He jumped out onto the platform, half expecting to see it swarming with police, soldiers, and ambulance attendants. He would be able to report to someone in authority and then check into the hotel for a proper rest.
But there was only the usual bustle of a big country station in the middle of the night, with the last important train finally in. Passengers were disembarking. Porters were gathering cases. A newspaper vendor was hawking a late edition of the Times, shouting, ‘Flood kills five men, three horses. Getcher paper! Flood kills three—’
There’d be a different headline in the next edition, Nick thought, though it almost certainly wouldn’t be the real story. ‘Fire at Country House’ would be most likely, with the survivors paid or pressured to shut up. He would probably get to read it over breakfast, which reminded him that he was extremely hungry and needed to have a very late, much-delayed dinner. Of course, in order to eat, he’d need to get some money, and that meant …
‘Excuse me, sir, could I see your ticket, please?’
Nick’s train of thought derailed spectacularly. A railway inspector was standing too close to him, looking sternly at the dishevelled, blackened, eyebrowless young man in ruined evening wear with a chain of braided daisies around his neck and carpet slippers on his feet.
‘Ah, good evening,’ replied Nick. He patted his sides and tried to look somewhat tipsy and confused, which was not hard. ‘I’m afraid I seem to have lost my ticket. And my coat. And for that matter my tie. But if I could make a telephone call, I’m sure everything can be put right.’
‘Undergraduate, are you, sir?’ asked the inspector. ‘Put on the train by your friends?’
‘Something like that,’ admitted Nick.
‘I’ll have your name and college to start with,’ said the inspector stolidly. ‘Then we can see about a telephone call.’
‘Nicholas Sayre,’ replied Nick. ‘Sunbere. Though technically I’m not up this term.’
‘Sayre?’ asked the inspector. ‘Would you be …’
‘My uncle, I’m afraid,’ said Nick. ‘That’s whom I need to call. At the Golden Sheaf Hotel, near Applethwick. I’m sure that if there is a fine to pay, I’ll be able to sort something out.’
‘You’ll just have to purchase a ticket before you leave the station,’ said the inspector. ‘As for the phone call, follow me and you can—’
He stopped talking as Nick suddenly turned away from him and stared up at the pedestrian bridge that crossed the railway tracks. To the right, in the direction of the station hotel and most of the town, everything was normal, the bridge crowded with passengers off the Flyer eager to get to the hotel or home. But to the lonely left, the electric lights on the wrought-iron lampposts were flickering and going out. One after the other, each one died just as two porters passed by, wheeling a very long, tall box.
‘It must be the … but Dorrance was at least fifteen minutes ahead of the Flyer!’
‘You’re involved in one of Mr Dorrance’s japes, are you?’ The inspector smiled. ‘His train just came in on the old track. Private trains aren’t allowed on the express line. Hey! Sir! Come back!’
Nick ran, vaulting the ticket inspection barrier, the inspector’s shouts ignored behind him. All his resignation burned away in an instant. The creature was here, and he was still the only one who knew about it.
Two policemen belatedly moved to intercept him before the stairs, but they were too slow. Nick jumped up the steps three at a time. He almost fell at the top step, but turned the movement into a flèche, launching himself into a sprint across the bridge.
At the top of the stairs at the other end, he slowed and drew his dagger. Down below, at the side of the road, the tall box was lying on its side, open. One of the two porters was sprawled next to it, his throat ripped out.
There was a row of shops on the other side of the street, all shuttered and dark. The single lamppost was also dark. The moon was lower now, and the shadows deeper. Nick walked down the steps, dagger ready, the Charter Marks swimming on the blade bright enough to shed light. He could hear police whistles behind him and knew that they would be there in moments, but he spared no attention from the street.
Nothing moved there until Nick left the last step. As he trod on the road, the creature suddenly emerged from an alcove between two shops and dropped the second porter at its hoofed feet. Its violet eyes shone with a deep, internal fire now, and its black teeth were rimmed with red flames. It made a sound that was half hiss and half growl and raised its spiked club hands. Nick tensed for its attack and tried to fumble the flower chain off his neck with his left hand.
Then Dorrance peered over the creature’s shoulder and whispered something in its ear slit. The thing blinked, single eyelids sliding across to dim rather than close its burning violet eyes. Then it suddenly jumped more than twenty feet—but away from Nick. Dorrance, clinging to it for dear life, shouted as it sped away.
‘Stay back, Sayre! It just wants to go home.’
Nick started to run, but stopped after only a dozen strides, as the creature disappeared into the dark. It had evidently not exhausted all the power it had gained from Nick’s blood, or perhaps simply being closer to the Old Kingdom lent it strength.
Panting, his chest heaving from his exertion, Nick looked back. The two policemen were coming down the stairs, their truncheons in hand. The fact that they were still approaching indicated they had not seen the creature.
Nick sheathed his dagger and held up his hands. The policemen slowed to a walk and approached warily. Then Nick saw a single headlight approaching rapidly toward him. A motorcycle. He stepped out into the street and waved his hands furiously to flag the rider down.
The motorcyclist stopped next to Nick. He was young and sported a small, highly-trimmed mustache that did him no favors.
‘What occurs, old man?’
‘No … time … to explain,’ gasped Nick. ‘I need your bike. Name’s Sayre. Nicholas.’
‘The fast bowler!’ exclaimed the rider as he casually stepped off the idling bike, holding it upright for Nick to get on. He was unperturbed by the sight of Nick’s strange attire or the shouts of the policemen, who had started to run again. ‘I saw you play here last year. Wonderful match! There you are. Bring the old girl back to Wooten, if you don’t mind. St. John Wooten, in Bain.’
‘Pleasure!’ Nick said as he pushed off and kicked the motorcycle into gear. It rattled away barely ahead of the running policemen, one of whom threw his truncheon, striking Nick a glancing blow on the shoulder.
‘Good shot!’ cried St John Wooten, but the policemen were soon left behind as easily as the creature had left Nick.
For a few minutes Nick thought he might catch up with his quarry fairly soon. The motorcycle was new and powerful, a far cry from the school gardener’s old Vernal Victrix he’d learned on back at Somersby. But after almost sliding out on several corners and getting the wobbles at speed, Nick had to acknowledge that his lack of experience was the limiting factor, not the machine’s capacity. He slowed down to a point just slightly beyond his competence, a speed insufficient to do more than afford an occasional glimpse of the creature and Dorrance ahead.
As Nick had expected, they soon left even the outskirts of Bain behind, turning right onto the Bain High Road, heading north. There was very little traffic on the road, and what there was of it was heading the other way. At least until the creature ran past. Those cars or trucks that didn’t run off the road as the driver saw the monster st
alled to a stop, their electrical components destroyed by the creature’s passage. Nick, coming up only a minute or so later, never even saw the drivers. As might be expected this far north, they had instantly fled the scene, looking for running water or, at the very least, some friendly walls.
The question of what the creature would do at the first Perimeter checkpoint was easily answered. When Nick saw the warning sign he slowed, not wanting to be shot. But when he idled up to the red-striped barrier, there were four dead soldiers lying in a row, their heads caved in. The creature had killed them without slowing down. None of them had even managed to get a shot off, though the officer had his revolver in his hand. They hadn’t been wearing mail this far south, or the characteristic neck- and nasal-barred helmets of the Perimeter garrison. After all, trouble came from the north. This most southern checkpoint was the relatively friendly face of the Army, there to turn back unauthorised travelers or tourists.
Nick was about to go straight on, but he knew there were more stringent checkpoints ahead, before the Perimeter proper, and the chance of being shot would greatly increase. So he put the motorcycle in neutral, sat it on its stand, and, looking away as much as he could, took the cleanest tunic, which happened to be the officer’s. It had a second lieutenant’s single pip on each cuff. The previous wearer had probably been much the same age as Nick, and moments before must have been proud of his small command, before he lost it, with his life.
Nick figured wearing the khaki coat would at least give him time to explain who he was before he was shot at. He shrugged it on, left it unbuttoned with the flower chain underneath, got back on the motorcycle, and set off once more.
He heard several shots before he arrived at the next checkpoint, and a brief staccato burst of machine-gun fire, followed a few seconds later by a rocket arcing up into the night. It burst into three red parachute flares that slowly drifted north by northwest, propelled by a southerly wind that would usually give comfort to the soldiers of the Perimeter. They would not have been expecting any trouble.