Pandaemonium (41 page)

Merrick sighs, his hand on the door leading out of the coolant monitoring chamber. He can’t lie, no matter the consequences. If it wasn’t for the Cardinal, twice, he’d have lost more than his secret back there, so perhaps it’s appropriate that it should be Tullian’s call.

‘I owe you my life, Cardinal, so I can’t grudge you the truth. The phone is full of video files. Proof of what happened here, specifically regarding my work on holy water and its effects on the specimens. I’m a scientist. I couldn’t bear the idea of it all being lost, of the military erasing my work from history for the sake of their own convenience. Knowledge sometimes is inconvenient.’

‘Where did you get the files?’

‘I snuck into The Little . . . the Alpha labs. That’s where I was when the breakout happened. Forgive me.’

‘In my line of work, Dr Merrick, forgiveness is all part of the service. You have more than my forgiveness. You have my gratitude.’

Merrick is puzzled.

‘I was under the impression that you didn’t want the outside world knowing anything about these creatures, for fear of the resulting hysteria.’

‘I didn’t,’ he replies. ‘But that was when I still believed that this operation was under control.’

Tullian goes first through the door and checks the passageway, sweeping the rifle back and forth. The stairwell they need is a couple of dozen paces away. The path is clear; or at least clear of threats. Blood, limbs, offal and excrement are strewn from wall to wall.

Merrick spots an ID badge attached to a lump of something dark and moist. ‘Avedon’, it reads.

Christ.

Tullian recces the stairs and beckons him to hurry. They advance to the next level, where the Cardinal dashes across the passageway and holds open the door to Security Control.

Merrick makes his way inside, where he staggers dizzily to one corner and vomits into a waster-paper bin. He’s sick again and again, then the dry heaves take him until he wishes there was something, anything else in his stomach so that he could vomit that too. Tullian hands him a half-drunk bottle of water from a desktop and Merrick takes a swig, slumping weakly into a chair. He feels a lump in his throat, the onset of tears. Grief hasn’t had a look-in against fear and horror these past few hours, but seeing that name badge has finally kicked it off.

He wipes his eyes when he thinks the tears are receding, his vision cleared to reveal Tullian busily working two different keyboards in front of the bank of computer monitors and CCTV screens.

Tullian is alert to his resumed attention, and looks round with an expression of both sympathy and resolute intent.

‘They’ll do all this again,’ the Cardinal says sorrowfully. ‘I’ve sent the call. They’ll dispatch a lockdown team.’

Merrick then hears a series of dampened thumps from the door and the corridor outside. He looks across in alarm, but Tullian puts him at ease.

‘That’s the mag-locks coming back online. Some of them, anyway: the restart doesn’t appear to have fixed them all. The ones in this block are functional, though. We’re safe for now. But understand this: the lockdown team will do their job, the military will mop up the mess, they’ll spin a story . . . And then after a while, they’ll do all this again. As a scientist, you know this to be true.’

Merrick nods regretfully. No matter the price of that glimpse: someone is always going to be willing to pay it.

‘Which is why your files could be an invaluable bargaining chip.’

‘Generate a public outcry, you mean? But at what cost in terms of panic?’

‘We wouldn’t release the files. Just let them know we have them, and
threaten
to release them if they ever reprise this experiment.’

‘I can’t see that deterring many scientists.’

‘That’s not who we’d need to deter. This disaster was only possible through proprietary military technology. What’s inside that phone could ensure they don’t try and rebuild this abomination. Can I see it?’

Merrick produces the device. ‘It’s damaged,’ he reports. ‘The LCD’s a mess, but I can hook it up to one of those PCs.’

‘Fine. We should back it up anyway. I’ll find some blank disks.’

Merrick connects the phone and, to his great relief, is able to access its memory. He copies the data across to the local drive.

‘There’s not many files,’ Tullian observes with disappointment.

‘I didn’t have much time. I just grabbed everything I could with a time- and date-stamp that matched my experiments. I haven’t had the chance to even check what’s on this stuff,’ he adds, selecting three files at random and launching them in different windows. A simple drag-and-drop on the multiple-monitor control interface puts them up on separate screens, then Merrick begins sliding the progress bars on each in turn, in order to find himself in shot and confirm they constitute the evidence required. He’s there in all three: standing over a strapped-down demon, undertaking his own personal deal with the devil, his trade-off for that glimpse.

‘Hold on, where did this—’ Tullian begins, cutting himself off.

Merrick looks at what has grabbed the Cardinal’s attention and instantly understands why there is nothing more to say. One of the files has no soundtrack, evidently a CCTV feed supplementary to the cameras Tullian’s men had set up. It’s from high on the wall ahead of Merrick, facing back towards the other cameras: an elevated angle showing him smaller in shot, but for that, displaying the bigger picture.

He turns around to confront Tullian, who has picked up the decoherence rifle and is pointing it at him.

‘Knowledge sometimes
is
inconvenient, isn’t it, Doctor?’ he says, almost apologetically. ‘I wish you hadn’t just seen that, but in your own words, you owe me your life. And I’m afraid I do, vehemently, grudge you the truth.’

Merrick sees the trigger twitch. Then there’s light. Lights everywhere, flickering and indistinct: white shapes stretched and pulled by random refractions in the rain and spray before being temporarily shrunk to points and discs by the wiper blades. Nothing holds its form or position long enough for him to focus. The closest thing to a constant is the perforated blur of lines on the road, stuttering just out of syncopation like a slowing zoetrope.

His eyes are closing; it ought to frighten him how involuntary this seems, but it feels so beckoning, so comfortable. It’ll be okay. Just a few seconds’ rest, ten seconds, three hundred and thirty-three metres, surely he can risk that. NO. He snaps them wide, breathes extra deeply a few times, sourcing oxygen, gives his head a shake. The windscreen is a membrane, fluid and warping, stretching the light, smearing the shapes, blurring the white lines. He’s squinting, narrowing his eyes in an effort to shield the pupils, keep them from contracting so that he can see better into the rain-filled darkness. Maybe if he closes one eye and thus keeps it dark-adapted, then he can open it and close the other next time the oncoming lights are too bright. He tries. Yeah. Closing one eye feels good. It feels too good. He wants to close the other one too.

He hits a straight length of road, an interchange. There are streetlights for the first time in however many miles. He can see the road stretch out, unbending, must be half a mile. Six hundred and sixty-six metres would be twenty seconds. He can close his eyes for twenty seconds. The road is straight. He doesn’t need to steer for twenty seconds, doesn’t need to look for six hundred and sixty-six metres. He can just, yes, that’s it, just . . .

A few moments inside the cavernous laboratory beyond and they all understand that it was not redundant. There are further corpses littered about the place, more clerics by the look of it. Blake would guess six, maybe seven. It’s impossible to tell precisely how many, as it would require an extensive retrieval operation and subsequent limb count. There’s only one that looks comparatively intact, though its head is obscured. It is slumped backwards over a packing crate next to a formidable cylindrical door, this barrier’s strength and solidity rendered moot by the fact of it lying half open. The clinical whiteness of the walls and floor tiles serve to make the blood and viscera all the more lurid, but it’s not that which has him spooked more than the first gore-spattered corridor.

‘What in the name of God happened here?’ Blake asks in a dread-struck whisper.

‘Due respect, Padre, I think you answered your own question.’

In the centre of this antiseptically pristine slaughterhouse, there is a dead demon laid out on a cross-shaped wooden board, its face contorted into an agonised, screaming grimace. Its wrists and ankles are held by steel clamps, but it has had nails driven through its palms and feet. Its skin is flayed and blackened where it has not been cut away completely by dozens of stab wounds.

With all of this to hold their appalled attention, it takes a while for anyone to notice the TV monitor sitting on a desktop next to a jar containing a demon’s claw suspended in fluid. Once noticed, however, it has all of them silently rapt.

It shows another demon secured to a similarly shaped fixture, a steel one this time, with the further precaution of a neck restraint holding its head in place. A figure in black robes approaches, carrying a small vessel of clear fluid.

‘
Let these waters be sanctified by the power, the agency and descent of the Holy Spirit
,’ he incants. ‘
Let descend upon these waters the cleansing of the Three who are One
. . .’

‘It’s a rite of exorcism,’ says Blake. ‘Blessing holy water to drive out demons.’

‘. . . that Satan may be crushed under our feet, that every evil counsel directed against us may be brought to naught, and that the Lord our God will free us from every attack and temptation of the enemy
.’

Then the robed figure opens the vessel and gives a flick of his wrist.

‘Holy water burns their skin,’ says Rosemary in tremulous awe.

Adnan is standing furthest from the monitor, which is why he is able to notice a slight motion off to his left. He whips his head around, convinced the body slumped over the packing crate moved one of its legs.

‘Sendak, I think this one’s alive.’

Adnan hurries closer to it, and as he does so, the figure definitely moves again, apparently trying to sit up. Then its torso rises enough for Adnan to see that half of its head is missing above the jawline, a millisecond before a demon leaps out from behind the crate. In his panic, Adnan shoots the demon three times and pumps the gun for a fourth before Sendak restrains him.

‘Adnan, easy. You can only kill it once.’

The blood is rushing around Adnan’s ears, its sound almost as loud as the constant pulsing. He needs to get it back. His HUD displays an increase to his frag count, but his ammo level is looking less healthy. It was true what Old Man Murray said: first-person shooters go downhill from the moment you see a crate.

‘Shit. Sorry. One shot left.’

‘That’s okay. Bound to find some more twelve-gauge shells in this . . .’

Sendak is distracted by a clatter of metal from the other end of the lab, and turns around in time to witness Blake disappear, hauled backwards down a hole in the floor next to a punched-out grate.

Sendak grabs the shotgun from Adnan and rushes to the gap, but when he looks down it he can see only shadows. He pulls out the torch and points the beam into the shaft. It drops a couple of metres to a passageway below.

He could crawl down there, but he knows it could be suicide. Blake is gone, and he can’t risk himself while there are so many others relying on this expedition coming through.

‘FUCK!’ he roars in anguish, kicking the grate. ‘MOTHER-FUCKING . . .’

He lets out a deep sigh, feels his discipline take the wheel once again. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay. We gotta keep going.’

‘Which way?’ Rosemary asks. ‘Back to the main corridor, or . . . ?’

Sendak indicates the cylindrical door.

‘They didn’t have nuclear blast shit when I was posted here. I want to know what’s on the other side of that.’

‘Shh. Quiet, Father. Be still.’

Blake tries to turn his head but it is too awkward given the position in which he is being held.

‘Don’t move,’ the voice tells him, a concerned warning rather than a command.

Forced to stare ahead, it is now that Blake notices an air vent low in the wall to his right, its grille straining as something pushes it from behind. Suddenly, the grille gives and a demon’s head and shoulders burst through. Before it can fully emerge, it is disintegrated completely by a blast from something close to Blake’s side.

His captor then releases his grip and allows Blake to turn. He sees the robed figure he just watched on the monitor, though his face and garments are now bloodied and dirty. Blake’s gaze is drawn irresistibly to the sight of the futuristic-looking rifle slung around his shoulder.

‘You get further with a holy word and a ray-gun than just a holy word,’ he says. ‘I’m Cardinal Terrence Tullian. Peace be with you, Father . . . ?’

‘Blake. Father Constantine Blake. My friends . . . I need to . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Father Blake. I know how difficult this will be to hear, but you’re going to have to summon your deepest faith and believe me when I tell you that as men of God, you and I are the only ones who can still end this evil.’