here as quickly as possible.' The museum lay just beyond the Great Gatehouse of a fourteenth-century Cistercian abbey, the boundary fence overgrown with creepers and the once carefully kept grounds quickly returning to the wild. They located the entrance and scaled the security gates, with much blowing and cursing on the part of Crowther.
'Why did you come all this way just to get a car?' Caitlin asked.
'Because time is of the essence and we have a long way to go,' Crowther replied. 'And to be honest, anything that lessens the time I have to spend with you — and now those two — is a good thing.'
'You don't think they'll all have been looted?'
'Only if there's a classic-car collector in the area. Nobody else would be interested in these museum pieces. I'm taking the gamble that most people won't have realised that there must be some kind of fuel depot on the site. We can fill up and be away, and whatever's behind can choke on our exhaust fumes.'
The explosion made them all jump. A nearby branch splintered and fell.
'Somebody's shooting at us,' Crowther exclaimed incredulously, a second before Caitlin knocked him to the ground.
'Clear off, you bastards! I'll kill you all!' A wild-eyed man with grey hair rising up like a sunburst around a bald pate stormed towards them from the direction of the museum. He wore a threadbare overcoat and mud-splattered brown trousers, and he was brandishing a musket so worn and rusty it looked as if it would fall apart if it were fired again. 'This is my place!' he yelled. 'You can't come in here!'
Another burst of grapeshot rattled over their heads. The gun was so inaccurate that they were more likely to die from accidental fall-out than any specific shot. 'Into the trees!' Caitlin shouted, looking around for the others. Carlton was there, but Mahalia was missing.
Their attacker set about the laborious task of reloading the musket — shot, gunpowder, tamping it down. Caitlin seized the opportunity to haul Carlton towards cover while Crowther scurried on his hands and knees behind them.
Once they were hidden, Caitlin frantically searched for Mahalia. Had she run for the boundary fence?
The answer came a second later. Mahalia appeared like a shadow rising from the ground behind their assailant. She was so silent that he was oblivious to her presence until she knocked the musket from his hands and entwined her arms around him, a knife at his throat.
The three of them rushed over just as the man stopped struggling in response to whatever Mahalia had whispered in his ear. Blood trickled down his neck from the knife point.
'Don't hurt me,' he whimpered. Tears of fear trickled from his eyes; in them was a hint of the madness of isolation.
'What are you doing?' Crowther raged. 'You could have killed us!'
'This is my place,' the man said pathetically. 'You can't come in.'
'Do you want me to kill him?' Mahalia's cold voice chilled Caitlin.
'Kill him?' Crowther said incredulously. 'Are you insane as well? We don't go around killing people!'
'You leave him free, you might regret it,' Mahalia continued.
'Oh, shut up.' Crowther pulled her knife hand roughly away from the man's throat. The prisoner sagged and then began to sob. 'Mad as a bloody hatter,' Crowther said. 'He's probably been living up here since the Fall, shooting anyone who came near like some hillbilly. Whatever happened to resilience? The first sign of hardship and everyone starts going insane.' He flashed a glance at Caitlin.
Behind them, Carlton was growing agitated again. As Caitlin turned to comfort him, he pointed fearfully towards the gate.
Five shapes had emerged from the tree line beyond the boundary fence. The moment Caitlin laid eyes on them she felt as if her life was draining away. It was the Whisperers, she knew that without a doubt. They had faces that would haunt Caitlin's worst nightmares, a forensic study of a human head once the skin had been removed, though the musculature was white as snow, dry and parchment-like, the teeth needle-long and sharp, like those on luminescent fish caught in the furthest depths. Their eyes exuded a smoky magenta light that drifted around them in clouds as if they burned inside. They were tall and gaunt with limbs so thin they looked as if they barely had the strength to lift themselves, their bodies almost lost in their odd combination of armour — winged, spiked helmets and breastplates, all of it rusted a muddy brown — and fluttering black rags. On their backs or hanging from their belts were a variety of rusted metallic weapons — swords, spears, axes and some things that just looked like long spikes. Their mounts were a disturbing mixture of lizard and horse, their scaly skin a desiccated grey. The hazy purple light wreathed all around them.
Mahalia, Crowther, Caitlin and Carlton were all rooted before the terrible sight.
Beneath the rustle of the wind in the newly formed leaves, a whispering rose up that carried with it notions of terrible, depressing things even though no words were clear.
The Whisperers dismounted and drifted like ghosts to the boundary fence, where they stood motionless.
Why aren't they trying to get in?' Caitlin asked. 'They can't come in here,' the hermit moaned. 'Nothing can. Sacred land… old, sacred, monastic land.'
Crowther dropped down and placed the palm of his right hand on the soil.
'What's he talking about?' Mahalia said.
'The Blue Fire,' Crowther said to himself. 'I wish I could feel it.'
'You're bleeding.' Caitlin noticed the thin trickle running from Crowther's nose just as the iron filings taste dribbled into the edge of her own mouth. She dabbed at it, checked the stain on her fingers. 'What are they doing to us?'
'Come on,' Mahalia said insistently. 'You're standing around as if you're in a dream.' She picked up a rock from nearby and smashed it against the back of their prisoner's head. He pitched forward, unconscious. 'So he doesn't get in the way.'
Caitlin was too distracted to be horrified by the girl's action. Images scurried through her head that were not her own thoughts, a flickering of consciousness as contact was made — the face of one of the Whisperers loomed before her, and though its mouth formed no human syllables, the words made perfect sense: Give up now. There is no hope… no point running. Everyone must die. No point in anything. You could take your own life. Illness will claim you… The message hid a secret virus that infected her mind like poison in the blood: despair. The emotion was almost painful.
Suddenly Caitlin was back in the Ice-Field and Briony was shaking her roughly. 'Brigid says they're in your head. You have to get out of here.'
Caitlin came out of her trance to realise that she was walking slowly towards the boundary fence alongside Mahalia, Carlton and Crowther. She moved quickly, punching Crowther so hard in the face that his lips pulped against his teeth and blood splattered into his mouth.
The pain disrupted the mental image. 'You stupid cow!' Crowther roared.
But it was enough. Caitlin grabbed Carlton while Crowther picked up Mahalia and then they were hurrying towards the museum buildings.
They realised they'd exceeded the range of the Whisperers' sickening influence when Mahalia suddenly yelled, 'Put me down, you creep!' and lashed out wildly. Crowther dropped her hard on the floor with what Caitlin thought was a little too much relish.
Caitlin took one last look at the drifting purple haze where the withering atmosphere of despair hung along the boundary fence and then forced them to pick up the pace.
'What are those things,' Caitlin asked, 'and why are they hunting us?'
'Sport or food are the obvious answers,' Crowther muttered, but his expression suggested that the questions troubled him immensely.
It took them a while to gain access to the vast display halls; the previous occupant had effectively blocked every entrance. They eventually managed to smash open a side door, and once inside it felt odd to be walking alone amongst the gleaming archaic vehicles that now provided a haunting reminder of the world they had left behind. One vast echoing hall led on to another, all filled with the smell of oil and rubber and leather upholstery. Every car they had ever seen or heard of stood side by side, their pristine paintwork shimmering in the half-light.
'In centuries to come, when this place is overgrown and forgotten, this will be like Tutankhamun's tomb to a future generation of archaeologists,' Crowther said in hushed tones. 'Of course, that's if the human race is still around.' Crowther bypassed the oldest vehicles, which looked as if they would barely have outrun a horse, and
