where we can see you,” Bergen ordered.

Mulls started and locked his rifle onto the same location. Penny did not move.

The voice came back. “We have you surrounded. Throw your weapons on the ground.”

“There is only one of you,” Bergen said. “And there are three of us. Can you shoot us all, do you think, before we kill you?”

The enemy fell silent, considering, Bergen supposed, what to do now that his bluff had failed. It was an opportunity.

“Boy, rush him,” Bergen whispered. “Mulls and I will pin him down.”

Penny turned his head just enough to examine Bergen in his peripheral vision, and did not move.

“What are you waiting for, boy?”

Penny’s fingers flexed on the handle of his knife.

He knows. It must be now.

He reaimed his weapon and fired at Penny’s back, but simultaneously, the youth darted to the left, ducking under the swing of Bergen’s arm and dodging entirely the arc of fire. A clean miss.

Mulls, perhaps misinterpreting the action, fired his rifle at the hidden man on the mound.

Penny had spun about, quick on his feet like a dancer, and had already covered one of the two strides necessary to slip his blade into Bergen’s throat. Bergen flicked his arm into position and discharged directly into Penny’s chest. A spark exploded there, and the bent remains of the flasher’s striking rod flew smoking from Penny’s hand as he closed the final step.

Quick.

Bergen slammed the butt of his pistol onto Penny’s stabbing arm as it swung in. The strike cracked soundly on bone, but an instant later Bergen’s flank split with the passing of the boy’s blade. Numbing shock spread like lightning into his left leg and arm. His follow-up swing went wildly askew as Penny darted past.

Another shot rang out and Mulls tumbled to the street in a spray of blood and oil. Penny pivoted on the ball of one foot and plunged the knife towards Bergen’s belly.

Bergen locked the fingers of his right hand around the boy’s wrist, keeping the knife still. Penny yanked away but was held prisoner of the older man’s greater strength. With a kind of calm and deliberation, Bergen planted his revolver against Penny’s chest and blew a hole in him.

The youth spasmed and fell, releasing the knife. Penny writhed and sputtered across the flagstones, gurgling and choking—the first genuine sounds Bergen had ever heard him make. Bergen raised his weapon and sighted on Penny’s head.

“Don’t move!” came the command from atop the mound. The hairs on Bergen’s neck tingled.

“Lower your weapon,” Bergen shouted. “In a moment we will talk face-to-face, but these two must be eliminated first.”

“No one else dies without my say” came the reply. “Throw that pistol on the street and we’ll converse like civilised human beings.”

Penny gasped in a shuddering lungful of air. He began to look around and take stock of his situation; his right hand fished into the pocket of his ragged trousers while his left clutched at blood streaming from the bullet hole.

Bergen held his aim steady. “I am an ally,” he yelled. “A comrade of Sir Winfred Bailey Howe. I am not your enemy.”

Unsteady footsteps approached from behind, twitching at Bergen’s instinct to spin and face the danger. The unseen man did not sound experienced in combat; Bergen could probably cut him down before the man got a shot off, but he dared not take his eyes from Pennyedge. At his left, Mulls began to stir.

“What you are,” the voice said, closer now, “is a man who just gunned down one of his own.”

“Weren’t you listening? I am a comrade of Winfred Bailey—”

“Don’t think that tossing that name about gives you any clout with me,” the unseen man snapped. “Place your firearm on the street. The boy isn’t going anywhere.”

“You are a damned fool,” Bergen growled. He sank slowly to his knees and planted the barrel of his pistol against the street. Slowly, eyes on Pennyedge, he unwrapped his fingers from the grip one by one.

Something of the predator slipped back into Penny’s expression. Bergen locked gazes with him, trying to read into Penny’s eyes. The boy’s gaze broke for a moment and flicked to their captor, now only a few paces behind Bergen.

I am the only danger to you in the next few seconds, boy. Attacking him will only gain me the time to kill you. You must attack me.

Penny’s right arm tensed. Bergen’s fingers tightened back around the pistol’s grip.

Penny’s throw was awkward and slow. Bergen had his weapon up and aimed by the time the small knife departed Penny’s hand. His finger yanked back on the trigger.

A blast splintered Bergen’s left ear. White muzzle flash blinded him. Chips of stone and concrete exploded up from the street and Bergen’s shot went wildly right.

Cursing, he blinked the sparks from his eyes and fired blindly after the blurred shape fleeing into the dark. An instant later, the gun smoke cleared and the only available targets were a red stain on the street and a cast-off electric lamp rolling to a tired stop.

With a burning fury Bergen stood, whirled, and cracked his captor across the face. The man clattered to the street, a heavy express rifle spinning from his grip. Bergen straddled him as he fell and jammed the pistol against the man’s nose.

He was tall, over six feet, and thin. A flat-topped ash hat, slightly askew, barely hid his tangle of unkempt hair. Goggles and a mask mostly obscured his features, but he appeared to be smiling.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” he said.

Something yanked at Bergen’s heel. The other man slapped Bergen’s pistol aside and scooted from beneath him with surprising speed. Bergen ignored him for an instant and kicked away the clickrat gnawing on his boot.

He swung his weapon back towards the other man before even turning his head.

“He’s developing a taste for shoe leather,” the tall man said.

Bergen squinted at the man’s firearm.

“My two shots to your one,” the man said, with almost a shrug. He held a two-shot derringer in his right hand—a hand bandaged and obviously injured.

“You’ve been counting,” Bergen said. “Do you honestly mean to hold me hostage? It is a long way back to the Shadwell stair.”

“It’s only until we decide what to do with you. Do you have a name?”

“I am Bergen Keuper, originally of Stuttgart, recently of Egypt and Sudan. And yours?”

The man considered a moment. “John Bull.”

“That was impolite,” Bergen said. “I spoke truthfully.”

“We’re spies, my friend. None of us are generally truthful.” He gestured with his weapon. “Don’t pretend ignorance when I ask this: do you have the ticker-paper?”

“Yes, I have it.”

“Lay it on the ground.”

“
Herr
Bull, you seem to be under the impression that you have an advantage over me. Allow me to elucidate our situation. Your derringer, while sufficient to wound me at this range, is no match for my Gasser. You must also realise that, as I am losing blood, I will be forced to end our standoff in short order. If you will not step down I must kill you.”

“And you, Mr. Keuper,” the man said with a twitch of the eyebrow, “seem to be under the impression that I am here alone. As I said,
we
have you surrounded.”

“Do not try to bluff me,
Herr
Bull. If there were other men in your party, I would have heard them.”

“I don’t doubt it—
if
they were men.”

Bergen squinted at the man.
He’s bluffing, surely. I’d have heard…

He let his senses expand, let the focus of his hearing drift and the primeval jungle awareness of ancient man predominate. Silence—but not empty silence. The silence of a tiger watching its prey. The silence of an unseen snake curled to strike. Dozens of watchers, all around.

“Jeremy,” Bull called. “Bring a few up closer, if you’d be so kind.”

A sudden string of ticks; the skittering crawl of a clickrat; heavier steps following. Into the light lumbered two monstrous hounds, a full hand taller than any that they’d fought earlier, with exposed gears churning along their shoulders and back. Soundlessly, they opened their enormous jaws and let oil-saliva slide out between savage teeth. The silver clickrat scuttled forth.

“Thank you, Jeremy,” said Bull, then to Bergen: “There are quite a few more.”

“Yes, I know.” Reluctantly, Bergen lowered, then holstered, his firearm. “How?”

“Not your concern, Mr. Keuper,” said Bull, also lowering his weapon. He popped the derringer into his coat pocket. “The tape, if you’d be so kind.”

Bergen kneeled and began to shrug off his pack and the steam rifle. “I must know who you work for.”

Bull considered a minute, then nodded. “I work for Bailey. Against my better judgement sometimes, I admit. I assume you work for John Scared.”

Bergen snorted. “No longer.”

“You were the inside man, then.”

“I was.”

“That settles that, I suppose,” Bull said. “Since you can imagine what would happen to you were you to turn on me, I suppose I can trust you at least that far, eh?”

Bergen grunted. He reached into his pack to retrieve the tape. His first impulse was to unravel the steam rifle and try to make a fight of it, but he stifled that. “I have told you the truth. You have not even told me your name.”

A muffled crack sounded from the right. Bergen and his captor spun to see Mulls, silhouetted by his own lamp, firing his air rifle into the dark.

Bull was the first to react. “Stop! They won’t hurt you if you don’t…”

Bergen turned his eyes away and said nothing.

A half-dozen scraping growls went up, followed by a crash. Then Mulls’ lamp sparked and died, and Mulls’ screams began.

“Jeremy!” Bull cried. “Stop them! Get them off him.”

The silver clickrat sat still and did nothing.

He had to die,
Bergen reminded himself.
If only the bullet had done its work.

Bull stepped closer to retrieve his rifle. Bergen clamped it to the brick with one powerful hand.

“What are you doing?”

Bergen set his face and eyes grim. “He is loyal to Scared. This cannot be avoided.”

What’s one more atrocity, after all the murder I have done for that man?
Bergen thought. He stared into the younger man’s eyes, wide and quivering behind the goggles, until the screams stopped and the tearing and crunching began.

“He could have been taken prisoner,” Bull said quietly, venomously.

“He would have realised that bullets do not kill him and then turned on us.”

Bull faced the horror perpetrated upon the dead man’s corpse, though the dark hid it. With the breaking of that gaze Bergen felt something die inside him. He quashed the sting of it, and refused to mourn.
I sacrificed my soul to this work long ago.

They sat in reverence until the feast ended and the silence rose once more.

Bergen released his grip on the man’s express rifle. Bull held out his hand.

“The tape.”

Bergen handed it over. Bull slipped it into a pocket, then snatched up his weapon and his pack.

“Gather your property and let’s go.”

“I know the way back.”

“Then you lead.”

Bergen hefted the steam rifle and his supplies back onto his shoulders and pulled the straps tight across his chest. They secured their burdens in silence. The younger man oozed regret and anger. Bergen steeled himself against his own sense of shame and said what needed to be said.

“I apologise in advance for asking this, but I must know.”

Bull nodded for him to continue.

“Your hounds—did they get the boy?”

Bull’s stare was granite. “We’d have heard it, don’t you think?”

“Easy, Tom. Sit on up.”