CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

FOR A MOMENT, Gabe could do nothing but stand there and stare back at his former boss. The office, Andrei Vassily, Jackson and the rest, slid away off the periphery of his vision. It was only for the briefest of seconds, but within that fraction of time all he saw was Flowers' face studying him with a mixture of hatred and unconcealed mirth. That sensation of stasis seemed to encompass the pair of them, as if they were two museum exhibits eyeing one another from either side of a display case. He blinked and the rest of the world came racing back into focus. He cleared his throat, realising that he'd been holding his breath.

"Harry."

"Hello, Gabriel," the old man remarked, as if he were tipping his hat to a neighbour he saw every morning. Gabe could detect little malice in his voice. "We'd been wondering where you'd got to."

"The... the hijack was a bust," Gabe said slowly, aware that excuses would make no difference but unable to think of anything else to say. He was damned if he was going to apologise to him, and he promised himself that he wouldn't beg. He wouldn't spend his last few minutes on earth on his knees. "Everything got fucked up. The target got destroyed, we unwittingly riled an army of pusbags that were beneath the river, we didn't have any choice but to retreat. Government pricks caught me as I tried to make it back to the motor."

Did he imagine it, or did he see the slightest beginnings of a smirk twitch at the corner of Hewitt's mouth? He shouldn't have been surprised that the kid was enjoying his predicament - no doubt promotion had been offered to Gabe's soon-to-be-vacant position in the outfit - but there was something about the way he was standing there, a bastard full to bursting with bad news, and struggling to contain himself. It was somehow agonisingly predictable that he had survived that night on the bridge, scurrying vermin-like to safety.

"Please," Harry said, looking pained, holding up a hand. "Let's not rake over the past. Mr Hewitt's given me a full account of the operation's failure. Such eventualities, while tiresome, are par for the course. What's less acceptable is a security lapse."

"Harry, for what's it's worth, I told them nothing. They know plenty about you already."

"These are your new paymasters, I take it?"

"I work for no one. Not anymore."

"Oh, I would like to believe that, Gabriel, honestly I would," Flowers replied flamboyantly, taking a step or two towards him. "It gives me no pleasure to be standing here before you like this. You were one of my most trusted aides, and you were a good little thief. You were an asset, boy." He reached out and grabbed Gabe's chin hard between thumb and forefinger. "But don't insult my intelligence by telling me that the authorities simply let you go without asking for nothing in return. The fact that you're simply still alive indicates that you bargained your way out of their custody. And lo and behold you turn up at the Alley, seeking to curry favour with Andrei."

The younger man couldn't answer, his jaw held firmly in place by Harry's solid grip, but he glared back, refusing to look away from the gang lord's blazing eyes.

"Didn't take much for you to turn traitor, did it?" Flowers spat, wrenching his hand away.

"Just circumstances," Gabe said. "Ask Ashberry. That's how anyone ends up becoming involved with an old arsehole like you."

Harry pulled an ancient snubnose Colt from his trouser belt and without hesitation shot Gabe in the belly. The roar of the gun's detonation in the enclosed space of the office was deafening, a clap of thunder that caught everyone by surprise. Gabe staggered, crumpling onto his backside, his hands clutching at his wound, trying to stem the blood that pumped between his fingers. White-hot pain encircled his torso as if a flaming vice had been tightened around him, and stars danced in his vision. He chanced a look at the entry point, then glanced away. His palms were sticky and a deep shade of crimson.

"Don't worry, Mr O'Connell," Harry said, standing over him. "You won't die yet. Gutshot will take a while to bleed out. It'll poison your organs and starve your brain of oxygen, but you'll be conscious enough for what I've got planned for you."

"I don't remember agreeing to you perforating your mark on my property," Gabe heard Vassily protest, the words floating down to him as if he was listening to the exchange underwater. "I said I'd give you the guy, I didn't say you could redecorate my office with him."

"Sorry, Andrei. Temper got the better of me."

"Mr Vassily, sir, with respect: what the hell is going on?" Jackson asked. "You knew O'Connell was coming to see you?"

"Harry had asked that we keep an eye out for him; that's why I approved his entry into the Alley, and let those looking for him know that he was in the area. Sorry I didn't keep you informed, Jackson, but I thought the least number of personnel that knew the less likely he would get spooked and make a run for it."

"I am grateful, Andrei," Harry said, his voice now amiable. "I'll reimburse you for the inconvenience. I just need one more favour."

"Which is?"

"Where do you keep this super-smart maggotbrain of yours?"

 

 

GABE FELT HIMSELF being lifted off the floor, the movement sending new paroxysms of pain through his body. He kept his right arm wrapped tightly around his midriff, though he could sense the loss of blood was already beginning to take its toll. His head felt heavy and woozy, his eyesight blurry, and shivers ran the course of his skin. Each fresh exhalation was an effort, the air raspy in his throat, and his heart was pounding irregularly, like it was slowly winding down, gradually starved of power. However, despite his state, he willed himself to stay alert to what was going on around him, concentrating furiously on the others' words.

Vassily had seemed initially reluctant to lead Harry to this self-aware zombie of his, evidently regarding his pet as his alone and not for display to others. But Flowers seemed to have cut some deal with the Alley boss that would make it worth his while. Indeed, Andrei's co-operation in Gabe's capture was apparently to be rewarded with a hefty fee - though whether it was in territory, manpower or loot, was impossible to discern - and Harry was willing to increase his offer to make this extra allowance. At first, Gabe couldn't fathom why his former employer was so adamant in gaining access to the ghoul - normally Harry couldn't stand being near deadheads - but when Flowers started mentioning Hewitt in the same breath and having made the kid a 'promise', Gabe realised what the old man was up to, and what his own fate was going to be.

Since humanity had learned to live with the dead, the worst fate imaginable had become to be consumed alive by the Returners; it was considered more noble to take your own life and that of those around you rather than end your days as a meal for a ravening pack of rotting cadavers. There was a sense of violation to the death - of falling victim to an unstoppable frenzied lust - that most would not bear contemplate suffering. Consequently, it was not unknown for this appalling demise to be instrumental in punishing the guilty, particularly amongst the criminal community. In the past it would have been a burial in a concrete casket, or a kneecapping. These days, new situations call for fresh solutions, and many was the embezzler, turncoat or loose cannon that had been thrown to the undead, even fed to them piece by piece. It was horrific to watch; but the threat was usually strong enough to keep even the dimmest element of the underworld in line.

Now, Gabe realised that was what Harry had in store for him; not a couple of bullets casually unloaded into the back of his skull, but a slow, lingering execution, a warning to his other lieutenants about what happens when you attempt to cross him. A bubble of panic exploded in the fear centre of his brain, and he summoned up what reserves of strength he still had in an attempt to wrest himself free from his captors, but it was useless. Vassily's goons - Gull and the younger man - held him secure as they moved through an adjoining door, down a set of steps and into a bare concrete space, apparently a section of what had once been the warehouse that hadn't been converted into the office complex. What looked like a false wall or a partition ran across the length of the room, and when Vassily strode over to a bank of switches and flipped one, the divider separated and its two halves disappeared into the stone walls at either side, revealing the wide, smooth expanse of a mirrored viewing screen, a steel door set next to it.

Gabe was pushed forward, closer to the two-way mirror, and Andrei, Harry and the rest followed. For a moment, there was just blackness on the other side of the screen, and they simply gazed at their own reflections; then Andrei snapped a wall switch and the fluorescents flickered into life, illuminating a room on the other side of the divide that wasn't dissimilar to the one they were in. A cold, grey concrete area, with little concession to decoration. There was furniture in this room, however - a tatty armchair stood in one corner, with a small coffee table before it, on which stood an ancient portable television, an antenna perched on top. A battered VCR sat beside the TV, a small hillock of cassettes piled upon it. Nearer the viewing window was a larger table, with a couple of wooden chairs tucked beneath it; seated motionless at one of these chairs was Andrei's intelligent zombie, its arms resting on the table surface like a mannequin that had been positioned to approximate someone waiting to be served dinner. Its eye sockets were empty, but as light flooded the room it cocked its head sideways in tiny, incremental movements. It was impossible to deny that that creature was aware that its environment had changed, and it was reacting to the shift - something Gabe had never witnessed in a Returner before.

Physically, it had seen better days: it was in an advanced state of putrefaction, and its charcoal-black body had been reduced to little more than a deep-fried skeleton. Its hairless head appeared too big for its flimsy frame, and every time it was jerkily turned it wobbled as if not securely tethered. The shrunken sockets were pits of absolute shadow, and the lips had shrivelled away to give it a permanent rictus grin. It took Gabe a few seconds to realise that the ghoul had been dressed in a jacket - and presumably trousers too, though they were hidden by the lip of the table - which hung loosely about its emaciated torso and had become stained in God-knew-what bodily excretions. The effect was bizarre, as if someone had attempted to construct a picture of normalcy when the truth was the very far from that.

"Christ," Gabe heard Harry mutter. "How long have you kept that thing here, Andrei?"

"Many years," Vassily replied quietly. "Many years." He leaned forward and pushed a button on the wall next to a speakerphone. "Can you hear me? Nod if you can." His voice echoed on the other side of the screen, and the zombie's attention perked up to the sound of it; it raised its gaze to the speaker, determining where the words had come from. Then it dropped its head forward in the unmistakable approximation of a nod, and lifted its right hand in acknowledgement.

"Jesus," Hewitt said. "Just what the fuck is that thing?"

Vassily glared at him. "It's learning, is what it is. It's working out how to be human again. By my reckoning, it's about two-thirds of the way there."

"Fuckin' abomination needs a slug put through its skull if it wants me to accept it."

"That's enough," Flowers snapped, shooting the kid a warning glance. He turned back to Andrei. "You're teaching it?"

Vassily nodded, watching the ghoul trace a pattern on the table's surface with a shredded finger. "At first, I noticed it using its memory through repetition. Y'know, remembering when to expect me when I came to visit, training itself to behave if it was to receive a reward, the same way any domesticated animal will do with its master. But there was more to it - it started to adopt human tropes, signals, mannerisms, like it was beginning to recall little flashes of what it had been pre-death. A hand on my arm in a gesture of friendship, an attempt at my name... it was as if the virus was instructing it how to be alive."

"It was still a flesh-eater, though."

"Yes. Still is, in fact. Can't seem to override that motor function yet, though it mainly consumes offal from the kitchens. It doesn't need it to survive, of course - stomach organs have long since atrophied anyway - but it gets restless if it doesn't feed after a while, and won't concentrate. That's what the videotapes are there for; I've been trying to develop its language and recognition skills. They're parenting guides, really, but are quite good in the circumstances. Nevertheless, it's still too dangerous not to be kept on a chain."

"How did you come by it in the first place?" Harry asked.

Vassily didn't reply at first. "I found him at his place of death. I've no idea why he should be so special, why the virus should be evolving so quickly and advancing his state of awareness. Maybe it's the age... maybe they're all like this and the bacteria just needs time to work on them..."

"So are we feeding O'Connell to this fuckin' thing or what?" Hewitt enquired testily, looking at Flowers. The old man nodded gravely, and signalled to Vassily.

The Alley boss spoke into the intercom again. "Stand away from the door. Do you understand?"

The ghoul moaned softly, and the chair it was sitting on suddenly screeched against the stone-tiled floor as it staggered to its feet, its stick-thin arms supporting its weight against the tabletop. It straightened and stiff-leggedly swivelled and stumbled towards the rear of the room, stopping close to the TV and waiting for its next instruction. It was clear it had done this many times before, and was following a routine pattern.

"Jesus..." Hewitt breathed again. None of them had ever seen a deadhead perform like this, responding to orders, seemingly fully cognitive of what Vassily was telling it.

Andrei motioned to Jackson, who stepped forward and pulled down on the door's heavy locking handle. It clunked open with a finality that sent a chill travelling down Gabe's spine.

"I never thought it would come to this, son," Flowers said regretfully. "I had high hopes for you. But you leave me no choice."

"Harry," Gabe choked out, the spreading coldness from his belly wound worming its way across his torso and seizing his throat, leaving him unable to swallow. Every word was an effort, dredged spluttering from the depths of his chest. "Don't do this... I told them nothing, you know that..."

"Put him in," Flowers said, and Jackson shoved open the door and pushed Gabe inside. He tumbled to his knees, putting out a hand to cushion his fall, jarring it against the cold floor, and squeezed his eyes shut momentarily at the sound of the door being slammed shut behind him.

When he opened them, the first thing he saw were the deep red stains ingrained in the stone; wide circular splashes that had dried from scarlet to maroon. He guessed that they had been there for quite some time, and that Vassily hadn't been entirely truthful about what he'd been feeding this pet ghoul of his. He was certain that offal wouldn't leave that arterial spray.

The deadhead itself had noticed his arrival and was shuffling towards him. Gabe scooted backwards, the small of his back hitting the wall a couple of feet later; he looked around him, trying to find something that could aid his escape, but the room was solidly built. It was square and plain, with no other exit save the thick steel door that he'd been dragged through, and that would be impenetrable from this side. He looked towards the mirrored screen and wondered how strong it was; could it withstand one of the chairs being thrown at it? Even if he succeeded in breaking through, there would be no way out, with Harry and his goons keeping guard; but perhaps he could force one of them to open fire and end Flowers' little execution a touch prematurely. He snorted a desperate laugh; when the best of his options was a quick death, he knew he'd reached the end of the road. Still, he didn't see why he should make things easy for the old man.

The zombie staggered closer, a thin whine issuing from its ever-grinning mouth, and Gabe realised that he had to make a choice - if he went for the window, he would only have one chance and it would leave him open for the Returner to grab hold of him. If he didn't, perhaps he could concentrate on evading its clutches, or even try fending it off. But how long could he keep that up, he asked himself. He was growing faint from loss of blood, and would only be delaying the inevitable. He made his decision in a second.

Pulling his legs under him, he pushed himself up against the wall until he was standing. He took a couple of painful breaths, keeping one eye on the advancing ghoul, then sprang forward, covering the space between the door and the table in three giant strides. He hooked his left hand around the chair's topmost slat, lifted it, spun and flung it with all the strength he could muster at the viewing screen. It arced in the air and hit the glass dead centre with a dull thud, bouncing back half the distance it had flown to crash to the ground.

The window was unmarked.

Gabe was too exhausted to react. He turned to face the deadhead that was reaching out for him. Its hands clutched at his shirt, and at such proximity he gagged from its rank smell. Its jaws opened like a creaking hinge.

Then it stopped.

Impossibly, its eyeless visage was regarding him, seeing him despite the lack of organs. Its skeletal hands brushed over his features, as if it was reading him through touch, and something was igniting a flame of recognition within its dormant memory. Then it began to whine again, louder this time, growing in power, becoming a cry. At first it was just noise, a banshee wail; but it soon coalesced into a word that Gabe had to struggle to believe he was hearing.

"Fllooooowwwwaarrrrzzzzzz..."

It knew him. The creature knew and remembered him, through association with Harry. How he had no idea, or indeed what enabled this zombie to possess the powers of cognition. But something had sparked it off, and it stood there roaring the name of his former boss in his face.

The deadhead momentarily transfixed, Gabe seized the advantage and delved into his boot retrieving the syringe. Flicking off the plastic cap, he held it like a dagger in his right hand and stabbed it forcefully into the side of the ghoul's liquescent skull. Virtually the entire length of the hypodermic disappeared into its head, and its cry abruptly stopped, as if a switch had been thrown. He pulled it free, expecting the zombie to instantly collapse, but the thing suddenly grasped his left arm and took a bite, tearing the flesh and muscle from his bicep, blood spurting from the limb in a fountain. Gabe yelled in agony and brought the syringe down on its head repeatedly until it finally sank to the floor, and was motionless.

Gabe fell to his knees, lengthening shadows stealing into the edges of his vision, and turned as the door was wrenched open, Vassily tearing through with Harry close behind, staring at the inert corpse lying next to him.

"Why did he call your name?" Vassily was screaming. "Why did my father call your name?" His accent grew thicker in his anger.

His father, Gabe considered woozily. That thing was his father? Goran Vassily, the kingpin whose demise Harry was responsible for? The club fire? Mother of Christ, it remembered him from its pre-death...

"Andrei—" Flowers began.

Vassily pulled an automatic from inside his jacket and pointed it at the ganglord. "What the fuck did you do to my father that he would remember your name like that?"

"Andrei, put the damn gun down."

"If you had something to do with his death, if that's why he said your name, I swear to fucking Christ you will not walk out of this room."

"Andrei, don't make threats you can't back up..."

"You think I couldn't take you down? You think I'm fucking scared of Harry Flowers?"

Vassily's questions went unanswered, for a moment later a bullet exploded through his neck. He gurgled, clutching at his ravaged throat, then crumpled into a heap on the floor. Before anyone could react, Jackson and the rest of the Alley boss's men were rapidly mown down; it was only once the firing had stopped that it became clear that Hewitt was the shooter.

"Better that we get our retaliation in first," he said.

Harry nodded slowly. "Unfortunate turn of events, but nothing that can't be salvaged. Get in touch with the boys back at the mansion, tell them to get tooled up. We're taking charge of the Alley." He spotted Gabe bleeding and crossed over to him. "And you... Jesus, you're a regular troublemaker, aren't you? If you think you're getting a bullet in the head and a safe passage out of this world, think again. Welcome to purgatory, son."

"H-Harry..." Gabe whispered.

Flowers leaned forward. "Keep it brief."

"Fuck you," the younger man said and plunged the syringe into the old man's calf. He bellowed in pain and staggered backwards, the hypodermic still protruding from his leg. As a couple of his men went forward to tend to him, Hewitt marched up to Gabe and pointed his gun above his heart.

"Just fuckin' die," he snarled and pulled the trigger, darkness exploding across the thief's mind.