Darkmouth (21 page)

M
r. Glad was scampering around the device that Finn's father had built. Punching buttons. Running a finger over the computer screen. Checking wires. Giving it a tap here and there with the back of a screwdriver.

“What are you doing?” asked Finn.

Mr. Glad jumped as if startled, held a hand over his heart. “Well, boy, you took me by surprise there. So, you did make it after all. Maybe there's more to you than I thought. And I see you have your little friend with you. Nice tailoring on that fighting suit, young lady.”

He resumed tinkering.

On a desk, beside the computer, a radio clicked. Finn's father's voice emerged into the room briefly, almost incomprehensible against the noise of an ongoing fight. Mr. Glad paused to listen until the radio
settled into silence again.

Something that sounded like scratching came from behind Finn's father's invention.

“Mr. Glad, what are you doing?” asked Finn again.

“I'd imagine it's quite chaotic out there,” Mr. Glad replied. “A little problem with the Desiccators, was there? Whoever could have known?”

There was more scratching from behind the device. Insistent. Maybe frenzied.

Mr. Glad took his watch from the inside of his coat, examined it, then returned it to his pocket. “You know, boy, there are some advantages to earning the trust of a Legend Hunter. They let you inside their world. Not all the way in. Not to the center. No. Only as far as they want to. But that can be enough to creep through their arrogance and condescension and into the blind spot. There's a lesson for you. Not that you'll get to use it.”

He gestured at the center of the floor. A mass of wires ran from the large device, coalescing at a glass of blue liquid that sat inside a metal cylinder smothered in electrical tape. Attached to it was a kitchen timer, its face grinding around with a fast
tick-tick-tick
.

“Is that a bomb?” Finn asked.

“Of course it's a bomb. Of a sort anyhow.”

Finn peered at it. There were five minutes left on the timer.

The scratching continued from behind the device. Finn couldn't see what was causing it. He edged a little closer. “I don't get it,” he said.

“You really are such a child, aren't you?” said Mr. Glad, resuming his task.

“Why did you try to drown me?”

“You're forgetting that I rescued you, boy.”

“I almost died,” said Finn.

“I was angry. You provoked me, hit me. Anyway, the whole thing was a mistake. You and your father were both supposed to be busy at the other gateway as you had been the previous times. I did not intend to kill you. Not then anyway.”

“Um . . . what kind of bomb is this?” Emmie asked nervously.

“Finally, someone with a whit of curiosity.” Seeming invigorated, Mr. Glad picked up the bomb and examined it. “It's more like the opposite of a bomb, to be accurate. Bombs destroy life. When the timer counts down and the liquid heats up, Hugo's device, as I have reconfigured it with the aid of this bomb, will”—He gestured at the
shelves lined with jars of desiccated Legends—“
reanimate
life.”

Finn turned slowly, dread creeping down his spine. He and Emmie scanned the dormant husks of Legends, gathered over many years, stored one on top of the other from floor to ceiling. Thousands of them.

An unimaginable army, about to be awoken.

The Legends are rising.
Finn felt his legs weaken further.

Mr. Glad returned to Finn's father's invention and gave it a tap with the end of the screwdriver. “Just as a Desiccator can be used to reanimate, this can do the same. Same principle, just on a grander scale. It was meant to shrink the entire Infested Side. Instead, it's going to wake them. All the ones here in our world.”

“You're working for the Legends,” said Finn.

“I am working for
myself
for once,” said Mr. Glad, losing his composure for a moment before regaining it, jiggling the screwdriver in his hand. “They just helped me make sure that, when your father built this device, he also brought into this room the only thing that could power it.”

He opened his coat to reveal the three crystals—the Hogboon's finger, the Manticore's claw, and the
Wolpertinger's fang. He pulled out two, opened the battery compartment, and began attaching wires.

“It didn't work properly last time,” said Finn.

“Of course it didn't. I made sure of that.”

The scratching resumed. There was what sounded like a moan.

The timer counted down.

On the desk, the radio clicked. Emmie's father spoke, breathless. “They've slowed,” he said. A burst of Desiccator fire followed. “I think the gateway's dimming.”

Silence again.

“Now, boy,” said Mr. Glad, “you've never struck me as the heroic type, but I won't take any risks. Step back.”

“Why should I do that?” asked Finn.

“Because of this.” Mr. Glad reached down behind the device and pulled Finn's mother into view. Her arms were bound and her mouth was taped shut. Her eyes were wide with distress. Finn instinctively took a couple of steps toward her.

“I wouldn't go any farther,” said Mr. Glad, pulling a fat-barrelled pistol from inside his coat and pressing it against Clara's temple. “I made this one myself. It turns the bones inside out. It's quite impressive actually, although it's hell to clean up afterward.”

Finn stepped back. He couldn't take his eyes off his mother and fought every impulse to run toward her.

“Do you know how long it took me to tie your mother up, boy?” Mr. Glad said. “She has some strength for a mere dentist. It's pulling all those teeth, I suppose. Now step back or her head will be messier than your room.”

“But why are you doing this?” asked Finn.

“That's not for you to know,” said Mr. Glad, waving away the question with his pistol. But he reconsidered. “What I will say is that I'm doing this in part because of you. Enjoy that thought, young man.”

Finn did not enjoy that thought. Nor did he understand what it meant.

“It's almost time!” exclaimed Mr. Glad excitedly. He pushed Finn's mother down to the floor, then rooted in his breast pockets once again.

“Time for what?” asked Emmie.

“You're some girl for the questions, aren't you? You must drive your father quite mad.”

Mr. Glad removed the remaining crystal from his coat, juggled it until his palm held it in a firm grip, then raised it to just above shoulder level. “I have enjoyed our little chat. I really have. But I don't want
to leave this any longer.”

It was as if Mr. Glad was trying to snag the crystals on the air beside him. He held them flat against his palm and pressed them outwards. Frustrated, he stood back, looked around the room while making some silent calculation, then shifted his position a couple of steps to the right.

This time, when he pulled his palm back, the crystals stayed where they were, fixed somehow on the air. Mr. Glad stood back, before remembering to grab Finn's mother, who protested as he pulled her back with him.

A gust of wind whipped through the room, carrying a low, unnatural roar.

Mr. Glad pulled Finn's bound mother farther back as she struggled to push against the ground to keep pace with him. “You might want to get out of the way!” he shouted.

At that moment, the air ripped open and a gateway exploded into the room.

Finn fell back, shielding his eyes from the momentary glare.

Mr. Glad's mouth broke into a deep grin that stretched from one side of his greasy hair to the other. “Isn't it beautiful?” he shouted.

And, at that moment, Emmie released her hand from the radio switch on the side of her helmet through which she been transmitting the last couple of minutes of Mr. Glad's confession.

T
he day had begun for Sergeant Doyle as it always did. The toast popped. The kettle boiled. The police radio crackled on standby. And his mailbox jiggled with new mail that was never the mail he wanted.

This morning, his mail had consisted of: an electricity bill; a flyer from the local supermarket that put the idea in his head that he'd have ham for his dinner; and precisely no letters from headquarters confirming that he had been granted a transfer to Anywhere But Darkmouth.

Still, as he did most mornings, he ate his breakfast while fantasizing about the arrival of such news. He pictured the envelope. The address: “Sergeant Alphonsus Doyle, Darkmouth.” The official watermark stamped on the corner. He imagined unfolding the crisp white paper to steal a glance at the first line.

“Dear Sergeant Doyle,” it would read. “We are
delighted to accept . . .” And there he would stop, savor the moment, sip on his cup of tea, compose himself before moving on. “We are delighted to accept your request for a transfer from Darkmouth. We are further pleased to inform you that you are to immediately report to your new posting on the tropical island paradise of Tahiti.”

Maybe the Tahiti part was overdoing it, but it was his fantasy, so he was allowed to dream as big as he wanted.

Today had kicked off with the customary absence of any such letter, only the realization that it would inevitably be a day like every other. Or, given the frequency of Legend incursions in recent weeks, a day like every second day. He couldn't be sure if his patrol would be dull or disheartening. Either way, they weren't great options.

The complaint calls had been coming more regularly than ever. There were those with a specific grievance against Hugo's family: the McAnallys, who had lost half a car to that clumsy child Finn; Mrs. Lacey, who had dropped her shopping bags when menaced by a monster, and whose husband's trawler had been turned to metal mush in an instant by that boy again.

Then there were those who were just fed up.

“Why does this still happen?” they would ask him over the phone.

“What can be done about it?” they would inquire as he bought his lunchtime sandwich.

“What are you doing to end it?” they would nag when he stopped to tie his shoelaces.

This, he had decided, was way above his pay grade. Sergeant Doyle drove to town, making house calls to older townspeople, checking up on the businesses. He did some paperwork in the afternoon, although things were a little quieter than normal. For twenty minutes after three p.m., he locked the station door and took a nap at his desk.

When he was young and fresh to the force, Sergeant Doyle had nurtured ambitions of becoming a detective, of taking on a case, cracking the clues, identifying the guilty party after a moment of great logic, of the bad guy confessing all under the weight of Doyle's astonishing powers of deduction. “How did you ever guess it was me, Doyle?” he would ask as he was being led away in handcuffs.

“You almost got away with it, but for one fatal error . . . ,” he would explain in noble triumph.

None of which happened. Sergeant Doyle was a good policeman, but not a great one. Except good was useful. Good was acceptable. And good was considered enough for Darkmouth. There was no point in sending someone totally incompetent. They had done that once before and
they had still been finding bits of him a month later.

But neither was there any point in sending someone brilliant, because what was happening in Darkmouth was not a crime that needed solving.

So, good would do just fine. And Sergeant Doyle was a good man, in every sense of the word.

As the day had started like any other, so the evening repeated the pattern of the many that had gone before. He took the car out on a final patrol of the town, except that this one was greeted by a crack of thunder and rain falling fat and hard. Was that the forecast? He should have checked. Time would tell what kind of storm it really was.

He stopped off in the grocery store to grab some ham and threw in half a dozen sausages, some eggs, a handful of mushrooms, and a can of baked beans. Plus a couple of potatoes for good measure. He dashed back through the downpour and tossed it all on the passenger seat of his car, unclipped his tie, and was about to turn the key in the ignition when he heard a sound that might generally be described as a commotion. Sergeant Doyle wondered if starting his car would mean he couldn't hear it and might allow him the excuse of ignorance. But there it was again, this time all too clearly identifiable as a kerfuffle. The
sergeant was a good man. He knew his duty. He pointed the car in the direction of the trouble and drove toward it, knowing the likely destination.

Even in the storm, people were streaming toward the street with no name. There were a couple of hundred at least. Maybe more.

They were shouting from under their hoods, waving their umbrellas as if they were spears. It was the cacophony of a town that had, finally, had enough. Sergeant Doyle stepped out of the car, zipped up his bright yellow jacket, and dipped into his deep reserves of authority as he strode over to the front of the house. He pushed his way between the mob and the front door.

“Get out of the way, Doyle!” yelled a man.

“Now, folks . . . ,” he began.

“Stop protecting them and start protecting
us
,” screamed a woman.

He raised his hands to calm them.

At the front of the crowd was a woman holding an orange umbrella over her sculpted hair. “Something must be done about those monsters in there,” she announced, to the approval of the crowd around her. “They're destroying this town. They're destroying our livelihoods. If you're not going to do it, then we will.”

“Ah now, Mary, let's not be rash,” said Sergeant Doyle in as soothing a voice as he could muster through his irritation. “It's a delicate situation for all of us.”

A melon smashed against a window to his right, sending mush and seeds dripping down the arm of his uniform. That stain would take forever to get out. “Right,” he said angrily. “That's enough.”

There was another surge from the crowd, which seemed to have doubled already. They pushed forward, climbing the small stone wall, trampling through the small yard, crushing flowers. They jostled Sergeant Doyle aside and began pounding on the door.

“Get out of the way,” said one particularly large man as he stepped back and took a shoulder charge at the door. With an alarming grunt, he bounced off it and onto his back.

“Here, give me a turn,” said another man. The door bowed just a little under his charge, with the sound of wood splintering around the locks inside. The man rushed at it again and the door buckled a little more. Then a final charge and it burst open, sending him crashing through onto the floor.

The crowd cheered. Sergeant Doyle sighed.

Behind them, someone screamed.

At the far end of the street, strange, catlike creatures stalked under the street lights, spreading out to block the avenues of escape. One lifted itself and spread leathery, stunted wings. Then, much to the surprise of the people nearest, one of the creatures spoke.

“What becomes easier to kill the bigger it is?”

Somewhat alarmed and bemused by this turn of events, the crowd remained still. Finally, one man stepped from the pack and asked, “I'm sorry, but could you give us another clue?”

The Manticores attacked.