by Pat Kelleher
An involuntary shudder ran through the tentacles that hung below it, and the nodule itself seemed to shrink and contract from the burning white light that seared through the skin.
The men watched from the trench, mesmerised.
“It’s shrivelling like your balls on a wiring party, Coxy!”
“Fuck off, Draper.”
The great air sac that carried the creature aloft began to burn and wither and, with its buoyancy lost, the Kreothe began to sink slowly, its now limp tentacles dragged along the ground like anchor chains, weighting it down. It descended slowly, like a holed titanic ocean liner, sinking down to its final resting place further up the valley, beyond the trenches.
The other Kreothe, if they knew or cared about the fate of their shoal member, did not react. They drifted by overhead, oblivious to the ruin they left behind, feeding off stragglers from the fleeing herds further up the valley.
THE KREOTHE HAVING drifted on, Edith, Sister Fenton and Padre Rand staggered into camp with the two soldiers, Jones and Miller, that they had managed to save. The pair were now practically comatose.
“Stretcher bearers! Stretcher bearers!” called the padre.
Stretchers were rapidly found and the party ushered across what was left of the encampment, to the Aid Post down in the support trench.
“What have we here?” asked Captain Lippett, his concentration on a man’s gashed scalp before him as he threaded a needle through the skin.
“The only two surviving neurasthenia patients, Mr Lippett. They all just walked out in the veldt and waited, waited... to be eaten by those... things,” Sister Fenton informed him.
“And these two weren’t, eh?”
“We dragged them into a Chatt ditch.”
“Quick thinking, Sister.”
“It was the padre’s idea.”
“Good show, Padre.”
“Just looking after my flock, Doctor.”
Lippett looked up at Edith. “I thought that was your job, Nurse Bell. You know the men call you Little Bo Peep, do you?”
He obviously knew she didn’t. The remark rankled with Edith. She had got used to being belittled and bullied and she had borne it. She knew her position. But she didn’t have to like it. It was funny, but before she came to this world, she would have just taken it meekly and perhaps had a cry to herself later. Now, she felt incensed. She had tried to tell him there was something wrong with them, but he didn’t listen, he wasn’t interested, not in malingerers, not in cowards. She clenched her fists and felt the nails bite into her palms. She stepped forwards. Doctor or no doctor—
“Nurse!” It was Miller. He was looking in horror at Jones, who had begun fitting on his stretcher, his spine arching, his hips bucking.
“Right, get him into the aid post, we’ll have to try and relieve the pressure in those cysts,” said Lippett, all airs and graces vanishing in an instant. “Stanton, prepare the equipment, come on, man.”
As Lippett set about his operation, Sister Fenton gave Edith a look. “A word, Nurse.” She led Edith away from the Aid Post.
“Two!” said Edith through gritted teeth, doing her best to contain her anger. “Two out of twenty seven. We could have saved them if Mr Lippett had listened to me in the first place, if he had the slightest—”
“You can’t know that.”
“He didn’t even try.”
Sister Fenton fixed her with a hard stare, one that said she would brook no nonsense. “Nurse Bell. I will deal with this. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this isn’t a hospital. We don’t have the facilities of a hospital. We don’t even have the supplies of a Casualty Clearing Station or an Ambulance train. God knows, those would seem like luxuries here. The drugs, the surgical procedures, the medicines. We are all doing the best we can. This place brings illnesses, infections, things we’ve never seen before, and without the benefits that modern medicine has to offer. What more could we have done?”
“But Sister,” Edith protested.
“Nurse Bell!”
But Edith could no more keep quiet now than a whizz bang, or she felt she would explode. “I will not let a man like that dismiss—”
Sister Fenton interrupted. “You’re letting Driver Abbott’s suffrage go to your head. Mr Lippett is a qualified doctor. You’re a VAD. You’ve had, what, six months’ basic medical training? It wasn’t all that long ago you were just emptying bedpans and changing dressings. By all means, note and report your observations of your patients to me, and I will do what I can, but do not suppose to tell him what to do. Do I make myself clear?”
Edith could barely trust herself to speak. “Yes, Sister,” she managed to mutter.
SOMETIME LATER, DRAINED and blood stained, Captain Lippett came out of the tent and approached the nurses. He shook his head. “He’s dead, I’m afraid. Died on the table.”
Edith struggled to restrain her emotions and choked back a sob. Sister Fenton remained impassive.
“If it’s any comfort, the other one you brought in, Miller, is still alive.” Lippett finished wiping his hands. “Though it appears you were right, Nurse Bell. They were more than just neurasthenic,” he added with a trace of resentment. “Come and see.” He ushered them into the tent. Edith entered, wary of what she might find. Jones’ body was still on the table, covered by a bloody sheet. “They were host to some sort of parasitic infection,” Lippett continued. “Fascinating things. I managed to remove some of them from the intestines.”
He showed them a steel surgical tray. A thing, smaller than Edith’s little finger, lay in a pool of blood. At first glance, its small delicatelooking grey body seemed ribbed, but on closer inspection, Edith realised it was corkscrewed. It looked gruesome enough as it was, but to imagine it inside? She suppressed a shudder. Her real horror, however, was reserved for the small head. The body tapered toward it. It was eyeless. Needle sharp hooks, as fine as fish bones, surrounded an oral sucker. As she tore her attention away from the thing she realised Lippett was still talking.
“...it’s an intriguing pathology. Although most of them remained in the gut, I found a cluster of them curled round the brain stem, from where it seems they can affect the nervous system of the host,” he was saying.
“Making them do things against their will?” asked Edith, her face crumpled with disgust.
“It appears so. The hosts acting against their own best interest for the parasites’ benefit. It would certainly explain the patients’ uncharacteristic behaviour. From the reports, I believe a number of Chatts were affected, too,” said Lippett, getting to grip with his subject. “I suspect that they might be the parasite’s natural hosts. As hive insects, they probably have weaker individual minds. As for the neurasthenics, perhaps their weakened mental state made them more susceptible to the parasites’ control. From what you’ve witnessed, I’d hazard a guess that the parasite’s life cycle required it to be eaten by those Kreothe creatures,”
“Like tapeworms?” enquired Sister Fenton.
“Quite,” said Lippett with enthusiasm. “Of course, this is only an initial theory. I shall continue to study the creatures—and we still have Miller.”
Edith opened her mouth to say something, but was silenced by a stern glance from Sister Fenton.
“For now, our first course of action is to trace the infection back to its source,” said Lippett, looking at the nurses expectantly.
“We’ve had no reports of strange behaviour from any of the other men,” said Sister Fenton. “It must have been something specific to the neurasthenics.”
Lippett nodded in agreement. “Perhaps something the men ate in the past week. It would have contained the eggs which the patients would have ingested. Once in the digestive tract, they hatched and grew into their juvenile forms. Some would have bored into the bloodstream and travelled round the body until they reached the brainstem.”
Edith’s face burned with shock. “Oh,” she said. She was going to say more, but Sister had only just berated her for presuming
too much with Doctor Lippett.
Sister Fenton raised an eyebrow as Edith turned to look at her. “Yes, Nurse Bell?”
“The stew,” Edith explained.
“I beg your pardon?” said Lippett.
“The stew, Doctor. I didn’t know. Honestly.”
“It seems none of us did, Nurse. Did anybody else eat any of it? Did you?”
Edith shook her head emphatically. “No, it was specifically for the patients. Although...”
“Yes, Nurse?”
Edith put her hand to her mouth. “Lieutenant Mathers. I remember Nellie saying he had some, a small amount I’m sure.”
“Mathers?” queried Lippett.
“The Tank Commander,” said Sister Fenton.
“Well, I’m sure he’s in little danger. I mean it’s not as if he’s one of Nurse Bell’s little lost sheep, is he?”
THE TWILIGHT OF the Kreothe passed and, in dribs and drabs, the soldiers climbed once more out from their dark holes into the alien sun.
Everson sighed. He stood looking at the flagpole, which was now leaning at a precarious angle, knocked by a careless Kreothe tentacle. The Union flag flapped and fluttered weakly, like an ailing dog, still wagging its tail at its master’s approach.
It put Everson in mind of the leaning Madonna and Child at Albert, in France. It had stood atop the basilica there until it had been bombed. The statue survived, but leaning at an angle. It was thought that if it fell, the war would end. If only things were that simple.
Several small nearby copses had been uprooted, but in the shelter of another, the three captured battlepillars survived unharmed. Maybe, thought Everson, because the Kreothe found them unpalatable. Still, the Kreothe’s loss might be their gain.
“Ever have one of those days, sir?” asked Hobson.
“Nothing but, Sergeant. Nothing bloody but.”
“So, what do we do now, sir?”
“Now, Hobson?” he said, looking around at the carnage and sighing heavily. “We start again.” And not for the first time, Everson’s mind turned to Atkins and his black hand gang and to that damned tank. Where were they?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“The Better ’Ole...”
“HELL!” GROWLED ATKINS in frustration. “We’ll have to go in after them.”
“But they’re not even our mob,” objected Porgy.
Atkins looked at him. “Yes. Yes, they are. They’re British Army, like us. We’re all we have. We’re in a hole, Porgy. If we don’t stick together, if we don’t look out for each other, we’ll end up like those poor old sods we found back there, unknown, unmourned and forgotten, without even a decent grave. That’s not a fate I intend to suffer. I intend to survive and get back home, Gutsy. I made that promise on the Somme and I’m making that promise here and, by God, I’m going to keep it. If Lieutenant Everson says we need that tank, then we need the tank— and that means we need its bloody crew, too. God knows what kind of trouble they’ll get into in there, led by that madman...”
Gutsy nodded his head. “We’re with you, Only.” He turned round to the rest of the section. “You heard the corporal, lads. Battle order.”
The rest of 1 Section took off their packs, leaving themselves only their webbing with ammo and grenade pouches, and gas mask bags at their chest. They checked their rifle magazines and cycled the bolts so there was one in the spout, ready.
“What about me?” asked Nellie, planting herself obstinately in front of Atkins. “They might get hurt, so I’m not staying here.”
Atkins had learned his lesson where Nellie Abbott was concerned. “No, I didn’t think you would,” he said, with a trace of a smile. He nodded towards the Section’s Urman guide, who was cutting lengths of branches with his curved sword and wrapping them with some dried mossy substance to use as torches. “Stick with Napoo.”
Prof and Chalky had started to make their own torches, cutting at a little grove of saplings. Saplings with a black bark with silver-grey veins. Nellie frowned. They were familiar...
“No!” she yelled, lifting her skirt and running towards them as they hacked away at the slender trunks. “No, stop. That’s corpsewood. It’ll kill you!”
Hearing the name, Napoo whirled round and raced across the glade, knocking the cut wood from the Tommies’ hands. “She speaks true. It will drain you of your life to keep its own.”
The men backed away from the saplings as if they’d been bitten— which they very nearly had.
“Ruddy hell, Chalky,” joshed Mercy. “I can’t turn me back on you for five minutes without you getting into some trouble or other.”
Chalky shrugged sheepishly, and smiled gratefully at Nellie.
Prof shuddered. “Corpsewood?” He backed away in horror and stood in the clearing, looking round, like a spooked horse, not daring to move as if everything around might be the death of him.
“Hey, it’s all right, Prof,” said Nellie. “You’re safe now. You scared me, is all. I’d just seen it before, what it can do.”
“I don’t think you’re helping,” said Gazette, looking up from checking his rifle one more time.
“You aren’t, neither,” retorted Nellie. “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask the corporal.”
The rest of the section laughed and jeered. Nellie ignored them and turned her attention back to Prof. She knew that haunted look. She’d seen it in soldiers’ eyes before.
“Corpsewood,” Prof kept muttering to himself, shaking his head, “corpsewood.”
A GENTLE DRAUGHT blew from the cavernous opening as they approached the main entrance of the edifice. Roots and boughs were woven round and embedded in the wall of the doorway until they formed a jamb, roots thrusting buttress-like into the ground, but the great bark-like doors, that would have sealed the edifice, had long since dried and shrivelled as the door plant itself had died, leaving the cavernous entrance open. Other vegetation had taken advantage of the fact, clinging to the walls and invading the fallow spaces beyond. Great hanging carpets of plum-coloured shrubbery tumbled down from cracks in the edifice wall.
As they stood on the threshold, Atkins paired the men up; one man with their rifle and bayonet at the ready, accompanied by one holding a torch. Gazette walked with Pot Shot, Porgy with Chalky, Mercy with Prof. Gutsy, gun shouldered, held Little Bertha, his meat cleaver, in his hand, the flames of the torches reflecting off its polished surface. Napoo and Nellie Abbott brought up the rear. Atkins kept an eye on Chandar.
The Chatt sank down on its legs and moved reluctantly. Atkins had half expected it to make a break for it and run. It could have fled, but something kept it with them; against its better judgement, as far as he could tell.
“So, what is this place,” he asked. “It’s an edifice, right? Made by your people?”
Chandar craned its neck, looked up at the outer wall of the ruined edifice towering above them and hissed. “It is a colony of lost Ones.”
Atkins’ eyes narrowed. “You knew about this place?”
“Not exactly,” rasped Chandar. “Of places like this.”
“So, what is it, some mythical missing colony?”
“No, you misunderstand. It happens that once every so often a new queen hatches, while one still rules. It is a time of great regret. Usually the colony’s current queen and her nursery entourage kill them, but some survive to attract followers from among the Dhuyumirrii, scentirrii and Djamirrii. We have had such divisions at Khungarr, though many generations ago. If they are strong enough they can replace the old queen, but more often than not, they are killed or driven from the colony and must attempt to start a new one if they are to survive. The difficulty lies in where they can do this, for the ancient scent texts tell us that GarSuleth divided the world between all his children. The world is spoken for. Judging from the size of this edifice it was a small one and could not sustain itself. It also sits within the Zohtakarrii burri.”
“The Chatts that attacked us?”
“Yes. Because of this One’s injuries, t
hey thought that this One was outcast from Khungarr. This One let them think that. If they had known that this One was not, then we would have been killed. They seemed to show very great interest in you.”
“As I recall, so did you lot.”
“Agreed.”
“How did you get your injuries?” asked Atkins, his curiosity piqued.
“This One once tried to challenge Sirigar in open ceremonial debate and paid for it, as you can see.” Chandar opened its arms, inviting Atkins to study its body.
Atkins looked at the Chatt with its hobbled gait and broken antennae. “Sirigar did this to you?”
“Sirigar’s followers did, before this One had a chance to challenge Sirigar, no doubt under that One’s instructions.”
Atkins let the matter drop, he had more pressing problems right now. “So this place is nothing special.”
“No, it is merely a failed colony.”
Atkins regarded Chandar with suspicion. “So, if this place doesn’t worry you, what does? You mentioned these Zohtakarrii guarding something that isn’t there. It obviously isn’t this because it’s quite clearly here. I can see it. What is it you’re not telling me, Chandar? Do you know what that thing is in there, this evil spirit? Is it Croatoan?”
Chandar hissed at the mention of the name. “No, by GarSuleth’s Breath, this One does not know. This One merely feared what it might be.”
This was getting him nowhere. Atkins waved the others on, and they walked into the cool cavernous gloom of the derelict, rubble-strewn antechamber.
“Here would have been the work area,” Chandar said. “Here the djamirrii, the workers, would have brought and sorted their harvest before taking it to storage chambers or the fungus farms.” The Chatt looked around at the desolate place it had become. “All colony life was here.”
Their feet stirred the dust and debris that had fallen from the chamber roof. The once smooth walls were now home to invasive creepers that poured in round the opening. A shaft of sunlight falling inside the main door cast a suffuse reflective glow across the rest of the chamber. Here and there, they saw the brittle, dried up husks of long dead Chatt bodies, their outlines softened by decades of drifting dust, as if overcome by some long-forgotten catastrophe.
