Hellgate London - Exodus Part 10

Simon didn't argue. He thanked the man and started for the back of the truck.

Instead, the driver of that one waved to him. "Up here. Sit in the cab with us. There is room." Staring through the frost-covered window, Simon saw Leah looking back at him.

"Hurry," the driver said. "There are people much in need of these supplies."

Reluctantly, Simon opened the door and clambered inside. Leah scooted over, but there was still barely enough room.

"It's going to be a tight fit," Simon said. "I can sit in the back."

"Nonsense. We'll be fine." The driver engaged the gears. "Perhaps a little more warm than we otherwise might have been." He smiled beneath his mustache. "Lucky for you we came along, eh?"

Simon nodded and looked out the window at the two men they'd left with the truck.Not so lucky for them. Then he breathed out and the window fogged, erasing them from view.

Hours later, Simon came awake as the truck driver changed gears and pulled off the main road. A sign beside the road announcedCoquelles.

Leah slept beside Simon. Her head rested against his arm, rocking gently with the sway of the truck. "Not much longer," the driver said.

Simon looked down at Leah and thought about waking her. In the end he decided against it, thinking there was no reason for her to dread what she was about to find out.

"You're planning to go to England?" the driver asked. "Yes."

"You have family there?" "My father."

The driver glanced at Simon. "Things over there...they're not so good, you know." Concern showed in his weathered face. "I know."

"Perhaps your father, he will be in the refugee camp. One can hope so, eh?" "Sure," Simon said. "Maybe he will be."

But Thomas Cross wasn't at the refugee camp.

The camp was a collection of featureless prefab buildings plunked down all around the small town that lay at the other end of the channel tunnel. For a time the underground and underwater railway line had been nicknamed theChunnel but the name hadn't stuck.

The prefab buildings had been added when the survivors first started coming over from England. From the stories Simon gathered, many of them had come over by the tube, almost reaching the other end from Folkestone, Kent, before the power had gone off. For days, several others had trickled through on foot, till finally the monsters had shut down all egress through the channel tunnel. Monsters.

That was what they were calling them now. Simon knew the name fit. He'd read about them in the Underground nearly every day of his life.

The survivors were lost and traumatized. Most of them were still awaiting word of family and friends, but hope dimmed with each pa.s.sing hour. Boats and s.h.i.+ps seldom made pa.s.sage across the English Channel now. More often than not, captains brave enough to take their vessels across the water were getting sunk. And there were precious few survivors left to pick up along the coast. Themonsters hunted there as well.

With dawn breaking in the east, a golden glow in a vague dirty-cotton sky, Simon found the man he'd been told about. Bolivar Patel was a salvage expert who'd plied his trade in the frigid North Sea and in the English Channel. Tanned and fit, he was in his early fifties, spry and fierce. His East Indian heritage showed in his dark skin and hawkish nose.

Simon found the man in the cantina after hearing he'd arrived less than an hour earlier with a boatload of survivors. Most of them were children whose parents had stayed behind.

The cantina was crowded, serving out soup and bread to hundreds that came up with bowl and mug in hand. They had their choice between tea and water.

"Captain Patel?" Simon called.

The captain turned to look at him.

Simon knew his size made him stand out immediately.

"Do I know you?" Patel stood with a bowl of soup and bread in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. He wore dungarees, a khaki s.h.i.+rt, a thick woolen coat and a winter hat. A burn stood out against his left cheek.

"No, sir." Quietly, Simon told Patel about his need to get to England, and of Horner's message.

"Get something to eat," Patel said, "then join me over there." He waved toward a table in the corner where five men sat hunkered together.

Simon hesitated, then went and stood in line till he was served. He joined the men in the corner.

Patel quickly made introductions, identifying each of the men as part of his crew. Most of them had finished eating and now sat smoking.

"You'd have to be a fool to want to go there." Patel pushed a chunk of bread across the bottom of his bowl to get at the last of the soup.

Anger stirred within Simon, but he kept it tightly under control. "My father is there."

Patel eyed him warily. "Your father-" He sighed tiredly and wiped at his dark eyes. "You'll have to forgive my bluntness, Mr. Cross. I've not much use for politeness these days."

"I understand."

"I hope so." Patel chewed and swallowed. "But the sad truth of the matter is that your father is most likely dead."

"I have to know."

Patel stared at him a little while longer. "Can you use a rifle, Mr. Cross?"

"I can. And well."

"We'll see." Patel grinned slightly, but there was no mirth in the effort. "These...creaturesare almost unkillable."

With what you're using, yes.Simon ate his soup, finding it warm and tasty.

"If we see them, if we engage them, the guns we have are there only to slow them down long enough for us to escape. If I should be faced with the dilemma of you not leaving the boat to make room for a woman or child when we reach the other side of the Channel, you should know that I will kill you to make that happen."

Looking into the man's cold, dead eyes, Simon believed him. "There won't be a problem," Simon a.s.sured him.

"Then be at the dock an hour before sunset." "Thank you, Captain Patel."

Scowling, Patel stood and took his bowl with him. "Don't thank me, Mr. Cross. By allowing you to do this, I've very probably just signed your death warrant."

Ten.

DOWNTOWN LONDON, ENGLAND.

Conscious of the night around him, Warren stood across the street from the building. The address matched what had been on the piece of paper the woman had given him. Trepidation, confusion, and curiosity warred within him. Curiosity was winning out, but he didn't give in to it easily.

There was so much he wanted to know. And so much he was afraid of.

Remembering his mother's curiosity about the arcane held him back. The interest had transcended, became more than curiosity and turned into obsession. In the end, it had gotten her killed. It had almost gotten Warren killed too.

The gunshots that had forever changed Warren's life echoed inside his head again. The sounds triggered the smell of burned flesh, then a wave of sickness that turned his knees to water. He leaned heavily against the building behind him.

Bloated corpses lay on the sidewalk around him. The legs of another stretched out of a window within his reach. A trio of cats fed on it, safer there than on the street.

In the aftermath of the demonic invasion of London, many of the borderline domesticated animals-such as cats and birds-had turned feral again. During the fitful s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversations he'd had with other scavengers the last few days, Warren had learned that some people believed animals had been affected by whatever evil magic now filled London.

It seemed only fair that the animals turn on the humans, though. The people that had once fed the cats and the pigeons in the park now stalked them for food. The immediate world was turning into a grim place.

You're going to have to turn with it,Warren told himself.Or you're going to die. He knew that was true. When no immediate rescue had come with several days now pa.s.sed, he'd had to give up on it and direct his thinking toward survival.

Days had pa.s.sed since the h.e.l.lgates had opened. There hadn't been an hour that Warren hadn't thought of the note in his pocket. Several times he'd come close by but hadn't approached the building.

The structure was an older eight-story apartment building. Snow covered the street, the eaves, and the windowsills. No lights showed anywhere. If not for the people that Warren saw going in and out, he'd have thought the building abandoned.

There was something more there, though.Magic surrounded the building. He could feel it and recognize it for what it was.

But why hadn't the demons discovered it? Unconsciously, he turned to look at the malevolent smoke from the h.e.l.lgates that permanently smudged the horizon these days. It was still there, still pulsing against the sky and doing whatever it was doing to ruin the city.

Reaching into his pocket, Warren took out a peppermint candy, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Then, knowing he really didn't have a choice if he wanted to know for himself, he shoved his hands into his duster pockets and crossed the street.

"Who are you?"

For a moment, Warren thought the voice had come from the building. Instinctively, he retreated down the short flight of steps leading up to the building's front door.

Then a big, blocky man with no neck and a bowling ball for a head moved out of the shadows and into the moonlight and snow. Cool green fires burned along the lines of the tattoos that covered his face. He'd shaved his head, showing even more tattooing there. Gold hoops dangled from his ears.

"Warren," Warren stammered. "I'm...Warren."

"What are you doing here, Warren?" The man had a Scots accent.

"I was invited."

"You?" The man raised an eyebrow, arched sharply in doubt. "Who would be inviting you?" "Edith Buckner."

The man frowned. "She didn't say anything about inviting you."

"Maybe I made a mistake." Warren started to leave. Before he reached the last step, though, he knew leaving was the wrong thing to do. That itch inside his mind tugged him back toward the building. He stopped and turned around, looking straight up the side of the building.

He felt the power inside the structure. It was strong, but it was unfocused, wavering, rising and falling like ocean surf pounding a beach. It was like a symphony, but rather than being in harmony, the notes were discordant and jarring. The vibration set his teeth on edge.

But he belonged inside. He was certain of that.

With meaty arms crossed over his broad chest, the big man still stared at Warren malevolently. His coat had opened enough to reveal the b.u.t.t of the pistol he had hidden there.

Heart at the back of his throat, Warren ascended the steps again. He locked eyes with the big man, pus.h.i.+ng with his mind the way he'd intuitively learned to do.

"I belong in there," Warren said in an even voice. "Not without an invitation," the man replied.

Warren took the folded piece of paper from his pocket. He held it out.

"This is the invitation," he said. He put as much confidence in his voice as he could, and he willed the bouncer to see exactly what he needed to see. "It's the best invitation anyone could ever possibly have."

The bouncer reached for the pistol under his coat, then pulled his hand away. He studied the piece of paper harder, then nodded. "Go on in."

"What floor?" "The eighth."

Without another word, Warren entered the building. His heart pounded against his breastbone as he pa.s.sed through the door. He couldn't believe he'd gotten past the man. But he already felt stronger.

He took a torch from his pocket, switched it on, located the stairwell, and started up.

On the eighth floor, Warren felt the energy more strongly. It was like a river current, pulling him toward it. Even though he still considered turning back, he knew he couldn't. Whatever lay before him in this life, it lay wherever the energy came from.

He flicked the torch on at the doorway, briefly illuminating the corridor. When he saw the people sitting on the floor in the hallway, all of them looking at him, he was so surprised he almost dropped the torch. The beam danced across the tattooed faces as his hand shook.

Too late, he realized that the light might be seen outside.

He didn't want to draw demons to the building. He quickly flicked it off. "Sorry," he mumbled, pocketing the flash.

"He can't see," someone whispered. "Who is he?"

"What's he doing here if he can't see in the dark?" "How did he get here?"

"Is he alone?"

"How did he get past McCallum?"

Clothing rustled and Warren knew some of the people seated in the corridor had gotten to their feet and closed in on him. His imagination filled their hands with weapons, guns, and knives. He didn't know how they could see him in the Stygian black.

Images of the magic shops his mother had dragged him to as a child filled his mind. Those places had been small, almost having to hide in plain sight so the average Londoner wouldn't see them.

Some shops disguised themselves as magic shops for hobbyists. They stocked marked cards and even a few elaborate tricks for the cursory observer. But they kept the books on the arcane lore in the back.

Other shops declared themselves as New Age boutiques. They kept crystals and tarot cards. But-again-the real knowledge was kept under lock and key.

A few, like the ones Warren's mother frequented, openly displayed their goods. Books on demonology, intricate artifacts modeled on items that had been brought back during the Crusades, and scrying gla.s.ses could be found on the shelves. But even they kept the skulls of sages, the bones of saints, and weapons that had soaked in the blood of victims in the back.

"I'm alone," Warren said. He tried to broadcast a feeling of well-being over the crowd gathered in the darkness before him. During the time he'd had the flashlight on, he'd discovered the windows at either end of the corridor were covered in thick cloth that didn't let light in or out. "I don't mean anyone any harm."

"You couldn't cause anyone here any harm, boy," a man's voice promised.

Warren felt someone's hot breath against the back of his neck. He didn't move, not because he didn't want them to know he was afraid-he was sure they knew that he was-but because he was afraid he was going to step on someone and make the situation worse.

"I didn't come here to disturb anyone," Warren said quietly. "I only came because I was invited." "By who?"

"Edith," Warren said. "Edith Buckner." "Ah," someone said. "He must be the one."