The Demon Code by Adam Blake

imminent arrival of a train.
    She looked up. Over their heads, something black and angular was growing to eclipse the baleful street-lamp glow against which it was defined.
    There was an instant in which to act, not time enough, really, except that Kennedy suddenly knew what this was and saw the punchline coming from a thousand Warner Bros cartoons. She threw herself on top of Izzy, gripped the lapels of her shabby-chic Marc-Jacob-alike leather jacket and rolled them both sideways with a furious, simultaneous shrug of every muscle she could enlist.
    They did one complete roll, Izzy on top of her, beside her, then under her again. Right next to them, something struck the pavement like a colossal fist, the slap of impacted air hitting Kennedy full in the face. She gasped and her mouth filled with something thick and soft like talcum powder. An instant blizzard enveloped them both.
    Through it, eventually, she heard voices. ‘Holy shit .’
    ‘My God, did you see?’
    Kennedy tried to wave away the drifts and roils of white that were blinding and choking her. It had a bitter taste and it stung her eyes. As she levered herself upright, she felt a fine cakey dust crunch under her fingers. Hands came from both sides, helping her to her feet. People she vaguely recognised from the pub supported her arms, dusted off her clothes. ‘Your friend,’ someone exclaimed. ‘Is she …’
    ‘I don’t …’ Kennedy coughed, spat, tried again. ‘I don’t know how badly she’s hurt. Call an ambulance. Please!’
    There was a flurry of cellphones, everyone rummaging in bags and pockets and then drawing at once like the climax of a bad western.
    Freed from the grip of the good Samaritans, Kennedy knelt again to examine Izzy, careful not to move her spine. The white powder, whatever it was, was settling on her face. Gently brushing it away, Kennedy found the contusion on Izzy’s temple, already swelling, where she’d been hit. Horror filled her, and then white-hot anger.
    She looked at what had fallen on them – or almost on them. It was lying a scant few inches from Izzy’s head: a builder’s pallet, with twelve sacks of cement piled on it, loosely tied with a single loop of rope. Some of the bags had ruptured. That was what was floating in the air and insinuating itself into their lungs.
    It was the sort of thing that could look like a terrible accident, but clearly it was nothing of the kind. It was an ambush, hastily but efficiently improvised. Presumably the original plan had been to catch the both of them as they left the Cask and walked home together. But Izzy had left first, and the fact that she’d been enlisted as bait made it absolutely clear that Kennedy herself was the real target.
    She looked up at the scaffolding above their heads. Nothing moved there, and it seemed unlikely that whoever had dropped the pallet had stayed to watch the after-effects. There was a ladder running up the side of the scaffolding to the first floor. That was probably how their unseen attacker had got up there. But he certainly hadn’t come down again that way.
    Kennedy picked a man almost at random, one of a group who all had the meticulously groomed scruffiness of students. She gripped his arm and pointed at Izzy. ‘Don’t let anyone touch her,’ she said. ‘Stay close to her until I get back. You and your friends. Stay with her. Surround her. Do you understand me?’
    ‘All right,’ the man said, ‘but we don’t—’
    Kennedy didn’t hear what else he said. She ran up the steps to the hotel entrance. A panel of thick particle board had been put there in place of the original door, but someone had prised it loose along the left-hand edge and pulled it away from the wall. She was able to squeeze in.
    Nothing inside but darkness and silence. Kennedy stood still, listening, but heard only her own breathing. When her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she moved forward. The main stairs were right ahead of her. She rummaged in her bag