** A young woman sees a walking dead in the open streets of Whitby. A train full of corpses crashes into Kings Cross. In an Asylum, a gruesome nightmare becomes horrible reality.
All this should have been a warning to Kyle and his partner Benjamin...
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England, London West End, Soho October 03, 1899, 07:04 a.m.
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A gloomy sky with dense, dark clouds blended into the grey cityscape of autumnal London. Smoke rose from the numerous chimneys, and alternating with the increasingly frequent rain showers, the capital was shrouded in a curtain of rain and smog. It was a dreary, bleak-looking picture that every good Londoner was more than familiar with.
A cold wind blew in his face, causing strands of his black hair to fall repeatedly into the field of vision of his blue eyes. The gusts stung his sweat-soaked skin like fine pinpricks and made his lungs burn with exertion.
But Kyle Crowford kept sprinting with all the strength he could muster in his weakened condition.
The shrill whistle of a police whistle echoed over the dilapidated roofs and brick buildings of Soho. It boomed through the winding alleys of London's West End, interrupting conversations and causing passers-by to pause.
The rundown houses, shops, and small traders' stalls of the immigrant neighbourhood passed Kyle by, fading into blurred silhouettes at the edge of his vision. The smooth cobblestones of the street made the drumming of his footsteps echo against the house walls. Not ten feet ahead of him, the man he was pursuing pushed two birdcages into Kyle's path. The passers-by cried in shock as they dodged the pursuing men and the startled poultry.
An elderly lady was pushed roughly aside by the fugitive, lost her balance and landed in the display of a fishmonger. Crates slipped, and fish and ice spread over the street. Kyle dodged a young woman with a laundry basket at the last moment, staggered around her and caught just enough air for a breathless "Excuse me!"
In his haste, however, he had failed to avoid a large pothole where rainwater and rubbish had collected, so he stepped straight into the thick mud with his right foot. There was a squelching sound, and mud splattered over his tailored frock coat with Indian silk lining. Kyle tried not to think about the fact that the damn dirt had just ruined his fine shoes and trousers from Henry Poole & Co.
Instead, he stared, panting, at the shabby coat of the delinquent fleeing in front of him, which fluttered back and forth like a flag behind the lanky man's figure. The delinquent had now gained quite a bit of ground, and several yards were between them. The fugitive quickly turned around a corner, and Kyle almost slid into a greengrocer's stand. Flailing his arms, the young magus barely managed to turn the corner and slowly catch up with the lanky man. But his breathing was now rapid and laboured. He wouldn't last much longer.
