James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

The fetid stench of raw sewage reached them as they rounded a slight bend. One of the policemen retched, and Burton had to rush ahead, breathing shallow lest his gorge become buoyant. “Do we even know what we are looking for?” he whispered to Abberline.

“I heard from an anonymous source that people are living down here.”

“Bismillah!” said the explorer. “Truly?”

“Yes. People who can’t even afford to live in the Cauldron.”

“That’s deplorable.”

“And what’s more,” continued the detective, “many of them have reportedly gone missing. But the really strange thing is what they say is taking these people.”

Burton arched an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“Monsters.”

They heard the sound of rushing water. “Must be one of the underground tributaries of the Thames,” said Abberline. “It’s getting louder.”

Burton nodded. “Yes. Probably the Peck, or perhaps the Effra.”

As they followed the sound, the tunnel opened wider. Up ahead, Burton noticed a vague phosphorescence that illuminated a vast open space. The smell of human waste was overpowering now, and Burton immediately saw why. Lined up along one side of the dark surging river was a row of large metal cages containing dozens of human beings, dirtied and befouled.

“Good Lord!” said Abberline. “Help them. Get them out.”

He stayed back with Burton while the dozen policemen under his authority flooded the space, going to work on the cages as the people inside them called out for help.

“Who could have done this?” Burton grabbed a lantern from one of the policemen and moved it about, inspecting the space. It showed definite signs of habitation, littered with dirty blankets, the rat-chewed remains of food, and even children’s toys. Tucked away in an alcove of moss-laden brick was something even more shocking.

“Frederick, come here, please.”

“Yes, Captain?”

Abberline moved up beside him, his mouth opening in an O of surprise when he saw what was illuminated by Burton’s lantern. A metal table stood there, piled with human remains. The desiccated skin had long ago been flayed open.

Abberline pressed a handkerchief to his face. “Bloody hell! What is this?”

“It looks like an autopsy,” Burton murmured, his mouth suddenly dry. This looked all too familiar. He had been in a room like this, with cages and medical equipment, when he had traveled hundreds of thousands of years into the past aboard Captain Nemo’s Nautilus and was a prisoner of the Elder Things.

“What monster could do this?” Abberline was saying. Burton snapped out of his reverie.

“Morlocks,” said a hunched-over old woman recently freed from one of the cages. “Morlocks,” she said again as if the word should mean something. Burton recalled seeing the word scrawled in one of the tunnels. He had heard the name before, from the fevered rantings of the Time Traveler, Herbert. The woman gave him a crooked-toothed sneer, pointing toward the far end of the opening. “Morlocks.”

Burton understood what she meant. Holding up the lantern he peered into the distance. In a crack in the brickwork he saw what appeared to be a hunched figure. The thing had white hair, fungoid skin, and glowing yellow eyes. Burton didn’t scare easily, but this apparition sent a chill fleeing up his spine. “There. Look!”

“Over there, gents,” said Abberline. A dozen pairs of eyes locked on the frightful creature Burton had seen. It ducked back into the fracture and was gone. “Go get it!”

In the lantern light Burton saw several more of the small creatures in shadow, loping away. Something about the way they moved gave him an idea.

“They’re afraid of the light!” he called. “We need more lights down here.”

Gunshots rang out as a group of Abberline’s policemen engaged with what must be the Morlocks, while another set dealt with their newly freed prisoners.

“Get them out of here!” Abberline barked, drawing his gun. “Get them to the surface.”

The people were effusive in their thanks. Abberline nodded to them as they passed. Burton wished they could do something more, but he wondered how quickly they would be back down here, simply because they had nowhere else to go.

Another gunshot echoed in the distance. Burton wondered if any of the bullets found their targets, or if the Morlocks, if that is what they were, would just vanish like so much smoke. He vowed to have a long talk with Herbert when this was done.

“They’re gone, sir!” one of the coppers called, running back toward them up the tunnel.

Burton flashed the lantern around. Beyond the cages, on the other side of the swirling tributary, there were other things. Brass glinted in the lantern light, and the steady green glow of the phosphorescent lichen picked out pieces of queer machinery. “How do we get over there?”

“What?” said Abberline.

“We need to get across.” Burton pointed at the collection of machinery.

Abberline glanced around. “There.” He pointed to a wide wooden plank spread across a narrow span of the underground river. Burton ran toward it, testing it with his right foot before putting his full weight upon it. He then bounded across it, followed closely by Abberline. The policeman stood holding a lantern high while Burton inspected the equipment.

“What is all this? Do you think those—those monsters built this?”

Burton’s eyes caught on a framework of brass with two levers at the front and a hammered copper dish at the back. It was crude and looked as if it had been cobbled together from other, much older machinery, but the design was unmistakable.

“Frederick, what does this look like to you?”

The detective moved closer, shining his lantern down full upon the contraption. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I would say it’s a bloody Time Machine.”

“I was afraid of that.”

The two men looked at each other, their faces heavy with the implications of what they had found.

“We must destroy this,” said Burton. “Dismantle it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Until we know exactly what we are dealing with, yes.”

Abberline waved over three of his men and instructed them to dismantle the strange device. They went at the task with gusto, making short work of it with pry-bars and truncheons. Burton thought he heard something overhead. Expecting another Morlock, he looked up and saw a black-cloaked human figure staring down at them.

“Up there!” Burton shouted.

Every head lifted up. The black-garbed figure barked laughter and retreated into the shadows.

“Bloody hell!” said Abberline. “Who was that?”

Burton’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

The hansom carried Burton and Abberline through the gates of Bedlam and up to the high stone steps. “Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Abberline. “We had a long night.”

The explorer looked at the policeman, a grim expression souring his already hard countenance. “I must, Frederick.” He had returned home with the dawn to a letter brought earlier the previous evening by messenger from a Dr. Seward at Brightmoor Asylum. It said that his friend, the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne, a recent inmate of the dismal place, wanted to see him at once.

Abberline nodded, and the two got out. Burton paid the fare and the two men started up the steps to the tall oaken doors. Abberline stared up at the imposing edifice and shivered. “I’ve never liked this place,” he muttered, as if he feared the building would hear him and take offense. Burton simply nodded and hauled open one of the oaken double doors. As he did so they heard a muffled wailing coming from somewhere inside, the cry of some tortured soul. Burton wrinkled his nose as they entered. The smell of antiseptic masking vomit and urine assaulted his nostrils. They moved to the front desk and rang the bell.