The Sunken (50 page)

James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

It was not party guests who swarmed from the palace gates, but hundreds of hissing, snapping creatures. They fanned out across the street and ducked and weaved around the carriages. I heard the unmistakable sound of teeth tearing flesh, of bones being crushed as the creatures tore down their first victims. Two vehicles careened down the street beside us, a pair of snarling creatures in hot pursuit.

The Sunken were not locked away inside the palace, but had been let loose here, on the streets, to tear the population of London limb from limb.

“Nicholas!” Brigitte grabbed my hand. “He wanted to stop them. James, what if he went into the palace? We must go to him!”

Before I could dissuade her, she ordered the coachman to turn the carriage around and drive with all speed toward the palace. “Bugger that, you’re a madwoman!” he cried, slowing the coach, leaping off and sprinting away into the night. A sensible lad, if ever I saw one.

Brigitte pulled herself onto the coachman’s bench and gathered up the reins. “Holman, I need help!”

“Hand me the reins,” I said, clambering onto the bench beside her, “but you’ll need to direct us.”

And for the second time that day I found myself, a blind man, on the footplate of a carriage, navigating a horse and cart through London’s narrow streets when they swarmed with terrified citizens and lead-soaked vampires. We turned off the main road and careened through the smaller, narrower streets at a pace I wasn’t entirely comfortable with, Brigitte calling out directions and me trying frantically to learn the right signals for left, right, stop, about turn. All around us, bedlam reigned. Terrified people ran in all directions, throwing themselves to the road to be crushed by the carriage wheels rather than succumb to the tortures that awaited them.

Phantom hands groped at my legs, crying out to be let on the carriage, but I knew if I stopped we’d share the same fate as Miss Julie and Rebecca and poor, sweet Cassandra. Men shouted at me, women sobbed, bodies pressed against the wheels before being dragged under. I felt their bones breaking as we wheeled over the top, but we could not stop. And over it all, that inhuman sound of the Sunken hissing, snarling, and tearing apart their victims in their frenzy.

Through the gates of Engine Ward they rolled, two abreast, like an army spilling forth from a fortress of steel. Some carried weapons – hoses and blades and crude bludgeoning devices. But all carried a fire in their belly. All carried a message from their master.

The Boilers fanned out across the city, placing themselves at strategic points around the palace, spreading out across the boulevards, weaving around the traffic, smashing their way through roadblocks and buildings, relentless in their haste to carry out their mission.

Their instructions were explicit; destroy the lead creatures. Destroy them all.

Charles and Francesca Babbage had just seen the last of their dinner guests to the door. Francesca pulled the downstairs curtains while Charles lovingly carried his miniature Difference Engine back to the study and locked it in the cabinet under his desk.

He was just replacing the key in the spring-loaded secret drawer behind his typewriter, when Francesca called him from the hallway. He went to see what was the matter and found his wife with her head pressed against the front window.

“Something’s happening out on the street,” she said. “I heard a woman screaming. I’m worried about the Faradays. We only just sent them on their way — what if they’re being mugged right at this very moment!”

Charles stared into the dark street, but could see nothing amiss, save the outline of a lone organ grinder pacing the curb in front of the house. He gritted his teeth in irritation, and was just about to tell his wife it must have been the wind when a piercing shriek cut through his thoughts.

“See?” said Francesca. “What if that’s Mrs. Faraday?”

The song of the organ grinder — a tuneless version of “The Stoker and the Navvy’s Wife” — suddenly ceased.

Babbage threw open the door. “Hand me that lantern,” he ordered his wife.

He stood on the stoop, still in his evening finery, and shone the lantern into the darkness. It was no good. The city hadn’t got around to installing street lamps in their neighbourhood yet, and the houses on either side of him had their lights off, so he could barely see across the street. He descended the steps, straining in the darkness to see if the Faradays’ carriage was anywhere in sight.

He heard a scream again, from the eastern end of the street, probably the organ grinder trying to lure him out into the street. But no, the organ lay on its side at the bottom of the steps, the grinder nowhere in sight. He squinted at the cobbles.
Is that blood?
He stepped onto the road, thinking to walk as far as the corner to investigate.

Something hissed as it brushed past him and leapt up the steps.

He whirled around in time to see a blur of movement as the intruder disappeared through the open door. He heaved himself up the steps, and pushed the door open just as Francesca let out a wail.

He shone the light into the dim hall and froze. The sight that greeted him cooled his blood. His wife, backed up against the bookshelf, faced a creature so loathsome it must have come from the very pits of hell. It walked like a man, but hissed and snarled like a predator, gnashing its teeth against its puckered, blackened jaws.

“Hey, demon, over here!” The creature whirled around, its bulging eyes narrowing on Babbage. He inched along the wall toward the hat stand, where his walking cane rested in the basket. Inside was concealed a thin, retractable blade.

The creature took a tentative step towards him, a dry hiss emitting from its puckered, burnt mouth. Not daring to take his eyes off the creature, Babbage fumbled with his fingers and grasped the handle of his cane. He gestured to his wife to move toward the staircase.

He pulled the cane to his chest and pressed the spring-loaded catch. Francesca bolted for the staircase. The creature’s eyes darted between the two of them, then sprang onto the balustrade and lunged for Francesca.

Her scream tore Babbage’s heart. The creature caught her by the throat and bit her, tearing the flesh from her cheek. Babbage raced across the hall, knife poised for the kill, but by the time he reached her, it was too late. With a twist of its head, the creature tore out her throat, and his beautiful wife fell silent and sagged against the staircase, her blood cascading over the creature like a waterfall.

Babbage howled as he bore down on the beast, slashing with the knife and tearing at it with his bare hands. He dug his fingers into those bulging eyes and felt the hatred surge. The creature squirmed and screamed for escape. With a final bellow of triumph, he thrust the knife deep into the creature’s chest, driving it through the ribcage and into the heart, if it even had a heart. He twisted the blade, and the creature sagged.

He threw the beast to the floor, his rage unquenched. With tears clouding his eyes, he kicked the body, stomped on the head. He screamed as he pummeled the fiend with his best leather boots, trampling its oozing viscera into the hallway carpet.

In defeat and disgust, he turned away.

“Francesca,” he knelt beside her. The creature had torn open her bodice, ripping the buttons from her favourite dress. It had also torn off most of her face, leaving her beautiful visage a pooling mess of veins and muscle. Her eyes, still intact, stared at the ceiling. He cradled her in his arms, pressing his face to her chest and hoping to hear the faint beat of her heart.

Outside, in the street, the organ grinder started up again, tuneless and ugly. His shoulders shuddered with sobs, and he threw himself down next to her and howled with pain.

Brunel pushed open a wooden door leading into one of the opulent connecting halls of the southern wing of the palace. Although they could hear screaming from the palace staff while the Sunken feasted on what they fancied, the sounds were muted, confined to the Georgian wing.

Nicholas followed Brunel through a series of halls and drawing rooms, each more opulent than the last. The sounds of the madness faded, ’till he could almost pretend the horror was all in his imagination.

Outside the entrance to the King’s private wing, Brunel dragged him behind a door and gestured to the pistol on his belt. Nicholas drew the barker, and Isambard silently slid his sword from its sheath. Isambard gestured for Nicholas to go ahead.

Nicholas sucked in his breath, held the pistol against his shoulder, and crept up to the heavy doors. He wondered, briefly, why the door was bolted on the outside. As silently as he could, he slid the bolts across, leaned his shoulder against the carved wood, and pushed inward. The door opened, revealing a dark, empty reception hall.

I am going to kill the King of England.

The thought stopped Nicholas cold. He’d been so worried about the Sunken, so concerned for the welfare of the city and for Brigitte’s safety, that he hadn’t contemplated the deed ’till now. If he killed the King, he would be a traitor. He would be a murderer. He could be put on trial and hanged, and he’d deserve it, too, for betraying his King and country.

“Isambard?” he whispered, hearing his mentor step behind him. “We can’t kill the King.”

“Shhhh!”

“It’s treason. We will hang for this.”

“It needs to be done, Nicholas. He cannot be allowed to live. Trust me. I will look after you.”

Nicholas made to protest some more, but Brunel held his finger to his lips.

Around the corner, Brunel pushed open a wide double door, and the horrible stench of raw, rotting meat invaded Nicholas’ nostrils. He gagged, covering his mouth with his hand to try and keep out the smell.

More doors, more empty rooms. They passed into the inner sanctum — the private chambers of His Majesty King George III. As Nicholas’ eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see what made the horrid smell.

Scattered about the room, piled on the bed, hunched by the curtains, lay the torn, twisted bodies of several young girls. Naked and sprawled in vulgar positions, their limbs scattered about them, their bellies torn open and organs strewn across the floor, tangled about the satin pillows and Turkish rugs.

Hunched over the broken corpses, more women — their naked backs puckered with pustules and scars — chewed on discarded limbs, digging their long, thin fingers into the bellies and stuffing whatever delicacies they could find into their gaping mouths.

Nicholas pressed his hand to his mouth, forcing himself to follow Brunel, ignoring the bile rising in his throat. The smell made his head spin — the putrid stench of a slaughterhouse and a public urinal washed over him.

Look at your boots. Just don’t look at them.
He followed at Brunel’s heels, his hand pressed tightly against his mouth, as they moved, unnoticed, through this monstrous feast, out through the doors onto the King’s private balcony.

And there he stood — George III, the maker of this madness, the Vampire King. He hunched over the railing, sickly, but strong enough to stand. His thin fingers gripped the wrought iron lattice, and he stared out into the night, drinking in the chaos he had wrought. His wheeled-chair lay in pieces, strewn across the balcony, the axles bent at unnatural angles and great chunks of flesh hanging limply from the torn ribbons of its upholstery.

The screams from the city rolled over them, wave after wave of terror that rocked Nicholas on his feet. In the courtyard below, soldiers fought against the Sunken, wrestling the loathsome creatures to the ground and slitting their throats with their curved rapiers. But they were few, and they would soon be overpowered. The battle had long been won.

“Your Majesty.” Brunel spoke.

The King whirled around, and Nicholas cried out and staggered back. Where his face should have been was nothing but a raw, blistering, bloody pulp, the eyes grey and bulging, the lips burnt away to reveal jagged, rotting teeth. The skin was pulled from the bones and hung in bulbous clumps under his cheeks, and through the mess ran ribbons of cold lead, solid bars nailed right through his bones, as if those protrusions were all that kept his body strung together.

The thing that had once been the King of England opened its jaw, and Nicholas thought it would snarl like the Sunken, but instead, it spoke, in the rough, commanding tone of a ruler whose time had only just begun.

“Have you seen my city, Presbyter? She has never been as beautiful as she is tonight, with her streets bedecked in red ribbons and the song of her people arching across the skies.”

Isambard said nothing. He took a tentative step forward, and unsheathed his sword.

The King threw back his head, and laughed.

“Don’t point that needle at me,” he said. “I have drunk the blood of hundreds of men. I am immortal. You will not kill me.”

Before Nicholas could cry out or turn away, Brunel flicked the blade up, and sliced clean through the King’s neck.

The head balanced in mid-air for a moment, as though suspended on strings like a balloon. And then it fell, bouncing on the balustrade and toppling into the courtyard below, landing with a splat upon the tiles and strewing across the pavement. The King’s body crumpled against the railing.

Brunel lowered the sword, his eyes downcast, expressionless. “It’s over,” he said.

“No.” Nicholas whirled around, raising his pistol. “It’s not.”

Noticing at last the two intruders and the crumpled body of their master, the Sunken had discarded their morsels and rushed towards the balcony door, clawing the air with their sharpened nails, eager to be the first to devour the murderers.

Isambard sized up the horde in one glance, and flung himself over the balcony.

Nicholas leaned out over the balustrade, horrified he might see his friend sprawled across the courtyard in a pool of his own blood. Instead, Brunel swung from a window cornice, his right coat arm pulled back to reveal a remarkable device strapped to his skin — a metallic claw which had extended and gripped the edge of the cornice, supporting the engineer’s full weight while he fumbled, one-handed, with a rope.