‘Spread out,’ Jack said. ‘Everyone get your weapons out. Owen — that means your gun, OK?’
Toshiko reached behind her and pulled the Walther P99 from the holster in the small of her back. The gun dragged her hand down. She felt wetness on the grip: oil, sweat, humidity — whatever it was, it made the grip slippery and the gun hard to hold straight. Long hours of training on the Torchwood firing range made her check there was a bullet primed and ready to go, and then made her click the safety off. The bullets were made of some alien alloy, and their noses had been hollowed out and filled with a Teflon fluid. The entry wound was the size of a penny piece; the exit wound was the size of a dinner plate. They could take down an elephant — if one ever went rogue in Cardiff. With one shot. And Toshiko hated them. They were technology gone bad.
Owen had a Sig Sauer P226. He was holding it two-handed, sweeping it back and forth, tracking shadows and mist. Gwen had a Glock 17, pointing it straight up in the air. Both weapons, like Toshiko’s Walther, had come from the Torchwood armoury. Jack had once told her that he liked having lots of different weapons around, just for variety. Jack, of course, was suddenly holding his usual ancient Webley pistol.
Something made her glance up towards the top of the warehouse, where Jack had been standing a few moments before. Where there had previously been a straight line, metal against starlight, there were now two dark lumps. Industrial-age gargoyles, silhouetted against the night. Faces like relief maps, all chasms and mountain ranges. Staring at the four of them. Staring unblinkingly with eyes that had seen alien worlds, alien suns.
‘Jesus fuck,’ breathed Owen. He had seen them too. No, Toshiko realised as she glanced at him — he hadn’t seen them at all. He was staring towards the bay.
Toshiko turned slowly around. There, crouched along the crumbling concrete edge of the wharf, were three more Weevils. These ones were crouched, knuckles resting against the concrete. Their gaze, as they stared at the Torchwood team, was blandly curious. Their serrated teeth, wet with saliva, glinted in the meagre light. They were different from one another in size, attitude, expression, and yet they were the same. They were violence and death, incarnate.
‘Be calm, people,’ Jack said.
Owen snorted. ‘As in, “Be calm. Be very calm”? I saw that film. It didn’t end well.’
‘What about Ianto?’ Gwen asked. ‘He’s got the SUV. He can come and get us.’
‘You mean, rescue us,’ corrected Owen.
‘I’m holding him in reserve.’
‘What, you think something worse is going to happen?’ Gwen snapped.
Toshiko glanced at the sensor receiver display. It was still showing two traces on the warehouse side, three traces on the bay side, and three traces behind them. Slowly, she glanced over her shoulder. The spotlights on the cranes shone through the latticework of their construction, illuminating the wharf in a lacy web of light. And also illuminating three shapes that might have been piles of rubbish, might have been scrap metal, or might have been Weevils cutting off their retreat.
‘It already has,’ she said.
‘Weevils to right of them,’ Jack declaimed. ‘Weevils to left of them, Weevils in front of them. Boldly they rode, and well, into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell.’
‘Very poetic.’ Owen’s voice was scathing. ‘Is that Eminem or Chris de Burgh?’
‘They’re not in front of us,’ Gwen muttered. ‘They’re behind us.’
‘Like a lot of things in life,’ Jack said, ‘it depends which way you’re facing at the time.’
As if reacting to an inaudible signal, the Weevils behind them — or in front of them, Toshiko corrected herself — loped towards the group. She braced herself, bringing her gun up.
Gwen was tracking the Weevils on top of the warehouse as they broke their stony immobility and started moving along the line of the roof. Owen was doing the same to the Weevils over by the edge of the wharf. They were moving too. Jack was-
Jack was standing with his gun by his side. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘We’re not at risk.’
‘Are you willing to bet our lives on that?’ Owen challenged.
‘I am betting our lives on that.’ Jack glanced around. ‘Cos that’s what I do. Look at them. They’re treating us like some potentially dangerous obstacle in their path. Check it out, then go round it.’
‘Like buffalo,’ Gwen murmured.
‘Love buffalo,’ said Jack. ‘Thanks for asking.’
Toshiko suddenly realised that the Weevils on the warehouse and on the edge of the wharf had gone, vanished into the night. The Weevils that had been behind them swept past, close enough to touch, close enough for Toshiko to smell them, and then they too were gone.
‘Well, that was fun.’ Owen lowered his gun. ‘We should do that again some time.’ His hand was shaking.
‘Perhaps with more Weevils,’ Gwen added. ‘Eight didn’t really do it for me. I reckon ten minimum.’
‘Sixteen,’ said Owen. ‘Four each. That seems fair.’
Reluctant to join in, Toshiko bent to retrieve the sensor display unit. It had dropped from her hand at some stage during the confrontation, but she didn’t even remember letting go of it. The casing was scraped on one corner, but otherwise the device was still working. Green and orange webs meshed themselves together across the screen: a display that looked like abstract art unless you knew what it represented. Rapidly, Toshiko assessed what was going on. The Weevils, represented on the display by knots in the meshed webs, were moving off along the edge of the bay, strung out in a rough ellipse. They were moving fast.
Jack was standing beside her, looking intently at her face rather than the display. ‘Have they gone?’ he asked.
‘We’re safe,’ Toshiko replied.
‘That’s not what I asked. Have they gone?’
Toshiko shrugged. The distinction was meaningless to her. ‘Yes, they have gone.’
Gwen had caught the edge of the conversation. ‘Is that it then? Can we go home now?’
‘Not quite yet.’
‘Why not?’ Owen asked. ‘The danger’s past. The Weevils have gone.’
‘Yeah,’ Jack said, ‘but why did the hedgehog cross the road?’
‘I don’t know,’ Owen shrugged. ‘Why did the hedgehog cross the road?’
‘Because it was stapled to the chicken.’ Jack glanced back in the direction from which the Weevils had come. ‘The point being, sometimes you do things not because you want to but because you’re forced to.’
Owen and Gwen pivoted to look in the same direction as Jack.
‘Hard to believe that anything could spook a single Weevil that badly.’ Gwen bit her lip. ‘Let alone eight of them. I can’t imagine anything that eight Weevils couldn’t handle.’
Jack was still gazing out into the darkness. ‘Let’s not forget that one of their kind was taken down and eaten by something prowling this fine city. That kinda puts a damper on your day, even if you’re a Weevil. They’re a strangely gregarious lot, far as I can tell. I don’t think they sit around the campfire toasting marshmallows — or whatever else they find floating down in the sewers — but the death of one of them has a strange effect on the others. I think they’re truly scared.’
‘Scared of what?’ Owen asked.
‘Scared of that,’ Jack said, nodding his head towards a patch of darkness that seemed to have come unmoored from the night and was drifting along the side of the warehouse. ‘Tosh — anything on the scanner?’