Sir Richard Francis Burton, Damien Burke, and Gregory Hare stepped out of the mental asylum into- madness!
L ondon was ablaze.
At ground level, the smoke was suffocating. Hellish red and orange light flared through the swirling clouds.
“What the-”
Burton was cut off by a scream of fury. A man came tearing out of the murk, dressed only in trousers and boots, his naked upper body smeared with blood, sweat, and soot. His face was contorted with animal ferocity, and before they could react, he swung a pitchfork with vicious force into Damien Burke's upper left arm.
Burke fell sideways with a yell of pain.
Gregory Hare jumped onto the back of the attacker, snatched the pitchfork out of his hand and threw it aside, wrapped a huge forearm around the man's neck, and squeezed. Seconds later, he was lowering the limp body to the pavement.
Burton snapped back into himself. The assault had been so sudden and brutal that he'd stood frozen, disassociated.
“Damn it!” he muttered, and joined Hare on his knees at Burke's side.
“It's bad,” Burke gasped. “Broken.”
“You're losing blood. Hare, give me your cravat. We need to get a tourniquet on him right away. Don't worry, old man,” he encouraged Burke. “We'll have you fixed up in no time.”
“Mr. Hare will attend to me, Captain,” Burke responded weakly. “I recommend you draw your spine-gun and see to our defence.” He nodded at the street behind Burton.
The king's agent twisted around and saw five individuals shuffling into view. There were two men and three women. All wore dishevelled clothing and diabolical grins. Their eyes were wide and glazed.
One of the women held a dripping severed arm that had, apparently, been torn from its owner's shoulder.
She seemed to recognise the shock in Burton's eyes and responded to it by shouting: “Meat! Tichborne wants meat!” She then raised the limb to her mouth and clamped her teeth into it with a muffled giggle. The giggle turned into a gurgle as blood bubbled down over her chin.
“Your gun, sir!” Damien Burke groaned.
Burton grunted, stood, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the cactus pistol and pressed the nodule that activated it.
“Die!” said one of the approaching men. “You-upper-crust-bastards.”
The woman with the arm, distracted by the taste of blood, lost interest in Burton and his companions. She squatted on her haunches and began to rip mouthfuls of flesh from the bone, swallowing chunks of raw, bloody human meat.
Burton, sickened, wanted to look away. Instead, he raised his strange pistol and shot her in the forehead.
She collapsed onto her back and lay still with the arm across her throat.
The remaining two men and two women screamed and lurched forward, their arms outstretched, their fingers curled into claws, their eyes rolling aimlessly.
Holding his right wrist with his left hand to keep it steady, Burton shot them each in turn.
He released a shuddering breath, looked at the fallen bodies, and allowed his arms to drop to his sides. He was trembling as if in the grip of another malarial fever.
“What the hell is happening?” he muttered.
Something exploded in the distance.
He stepped back to the hospital gate and hammered upon it.
“Let us in! Hey in there! Open up!”
There was no response. The guard had apparently locked the door before returning to the main building with the carriage driver.
“Help me up with him, if you would, Captain,” Hare said.
Burton lifted his hat, yanked off his wig and false beard, shoved them into a pocket, replaced his topper, and assisted Hare.
“The rioters appear to be rather more zealous than they were yesterday,” the prime minister's man noted. “Yet, equally, rather more mindless. I need to get Mr. Burke back to Whitehall. I suggest we make our way along the Lambeth Road to Saint George's Circus, and follow Waterloo Road to the bridge. What say you?”
“I say let's go.”
“I can support Mr. Burke now that he's up, Captain. You keep that pistol handy.”
Burton nodded and began to move slowly through the eye-watering fumes, with his companions following behind.
Beams of light swept over them from above. A huge police rotorship descended, its turbines roaring, steam belching from its exhausts. The down-draught from its rotors cleared the street of smoke, and Burton saw that debris and bodies were scattered all over.
“This is the police!” an amplified voice announced.
The king's agent looked up and noticed a cluster of speaking trumpets projecting down from the ship's hull.
“This is the police. Return to your homes. Stay inside and bar your doors and windows. Do not venture onto the streets. A state of emergency has been declared. Return to your homes. This is the police. Return to your homes. Remain inside.”
The mammoth flying machine slowly slid away over the rooftops. As it passed, ash-laden smoke rolled back over Burton and his colleagues.
A horse bolted past, trailing the broken shafts of a wagon behind it.
Somewhere nearby, glass smashed and rained onto the pavement.
Incoherent shouts echoed from the near and far distance.
Cautiously, they moved on.
Ahead, a male voice pleaded: “Help me! Oh, sweet Lord, help me! No! Please! Though I walk in the valley of death I shall-”
It was cut off.
A broken walking stick came whirling out of the miasma and clattered onto the cobbles inches from Burton's feet.
Moments later, through the gloom, they saw the other half of it. One end was held in the hand of a snarling street pedlar. The other end-the broken end-had been thrust up into the base of an elderly clergyman's chin and was projecting from the top of his skull. The pedlar was holding his victim upright but released him as he saw the trio approaching. The dead man crumpled to the pavement. His murderer laughed. Froth sprayed from his mouth. He wiped his bloodied hand on his thigh.
Without hesitation, Burton shot cactus spines into the pedlar's neck and winced at the sound the man's skull made as it hit the road.
“We should proceed with greater haste,” he advised Palmerston's men. “Can you manage?”
“Yes, Captain,” Hare replied. “Though Mr. Burke seems to be uncon- Look out!”
Burton gasped and stepped back as a wraith materialised right in front of him. He saw the figure clearly. It was dressed in a long frock coat, wore a top hat, and its mouth was hidden behind a soup-strainer mustache. Then it dissolved and blew away, nothing but a ribbon of dirty particles.
“What are those things?” Hare whispered.
“I don't know, but each time I see one it appears a little more solid, more opaque. I think they're gaining in strength, and they're inciting this violence.”
They pressed on and reached Saint George's Circus. A man ran out of a shop, stopped in front of them, and raised an antiquated blunderbuss.
“Die for Tichborne, you posh sods!” he shouted. He pulled the trigger and the weapon exploded in his face, blowing off his right ear.
“Christ!” he screamed. “My bloody head!”
