Sorrow Space (18 page)

Kicking trash out of his way, Kane stepped over to the door and tried the lock.

“Please don’t have an alarm,” he whispered.

* * *

G
RANT
HAD
BEEN
SPEAKING
with Roger Burton for over an hour by the time Baron Trevelyan came back for him. The baron had changed his clothes, and stood behind the barred door in a spotless white two-piece suit. Once again, Trevelyan was flanked by four Magistrates whose complexions left a lot to be desired. They reminded Grant of victims of some biological plague, but now he knew their secret. Dead Magistrates, walking under artificial power. It hardly bore thinking about.

Burton cowered at the back of his cell as Trevelyan stood in the open doorway, vertical bars blocking any entry or exit. “My baron,” Burton said in a reverential whisper.

Grant winced as the gray-haired man fell to his knees, bowing his head to the floor. The hose that fed a solution of the guilt drug to his brain stretched taut, its metal covering clinking like a struck drainpipe as the man moved his head.

“Professor Burton,” Trevelyan sneered. “Why aren’t you working?”

Burton spoke into the floor, his forehead still bowed against it, the hose to the ceiling jiggling as he spoke. “You found a live subject, my baron,” he said. “What was it you wanted me to do?”

“Live subjects are no interest to me,” Baron Trevelyan told the professor. “I expected you to have worked him into something I could use by now.”

Burton bowed lower, his head clunking as it struck against the cold, hard floor as one of the Magistrates unlocked the door. “Whatever you want me to do, my baron,” he sobbed. “You need but ask.”

“Useless,” Trevelyan cursed as he stepped into the room.

Grant watched from his position on the cot, not bothering to hide his contempt. Without a word, two of the Magistrates crossed the room and placed themselves on either side of Grant.

“Stand,” Baron Trevelyan commanded in his weasel voice. When Grant ignored the instruction, he elaborated. “You will stand.”

Grant looked at the genuflecting figure of Roger Burton, realized that should he disobey it was likely that this man would suffer, not him. So, with his hands still bound behind his back, Grant got smoothly to his feet, showing remarkable agility in so doing. As he stood, the Magistrates to either side of him grabbed him by the elbows, ushering him toward the door.

Grant shrugged away from their grip, glared at them. “I can walk fine,” he growled. “Don’t need you dead creeps pawing at me.”

Trevelyan made a clicking sound in the back of his throat and the two Magistrates brought their arms back, allowing Grant to exit the laboratory cell under his own power. Trevelyan followed, eyeing the broad-shouldered ex-Magistrate thoughtfully.

“Unhook the professor also,” Trevelyan added, not even bothering to glance back into the cell. “I shall be needing his services. We launch tonight, within the hour.”

One of the remaining dead Magistrates plucked an adjustable wrench from its housing in a molded unit just outside Burton’s cell. Then, without a word, the Magistrate stepped back into the cell and took the wrench to the hose that connected with Burton’s skull, working a catch there in a series of violent turns of the wrench. Still crouched on the floor, Burton whimpered, his head yanking back and forth as the hose arrangement was snapped loose of its ceiling housing.

Standing just beyond the cell door, Grant winced as he heard the hose hiss. The shrill sound was the whine of a tire’s burning rubber.

* * *

K
ANE
WAS
SCUTTLING
AMONG
the trash cans outside the Magistrate Hall when the door in the wall began to rattle. He ducked down, hiding as best he could among the discarded garbage bags on the ground.

Kane held his breath as the door came open with a shunt sufficient to dislodge the nearest of the bulging black sacks. Standing there, framed in the doorway, was a Magistrate in full dress uniform. His helmet was removed and his uniform stained with long-dried blood the color of rust. The Magistrate’s face looked like a skull, graying bone visible through the few strands of flesh still clinging to it, eyes dark pools in the recess of black sockets.

Kane ducked back as the skeletal Magistrate brought a black bag of trash from the doorway. He proceeded to toss the bag in Kane’s direction. The bag rolled over several other sacks, and something hard inside clunked against Kane’s skull, causing him to let out an irritated grunt. As he did so, the gruesome Magistrate spotted Kane hiding in the litter. Kane seemed to be watching in slow motion as the skeletal figure raised his hand in a smooth, well-practiced movement. Kane knew that movement well and watched helplessly as the automatic pistol materialized in the Magistrate’s bony hand and his index finger crooked against the trigger.

Chapter 24

The Soul Eater spit bullets across the trash area with a wail like a sick child. Kane didn’t even realize he was reacting but just ducked down as the first bullets strafed the area, bursting rubbish sacks and kicking rotting debris into the air in rancid explosions.

The skeletal Magistrate squeezed the trigger again, sending a second burst in Kane’s direction even as Kane leaped out of the way. There was nowhere for Kane to go; all he could do was dive into the stinking trash bags and try to lose himself among them. Kane held his breath, trying to ignore the stench as he pushed his way beneath the garbage. It was dark down there, dark and warm as if he were inside something organic, a womb of trash.

The Magistrate was alone, Kane told himself, and that gave him a chance.

The area was so overloaded with trash bags that the Dark Magistrate found a half dozen of them tumbling toward him as Kane moved beneath them. He shoved them aside, took a step into the trash area, whipping the Soul Eater pistol before him. Then a hand reached up from the wealth of plastic black bags, grabbed the Magistrate’s wrist and pulled, yanking him down into the stinking trash. The Magistrate lost his footing, and overflowing trash bags tumbled in his wake.

Beneath the heap of trash, Kane drew back his other fist and drove it repeatedly into the Magistrate’s face. The Magistrate struggled a moment, squeezing his pistol’s trigger and sending another of those wailing bullets through two bags of garbage above him.

Then Kane shoved against the Mag, batting him down with his forearm and landing another blow with his other fist. The Magistrate sank down amid the refuse, plunging into the hot, stinking darkness.

Moments later, Kane reappeared, head and shoulders emerging from the mass of overstuffed garbage bags like a diver coming up for air. Beneath the shimmering plastic waves, the Magistrate had stopped fighting back. Kane still didn’t know what the Mags were, but he was certain of one thing—they weren’t human, not anymore.

Shrugging the last of the trash from his back, Kane waded through the piled litter to the open door of the Mag Hall of Justice. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath and surveying the interior through the narrow gap that the door allowed. Determining that the way was clear, Kane pulled the door wider and slipped inside.

* * *

W
ITH
THE
SWIFT
PROFESSIONALISM
born of need, Brigid Baptiste made her way through the ground floor of the hospital. She recalled the turns she had made here with Kane and Grant, and visualized the doors and elevator banks they had passed, searching her mind for possible routes up through the floors of the collapsing building.

There was no lighting inside the hospital, and the corridors were illuminated only by what ambient light reached them from the open doors into the examination rooms and the wards. And with the sun fading, that light was becoming fainter by the minute. Brigid moved on, holding her fear in check, ignoring the figure she saw silhouetted in the rooms and reflected on the glass windows of the wards. “He’s not here, he’s just a hallucination.” She reminded herself of what Kane had explained back in the media suite.

Brigid soon found the main staircase. It flared out from behind the reception area a handful of corridors away from where she had entered the building itself. The wide staircase ran through the center of the building. The soft shade of green paint that illuminated its walls had been scarred with blood and smoke, rust-colored streaks marring its surface. Shotgun and radio in hand, Brigid jogged up the stairs, taking them swiftly as she made her way up into the hospital building. Burned signs on the walls gave weight to her theory that it had been a military facility, which went some way to explaining why the place contained a mat-trans unit on its third floor. The walls also featured dark patches where water had seeped in. Brigid kept clear of those damp patches, wary now of any sitting water. The water contained dark memories, she knew—memories that bit back.

Brigid passed the second floor, but as she rounded the right-angle turn in the staircase, she faced a hunk of machinery that blocked any further progress. The machinery was cylindrical and reminded Brigid of a torpedo. It had come crashing through a wall above the staircase, and part of it was still teetering above her, poking through from the wall overhead, creaking as the wind moved it to and fro. She stopped on the staircase, staring at the blockage for half a minute. It was balanced precariously, pivoting on the fulcrum of the ruined wall. Although there was a slim gap beneath the unit, Brigid didn’t fancy her chances there. The balance was too exact, and if the machinery should slip it would crush or pin her in an instant.

“Time to find another road,” Brigid muttered as she backed down the staircase.

Turning back the way she had come, Brigid jogged along the darkened corridors of the building’s second story, keeping her breathing measured as she searched for another route. She didn’t hear the soft footsteps behind her, didn’t see the figure moving in the thick shadows by the damp walls.

* * *

P
ULLING
THE
DOOR
CLOSED
behind him, Kane found himself in an empty, unlit corridor in the Magistrate Hall of Justice. The walls were streaked with damp and the whole corridor had a dank smell. None of the bare lightbulbs overhead seemed to be operational. Whatever had hit the rest of the ville had hit this place, too; indeed, the carbon scoring that blackened the walls in a radial pattern suggested that this structure had been close to the epicenter, the thick black streaks running across the walls like isobars on a weather map.

Warily Kane edged into the corridor, listening carefully for any signs of activity. Shuffling noises came from nearby, but there were no voices, not from anywhere.

Making sure that the door at his back was locked—it wouldn’t do to learn that his playmate in the trash area had revived to sneak up on him—Kane made his way deeper into the Hall of Justice, eyeing the charred walls with distaste.

He was at a T-junction now, but with nothing lit Kane had trouble deciding which direction to take. Spotting two uniformed Magistrates turn the corner to his right forced his hand, and Kane hurried down the left branch, rushing along with a silent tread. Kane recognized the door on his right, an equipment locker. He shoved against it, conscious of the Magistrates pacing the corridor just twenty feet behind him in the darkness, but the door wouldn’t budge. It was locked.

* * *

T
HE
HOSPITAL
CORRIDORS
WERE
dark, the damp heavy in the air, clogging her breath. Brigid had been walking around for over ten minutes, trying to find a route up to the higher floors. The next staircase she tried was blocked off above the second flight where a ruined wall had left an impenetrable barricade of debris. After that, she had found a winding stairwell protected by a heavy fire door with a reinforced glass panel at its center. The door had refused to open, even when Brigid put her shotgun down and pushed her shoulder against it.

She moved on, looking for another way to ascend, passing the gloomy, burned remains of wards and X-ray facilities, lung function and recovery rooms. Sometimes, as she passed rooms where the overhead pipes had burst, she would see the figure standing there, his feet sinking in the pooling, stagnant water that carpeted the floor. She would turn away quickly, not acknowledging him, not wanting to see his face. She knew who he was—Daryl, waiting with his accusing gaze, ready to judge her for abandoning him. He wasn’t real, she reminded herself; he wasn’t here.

Magistrate East followed at a careful distance, tracking the red-tressed female as she did her manic dance through the corridors of the hospital. He knew this place from his old life and took alternative routes when he saw which direction Brigid was going. Sometimes East would cut through a ward, using the chief nurse’s office as a shortcut into another corridor that ran parallel to Brigid’s path. He had backup on the way; he could afford to be patient. Better to catch the living than to scare and thus lose her.

Unaware of her tracker, Brigid moved on, working her way logically through the stairwells until she located a bank of service elevators. There were two of them at the west of the building, hidden down a corridor that stood behind a decorative wall. The wall featured a painting of a wheat field in summer, but the yellows had been turned to gray and black from smoke damage, turning it into a nightmarish vision.

Brigid stopped before the twin elevators, their accordion doors wider than a normal elevator. To the far right, an unobtrusive door crouched in the wall, painted an off-white to match the paint job on the walls. Like much of the hospital, the paint on the door had blistered where some incredible heat source had brushed against it.

Tucking the radio receiver beneath her armpit, Brigid pushed at the door, finding its hinges creaked a little as she shoved it. The door swung open, revealing a pitch-black staircase within. Brigid squinted, trying to make sense of what little light trickled in from the corridor beyond. Here was a staircase that had not been blocked, leading up past the fourth and fifth floors of the building, apparently all the way up to the roof.

Brigid stepped inside, making her way carefully up the stairs in the near-total darkness.

Magistrate East saw Brigid step through the doorway from his hiding place at the side of the service elevators. Once she had disappeared from view, he began to follow, stealthily pacing forward, ball and toe, ball and toe, to ensure she would not hear his pursuit.

The door was still open where Brigid had entered, and the Magistrate peeked in, the darkness made more complete by the tint of his visor. He needed no sight of his prey; he could smell her, the hot blood rushing through her arteries, the sweat smell of her skin. The dead saw differently, their senses refined in new ways.

In a moment, Magistrate East was inside the stairwell, stepping silently up the stairs as he pursued his prey.

Outside the hospital, two personnel carriers had arrived with an accompanying patrol car, disgorging their long-dead occupants in the regen apparatus suits of the Magistrates. Twenty-eight Dark Magistrates waited at ground level, eyeing the hospital from the road.

* * *

A
N
ANGRY
SNEER
CROSSED
Kane’s lips as he stared at the locked door to the equipment store. There was a keypad to the side, caked with grime, its numbers almost worn through. Back home in Cobaltville this keypad would work the magnetic lock into the equipment store. Kane glared at it—there was simply no way of knowing the combination. Behind him, the twin Magistrates were striding closer. Unable to see him clearly in the darkness, they had likely taken him for one of their own, and had not raised the alarm yet, but Kane knew it was only a matter of time.

“Fuck it,” he growled under his breath, punching in a code on the waiting keypad: 4-3-5-5

It was the same code he had used for the equivalent equipment locker in Cobaltville. And remarkably, it worked.

“Great minds...” Kane muttered as the lock clicked open and he slipped inside, out of the path of the approaching Magistrates. Strange, too, to find that the electromagnet that operated the lock was still functional. It meant that somewhere in this building there was a power supply. That was certainly interesting. Kane made a mental note to investigate that later.

Inside, the equipment room was stacked head-high with clothing and armaments. Stagnant water pooled in its darkest recesses. There were shelves of grenades, hand cannons and nightsticks, all stored behind protective grilles, each with its own lock. Kane ignored them, moving instead to the clothing area.

There were Magistrate uniforms there: helmets, leathers, boots and outdoor wear in various sizes. Kane grabbed one of the greatcoats, working his arms quickly through the sleeves until it sat on his shoulders. The coat was heavier than he remembered—clearly he had become used to the thin fabric of the shadow suit since his days as a Magistrate—and it stretched down past his knees to line up with the top of a Magistrate’s boots.

Buttoning up the coat, Kane found a pair of boots in his size then added a Mag helmet to the ensemble. Sure, he didn’t look half-past-dead, but he would pass for a Magistrate all the same, at least so long as no one peered beneath the coat.

After that, Kane scanned the lockers for things he could use. He broke two locks, nabbing a handful of grenades, which he shoved inside the pockets of the black coat, then snatched up a magnetic multikey.

A moment later, Kane was at the door, checking the corridor before moving out there. He was inside. And, if luck was with him, he could pass through the place unnoticed. Unconsciously, Kane brought his hand up to his face and brushed his nose with his index finger where it peeked out from beneath the Magistrate’s visor; it was the old one-percent salute, and he wished Grant was here to see it.