May 13, early Monday morning. Herald Recruitments subbasement.
The briefing room in the subbasement was a plain little chamber, with whitewashed brick walls, a plain maroon carpet underfoot and a single striplight mounted in the ceiling.
On the far wall was a large map of Liverpool pinned to a board; two filing cabinets on either side of the room were overflowing with papers, and a whiteboard on the left wall was smeared and smudged with felt pen markings from past campaigns and tactical analyses of previous hunts in town.
"We've got a problem, people," Zeiss said to the others gathered about the briefing table. The room was packed: every hunter in Libra's group, plus all hunters available from the Liverpool Posse, had been gathered into the room for this meeting.
"Two problems, actually," said Scruff. "That dead body found floating face down in the Mersey last Friday. The coppers are turning over every place and everyone in town. It's a bloody mess out there. Nobody's safe.
"My contact in the police says they're even thinking of turning over The Pyramid in the town, though I really doubt anybody will ever launch such a raid, if you know what I mean."
"Tell me about it," Zeiss said, wryly. "Morrie's managed to fend off one or two police incursions onto our premises over the weekend, but he has some pretty damn grim news to report, which brings us to our main problem.
"Libra and Vestal are both missing."
Loud murmuring arose from around the room.
"How long for?" asked Martin Lucas.
"Libra, since this Friday morning," Zeiss said, "... and Vestal for a number of days before that. No idea where they've both gone. No sign of struggle in either case. It's like something just ... reached down and plucked them off the face of the earth."
Martin's face was stony. "Why didn't we hear about Vestal's disappearance sooner, Zeiss?"
"Because," Zeiss said, "Libra asked me to keep schtum about it. It was a week after Stickshift's funeral: neither of them were talking." Zeiss paused, sighed. "I thought Susan had left Greg, to tell the truth."
"Left him?" asked Warren Pilger, the Chef. "Whatever for?"
"Apparently," Zeiss replied, "the truth came out during the funeral."
"About what?" asked Helena Williams, the Charlady.
"Last Halloween, Greg was seduced by a witch while he and Vestal were at his family home."
Murmurs became cries of consternation.
"It gets worse," Zeiss added. "Much worse. I had an ... insight into Greg's disappearance, but it doesn't help us in any way, shape or form. I went over to Greg's home to check him out, when he failed to report in Friday morning. I saw a vision of Greg being escorted off his premises by two policemen, or two people in uniform at any rate. I checked them out with the sight; they were normal, though I doubt they were real cops at all.
"I got enough information off their uniforms and their warrant cards to identify them, so I sent Morrie, the company solicitor, to the Chester nick to pick him up. They'd never heard of the coppers.
"CCTV footage showed Greg and the cops being led to the morgue to identify someone's body, and then ... nothing. The tapes were blank for the rest of the day. The cops say it was a terrible accident: someone'd spilled coffee on the film or something, they weren't sure themselves what had happened. But the cops had no idea who the officers actually were. They're still dishing out bollockings to the morning shift for their lax security.
"But that doesn't help us out at all there. I managed to sneak around the back of the cop shop, don't ask me how I arranged it, and I used my insight once again to see things in the past.
"I expected to see the cops drive up with Greg in tow, ready to go into the police station. Instead, I got the same guys carrying out what looked like a body bag into a black police van. The body bag looked like it was moving, as if they were carting out somebody alive inside it.
"The number plates of the van were false: the van's ID was false; the CCTV footage of the yard, naturally, was down."
Martin looked at Helena, who glanced at Warren and Julia. Julia's eyes were still red from mourning the loss of Stickshift.
"So they're both ... MIA," Warren said.
"Not only that, they know every in and out of this place," Zeiss replied.
"They founded this place," Martin said.
"Which is why," Zeiss replied, "we have a problem."
Scruff glanced at his Posse: Orion, Artemis. He looked over to blind Astraea, who glanced up at him with her clear vision activated.
"I'll get in touch with Arjuna," Scruff said. "We can start moving out the more sensitive documents within the next twenty four hours. Arjuna knows hiding places we haven't told you lot about.
"We can move the bulk of your operational documents into safe keeping, but ..." He glanced around at the briefing room, "you're going to have to find another place to fight the war in."
He looked at Zeiss. "We're compromised: Libra's been to the warehouse down in Queen's Dock, and of course the coffee shop is out of the question."
"Morris? How about you?" Zeiss asked.
"My bar is always open," Morris replied, with a slight smirk. "Anyone big and burly in uniform manages to find their way down there will find a very warm reception. And I'm sure they'll fit right in, with their handcuffs and those shiny truncheons ..."
"Nonetheless, we'd better take it off the list of active safe houses, too," Zeiss said, chuckling.
"I've rung around, using phone boxes and most of the rest of our used SIMs," said Miss Haversham. "I've told all of our friends to close down their safe house operations for the time being. Gwyn and Helen have decided to take a long vacation. I wired them some cash, and told them God speed."
"Did you include the safe house in Knock?" Zeiss asked.
"I told our people there to go and take shelter with our Muslim friends in the mosque down the road from them if the seas get rough," Judith said. "Just in case."
Warren's eyes were wide with fear as he glanced around at all the grim faces. "Jesus," he said, "do you know what this means?"
"Yes, it does," Zeiss replied. "From today onwards, we have to retire Herald Recruitments' operations in the hunt."
"And the business?"
"Goes on as before," Zeiss replied. "Only from now on, we just focus on it being a legitimate, mundane enterprise. We close down this side of operations, effective as from now."
"But what about Libra? And Vestal?" asked Vagabond.
Zeiss shrugged. "We cannot go after them, if we haven't a clue where they have gone to or who picked them up. They'll have to escape from wherever they are on their own. We can no longer help them directly."
"And what if they are dead?"
"We will find out if they are dead," Zeiss replied. "Sooner or later, I am sure that someone ..." he said, pointing a finger upwards, "will let us know what their current status is." Everybody knew that Zeiss was talking about the Heralds. A lot of hunters responded with grim expressions, nods of the head.
"So, then, until further notice ..." Zeiss said, "you're all out of business as hunters. Go home. Lie low. Get on with your lives. If the Heralds tell you that you need to do something, do it; but from now on, we're all, in effect, on our own."
There was a long period of silence.
"And what about the dead woman?" asked Warren, in a whisper.
Three o'clock, Monday afternoon. The bank of the River Mersey.
"Are you sure we should be doing this?" asked Warren, glancing first at Zeiss and then at Martin Lucas.
Zeiss stood next to the railing overlooking the place where the body had been found. There were big, forbidding yellow warning signs dotted around the area, notifying people of the murder.
"Yes," Zeiss said, "I rather think we should." He nodded. Martin opened up the laptop, revealing the patterns of the screen saver already active. Zeiss sighed, let himself slip into the past viewing trance once again.
A few moments later, Zeiss turned, stared over Martin's shoulder at something. Martin glanced back over his shoulder, saw nothing. He turned back, watched as Zeiss seemed to step aside as if to allow someone through. He let Zeiss move over to the edge, peer over the railing, and begin to follow his nose along an undefined trail back around a corner. Martin and Warren followed the lad.
Not far around the corner, Zeiss stopped, looked around, and appeared to come out of his trance. He glanced at Martin and Warren, then began to wobble on his feet.
"I can't do this too many times in one day," he said, as Martin and Warren took an arm each and guided him back towards the railing. "It's exhausting."
"Tell me about it," Martin replied. "Each and every one of my abilities takes the wind right out of me, if I don't feel something actually physically give if I try it."
"I wish I knew what my abilities were," Warren said. "I haven't been able to do anything like what you say you can do."
"That's weird, that," Martin said. "You have no idea what your abilities are? Not even a hint?"
Warren shook his head.
"Did you manifest anything or do anything ... weird ... when you first got The Message?"
Again, Warren shook his head. "I can do the sight, like you all can," he said, "and I can read the Word, but ... I can't do that glowing thing, I can't hide any better than anyone, and I certainly can't make a half brick in a sock start to smoulder like you can."
Martin smiled at that. "I had to improvise that night," he said.
"Anyway, how's Zeiss getting along?" Warren asked.
"I'm fine," Zeiss replied. "Getting better every moment. Want to know what I saw? here" he asked. The others nodded.
"She was not killed here," Zeiss said. "She was brought here by a couple of guys in a black, unmarked van. I got the make, model and registration number, but I believe the number was false."
"Go on."
"I checked them out with the Sight," Zeiss said. "They were wrong. I think they were blood slaves, because the sun was just coming up as they were getting into the van. Didn't worry them in the slightest."
"Were they deaders at all?" Warren asked. Zeiss shook his head.
"I heard them breathing," Zeiss replied. "They were warm blooded, human. Or at least, humanoid."
"Any chance of this appearing on CCTV?" Martin asked, glancing up at the streetcam overhead.
"No," Zeiss maintained. "The damn thing's a dummy anyway."
Warren glanced up at the CCTV.
"Shall we take a drive?" Zeiss asked. "I think I've seen this van somewhere else in town before."
The school was closed, deserted, empty. It was mid afternoon, breaktime, but there were no children in the back yard.
There had apparently been a "gas leak" in the basement, affecting several pupils in Class 2b, Physics, on the ground floor. Zeiss leaned against the black railings, looked over the empty courtyard at the red brick buildings of the school.
"Why is this place of significance?" asked Martin.
"I saw the van once," Zeiss said, thrusting his arm between two of the wrought iron posts to point into the yard, "over there, down by that outhouse at the far end."
"What were you doing watching a school?" asked Warren.
"We were following a whole slew of shamblers into the yard," Martin replied. "They were heading for the outhouse over there. We had to go in, take them out. They'd been eating the local pets, just so they could feed off the despair of the children in the local area."
"And the outhouse?"
"The school goat," Martin said.
"Jesus," Warren replied.
"So what was the van doing there, then?"
"Well, after we'd sorted out the deaders," Zeiss said, "there were about a dozen dead, rotting corpses on the ground. We heard sirens, so we pissed off sharpish. There were big reports of a "break-in," some facetious report about "Burglars Get The Goat From School Mascot," something like that. We'd saved that goat, but the way the news was spun it sounded like it was the goat who'd done all the hard work.
"When we passed by this place again the day after the newspaper reports, I spotted the van. It was working out by the outhouse. What they were doing, I think, was removing what was left of the evidence, making it look like a failed breakin."
"And this was the van you saw, then?" Warren asked.
"Same numbers, same everything," Zeiss said. He looked to the left, and his face took on a pained expression for a moment.
"What is it?" asked Warren. Martin leaned forwards to help ...
... and the world fell away from all three of them.
A vague image of a woman could be seen in front of the school gates. She was dressed in bright paisley, gypsy colours. Her hair was silver, long, straight, unbound; it cascaded about her shoulders and down her back.
She wore a long skirt, braided and beaded and decorated with arcane symbols. Around her waist was a sash of gold, a gold cord, bound about her smock several times, with some sort of maroon velvet pouch hanging from it.
Her little feet were bare. Some of her teeth were black; one was missing.
Her eyes were blue, and very, very sad.
And then the vision faded, and the world returned to normal. All three men staggered; martin glanced about him wildly.
"What the fucking hell was -" he began.
"That," Zeiss said, "was the Heralds, trying to tell us something."
"Bloody Hell," Warren said, causing the two men to glance sharply at him. In all the time they;d known him, they'd never known Warren to swear.
"What?"
"That," Warren said, "was the woman they'd found dead in the Mersey."
An hour later.
"It's round here," Zeiss said, leading the two hunters around the corner.
On the one side of the area, red brick council houses stood in a neat row, bordered by privet hedges and big, solid wooden fences painted green with Cuprinol wood preservative.
On the other side, just past another fence, was an impenetrable mass of green undergrowth and various trees, including several hawthorns in white blossom and one beech, its lozenge shaped leaves bright green amid the darker, glossy leaves of the big holly trees.
Birds sang in the branches. There was a flash of black and white: a magpie shot across the narrow path in front of Zeiss.
It was a cold, windy, wet day, and they'd only seen one other person in the area: a sixty year old heavy set man in a heavy brown coat, out walking his dog, smoking a pipe.
Zeiss stopped abruptly. "Here," he said. "Here's where she died."
"How can you tell that?" Martin asked.
In reply, Zeiss concentrated. He began to glow.
Suddenly, every surface around him seemed to glow in sympathy.
Martin looked about him in wonder, as the manifesting edge seemed to pick out every spot of blood, every little trace of supernatural presence, in the area. Bare footprints in the muddy ground merged with booted footprints into a glowing mass on the floor: there were traces, smears, of glow down one of the fences and over one of the brick garden walls nearby.
"Better than Illuminol and a UV lamp," said Warren, with a chuckle.
"She put up one hell of a fight," Martin said.
"You don't know the half of it," Zeiss replied. "Laptop."
"Are you sure?" Martin asked.
"Positive," Zeiss said. A moment later, and Zeiss was in the past again, watching.
"I can hear it now," he said. "See it, too."
He stared down the road, along which they'd come. "Here she comes," he said. "She hasn't got a clue they've set her up for an ambush round here."
He looked at the fence, at the brick wall opposite. "There are eight of them," he said. "Balaclavas, unmarked black clothes, machetes, clubs ... they mean business."
Zeiss flicked around, looking left and right. "They pile in on top of her, but she does something ... they mostly hit one another or themselves. Oooh!" he cried. "One of them cut off another's ear with his machete!"
A few moments later: "Ow! That had gotta hurt!" He glanced down. "Fight's over. One of them got her on the back of the head. She's down. They're on her like fleas on a dog. It's horrible."
"How did she die?" Martin asked.
"They're strangling her with her own cord," Zeiss said. "I get the impression that it was the only way to actually kill her ..."
"With her cord?" Warren asked.
"And now they're ... what the hell are they doing? They're - oh, no, that's - you fucking animals!" Zeiss suddenly cried. He snapped out of the trance, glanced around at the men.
"She did not die nice," said Zeiss.
"Specifics," Martin asked.
"They were violating her, raping her, as she was dying at the hands of her strangler," Zeiss said. "Not only that ..." He glanced away, shuddering.
"What?"
"When they'd finished with her," Zeiss said, "they ... they put a consecrates host in her moutn and began to stitch it up with a needle and thread."
"Shit," Martin said. Warren looked aghast.
"By the looks of her, she was sixty," Zeiss said. "And she was a witch."
"Good or bad?" Martin asked.
"Does it matter?" Zeiss replied. "She was beaten, raped, strangled and her body mutilated," he said. "Who are the bad guys here, and who the good?"
They stood, contemplating the scene, for a moment. The traces were still glowing, from the residual effects of Zeiss' power.
"They were blood slaves," Zeiss said. "The blood looks off, like puppets' blood does. There was a master involved somewhere. A deader."
"A rot," Warren said.
"So, then," Martin said, "what would a witch be doing, going up against rots and their minions?"
Zeiss sighed. "Beats me," he said. "We now know the how of it, but unless and until Libra gets back, we'll never be able to find out the who and why of it."
Later; exact amount of elapsed time, unknown.
It had been the cup of tea. Drugged.
Greg had no idea of how long he'd been out. They'd kept him under with injections: he felt two painful pinpricks in the crook of his elbow where they'd stuck him with sedatives while in transit. When he'd rolled up his sleeves, there'd been two red, angry track marks there.
But who, and why? Greg had no idea.
He'd awoken on a hard bench, in a small, cold, dimly lit, empty, grey room, with but one other feature other than the light source and the bed and the door opposite: a plain wooden table and chair right in the centre of the square room.
Greg sat on the edge of the bed, as he'd done for the last ... he had no idea of how long, because the damn drugs had thoroughly screwed up his circadian rhythm, but it felt like hours.
He was tired, and hungry, and cold, and by God he was angry. But it hadn't been too long, because he was still more or less smooth, clean shaven; he was just beginning to feel the roughness of his stubble poking through.
Hours, then, not days. Not yet, at least.
Time went by, and Libra sat quietly on the edge of the bed, waiting. Sooner or later, they were not going to be satisfied with his performance thus far. No running around, no screaming for a solicitor, no futile pounding the door or trying to throw the table, chair or bed around.
Sooner or later, they were going to bow to the inevitable, and come to him.
And when they did, he would begin planning his escape.
By: Fiat Knox
Copyright © Fiat Knox, 2001