Wonderland Page 4

  “It was a bear,” the boy said. “My brother always used to have nightmares about bears, so we ran away when we should have stayed hidden where we were. They saw us and chased us.”

  Perhaps he saw the disappointment in my face, and mistook it for pity or sympathy. At any rate, he went on talking. “The bears were really, really big. Well, most of them were. The size of horses, almost. But one of them had chequered trousers on, and a red pullover. And a scarf. And it was only the same size as us.”

  “You don’t have to talk about any of this,” Bridget told him.

  The boy rubbed his filthy face with a filthy hand. His eyes were shiny with tears. “It almost wasn’t a bear at all, you know? That’s why I called it a thing. It was wearing clothes, and it… it was running the same way we were. On its back legs, like a boy. It was right at the front, so we thought maybe it was running away from the other bears, just like we were.

  “We got to a wall, and we climbed up it. We thought we’d be safe, because bears can’t climb. But Robert reached down a hand to help the bear with the scarf and the red pullover. And it jumped up and bit his arm.” The boy looked down at his hands. “It dragged him down,” he said, more quietly. “And the other bears watched while it ate him. I should have come down off the wall and tried to help him, but I was scared. There were other things coming, and one of them was shouting my name. So I climbed down on the other side of the wall and ran away.”

  The scarred man placed his hand on the boy’s arm. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

  The other things that were coming, I said. Did you see them? What were they like?

  “Don’t make him relive it,” Bridget said. “Can’t you see he’s traumatised?”

  Were any of them—

  “And Taskmaster,” the scarred man said. “I really loved that show.”

  Nobody picked up that conversational thread, so crudely and determinedly thrown out, but it made it impossible for me to ask again. I looked at the other tools in my bag. One of them was a try square, with a rosewood stock and a six-inch blade. The front end of the blade was a straight line, of course. This was a tool for checking the accuracy of right angles, not for thrusting or stabbing or gouging. I had a saw, too. I liked both of these items very much.

  “This is the thing,” Bridget said. She was looking at me when she said it.

  What? I said. What’s the thing? What do you mean?

  “You asked about the rules. This is what I was going to tell you.”

  Oh. Yes. If you must.

  “The aliens take the shape of whatever scares you the most. They reach right into your head, and find your nightmares, and then they change to look like whichever is the worst thing there.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” Carter said. “Yeah, most of them are terrifying. But some of them are just… I mean, they’re ridiculous to look at. Ugly, but not horrible. And most of them are not picky about who they attack. They just—”

  Bridget swung her savage gaze on him, and he dropped the sentence midway. “They’re picky about who they eat,” she said. “They’ll lash out at anyone, but every one of them is searching for someone. If they’re not terrifying to you, that’s because you’re not their target. They pick their targets. You know that, right? And they can read your mind, I swear to God. If they want you, they reach inside you and grab hold of your fears, and that’s what they wear when they come for you. They’re chameleons. Predatory chameleon telepaths.”

  That must be a consolation, I said.

  “What?” Everyone there stared at me, except for Chetna. She was looking at her hands, waving her fingers slowly as if to check that she could still control them.

  I mean, I said, it’s always comforting to have your calamities be someone else’s fault.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” the scarred man demanded.

  I suppose I’m talking about motiveless malignity. The predatory chameleon telepaths don’t derive any extra nourishment from a meal that’s frightened of them. So in that story Bridget just told, their motivation is purely vindictive.

  Carter threw down the can he’d been eating from, close enough to me that the tomato sauce spattered my trouser leg as it splashed out. “Well who is eating who?” he asked.

  Eating whom.

  “Fuck you! You and your crappy suit and your fucking… why don’t you take that thing off, anyway?”

  The apron? It does no harm.

  I met his gaze a while longer, trying to divine what lay behind his anger. I saw nothing, though, or at least nothing specific: only a disconnected, general rage, most likely fuelled by despair.

  I turned back to Bridget at last. So, are there more rules? I asked her.

  She was still looking at me in perplexity and disapproval. “Yeah. Lots more. But that’s the most important thing, right there. If you recognise any of the monsters, you should stay away from them. They’re the ones that are most likely to be after you.”

  Thank you for the advice, I said. But none of that proves—

  A hissing sound from the darkness near the door obliged me to break off. We all looked in that direction.

  A woman’s face hung in the air. There was no body to be seen beneath it. Not at first, anyway. Her skin was deathly pale. White-blonde hair hung straight down, and bright red lips stretched in a wide, welcoming smile.

  “Peter,” she said. “We’ve found you. Again.”

  “You shouldn’t have run,” said another voice. “When we’d only just begun to eat you.” A second face joined the first, at the same height. Then a third emerged from the shadows much closer to the ground. “Get over here, silly billy,” it said. “You can’t get away now. And we’ll hurt you worse if you try.”

  The three faces were all the same. It was not just that they were similar. Every strand of hair as the wind ruffled it, every expression, every trick of light and shadow was identical. They could have been images made with a stamp of some kind, except that they were moving.

  The scarred man climbed to his feet. He took the machete from his belt and raised it in his hand. Carter and Bridget stood, too. Carter drew his automatic, and Bridget her steak tenderiser. For a moment, they made a perfect heroic tableau.

  The lamia struck. Its three heads reared up, and darted forward. The three mouths gaped wide, unsheathing slender white fangs. One bit the scarred man’s face, on the side that was already scarred. The second sank its teeth into his shoulder, the third into his thigh. Behind each head, a muscular neck many yards long undulated like the body of a snake.

  The lamia withdrew with its prize, too quickly for anyone to intervene. Too quickly, almost, for us even to see what happened. The scarred man was there, and then he was gone. A hoarse wail persisted for a second or so, along with the rustling, boots-trampling-through-autumn-leaves sound of the lamia’s retreat.

  And then we were five.

  I realised, with sour amusement, that Carter had shielded the boy’s eyes from what had happened. He had been much too slow, though. He was only preventing the boy from seeing the empty space on which that swift predation had inscribed itself.

  We should move on, I said. Unless you mean to barricade the door and wait out the night here.

  “But…” Bridget said. “He might still be alive. Shouldn’t we…?”

  “He’s not alive,” the boy said, with finality.

  We packed our things, and a few more cans of food, and moved on. The culvert had been abandoned, now, as a possible destination. It was back the way we’d come, and it didn’t seem like a good idea to anyone to try to retrace our steps. We went further into the town instead, the road sloping down more and more steeply as we went, out of the stark white moonlight into a sea of absolute black.

  Carter said he had seen a boat, at the marina, that was still intact. He suggested we hide in it tonight and try to sail it out to sea in the morning, across a harbour that was a maze of vessels already sunk. The others agreed to this idiocy, having li
ttle else left in which to invest their dwindling hopes.

  “I stayed at this hotel once,” Bridget said.

  “The Phoenix Royale,” the boy read, from the sign in the driveway. “Was it nice?”

  “The stars aren’t coming out,” Chetna said, to nobody. “That’s a very bad sign.”

  “It was lovely,” Bridget said. She hesitated, scanning the building’s frontage. She was about to suggest that we stay there, in one of the derelict building’s many, many rooms. To argue that a desert is a good place to hide a grain of sand, or something of that sort.

  But loud, earth-shaking crashes from just inside the hotel’s doors dissuaded her. Or perhaps it was the elongated, elbowed limb that was thrust, briefly, through a first-floor window. The Phoenix Royale was incubating something that would have a catastrophic birth. We moved on quickly into Queen’s Park, which seemed quiet and safe.

  It was not. As we scurried along the path, a shapeless mass rose from behind one of the benches on our left-hand side. It was too dark, now, for any of us to be certain what it was.

  Chetna seemed to recognise it anyway. She took a step towards it. She moved slowly, but the rest of us were backing away with haste. Between two breaths, she went from being one of a group to standing alone.

  “I remember now,” she said. Her voice was a whisper, and it’s possible that I, being closest, was the only one to hear it. “I’m so sorry.” Her shoulders sagged. She closed her eyes.

  I had entertained a hope… but no. The huge maw that closed on the woman’s head had not a single tooth, let alone any tusks. The shapeless thing raised her up into the air, and shook her. We all heard the muffled crack as her neck was broken.

  The thing hauled her over the bench, her feet clattering on the wooden slats, and dumped her down on the grass. Then it dragged her away across the park, its mouth still clamped tight on her neck. Its progress was not rapid. We watched it go for a considerable time. Carter drew his gun and raised it, sighting along the barrel with his head tilted to one side.

  “Go ahead,” Bridget said. “What are you waiting for?” But he didn’t take the shot. And she made no protest as he put the gun away. Chetna was clearly dead, and it served no useful purpose to remind the giant slug of our presence.

  We had intended to detour onto the new, elevated road, and follow it all the way to the marina, but that wasn’t possible. We couldn’t even get out of the park on that side. There were dogs with the heads of men there, a very large number of them. Two of them were fighting, with incredible ferocity, in the centre of a ring made by the others. They seemed intent on their sport, but we didn’t think we could get by unnoticed.

  Bridget went ahead to scout the south gate, while the rest of us stayed behind on the steps of the Francis May drinking fountain, which offered us some cover.

  “I don’t think they’re alive,” the boy said.

  I stared at him, perplexed and perhaps a little angered. What?

  “I think they’re bio-weapons. That’s why they’re all different shapes. They’re supposed to adapt to the terrain. Hunter-killer drones, with camouflage powers. The real aliens will come later.”

  I was blunt. Yes, this was only a child speaking, but stupidity has to be challenged and corrected. It’s hard to imagine, I said, anything less effectively camouflaged than the things we’ve seen tonight.

  “Maybe their chameleon circuits don’t work properly. Like with the TARDIS.”

  “The TARDIS?” Carter said. “What’s the TARDIS?” They’re not hiding, I pointed out. You’re the ones who are hiding. They’re not even trying to hide.

  Bridget came back at this point, and told us that the way to the south gate was clear. We abandoned the ludicrous conversation and quickly made our way in that direction. The dogs were screaming loudly now, either in despair or in elation, so there was no need to be quiet. We just ran, my tool bag and the cans in the others’ packs clanking and clattering as we went.

  The way was clear, as Bridget had promised, but the gate was padlocked.

  Carter rattled the bars. “What the fuck?” he demanded, with weary indignation.

  “I didn’t check,” Bridget said. “Shit! Can you saw through it?”

  This was addressed to me. I shook my head emphatically. My saw is for wood, I said. It would be useless on this. We’ll have to climb.

  We boosted the boy over first. He dropped down lightly on the other side of the gate, straightened.

  “Are you all right?” Carter asked him.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Oh, sweetness,” someone else said, from out of the darkness. “Oh, my little sweetie pie!”

  The boy went rigid, just at the sound of that voice. He didn’t turn to face the thing that was coming at him. He ran for the fence, instead, and tried to climb back over. Bridget and Carter took his hands and guided them, lifted him up, but his own movements were jerky and uncoordinated. His hands pawed clumsily at the wrought-iron bars.

  An old, old woman, down on all fours, came scampering out of the darkness with inhuman speed. She was naked except for the remains of a filmy yellow nightdress, so torn and tattered it was barely there at all. She scaled the boy’s body and clamped herself onto his back, her clawed hands burying themselves deep in his flesh.

  “Little darling,” she cooed. Her head dipped towards the boy’s neck. The back of her scalp was shaved, exposing fresh, puckered scars as though from very recent surgery.

  “No!” Bridget yelled. “Get the fuck away from him!” She snatched up her steak tenderiser and struck through the bars, again and again. She was hitting out wildly, but some of her blows connected. They bit deep into the old woman’s doughy flesh, leaving indentations that retained their shape. Carter was also attacking her, with the butt of his gun, craning up over the fence so he could bring it down on the top of her skull.

  The old woman ignored these indignities, and ate her fill.

  “Grandma!” the boy remonstrated, in a strangled, faltering voice.

  “Angel!” the old lady cooed, still chewing. “Poppet!” Blood ran freely down her chin.

  The boy slumped against the gate, and slid slowly down. After he was dead, the old woman remained seated on his shoulders, looking down at the remains disconsolately. She was out of Bridget’s reach, now, but Carter levelled his pistol and took aim.

  I seized hold of his wrist, and pulled his arm down.

  “The fuck?” he expostulated. “Let go of me!”

  No. Wait. Watch.

  The old woman’s skin began to boil away. There was no flesh beneath, no sinew or bone, only a white substrate that seemed to dissolve on contact with air. She sublimed away into smoke, smiling as she went.

  “Why did you stop me?” Carter demanded.

  I shrugged. Why hurt her? She was done. When they’re done, they leave. You must have seen that before.

  “I have,” Bridget said. “I’d still have killed it, though. Filthy fucking thing! That poor kid…”

  “You go your own way now,” Carter said, his face up close to mine. “You’re not going any further with us.”

  There was no fear in him, and no recognition. It was puzzling, and exasperating. It had to be him, surely. I felt no connection to Bridget at all. But then, how could he be so close to me for so long and not know me?

  I know a place, I said. Very close to here. Very safe.

  “We’re heading for the marina. And by we, I mean me and her. Not you.”

  I turned to Bridget, reading hesitation in her face. “The marina’s miles away,” she said. “Where’s this place of yours?”

  Closer. Near the pier.

  “He’s not coming with us,” Carter said. “I don’t trust him.”

  Perhaps she doesn’t trust you.

  “We’ve stayed together this far,” Bridget pleaded.

  It will only take us a few minutes to walk there.

  Carter looked from her, to me, to her, down at the ground and back at last to me. “So
d it,” he said, without any heat. “All right. But you walk ahead, and I’m keeping the gun on you.”

  That’s acceptable.

  “How do we climb over the gate, though?” Bridget asked.

  With some difficulty, as it turned out. Bridget went over first. Then Carter made me withdraw about ten yards and gave her the gun to hold. She kept it pointed at me while he scrambled over. As soon as he was on the ground again, he took it back.

  “Now you, wood-saw,” he said. “Slowly.”

  I climbed over and rejoined them. It’s this way, I said. I set off at a fast walk. I was lying about having a safe place to take them to, but it was obvious where we had to go.

  Downwards, following the steep slope of the road. Downwards towards the pier, whose garish lights were not showing, and—much, much more importantly—towards the sea.

  Bridget made it almost all the way. As we crossed Marine Parade, deserted now apart from a few strewn bodies, a chance gust of wind brought us the sound of chanting voices.

  Bridget froze where she was, then looked around. “What was that?” she asked, but I think she knew. The dull flatness of her voice indicated that despair, or perhaps resignation, had already taken hold of her.

  “Nose disease disaster, stick your nose in plaster!” They were girls’ voices, shrill falsettos, raised in ritualistic unison. “Prick it with a safety pin, and throw it in a rubbish bin!”

  Bridget growled. It was a deep, animal sound, dragged out of her against her will. There was no threat in it, only raw terror.

  Three girls came skipping along the road towards us, congealing out of the deep dark. They wore the school uniform of another era, blue skirts and cardigans and shiny, buckled shoes. They stopped, all at once, and stared at Bridget. They lifted up their hands and pointed.

  “Nosy,” one of them said. “Nosy parker.”

  “We’ll teach you,” the second added.

  “Teach you to poke your nose in.” This was the first girl again, not the third. The third said nothing, but only opened and closed her hands in front of her face, with the fingers interlaced. She was miming something, but it wasn’t immediately clear what that something might be.