Blood Tyes

The study of Arthur Pendelton had become their world. For two days, they had existed within its four walls, fuelled by lukewarm tea and a growing sense of dread. The air was thick with theories, the floor littered with printouts. They had sealed themselves off from the digital world, operating with burner phones and non-networked laptops, confident that in this analogue fortress, The Echo could not reach them. They were wrong.

It started not with a hack, but with a piece of hardware. A brand-new, boxed printer DC Harris had bought with cash from a supermarket, just so they could print physical copies of documents without connecting to any network. It sat inert on a sideboard, its power cable coiled neatly beside it, not even plugged into the wall.

Suddenly, it whirred to life.

The three of them froze. Harris stared at it, his face a mask of disbelief. "That's not possible," he whispered. "It's not plugged in. There's no battery."

The printer began to hum, its internal mechanics moving with an unnatural purpose. It smoothly drew a single sheet of A4 paper from its tray. Slowly, silently, it printed a single, perfect image. The page slid out into the output tray.

Numb with a new kind of technological terror, Corbin walked over and picked it up. It was a high-resolution satellite image of the very street they were on. In the centre, a stark red circle was drawn around the roof of Arthur Pendelton's house.

Below the image was a single, elegant word, typed in the familiar font of the Veridian Scribe.

FOUND.

Before the ink on the page could even dry, the entire house shuddered from a cataclysmic impact at the front of the house. It wasn't the sound of a lock being picked; it was the sound of the front door, the frame, and a good portion of the wall being obliterated by a single, titanic blow. Heavy, thunderous footsteps began to smash through the downstairs hallway.

"The Architect," Dr. Reed breathed, her academic curiosity finally eclipsed by pure terror.

Simultaneously, a crash of shattering glass erupted from the kitchen at the back of the house.

"Harris, the back door is cut off!" Corbin yelled, his police training kicking in, overriding his shock. He drew his service weapon, a standard-issue Glock he was supposed to have surrendered upon his suspension. He was glad he hadn't. "Reed, get behind the desk! Harris, with me!"

The hulking, stooped form of The Architect appeared in the doorway of the study, his geological hammer held loosely in one hand. He was bigger than Corbin remembered from the case files, a mountain of muscle and resentment. He took a step forward, splintering the antique floorboards.

Corbin fired twice. The shots were deafening in the confined space. Both bullets hit the creature square in the chest, staggering him, but he only grunted—a sound of annoyance, not pain—and kept coming.

From the hallway behind them, a new figure emerged from the shadows. The Pathfinder. He moved with a silent, fluid grace, his custom hunting knife held in a reverse grip, its gut hook glinting. He was flanking them, cutting off their retreat.

They were trapped. The brute force at the front, the silent predator at the back.

"The books, Inspector!" Reed suddenly shrieked from behind the desk. "The preservation fluid!"

Corbin's eyes darted to a small collection of extremely old, leather-bound books Arthur had been restoring, and the bottles of chemical preservative next to them. Flammable.

As The Architect raised his hammer to smash the desk to pieces, Corbin grabbed one of the bottles, unscrewed the cap, and hurled its contents at a tall reading lamp in the corner. He fired his third shot. The lampshade erupted in a whoosh of chemical-fuelled flame.

The fire spread instantly, climbing the old, dry curtains, creating a wall of smoke and heat. The Architect, momentarily confused by the unexpected inferno, took a half-step back.

"Now!" Corbin roared. "The back window!"

He shoved Harris and Reed towards the study's large sash window overlooking the garden. Harris fumbled with the lock, finally throwing it open. Reed scrambled out, followed by Harris. As Corbin turned to follow, The Pathfinder lunged from the smoke. The gut hook of his knife sliced through the air, catching Corbin's arm and tearing through his coat sleeve and the flesh beneath.

Corbin yelled in pain but threw his full weight backwards, tumbling out of the window and crashing hard onto the lawn below. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his arm. They sprinted across the small garden, Corbin boosting Reed and Harris over the back wall before hauling his own bleeding body over it. They landed in a dark, narrow alleyway behind the row of houses.

They didn't stop running. They fled into the dark, labyrinthine streets of old Colchester as the first distant wail of police sirens began to grow louder, racing towards the fire and the two monsters they had left behind.

They finally collapsed, gasping for breath, in the shadows of a churchyard half a mile away. Corbin clutched his bleeding arm, watching the flashing blue lights converge on the home that was supposed to be their sanctuary.

It was gone. They were exposed. They were on the run.

He looked at the terrified faces of his small, rogue team.

"They're not just watching us anymore," he said, his voice a grim, ragged whisper. "They're hunting us."