The Dark and Shadowy Places Page 22

  A Voice In the Darkness

  The last train had pulled into the station long ago and now sat, a silent, menacing hulk of dark iron, dull copper and tarnished brass.

  The station itself had long emptied of the passengers that moved in and out of it smoothly and quickly like sand falling through an hourglass. Now it, too, was silent. A chill wind blew through, barely impeded by the pillars dotted throughout the station that were more for show than actual function.

  A lone figure sat on one of the long worn wooden benches positioned along either side of the station, facing outward, looking onto the railway tracks through graceful stone arches. The girl seemed small in the emptiness of the building, hunched in her long forest green pea coat in an effort to stay warm.

  She glanced at the large clock that dominated the lintel over the main entrance, frowned, and then removed her own timepiece from the pocket of her coat. She flicked the lid of the pocket watch open and her frown deepened when she realized the time was correct. She snapped the case shut, and the sound, though quiet, seemed loud in the tomb-like silence, bouncing off the cold stone of the walls and pillars. She pulled her coat tighter around her and blew into her hands, even though she was wearing gloves.

  “Where could he be?” she said aloud, more to herself, for comfort than anything. Panic surged through her from the base of her skull down and down her spine, like cold fire. She opened up her satchel that was sitting beside her on the bench and took out her diary, flipping through the pages. Yes, it was the correct date and time. She stood and looked around, not sure what she was looking for exactly, but unsure what to do.

  A sudden hiss of steam and the creak of settling metal caused her to jump. “Hello?” she said quietly. She moved cautiously out onto the abandoned platform. “Is anyone there?” She looked at the train, crouched like an animal in the darkness waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting prey. It looked different, somehow, at night. Most things did, she thought suddenly, reaching out impulsively to touch the smooth metal that shone where the moon hit it.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice cautioned from behind her. She whirled, snatching her hand back and stifled a scream.

  A man detached himself from the heavy shadows that cloaked most of the platform, the moonlight unable to penetrate under the awnings.

  The man tipped his head forward in a nod, tipping a grey bowler hat that caught the moonlight in greeting. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said with a smile that turned his mouth up at one side.

  The woman clutched her satchel to her protectively. “Well, you may not have meant to, but you did,” she said brusquely, out of embarrassment. “And why shouldn’t I?” she added, replying to his statement.

  “Because it may still be hot. Steam trains retain a lot of heat, especially around the engine room. Metal conducts heat and it takes a while to cool,” the man explained matter-of-factly.

  “Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.

  “What is a young lady such as yourself doing all by yourself in a train station?” He glanced at the pocket watch in the small front pocket of his vest made specifically for that purpose. “And at this ungodly hour?” the man asked as he stepped just to the edge of the shadows. Moonlight glinted on the toes of his polished black shoes, and highlighted the tip of his nose and mouth, but the rest of him remained in the safety of the dark.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” she replied. She paused, hesitating. “I mean, I was supposed to meet someone here.”

  “Oh?”

  The woman could hear the surprise in the man’s voice, and even though she couldn’t see, she knew the man’s eyebrows would have risen towards the brim of his hat at her reply. It was none of his business, she thought, irritated, so remained silent.

  The man continued, ignoring her stoicism. “Well, if you want someone to help pass the time until your friend shows up…” he trailed off.

  She shook her head briskly. “No!” she said loudly and more forcefully that she meant, an edge of fear creeping into her voice. “No,” she repeated, more calmly. “I’ll be fine.” She glanced at her watch again. It was now almost half past midnight. Thirty minutes late. She looked up as the light from the moon suddenly disappeared, she thought at first it was just temporarily by one of the night-time delivery airships, but it was more unpredictably obscured by cloud.

  The man was silent a long, unnerving moment, and she took a step backwards, in a futile effort to put space between them. She almost bumped up against the train.

  “Who were you supposed to be meeting?” the man asked softly from the comfort of the shadows.

  She had the sudden urge to reach into her bag for the small energy pistol hidden inside.

  “No one that is of any interest to you,” she replied, trying unsuccessfully to keep the rising fear out of her voice.

  “And how would you know that?”

  She crabbed sideways, along the length of the train, towards the first of the passenger doors.

  She didn’t know that. She didn’t even really know who it was she was meeting. She had received the note three days before. It had been waiting for her, propped against the front door, the corner of the envelope crushed and bent by an unsuccessful attempt to shove it under the door. A small bicycle leaned against the railings of the steps that lead up to the door.

  She broke the seal on the envelope with shaking hands. A few words in dark, shaky script were scrawled across the single page. “If you want to see your child again, take the last train north to the last station on the line. Wait until midnight.”

  She had run to the closest train station, careful not to twist an ankle on the uneven cobbles, and bought a ticket, but not before digging out the small energy gun she kept hidden in a shoe box under the bed. Better to be safe, she thought, tucking it away, underneath a spare shawl and the one photograph of her son that she had. She handed over almost all the money she had on her for the ticket and ignored the ticket booth clerks’ quizzical look at why someone like her, dressed in her least worn and tattered dress, would want to go to the last stop on the line. It was the middle of nowhere, surrounded by windswept and barren land that was home to almost perpetual fog year round.

  She had been so filled with worry that she barely remembered getting on the train. She had managed to find a seat in the crowded cars, and sat by the window, oblivious of the chill through the glass. Her fingers drummed nervously against the polished mahogany of the arm rests, and the panelling along the windows and sills. She was vaguely aware of the train emptying, more and more people getting off at each stop. Her head jerked up as a voice crackled loudly over the speakers, alerting passengers that they had reached the terminus station and to kindly please watch their step getting off.

  She glanced around, slightly bewildered at the fact that she seemed to be the only person left. The car had lost its coziness, despite the velvet upholstered seats and rich wine coloured embroidered curtains that were draped across each window, when it had lost its inhabitants. She had stepped out of the train slowly, taking in the new, unfamiliar surroundings. She’d been on a train before. If she was honest, she preferred them to airship travel, but she had never been here and she didn’t know anyone who had ever had any reason to.

  Her feet hit the platform, and she caught a glimpse of the conductor and one of the stewards in their wine coloured jackets disappear through a gate and up a set of metal stairs to some unknown destination. Almost immediately she found herself alone.

  But she wasn’t anymore. She edged her way closer to one of the carriage doors, clutching her bag tighter against her, as if it were a shield.

  Movement caught her eye and she looked up at a flickering shadow. A moth fluttered erratically around one of the gaslight lanterns that cast a pale, feeble glow every couple meters or so down the length of the platform.

  She turned her attention back to the man in the shadows and was surprised to see he was no longer there.

  “What do yo
u want?” Now the panic was evident in her voice.

  The voice in the darkness came once more. This time, from further down the platform, in the direction she was heading. It sounded apologetic. “I’m sorry I’m late,” it said. “Something…” it paused before continuing. “Held me up.”

  She tried to peer into the darkness to find his shape, black against black. She wished the moon would come out of hiding.

  She reached the carriage door and still standing with her back to it; put a shaking hand on the handle.

  She repeated her question.

  “You know what I want,” the voice in the darkness said smoothly.

  She shook her head vehemently. “No, I don’t. I don’t understand. Why have you taken my son?” Her free hand went to her bag and slid under the flap, fingers searching for the comfort of the gun in its depths.

  She almost stumbled backwards and through the door as her hand moved on the handle when the man suddenly stepped from the dark into the strip of light created by the lanterns, though the light still didn’t seem to touch him in his all black outfit. He wore a long black coat, collar turned up to the brim of his hat, and a dark scarf tucked neatly into dark waistcoat which flowed into black trousers. The one thing the light did touch was his black shoes which glittered.

  She saw him open his mouth and then close it again. He was studying her, looking her up and down, from the tips of her scuffed teal boots, over her matching dress, to the tip of the piece of peacock feather that adorned the small hat she wore so that she didn’t have to put much effort into styling her hair.

  She saw his eyebrows rise this time before he spoke. “You mean, you really don’t know?”

  This caught her off guard and confusion engulfed her, increasing her panic that rose up her spine and down her arms into her hands. Her fingers tingled, a strange icy-hot sensation.

  “No?” The word came out as a question, unsure. “What are you talking about?”

  The man laughed. It was an odd, sharp sound, like he didn’t believe her.

  “Are you sure?” he said, pointing to her one hand that was still visible, wrapped tightly around the handle of the train car door.

  “What?” Still confused she glanced, irritated, to where he indicated.

  A scream escaped her. Her hand, which was still tingling and burning cold, was glowing blue. The colour surrounded her hand like a glove and was dancing, flickering and sparking like the new-fangled electricity that was being demonstrated at fairs around the country by Messrs. Tesla and Edison.

  She snatched her hand away from the door, and pulled her other one free from her purse and away from its quest for her gun. That one was surrounded by blue as well. She held them in front of her, mesmerized.

  “What-,” she stuttered. “What’s happening?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know,” the man said, taking another step closer, further into the light. She could see his eyes now, and they shone the same blue as her hands. “It’s why I’ve taken your son. He’s like you, but he needs guidance.” He watched her again. “And so do you, it seems. But I can’t help you with that. I’m assigned to your son.”

  She tore her gaze from her hands as her head snapped up. “Assigned?”

  “Your son can do magic,” the man explained. “And he needs teaching. I’ve been assigned as his teacher.”

  “Magic? That’s preposterous!” She scoffed, shaking her head.

  The man laughed again and inclined his head towards her hands. “Is it?”

  She looked at her hands again. The blue was still there, but fading. She had no reply to that.

  “What are you going to do with him? My Jeremy?” she asked.

  “Not to worry, he is safe, and in good hands,” the man said with a smile that now seemed less frightening than before.

  “Can I see him?” she asked quietly.

  “I’m afraid he isn’t here.” The reply was almost sad.

  Dread settled in a heavy ball in her stomach once more. “Where is he?” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Where he belongs,” the man said touching the brim of his hat once more before turning away and heading back into the station, between the columns that supported the platform roof.

  It was then she noticed that what she thought had been a long, black coat were a pair of large black wings, folded tightly against the man’s back, trailing down to his heels. Before she could say anything, he had disappeared back into the shadows and was gone.

  The Dark & Shadowy Places

  My name-, well, that doesn’t matter right now. That’s the least important part of this story. The important part is that the world has always been back and white for me. And I’m not just talking about life and death, like most would assume these days, though it is pretty black and white in that regard as well. But I mean literally. I only see in black and white. Or shades of grey if you want to get technical about it. I can’t see colours. No need to pity me though. I was born like this, which helps, somewhat. Some genetic abnormality or something they said, though no one in my family has had this condition, I’ve checked. In fact, hardly anyone has it. And most of them that do, or did, aren’t around anymore. For reasons I’m sure you can guess.

  I’ve looked for a cure but it doesn’t seem like there is one. At least not yet. And not seeing colour puts me at a slight disadvantage. Okay, if I’m being honest, quite a big disadvantage. Especially at night. I try to avoid dark, shadowy places, which is just plain common sense nowadays. I mean, it used to be common sense back then too, but for a totally different reason. Before, the only thin you’d be avoiding by keeping away from the dark and shadows were unsavoury people – muggers, drug dealers, prostitutes, burglars and the like, that would cause you harm. And I’m not putting anything against them, I’m sure it wouldn’t have been very nice to find yourself in some dark alley with those types of people around, but at least your chances of coming out the other side, alive, were more likely.

  But now, unless you’re totally insane, the dark and shadowy places are abandoned, by even the muggers and drug dealers and psychopaths. And all the unsavouries, if they value their lives, have found safe places indoors to ply their trades.

  The dark and shadowy places are now the domain of the reanimated deceased. That’s the PC way of saying the living dead. Zombies, if you want to be downright crude.

  They seem to favour the dark. Maybe, like me, bright lights bother them.

  Though the lights of a big city will do nothing to scare away those who are hunting, who are hungry.

  There is nothing that will stop a hungry walking deceased person besides the standard of targeting the brain – but not just the brain but the brain stem. The movies got that part all wrong. You have to sever or damage the brain stem. That shuts them down, turns off whatever internal battery that has somehow been flicked back on again after death. And doing that is harder than you think.

  A gun works well to give you a bit of a reprieve, give you a few extra seconds. Shooting them usually knocks them down, as if they’re a leaf being blown about by a breeze, but they immediately start getting up again so you have to be fast with your sword when they’re down. It takes a lot of strength. And most swords aren’t feathers, that’s for darn sure.

  But they’re by far the most popular weapon. There’s been an increase in sword fighting classes and a drop in self defence since this whole thing started. Hand to hand combat isn’t all that effective fighting something that is dead and that will continue to try to attack and eat you, no matter how many punches or roundhouse kicks you throw. Swords give you a little bit of distance, which is why the longer the sword, the better, but if you don’t already have one, you probably won’t have much luck finding any in stock at your local Walmart.

  I was lucky. Mine were handed down to me. Ceremonial Japanese fighting swords that my father had above the fireplace mantle, just as decoration, can you believe that? People had swords as decorations in their hoses before the dead started coming back
to life and instead of peacefully shambling around, came back craving anything that had a heart beat and fresh blood pumping through their veins. Dad’s swords were in perfect condition, but didn’t remain that way for very long.

  I had conditioned myself for the past two years, since all this started, to not go out at night and be safe at home by dusk, just in case. But tonight I had broken my self imposed rule. My swords were strapped diagonally across my back in their harness, their handles within easy reach. I wore skin tight thick leather motorcycle pants, which were almost a universal fashion these days, it was only sensible, and a snug long sleeved shirt with an equally form fitting motorcycle jacket on top, though I didn’t own a motorcycle. Thick leather gave you that little bit of extra protection. And it helped that I was slim, too. It helped to be in good shape. I’d lost a bit of weight and toned up over the last few years. Being at all out of shape meant your chances of living very long in this brave new world weren’t very good. The dead weren’t all that fast, but it did help if you could run, and put some space between you and them, at least until you decided what you wanted to do – either run and hide, or maybe get help, or if you decided to face them yourself. Before the world changed, before all this started people used to make jokes about it. People who ran used to say to those who didn’t, “I’ll be able to survive the zombie apocalypse!”

  Yes, running is good. It helps you to stay alive. But you can’t be like Forrest Gump and keep running your entire life, because there will always be more dead people, slowly but surely following you. You’ll run out of steam at some point. They won’t. And that’s the crux of it. Which is where weapons become useful.

  I never leave the house without my swords. And I try not to leave the house at all, if I can help it. I order food online and get it delivered to the house; I have a fenced yard if I want to get some fresh air or some vitamin D. But a little sunshine is over-rated I think when there are legion of human-esque things wandering around out there with you as the only thing on their menu for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  There’s only one thing that will get me to leave the safety of my self-sufficient stronghold, a.k.a. townhouse (but one that’s reinforced with steel doors and barred windows). The one thing that would make everyone with an ounce of brain cells leave the safety of their houses, apartments, condos, homeless shelter.

  The alarms. It meant evacuation. It meant there had been a breach of the walls that surrounded the city, and that the tall fence surrounding my back yard and the steel doors were no longer the comforting safety that they pretended to offer.

  So it was that that had me striding across the city with my Japanese ceremonial swords at my back. I wasn’t thinking, not really, not clearly. The only thing I was thinking of was getting to the muster area. The safety zone, the meeting place where everyone was supposed to meet when a failure happened. Like when a fire happens in a building, there’s always the place marked out on the map where everyone needs to meet, on the grass, outside. I was on autopilot, moving swiftly in the general direction but not fully paying attention to the encroaching dark and shadowy places that grew larger every night, as if the dark, not just the undead was taking over the world.

  The alarm was like a beacon. A long, continuous blaring noise, that roused people from their beds and their couches, attracting them like the dead to a beating heart.

  One thing I should’ve learned by now, something I did know, but for some reason, with the alarm blaring I had forgot for an instant, and that is all that it takes, is that you always need to be on your guard when you are outside. Whether it is first thing in the morning, or high noon, or as the sun is setting. In the before times, people were constantly distracted by technology, staring more at their cell phones and laptops and handheld computers than being aware of their surroundings. There was even the odd story of people walking into moving buses because they weren’t paying attention to where they were going!

  You couldn’t be like that anymore. Not if you wanted to live, anyway. You had to pay attention at all times. You had to look. You had to listen. And for me, I had to look harder than most other people because I couldn’t differentiate things as clearly as those who could see the full spectrum.

  My foot drifted across the subtle demarcation between the living world, and the dark, shadowy part of the world. Their domain.

  I felt it first like a shiver of electricity, running up my spine and tugging on the small hairs on the back of my neck. I felt it before I heard it. Before I heard the shuffling noise of them moving, before I heard their deep, ragged breathing, like the growl of a wild animal, which drove a spike of fear into my chest.

  Instinctively I turned my head in the direction of the sound, just in time to see fingers the colour of the pavement, cold and grey reach out and grab my arm, tugging at me. I yanked my arm free, thankful I wasn’t wearing something loose that they could pull towards them. As I pulled my arm free my hand moved behind me to the hilt of my sword and I slid it free with a whoosh that had a slight ring to it. I swung without much thought. The sword came down on the creature’s arm severing it through it’s form arm, the grasping hand falling to the ground, and for a few moments, it still moved and spidered its way across the ground toward me. I stomped on it, grinding the heel of my steel toed boots into the appendage, squishing it into the pavement as if it were a cigarette butt.

  The man didn’t blink, didn’t stop, didn’t even seem to notice it was now missing a large chunk of an arm. It just kept moving forward.

  I stepped backwards, stumbling slightly in my haste and raised my sword again, at the same time pulling its twin free of its sheath. I was already panting and out of breath. I hadn’t come across one of them for awhile. And never like this, never this close.

  I was dimly aware that the alarm had stopped ringing. There was a strange quietness that hit my ears, a quietness brought on by a sudden lack of a sound you had been hearing for awhile.

  That wasn’t a good thing. If the alarm had stopped, that meant the muster area had been sealed off already. If you weren’t behind the walls by the time the alarm had been turned off, you were on your own.

  The thought slammed its way through my mind, nearly distracting me from what I was trying to do. I was on my own. I squinted, trying to focus on the man-thing that was just a slightly different shade of grey from the dark shadow that surrounded him. I swung again. One of my swords sliced into the skin of his torso and lodged itself between ribs. The other sword, the one in my dominant hand, hit the thing in his neck, shoving it sideways slightly, pushing it further away from me. I released my grip on the one that was tightly stuck between the ribs and gripped the other with both hands, pulling it away from its neck and swinging again. This time it did its job, the blade slicing cleaning through, dislodging the groaning head with its gnashing teeth from the rest of its body. It tumbled in almost-slow motion and rolled back into the dark. I didn’t even wait for the body to follow its lead, I turned and ran.

  I ran until my lungs burned and I revelled in the feeling. Any discomfort meant I was still alive and that was something to be happy about.

  Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, then twenty. I didn’t realize the safe zone was so far away. And then the grey steel loomed in front of me, almost indistinguishable from the rest of what I saw as my environment. As suspected, the doors were closed, sealed shut with pneumatics.

  I debated banging on it, asking them to open the doors but I knew it was futile. I was out, and everyone else was in. That was the protocol.

  I turned and surveyed the abandoned city streets, cast in a strange pale whitish light from the street lamps, that people could have told me were purple for all I knew, whatever purple looked like.

  It was me, Shar Flanagan, the girl who can't see anything but shades of dark and shadow against them, and all that entailed.

  ###

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  Discover other titles by Caitlin McColl

  Under A Starlit Sky

  Little Gods

  Cogs & Corsets: A Steampunk Collection vol 1

  Of Adventure & Antiquity: A Steampunk Collection vol 2

  Ex Cineribus Resurge

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