Cronix by James Hider

Author:James Hider [Hider, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldbuilders Press
Published: 2014-10-28T23:00:00+00:00

***

The stone fortress of the Tower of London, once home to deposed queens and royal favorites fallen from grace, had long ago become an island in the swollen Thames. These days, it served as London’s central armory and high security prison. Gone were the days of racks and iron maidens, Beefeater guards and tourists: the dungeons were clean, modern holding cells for prisoners awaiting trial.

Mayor Lupo marched into the White Tower, built by William the Conqueror and now under the less-than-reassuring protection of the local volunteer militia. The chief warden, an Eternal, escorted the mayor down into the holding pens. Most were empty: minor misdemeanors, such as drunkenness and rowdy behavior, were dealt with by the police. Only the most serious offenders made it to the Tower.

The Santa Muerte man was peering at a book when Lupo arrived: On the Origins of Post-Human Species, one of the few books prisoners were offered. The man, a gaunt creature covered in bruises and cuts from his arrest, stared at his visitor.

“On your feet, Dawes,” snapped the warden. The man hesitated, then placed the book on the cot. “Do you know who this is?” the warden said. “This is the Mayor of London, so you be on your best behavior. Now, Mr Lupo has a few questions to ask you.”

Lupo examined the man. He had been arrested the night before, ID'd from security footage at the DPP headquarters.

“Sit down,” ordered Lupo. The man seated himself warily on his bed. Lupo leaned against the wall, pulled out his cigarette case and lit up.

“I've read your statement Dawes. You claim you were ordered by a man called Thorpe to drive him and a 'Cronix' to the DPP headquarters last Tuesday. Right? This man Thorpe...”

The prisoner cut in. “That wasn't no Cronix,” he said. “That was one of your lot.” He gazed in momentary confusion at the ugly mayor. “Well, one of their lot, at least,” he said, pointing at the warden.

Lupo sighed. “You picked up this man Thorpe and...the other person... at the Haymarket? How long had you known Thorpe?”

“Well,” Dawes began. “Thorpe's from my village. Known him all my life.”

“And you knew he was a member of the Santa Muerte?”

Dawes shook his head, a look of confusion his rutted face.

“Why did you agree to help him?” Lupo tried, keeping things simple for this bumpkin.

“Well,” Dawes scratched his greasy hair. “Thorpe and the others said you people…well, you aren’t really people, he said. That you’re dead, and you should move on to the next world. And that it was our job, as the living, should help you move on. Exorcise you, he called it.”

Lupo squeezed his eyes and groaned. “And you hayseeds really believe that shit? Do I look like I’m dead to you, Dawes? Do I?” He stood up, his hand extended towards the prisoner. “Feel that. Go on, feel it. Is that dead?”

Dawes hung his head. “Thorpe said...” he screwed up his eyes in concentration. “He said, we all have to give God a death.

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