Hellgate London - Exodus Part 39

"I'll have you locked up for disobeying my orders." Booth had come accompanied by eight members of his personal guard. "I am the High Seat. I outrank you."

"You only outrank me if I choose to stay here," Simon promised. "I don't. And I guarantee that locking me up isn't going to be easy."

"It'll be done."

Taking a breath, Simon focused totally on Booth. "If you want to give orders, then give ones I can respect. Give me orders to defend those poor people starving and freezing to death out there in the rotting corpse that this city has become. Give me orders to get those people out of here. Give me orders to feed them and clothe them and protect them until I can get them out of here." He let out his breath. "Those are the orders you and the other High Seatsshould be giving. Not telling us to hide in shadows and bring back whatever you send us out there for while they die scared and alone, hungry and in pain every day."

For a moment the barracks were silent. Simon grew self-conscious. Naked and out in the open like that, his words sounded hollow. That was why he hadn't talked to anyone about what he was going to do.

"The missions we a.s.sign are important," Booth argued. "Recovering the artifacts we send you out for is crucial to our chances of beating the demons. The things we've known about but have never been able to act on, the secrets we've learned and kept over the years, all of those things can tilt the balance against the demons. We know what we're doing."

"Fine, but if you manage to save the world and there's no one to live in it, what have you accomplished?"

"We're here," Booth said. "The Templar will live in it." "We're not the only people here."

"We-"

"Shut up!" Simon exploded, taking a step toward Booth. The man closed his mouth at once and stepped back. "For all my life, I trained to be a Templar, as did my father before me and his father before him. I trained to fight the demons, and to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. And the ones who denied the existence of demons." Booth scowled.

"My father raised me up to be a Templarknight," Simon stated. "Not an armored errand boy. He taught me to be chivalrous and generous, to be modest and intelligent. And to always know that I was supposed to protect those that couldn't protect themselves." He took a breath. "That's what I learned to believe in, and that's what I wanted to grow up to be like."

The silence in the room was deafening. "I walked away from this life-"

"Just like you're trying to walk away again," Booth sneered.

"No!" Simon shouted. "This time it's different. The last time, I left because I didn't see the need for me to give up my life, for me to turn away from the things I wanted to see and do, just to sit around and do nothing with the training I'd been given. I lost faith. But now-nowthe demons arehere. They've come to our world and they mean to make it over as they see fit. They killed people-thousandsof innocent men, women, and children-with impunity. I intend to use the training my father invested in me and save as many of those people out there that I can. Because-to me-that's what a Templar does."

Someone in the barracks started clapping, slowly at first, then gaining momentum. Other Templar quickly joined in.

Simon felt embarra.s.sed. He couldn't see Booth's face behind the helm, but he felt certain the man was livid with anger. He tried to step around the High Seat again.

Booth drew the Surgecaster from the holster at his side. The pistol was solid and heavy, capable of shooting out b.a.l.l.s of electrical energy.

"You're going to be taken into custody," Booth said. "And you won't-"

Simon grabbed Booth's wrist and twisted. The bolt from the Surgecaster whizzed across the room and struck the wall. Simon's HUD had shown him that no one was there, and the rooms were built to be self-contained and resistant to bombing.

The secondary detonation went off as Simon twisted the pistol from Booth's grip. A swirling ball of fire ignited and climbed the wall. Klaxons shrilled, sounding the alarm.

Simon drove his fist into Booth's helm, striking sparks from it as metal grated against metal. Booth tried to get away, but Simon grabbed him by the shoulder and hit him again, using everything he had. Booth flew helplessly across the room, sending Templar diving for cover, and rebounded from the wall.

By the time the High Seat crawled to his knees, Simon was on him. Anger boiled out of Simon, uncontrollable, dark, and terrible. He kicked Booth in the head and sent him back down to the floor. Simon lifted his foot and smashed it onto Booth's helm again and again, shattering the armor but not yet breaking through.

Someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him back. Simon turned to defend himself, then recognized Wertham's armor.

"Stop," the old Templar said. "Stop it now. Before you kill him." Wertham allowed his helm to become transparent enough for Simon to see his features. He maintained his hold on Simon's arms. "Do you hear me?"

Breathing hard, Simon couldn't answer at first. He nodded, then said, "Yes." "Kill Booth and they'll never let you leave this place," Wertham said.

Simon knew that. He looked beyond the Templar and saw that Booth's personal guards stood ready, but some of the Templar had interposed themselves between them and Simon.

"Kill him!" Booth yelled. "Kill him!"

"No," Wertham said. "There will not be any killing done here today."

"If you support him, I'll have you locked up in the same detainment center with him," Booth threatened. "Try to stop Simon from leaving," Wertham replied in a calm voice, "and you'll have to put more than just me in that detainment center."

Booth swayed, cursing loudly.

"The Templar have never recognized masters," Wertham said. "Only leaders. Each Templar chooses his own way. You know that, High Seat, and even under these times that must be upheld."

Simon stood, not knowing what to do. He hadn't intended to s...o...b..ll this into a big problem.I should have just left. He could have simply stepped out into one of the tube tunnels and never come back.

But he knew he hadn't wanted to go that easily. There was something in him that hadn't relished the idea of walking away without telling Booth what he thought of the way he was running things.

"We're not supposed to be guerrilla fighters," Simon said. "We're supposed to be champions. Warriors that fight the demons and preserve life.All life. Not just our own. By hiding in the shadows and picking and choosing your preciousmissions, you're just as guilty of walking away from everything the Templar stand for as when I left." He paused. "I'm not going to dishonor my father's memory. I'm going out there and I'm going to do what I can to help those people trapped in this city. You're going to have to kill me to stop me."

Booth walked over to Simon. The High Seat moved unsteadily and with effort. Wertham slid between the two.

Booth's helm popped open, revealing his bloodied face. One of his eyes was swelling shut. "Go then. But don't youever try to come back here." He spat saliva and blood onto Simon's faces.h.i.+eld. Then Booth stepped back and raised his voice. "Let him go. Let the demons have him."

Without a word, Simon shouldered his duffel again, turned, and walked away. Fear trickled through the anger that he still felt, breaking some of his conviction, but he remained convinced that he was doing what he had to do.

Booth's private guards and some of the Templar followed Simon all the way to the exit that let out into the tube. They pa.s.sed him through the security doors and he stepped out into the darkness where the monsters lay in wait.

His footsteps sounded hollow in the tube. They also sounded vulnerable.

A moment later, Wertham and three other Templar stepped out into the tube. Each of them had duffels over their shoulders.

Simon stopped and looked back at them. "What are you doing?"

"Coming with you," Wertham said. He made his faces.h.i.+eld translucent, revealing his wide grin. "What you said back there reminds me of why I took pride in being a Templar. Over the years, I've had my own doubts about all the training I went through and the secrets I had. I can't fault you for those. But I'm not going to sit idly by while you go off on your own to try to do what I think we should be doing." Simon stared at the older man. "If you come with me, you're probably going to get killed."

Wertham grinned. "Maybe you've got some doubts, but I don't think they've made the demon tough enough to take me." His grin grew wider. "Or, at least, that demon hasn't caught up with me yet."

"Booth won't let you back," Simon said.

"Regular meals and a bed to sleep in are overrated, if you ask me." Wertham sobered. "Those people we left back in the museum...I didn't like doing that. Just walking away from them and leaving them there."

"I know."

"I suppose we'll be checking in on them? After you've figured out how we're going to get them out of London?"

"I have a plan," Simon said.

"Well, now's the time to hear it," one of the other Templar muttered. "How much do you know about trains?" Simon asked.

Forty-Five.

Warren woke in an anesthesia-induced fog. He remembered the feeling from when he'd been a child, after his stepfather had shot him and he'd spent days recuperating in the hospital.

He lacked the strength to sit up or pull the plastic mask from his mouth and nose. It was everything he could do to roll his head to the side. An IV ran a drip into his left arm, taped to his scaled skin, but the blue tinted liquid with small fishy-looking creatures didn't resemble anything he'd ever been given in the hospital before.

One of the creatures pressed its flat face against the plastic bag and ballooned its mouth. An inky substance jetted from its mouth, then dissipated in the liquid, turning the blue slightly more blue. Almost immediately Warren's head felt thicker, more distant from the rest of his body. Whatever the fish creature secreted had something to do with the disorientation he felt.

Seeing his left hand reminded him of his right. His wristhurt . He rolled his head back over the other way. Tubes ran into and out of the demon's hand that had been grafted to the stump of wrist. A circular affair of wires held the grotesque hand palm down and fingers spread like it was a piece of art. An ill-smelling poultice wrapped the sewn ends of flesh, but it was made of a clear jelly material that allowed him to see. The thread didn't look like thread, but more like the sinew he'd seen when his biology cla.s.s had dissected a cat in lab. The flesh, his own and the demon's, were reddened from inflammation. The Cabalists had done it. They'd reconnected Merihim's hand to him.

"No," Warren whispered hoa.r.s.ely. The events in the building came back to him in a maelstrom of fear, pain, and loss. He could still feel the cold, cruel bite of the armored man's sword cutting through his arm and feel the solid thump of the demon's hand dropping onto his chest.

"Warren." Naomi rose from the wingback chair she'd been sitting in beside the bed. She looked exhausted and concerned about him.

Kelli sat in another chair at the foot of the bed. Her eyes stared at him, but they were dark and listless, like nothing was going on behind them.

"What have you done?" Warren tried to lift his right arm but restraints held it down.

"It's going to be all right," Naomi said soothingly. "The doctor who reattached your hand said the surgery went well."

"Myhand!" Warren croaked. "That's not my hand." He remembered the Fetid Hulk eating his hand.

"It is now." Naomi touched the back of the hand almost reverently.

Astonished, Warren realized hefelt her soft fingers against the back of the demon's hand. "Don't. Don't touch me."

Naomi gazed at him curiously. "You felt that?" Warren refused to answer.

Naomi pinched the back of his...thehand. The skin tone lightened, then resumed its natural color. But she'd pinched hard enough to hurt.

"Ouch," Warren protested.

"Youdid feel that." Despite her exhaustion, excitement filled Naomi's features. "The physicians didn't reattach any of the nerves. They were in surgery with you for almost eighteen hours connecting arteries and veins. They had to map a whole new way through the hand. I watched the procedure. I've never seen anything like that before. They figured they would reconnect the nerves if the hand survived transplantation."

"They shouldn't have done this," Warren said. He tried to reach for the offensive hand but discovered that his left hand had been secured to the bed as well. "Let me go."

Sorrow showed in Naomi's eyes. "I can't." "Let me go!"

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

Fighting back tears of frustration, Warren cursed loud and long. When he ran out of breath and strength, he stopped. He sucked in oxygen from the mask, getting a sudden rush that was akin to intoxication. He lay back on the bed, no longer able to strain against the bonds that held him. "You had no right," Warren whispered.

"Hedgar Tulane felt we had no choice. Merihim ordered us to do it."

Merihim.Warren noticed how easily she acted as though she were on a first-name basis with the demon.

"He gave you a gift, Warren. Without his help, you had no hand."

"That would have been better." Warren closed his eyes and lay back, exhausted. In a matter of seconds, sleep claimed him.

Four days pa.s.sed. During that time, Warren's health improved. So did the health of the demon's hand at the end of his arm. The physicians Tulane had brought into the manor house seemed satisfied and even surprised by his progress.

Truthfully, so far, Warren had been surprised and repulsed by the hand. But he'd been equally sickened by the way he'd been treated. The methods they'd used had been a combination of traditional medical efforts and Cabalist homeopathic remedies they had been using.

The "fish" in the IV bag hadn't been fish at all, but a small species of demon now present in the River Thames. Some of the Cabalists believed that the snow had turned toxic from the Burn, and that new flora and fauna and life forms were showing up in the affected areas.

Experimentation with the secretions from the Nester demons, as they'd been termed so far, had revealed that the liquid they released held natural anesthetic as well as a healing effect.

Warren hadn't believed that there were any demons that would be helpful to humans.

"They aren't helpful," Naomi said. "The Nester demons produce anesthetic to sedate their prey. Then they burrow into them and eat them from the inside out, starting with fats and unnecessary muscle tissue. They save the heart, lungs, and other vital organs for last. Their secretions also help their host bodies live while they're being eaten, sealing off wounds and keeping the rest of the body healthy."

One of the most horrific sights Warren had ever seen had come yesterday, when he'd finally been allowed up from his bed to walk around. Naomi had guided him down to the labs where they were working with the Nester demons because he'd wanted to know more.

There, suspended in a gla.s.s box in the middle of a large cave filled with strange-looking equipment that was an aggregation of cutting-edge tech and something from the nineteenth century, and attended to by a handful of lab a.s.sistants, a middle-aged man floated in water. X-ray machines showed the pockets of Nester demons inside him. His skin hung loosely on him, showing that all the fat had been eaten away. Most of the muscle tissue had disappeared from his legs.

"They're not going to save him?" Warren asked.

"No," Naomi replied. "They'll learn more from him by observation." "He's going to die."

"If a research team hadn't found him, he would have died anyway. And they haven't been able to separate the Nester demons from the host without killing the host yet. Maybe before this man dies, they will."

"And if they don't?"

"There are other victims. They'll observe them."

Warren contemplated the man. Although the man's eyes were open, they appeared to be unseeing. Warren knew that was an illusion, though. The man was aware of what was happening to him. The Nester demons' secretions didn't deaden everything. Inside, the man was screaming.

"He's not unconscious," Warren said.

"We believe that he is. His eyes may be open, but that's just a reflex." "He's screaming," Warren said. "I can hear him."

Naomi looked at him. "You're sure?" "Yes."

"No one else can hear him." Naomi excused herself and went to talk to one of the Cabalists.

Warren continued watching the man, listening to his screams. Looking at the X-ray view of the pockets of Nester demons scattered throughout the body, Warren couldn't help thinking about the creatures that had been in the IV drip.

Naomi returned to him.

"What would have happened if one of those Nester demons in the IV bag had gotten into my bloodstream?" Warren asked.

"That didn't happen. They helped heal you. Concentrate on that." Naomi glanced at his hand. "Since your body isn't rejecting the hand, there's a lot to hope for."

Warren didn't say anything, but he kept his hopes small. He wanted to kill the man that had taken his hand from him. Every time he thought that, he could hear Merihim laughing quietly in the back of his mind.