Clockwork Universe Read online

  CLOCKWORK UNIVERSE

  A Steampunk Thriller

  John W. Dennehy

  Copyright 2016 by John W. Dennehy

  Chapter One

  Sarah shivered from an early autumn chill as she trod up Park Street towards her family Brownstone. An ominous feeling of dread crept over her along with the brisk weather. The evening seemed grim and lonely. She pulled up the collar of her Victorian dress in an effort to ward off the cold.

  Gas lanterns cast an intermittent glow from occasional lampposts, making the sidewalk appear desolate. A cacophony of sounds emanated from nearby Tremont Street. The noises were comforting when she had plied her way through the major thoroughfare. Steam buggies honked and revelers traipsing to taverns bellowed. Now, the distant clamor made her trek seem all the more isolated, and frightening.

  She took a deep breath and grabbed hold of her billowing dress, pulling it above the ground in order to free her laced-up boots. Then, she huffed and picked up her pace, trotting down the brick sidewalk.

  Boston Common lay below, an expansive public park boxed in by Park Street and Tremont Street. At night, the park appeared eerie, with the bare branches of tall, dark trees rattling in slight gusts of wind.

  She sought to avoid the park, being careful to take the long way around it. The park had become the scene of grisly murders. Now, she felt even more vulnerable than she’d likely experience walking directly through the common.

  A harsh noise suddenly caught her attention. Sarah came to a halt at the sound of metal creaking. Her pulse quickened, and her heart pounded. The thought of becoming the next victim consumed her, while fear drained her resolve, and paralysis locked her feet in place.

  Then, the familiar clopping of hooves set her at ease. A moment later, a Hansom Cab rounded the curb and rolled over the cobblestone street. The driver nodded from his perch, and Sarah smiled in return; her trepidation slipped away as a grin appeared on her face.

  She watched the horse-drawn buggy plod uphill, and then it turned a corner and slipped out of sight. The clip-clopping faded, leaving her alone once again.

  The street fell silent, except for the repeated clicking of her heels. Sarah picked up her stride, and the sound of her boots muffled any other noise. Not much chance she’d hear someone approach from behind her. She slowed her pace and listened intently.

  A footfall reverberated from the shadows. Sarah couldn’t be certain whether it was a traveler, or a steam pipe coming to life in a nearby apartment.

  She slackened her gait, and her hearing became more alert.

  The unmistakable sound of a leather sole smacked the brick, and then repeated as though someone was walking nearby. She eased her pace further, and the stalker followed suit, matching her stride, as if trying to mask his steps with hers.

  Sarah came to an abrupt halt.

  The footsteps broke off, confirming her suspicion.

  “Who’s there?” Sarah said, defiantly.

  No answer followed.

  “Tell me who’s there,” Sarah repeated, “or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Just a weary passerby,” said a man after a moment.

  “Show yourself,” she demanded.

  A scrawny man stepped from the shadows of an alleyway. He wore a tattered top hat and dusty overcoat. She discerned his bloodshot eyes in the flickering light of a gas lantern fixed to the façade of a brick apartment building.

  He forced a smile, but his jowls still drooped. The man shuffled closer, displaying decayed teeth, yellowed and black.

  Sarah could smell booze on his breath from four feet away. Liquor and body odor wafted through the cool air. The wretched man was detestable. A desire to kick him in the crotch and flee overwhelmed her. He stared at her too long without saying a word, a creepy desire lingered in his slovenly eyes. The urge to bolt consumed her thoughts.

  “Tell me what you want,” Sarah pressed.

  “Wondering if you can spare a few pounds,” he replied.

  “Not sure you can be trusted,” Sarah said, “stalking me and all.”

  “How about a few shillings, then?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  He trundled forward, staggering completely out of the alley. The filth became more palpable and his stench reeked something fierce.

  “Afraid I cannot help you,” she said, flatly.

  “Won’t you consider helping out… a wayward barrister in some need?”

  “You shouldn’t creep up on people like that,” she snapped.

  “My apologies.” He forced an untrustworthy smile. “Didn’t want to alarm you is all. Seemed to have done so anyway… just a few shillings and I’d be on my way.”

  Sarah figured the moment she reached into her purse, he’d pounce and filch everything of value. The bum would bang her up good in the process. “Sorry, but I must get going now,” she finally said, and began to turn away.

  He shuffled half a step forward, and that’s when Sarah realized her mistake.

  A set of beady eyes gleamed at her through the shimmering light, totally devoid of reason, and lacking compassion. The beggar’s abject poverty had detached him from humanity. Sarah cringed and contemplated acquiescing to his demands.

  She reached for her purse, slung over a shoulder. His eyes lit up in anticipation. Then, he leaned closer and licked his lips, wetting them with his tongue. An expectation of a drink consumed him. Sarah noticed him slip a hand into his trouser pocket, and registered her mistake in trusting him immediately.

  The movement caused her to take a step back.

  With a swift motion of his hand, a knife handle came into view. A click resonated in the night, and then a metallic blade reflected in the lamplight.

  Sarah’s muscles grew tense; her senses intensified, becoming more acute.

  Her mind instantly registered that flight was not an option. She would have to fight the bastard. Sarah hurled a boot upward. The blow missed his groin and struck her attacker in the gut. He keeled over and let out a groan.

  Then, she grabbed the handle of her purse, and swung the bag roundhouse into his head.

  Sarah’s handbag cracked into his pate and sent him stumbling backward. He bellowed in pain, reaching for his head. A confused look crossed his face.

  The brick walkway reverberated from a heavy thud in the alleyway.

  A menacing claw latched onto the beggar’s shoulder. Long talons shredded his top coat and cleaved into his skin. Blood squirted in the air as he screamed in agony. Terror now registered in his former predatory eyes.

  An effortless yank of the massive paw, and her attacker whisked out of sight.

  Sarah heard the shrill wailing of his screams as she fled up the sidewalk. His shrieks abruptly cut off, leaving only a horrific, deafening silence. Then, the ground began to thunder behind her.

  Chapter Two

  Kevin stood on the railway platform in a contemporary world, waiting for an ordinary commuter train into Boston, and he didn’t have a care in the world. Although he considered his life boring, a real drag, he never contemplated it could turn for the better, more exciting, or sink into something much worse.

  People glanced at him quickly and moved away. They pretended not to notice him in obvious ways. Most were professionals from the Merrimack Valley and southern New Hampshire, making the daily commute to North Station.

  He played in a throwback punk band. Kevin liked to think the purple Mohawk, or oversized diaper pins in his ears, drove them off, but it was probably the jackboots with crimson laces.

  Sprinkling raindrops stippled the platform and parking lot. Then, a deluge broke and cascaded buckets of precipitation. Kevin stepped under the overhang of the remote train station.

  While everyone waited like drones, staring bl
ankly at the tracks, he pumped to a shuffle that he’d loaded into his iPod: Sex Pistols, Dead Kennedys, and vintage Suicidal Tendencies.

  A slender man wearing a black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie approached him. The man had a grey trench coat draped over his arm, and carried a chrome attaché in the other hand.

  Not paying the professional commuters any mind, Kevin didn’t really notice the suit until the guy tapped him on the shoulder.

  Kevin looked over at the man, perplexed.

  “Like your jacket,” the man said, putting the briefcase down.

  “Thanks,” Kevin said, and lowered the volume on his iPod. Kevin wore a black leather motorcycle jacket. Words painted on the back read: Punk’s Not Dead, Just Dead Drunk. And there was a Dead Kennedys pin on the front.

  “Used to be a big DK fan, myself,” the man said to Kevin.

  The suit looked to be in his mid-forties, and so he was ripe for their tours.

  “Ever see them in concert?” Kevin asked.

  “Sure, got to see them in Manhattan, actually.”

  “Wow,” Kevin said. “What about the Sex Pistols, ever see them?”

  “Saw them in Manhattan too.”

  “You’re pulling my chain.”

  The man leaned forward, tilting his head slightly toward Kevin. At first, it seemed like the guy was acting strange. Then, Kevin saw the holes in his ears; he was for real. The man straightened up, grinning.

  “You doubted me,” the man said. “That’s fine. You shouldn’t trust establishment types… not at your age anyway.”

  Kevin laughed at the comment.

  “By the way,” he said, reaching for a handshake, “my name is Roland.”

  Kevin shook his hand.

  “Do me a favor?” Roland said.

  “Sure, what are you thinking?”

  “Just watch my briefcase for a minute,” Roland said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Kevin watched as Roland donned his trench coat, and then stepped away from the kiosk. Roland hustled through the parking lot, rain dancing off car windshields, as though he’d forgotten something.

  Waiting for ten minutes, Kevin started jonesing for a joint, or a lude. Anything but babysitting some yuppie’s briefcase. Kevin scanned the parking lot, but he didn’t see Roland anywhere.

  Screeching rims signaled the train approaching. It was silver with a purple stripe running down the side; soot and grime dulled the metal cars.

  The train came to a screeching halt, then passenger car doors creaked opened. Conductors alighted from the train wearing polyester blue uniforms. The uniforms had yellow trim on the cuffs and jacket seams; their round hats had short visors, and the same yellow trim ran around the top of each hat.

  Haverhill was the end of the line, making it the first stop going inbound, so no passengers alighted from the train. After placing portable steps on the ground at most every door, the conductors ushered people onto the train. The conductors moved about in haste, as the train had a schedule to keep, and wouldn’t wait for anyone.

  Kevin looked around and still didn’t see any sign of Roland.

  Everyone rushed to the train, appearing fearful of missing it, and then having to wait an hour for the next departure. Nobody paid any mind to Kevin, and so he snagged the chrome attaché and climbed aboard the train.

  Walking down the aisle, Kevin found many seats available. He wanted to face forward and walked past the seats pointed at the rear of the train. The seats were large, dark vinyl, cheap imitation leather. On the left side of the train, there were rows of two seats, but the opposite side had three seats together.

  Figuring the train would fill up closer to Boston, Kevin opted for a window in a two-seater. He set the briefcase down beside him, expecting Roland to come strolling down the aisle.

  The conductors scrambled onto the train, holding the portable steps. As they stowed the steps away, the train began to slowly churn forward.

  ****

  While the train jostled along, people continued to meander down the aisle looking for seats, but Roland wasn’t one of them. Kevin hoped the briefcase would deter people from sitting next to him. And maybe Roland would come along and spot it.

  Kevin stuffed his ticket under a flap on the seat in front of him. He curled against the window and closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep.

  The conductors came by punching tickets. Although they didn’t bother Kevin, a conductor reached across and punched his ticket; there was enough disruption that he couldn’t fall entirely asleep.

  Soon, the train was making stops and filling up with boarders. Kevin heard a conductor arguing with a passenger.

  “You can’t ride the train without a ticket,” the conductor said.

  “Well, I haven’t got a ticket.”

  “You either need a ticket,” the conductor said, “or the funds to pay for your ride.”

  The man sat a few rows up from Kevin. He was disheveled with a sullen, plump face. He wore a soiled white t-shirt and khakis splattered by paint. A tall conductor with a haggard countenance stood lurching over the man; he called for assistance. Then, a burly conductor joined him and they accosted the interloper.

  No longer checking people’s tickets as the train sailed along, they only focused on the freeloader. They seemed to believe he had the means to pay the fare, but wanted to try riding for free.

  “Are you going to pay, or what?” the tall conductor snapped, pale jowls bobbing.

  “Listen, I don’t have the money.”

  “Well, then you’re going to have to get off the train.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll let you ride to the next stop, and we’ll kindly let you off. We won’t charge you for the ride you’ve taken,” the conductor said. “But you’ve got to agree to it now. Otherwise, we’ll call ahead and have the police waiting for you.”

  “That’s fine,” the man said. “I’ll get off at the next stop. Alright?”

  “No trouble?”

  “None.”

  The conductors left him and went about their business.

  A moment later, the taller one approached Kevin. “Sorry lad, but you’re going to have to put that in the overhead,” he said, pointing at the attaché. “We’ve got more passengers getting on. There won’t be an empty seat when we pull into North Station.”

  Reaching for the attaché, Kevin grabbed it with both hands. He noticed the case felt warm.

  A cool, damp autumn day, and the train car had begun heating up, so he didn’t think much about it. Looking up, Kevin noticed the overhead appeared quite full, so he put the briefcase on the floor between his leg and the outside wall. He leaned back and cranked up the volume on his iPod.

  At the next stop, the conductors ushered the freeloader off the train. More passengers climbed aboard and then a young, petite brunette with shoulder-length hair stopped near Kevin. She wore a black pantsuit and a blue blouse. Leaning over, she spoke to Kevin, but he couldn’t hear her.

  Kevin turned the music down.

  “Is anyone sitting here?” she said, pointing to the empty seat.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s all yours.”

  She sat down, placing her handbag on the floor. For some reason, this young woman didn’t seem taken aback by Kevin. He pondered whether he was losing his edge. Usually only girls with tats talked to him, not strait-laced girls like this.

  “Where are you headed?” she asked.

  “Just into town,” he said. “Trying to get a gig for my band.”

  “Got anything good lined up?”

  “Hoping for an opening at the Orpheum for Suicidal Tendencies,” he said. “They’re making a comeback tour this fall.”

  “Sounds cool.”

  “And you?” he said. “Where are you headed?”

  “Just to the office,” she replied.

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  “Public relations,” she said, tilting her head. She stuck out he
r tongue and pointed at it. “Yuk.”

  “Nothing wrong with a good sit,” Kevin said. “A steady income pays the bills.”

  She nodded. “But it’s boring.”

  “Things will change up, eventually,” he said. “I’m Kevin by the way, Kevin Barnes.”

  “Sarah,” she said, with a quick grin. Then she turned her attention to fishing something from her handbag.

  As the train hummed along, Sarah turned on a small laptop and shoved in a pair of earbuds; the cord ran to her phone. Kevin heard the distinct sound of Marilyn Manson and understood why she’d been so approachable.

  He leaned against the side of the train car and drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  The sound of screeching steel rims, along with the momentum of a braking train, jerked Kevin forward, and jostled him awake.

  A conductor quickly moved down the aisle. It was the tall conductor who had accosted the freeloader, except he’d changed his clothing. Now, he wore a grey uniform, tailored from high quality wool, the edges of the uniform and cap were trimmed in black.

  The conductor’s face looked fresher; the time-worn fatigue was gone, and he had a spring in his step.

  Adjusting himself in the large seat, Kevin realized that it seemed plusher, the vinyl felt softer, like cowhide.

  He looked over at Sarah to find her wearing a long black dress that flared at the hip. The mid-section was crimson with a row of large buttons running down the front. She busied herself on a laptop, but it was encased in polished mahogany and trimmed in fine brass.

  Kevin glanced around and noticed that everyone seemed dressed in outdated clothes. He felt a tinge of panic, and fought to gulp down bile that had risen in his throat.

  Another conductor walked past and he was also wearing a grey, wool uniform.

  A boisterous man across the aisle, a few seats up, caught Kevin’s attention. The man was large and talking to someone seated across the aisle. The big man wore a shooting jacket and had a thick, walrus mustache. His chubby red face tilted up and down habitually, as he listened to a slender man, seemingly in agreement with what the big fellow was saying.