As the babies burrow through me like oversized worms, one of them leaps onto my face, knocks away the infants who were jerking on the nails in my head and says in its high-pitched voice, “mummy.”
The others pause and stare at the dissident. The baby readjusts its stance and I get a fix on its face. “Holy Moly,” I whimper.
“mummy,” the baby with the hole in its head says again, firmly this time.
The others point at Mr. Dowling and chant together, “daddy. she hurt daddy. we love daddy.”
“yes,” Holy Moly says. “but we love mummy too. yummy mummy. we love mummy forever.”
“forever,” the babies whisper. “don’t leave us mummy. we love you.”
They’re confused. They stare from me to the clown and back again, fingers flexing, mouths opening and closing.
“Let me go,” I moan. “Daddy and I had an argument. Parents fight sometimes. It doesn’t mean you have to stop loving either of us.”
My voice is gurgly. One of the babies must have bitten into my vocal cords.
The infants stare at me solemnly. Their eyes are still red, but not as red as they were a few seconds ago. Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?
“mummy,” Holy Moly says again. The baby bends over and gently kisses my cheek. Its lips come away sticky with my sluggish blood.
With a heavy groan, I wrap my arms round Holy Moly and bury my face in the baby’s chest. My body shudders and shakes as I sob tearlessly. At least I won’t die unloved if the babies ignore Holy Moly’s protests and finish me off. This is a cold, hostile world, and I’ve lost most of the people who ever cared about me, but I won’t perish entirely alone and loathed by all. That’s small comfort at a time like this, but any sort of a comfort is a welcome blessing in this wretched day and age.
The babies pull back when they see me wailing. “mummy,” they whisper. “don’t cry mummy.” Then they’re all stroking me and making cooing noises, trying to calm me down.
I carry on moaning for a long time, clutching Holy Moly, weeping drily into the fabric of its pure white gown. Eventually, since time is against me, I push myself up and smile weakly at the babies.
“I love you,” I tell them, and it’s the truth.
“we love you too mummy,” they reply, beaming, eyes returning to their normal white color.
“I want to stay here and look after you,” I continue.
“forever mummy,” they nod happily.
“But I have to go.”
Their smiles fade. “don’t leave us mummy.”
“I have to,” I insist. “There’s something very important that I have to do. But I’ll try to come back. I promise. You can read my mind. You know I’m not lying.”
“mummy loves us,” they beam. “we’ll come with you mummy.”
I shake my head. “I wish you could but Daddy wouldn’t like that. He’ll be angry with me when he wakes up. I don’t want him to be angry at you as well.”
The babies frown. The sight of every forehead wrinkling cutely at the same moment makes me laugh. I let go of Holy Moly and ease towards the edge of the bed. The babies nudge aside to make space for me.
“You’ll have to look after Daddy,” I tell them. “I hurt him more than I meant to. Stay here with him, wait for him to wake, then take him to Kinslow.”
“we can take him now mummy,” the babies say.
I smile shakily. “No. He needs his rest. I don’t want you to move him while he’s sleeping.”
What I really mean is that I want to buy some time for myself. In an ideal world, I’d finish off the clown, but I can’t harm him while the babies are here, and they’d know if I tried to trick them. If I told them to leave us alone in the room, they’d see what I was planning and that would enrage them again. I wouldn’t survive a second attack. I’m barely able to hold myself together after the first.
I get to my feet, reel sickly and grab one of the bedposts for support. I feel as if I’m going to black out, the way I do when Mr. Dowling zaps me with the wand, but the moment passes. I’m in agony, bits of myself dripping across the floor, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been torn up just as roughly before. This world seems to take great pleasure in tormenting poor B Smith.
“mummy?” the babies ask, concerned.
“I’ll be fine,” I wheeze, though I’m not so sure of that. The babies did a swift but punishing job on me. My flesh is torn to ribbons all over, ripped away almost completely from around my stomach. Most of my ribs have been snapped off. My neatly repaired insides are a mess. One of the nails has come out of my head—I can see it on the bed, a scrap of my brain matter dribbling from it. Maybe this time the world has pushed me too far.
If not for the vial of Schlesinger-10, I’d probably lie down and let myself fade. I think I have the power to do that, the sorry shape that I’m in. All that’s holding me to this realm is a thin strand of willpower. If I gave up, I’m sure I’d slip free of this mortal coil, and it would be a relief.
But I’m so close to securing victory over the crazy clown and the armies of the undead. One more push, one final surge. If I find the vial and get it to Dr. Oystein, I’ll have played my role to its fullest, and I can go gladly into the great beyond.
Soon, B, soon, I tell myself. You can rest for all of eternity in another day or two. But not yet. It isn’t your time.
“I wish it was,” I sigh.
I know. Me too.
The babies stare at me oddly as I laugh chokingly. I smile and blow them a kiss. “Will you wait for me?” I ask them.
“yes mummy,” they answer instantly. “we–”
“–love you mummy,” I chuckle, mimicking their eerie tone. “Good babies. Look after Daddy for me. Tell him…” I pause, then whisper, “Tell him I’m sorry.”
As the babies nod, I hobble to the door and glance back at my husband. I really am sorry. After what we’d shared and all that he had promised, I wish it hadn’t come to this. If we’d had more time, maybe I could have convinced him to hand over the virus of his own free will. It didn’t need to end this way, me turning on him, betraying him, abandoning him on our wedding day. But once I zoned in on the vial’s location, it was the finish of all that we could have had. No point mourning lost possibilities. In this life, there’s only what is.
I wave weakly to the babies, then stagger into the corridor. Closing the door behind me, I limp through the network of underground chambers in search of the vial that will guarantee the living total victory over the forces of the walking dead, knowing I have to find it quickly and get out of here before my unconscious beloved recovers his senses and tracks me down and kills me.
To be continued…
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ONE
I left Mr. Dowling unconscious. I zapped him with enough electricity to put a normal person out of action for a whole day. But the clown is far from normal and I can’t bank on him staying down for too long. I reckon I might have as little as an hour or two before he stirs and calls for help. Maybe less if Kinslow or one of his other mutants comes to check on him. Time, as they say, is of the essence.
The trouble is, the shape I’m in at the moment, I’d struggle to win a race with a snail. Although Mr. Dowling repaired the worst of the damage, I hadn’t fully recovered from Dan-Dan’s mauling by the time of my wedding. The babies reopened lots of old wounds when they attacked me, and inflicted plenty of new ones.
Every step is agony. The recently restored flesh of my stomach has been clawed away. Most of my replacement ribs have been snapped off. Bones are broken. I’m bleeding all over, thick, gloopy bl
ood slowly oozing from my injuries. I didn’t think there was that much of the crimson stuff left–Dan-Dan drained off lots of it while he was torturing me–but there must have been hidden reserves.
I’ll have to do something about the blood. The loss won’t really harm me, but if I don’t stop it, I’ll leave a trail that even a blind mutant will be able to follow. Still, I can’t worry about that until I locate the vial of Schlesinger-10. If Mr. Dowling recovers sooner than I anticipate, he’ll know exactly where I’m going and he’ll set the mutants on me. No point wasting time. My priority has to be to lay my hands on the vial. Only then can I start planning my next move.
I stagger along, picking my way from room to room through the maze that Mr. Dowling and his assistants have built over the years. If this wasn’t the day of my wedding, there’d be mutants relaxing, working and patrolling the corridors, even this far from the center of the complex. But the celebrations must still be going strong, because I encounter no one. They’re all toasting my health in the wedding chamber, unaware that their master is lying on his honeymoon bed unconscious, while their newly crowned mistress is plotting their downfall.
I’d love to return to Mr. Dowling’s bedroom-cum-laboratory and immerse myself in the pool of restorative blood and brains. A long soak in that would cure many of my ills. With all the mutants still celebrating the wedding, there’s a chance I could steal in, rest up, then slip out again without anyone spotting me. But it’s too risky—if one of them spots me in my bloody, bedraggled state, they’ll know something is up and raise the alarm.
I don’t even stop for a few minutes to rest, since the clock is ticking. Instead I push myself as hard as I can, ignoring the agonized protests of my body as I force it through the pain barrier once again.
I come to a room that looks the same as the others. I would have passed through at any other time and thought nothing of it. But I know from Mr. Dowling’s stolen memories that there’s a hidden door here, so I stop, treat myself to a short pause, then go looking for it.
I shuffle to the wall on my right and lift down the upper half of a woman’s carcass from where it hangs on a hook. The wall behind her is caked with dried blood and dung. The babies bit off some of my artificial finger bones, but several remain intact. I use them to chip away at the mess. After a while, it starts to fall off in chunks and the outline of a door is revealed.
There’s a small, old-fashioned combination lock in the center, the type where you roll the tumblers one at a time until they click into place. I prised the numbers from Mr. Dowling’s memory and they’re somehow still clear in my mind—it’s like I have perfect recall. I start entering the digits until they read 528614592. Then I push down on the slim handle and the door opens.
I stare suspiciously into the gloom of the tunnel on the other side. I still don’t know how I wrung so much information out of Mr. Dowling. I hadn’t planned to squeeze his secrets from him. I didn’t think that I could. Something happened in the bridal suite that I had no control over, and it unnerved me. I don’t like the fact that I operated on auto-pilot like a cold, calculating, experienced spy.
But what are my options? I can’t go back. Mr. Dowling will slaughter me on sight if I don’t get out of here. I might be his beloved, but he can’t let me live, knowing what I know. I’ve got to press ahead as fast as I can. It doesn’t matter how I came by this knowledge. I need to cash in on it, and quickly, before the mutants lock down the complex and come hunting for me.
I enter the tunnel and push the door closed behind me—there’s no way of operating the lock from this side, so I just have to hope that Mr. Dowling’s mutants don’t spot the disturbance and investigate. Then I press on through the gloom. This area isn’t brightly lit, just the occasional light. But that’s okay. I know the way. I could find it blindfolded if I had to.
The tunnel forks and I take the left turn. Then a right, another right, a left. These tunnels are roughly carved. Mr. Dowling only used a few of his mutants when creating them, in secret, away from the gaze of his other followers. All of the workers were killed once they’d finished, like the slaves who built the tombs for the pharaohs in ancient Egypt. He didn’t want anyone to know about this hidden network. It was created for his personal use only.
More twists and turns. I take them without thinking, following the map that was clear as crystal inside Mr. Dowling’s brain. He often comes here to check on his deadly prize, standing before it in ecstatic but horrified awe, like a worshipper at the shrine of some all-destructive god. There are several entrances and routes. He tests them all out on a regular basis, making sure the doors work, that the paths are clear of cave-ins, that no one has been sniffing around his toxic treasure.
It’s not a long journey but I make poor time. I’m incapable of rushing. Still, as slow as I am, I’m dogged, and eventually I draw to a halt at another locked door. This one is protected by four combination locks, each requiring a twelve-digit code, and you’d need a serious stash of dynamite to make an impression on the door or wall. It would take a crack team a lot of time and hassle to break through. Even Ivor Bolton, an Angel who can open almost any lock, would have to admit defeat if confronted with these devilish beauties.
But I have the inside scoop, the elaborate string of numbers flashing in my mind’s eye as if highlighted on a neon billboard. I start spinning the tumblers and soon I’ve set all forty-eight windows correctly. I grasp the round handle and twist. There’s a sighing sound and the door opens inwards, widening the more I turn the handle, like a giant opening its mouth.
I step into a small, steel-lined room. There’s a single light hanging from the center of the ceiling. It switched on automatically as the door opened.
A safe sits in the middle of the room, bolted to the floor. The code for this lock is simpler than any of the others. Mr. Dowling figured that if someone made it this far, the game was up. He set the code out of a sense of irony more than anything else, aware of the things that Dr. Oystein has said about him over the years. I chuckle weakly as I spin the tumblers to the most diabolical of numbers—666.
The safe opens and I sink to my knees. I reach in and pull out a clear tube, no more than twenty centimeters long. It’s sealed with what looks like a plain rubber cork, but I know the cork is made from a special material and is absolutely airtight. It will never shrink or shake loose. And, although the tube appears to be just glass, again it’s been carefully manufactured from a far tougher substance. You could put it on the floor and whack it with a sledgehammer, over and over, without even cracking it.
Just to be safe, there’s a second clear, corked tube nestled within the first, every bit as indestructible as the outer container. And then, snuggled within that, is a vial, maybe fifteen centimeters long, filled with a milky-white liquid. There’s no label on any of the containers, but I don’t need one.
“Schlesinger-10,” I croak, holding the tube up to the light, watching the liquid as it splashes around inside the vial.
I never wondered what it would be like to hold the lives of every living human in your hands. Now that I’m in that position, I find it absolutely terrifying. I know I can’t do any damage to the tubes. I’d have to deliberately uncork the first, slide out the second, uncork that, then slip out and uncork the vial in order to unleash the hounds of havoc. But I still feel sick at the nightmarish thought of the tube slipping through my fingers and somehow smashing open. I guess it’s like doing a bungee jump—you know you’re safely attached, but try telling that to your natural instincts when you’re about to hurl yourself off the side of a cliff.
Reverently, knowing I’m not worthy of such a grave responsibility, I lower the tube and look for a place to store it. But there are no pockets in my wedding dress. I could carry it but I want both hands free. So where…?
With a grisly snicker, I stick the tube inside my stomach and root around until I find some pliant flesh to wedge it into. I grit my teeth as I work the tube firmly into place, taking no chances, not worryi
ng about the discomfort. When I’m satisfied, I shake myself roughly and jump up and down. The brief burst of exercise almost makes me faint, but the tube doesn’t budge. It’s secure.
I feel like an expectant mother, only, instead of carrying a baby, I’m carrying hope for the entire world. If I can get this to Dr. Oystein, the stalemate will be broken and he can release a sample of Clements-13, bringing the curtains crashing down on every zombie and mutant on the face of the planet.
“So, no pressure,” I giggle.
Then I put all humorous thoughts aside, turn my back on the safe, limp into the corridor and make my slow, sluggish, excruciating break for freedom.
TWO
Although most of the access points to the secret tunnels are situated in Mr. Dowling’s base, a few open out into the area beyond. He wanted to be able to skirt the main complex in case it ever fell into the hands of his enemies. As crazy as he is, he likes to cover as many angles as possible.
I absorbed all sorts of memories from the clown, more than I realized at the time. I knew that I was confirming the location of his vial of Schlesinger-10, but I also tapped into recollections of countless trips that he’s made through his underground domain. My mind’s full of maps and ways out of here.
Assessing that information, I try to come to a decision—should I head straight for the surface or stick to the shadows for a while?
The nearest exit is through Whitechapel Station. It wouldn’t take me long to reach it, even in my current shuffling state. I could climb up through the station and lose myself on the streets.
Whitechapel would be my first preference, except I know from Mr. Dowling’s memories that the station is always carefully guarded by his forces, along with the one at Aldgate East. The guards might have been pulled from their posts to attend the wedding, but I can’t count on that. It’s unlikely that the mutants would have left themselves completely open to a sneak attack.