by Pat Kelleher
The padre patted him on the shoulder and pointed down to the Strip. Tulliver followed his finger and then put his thumb up and let out a whoop of triumph.
BARELY HAD THE roar of Tulliver’s Strutter receded when Atkins heard the slow, squeaking creak and rumble of the ironclad as it clattered along the Strip. As it approached, it ground the hardy growth beneath its tracks and ploughed over the shallow-rooted trees that had clung so tenaciously to life; surviving all that the alien world could throw at it, only to be crushed by something not of this world at all. To Atkins, right now, that felt like tit-for-tat.
The roar of the ironclad behemoth dropped to a throaty growl as the tank came to a halt, but it didn’t stop completely. One track continued to run, turning the tank until it faced the cavern entrance. Astride the tank’s roof, Tarak crouched defiantly behind the driver’s cabin, at least until a belch of smoke from the roof exhaust set him coughing. He stepped sprightly onto the starboard sponson and leapt to the ground.
Napoo glared at the scorched brand on Tarak’s chest, greeted him with a sullen growl of disapproval and turned away, wanting nothing to do with him. Not that Tarak seemed to care. He only had eyes for the cavern entrance.
“The way to the Village of the Dead,” he said, brooding. “My clan passed this way not long since. Soon I will be reunited with them.”
Werner witnessed the arrival of the Ivanhoe with a face that registered first horror and then incredulity as the land ship hoved into view and clanked to a halt.
“Mein Gott, is that what I think it is? I have heard of such a thing, but never have I seen one before. It looks like some kind of primordial beast.”
“It is the hell hound of Croatoan,” declared Tarak proudly, patting the sponson like the flank of a prized animal.
Looking at the ironclad in the confines of the jungle, Atkins had to agree. It was just as much at home here as on the battlefield of the Somme.
“That’s what’s going to beat the pants off your boys in the War, Fritz,” said Mercy with a sneer.
The starboard six-pounder rose, paused and then fired, the report echoing off the crater side and the shell exploding in the middle of the writhing mass of pale creepers, sending a spume of shredded plant matter into the air.
“Now we’ll show those Chatt bastards,” said Gutsy gleefully.
In the end, they didn’t have to.
As they watched, the Chatts revealed themselves voluntarily, stepping out of their concealment, surprising even Napoo, who had not known where they were. The tank rumbled closer, rolling past the Tommies, who came out from behind the shelter of their buttress roots and logs, falling behind the tank for cover, just in case the Chatts were of a duplicitous bent. Even Hepton managed to unclench himself from the bole under which he had hidden in order to witness the scene.
The Chatts divested themselves of their clay battery backpacks, put down their lances and weapons, and stood immobile before the tank. They performed a sign of reverence towards the Ivanhoe, touching the heels of their hand to their foreheads and then to their thorax.
“The Skarra thing still works, then,” said Atkins with relief. “I still find it hard to imagine—a dung-beetle god of the underworld. They must think their time has come.”
“Felt that way myself, sometimes,” said Pot Shot.
Atkins grunted in agreement. They all had, at one time or another. It made the Chatts seem a little more human, albeit not enough for him to feel pity. Right now they were all that stood between him and Jeffries, him and a way home to Flora, for he felt sure that Jeffries had been this way. How could he have resisted?
As the tank brought its guns to bear on the Chatts, they turned and, without looking back, walked on of their own volition and disappeared into the cavern, entering their underworld as ones already dead, almost as if it were an honour to be escorted into the underworld by Skarra himself. Dwarfed as they were by the scale of the entrance, their bodies looked more insect-like than ever and Atkins watched as the Stygian blackness within swallowed them,.
“Blood and sand, who would have thought it was that easy?” he said.
“They had us bang to rights, but they just gave up,” said Riley, shaking his head, nonplussed.
“Well,” said Gutsy, “they met their god of death, they must have—”
High pitched squeals of terror and agony rang from the cavern, the unearthly screams prolonged, magnified, iterated and reiterated by the vast chamber beyond.
“What the hell was that?”
“Sounded like the Chatts,” said Everson.
Something moved in the starless black expanse beyond the entrance. It was impossible to tell what, or how big it might be, or whether it was one thing or many, from the sound alone.
The tank engine revved, snorting like a territorial beast, and lurched forward, like a hound at the leash.
If they were expecting a demonic gatekeeper, they weren’t disappointed. From the mouth of the cavern scrabbled a savage-looking creature of gigantic size, part insect, part reptile with razor-taloned feet and a wide mouth filled with sharp needle teeth for shredding and tearing. Caught between some of them were the mangled, crushed remains of the Chatts. It took a mouthful of the writhing creepers and tore them from their roots. A heavily segmented carapace covered its back, and when it roared, a warm foul stench assailed the Tommies. Atkins felt his stomach heave at the smell.
“Well at least it’s only got one head,” said Pot Shot. “I was half expecting Cerberus.”
Gazette let off five rounds rapid at the creature. They hit its carapace, but they didn’t stop it. It turned in the direction of the petty annoyance and roared. The Tommies scrambled back for their recently-vacated cover.
The tank’s six-pounders fired. One missed, hitting the crater wall, and the other glanced against the beast’s carapace, blasting a hole in its side. It roared in pain. Now it was wounded and roused to anger.
From out of the sky, Tulliver’s Strutter dived on the creature, incendiary bullets streaking through the air. The beast shook its head as if trying to rid itself of vicious insects. It reared up after the Strutter and swiped the air with its talons, but Tulliver had pulled the machine away beyond its grasp.
In that moment, Everson saw their chance: the belly of the beast wasn’t armoured. The tank crew had noticed too, for the Ivanhoe’s guns spoke again, carrying a message of death as two six-pounder shells hit their target squarely this time, in the soft underbelly, ripping open the flesh of the beast, disintegrating bone, eviscerating cavities and vaporising organs as the creature fell forward through a mist of its own atomised blood. Its jaw hit the ground, slamming its teeth together, and it released its last foul breath.
INTERLUDE FIVE
Letter from Lance Corporal Thomas Atkins
to Flora Mullins
6th April 1917
My Dearest Flora,
Today I walked a Road of the Dead that leads to Hell. I thought I had walked one before. I thought it was in Belgium on the Menin Road to Ypres, paved with mud, corpses and crump holes.
But I was wrong. This is different. This is a more personal torment. Sitting here now, with this yawning abyss of darkness before me, I can’t help but feel that with every step I have taken, my own good intentions have brought me here. Mea culpa.
I always told myself that you were the kind of girl that I would go to hell and back for, and I know William had said as much to you, too, the night before we left for training.
I have lived through hell on Earth once and not returned. Neither did William. For that, I am truly sorry, but now I have a second chance, a second hell. I hope with all my heart that this time I shall return to you.
Ever yours,
Thomas
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“A Forlorn Hope...”
HAVING LANDED THE Strutter on the Strip, just beyond the trees, Tulliver and the padre walked in the dell, trusting that it would be safe now that the telluric storm, Croatoan’s Torment, ha
d passed.
Tarak was roasting meat over a fire. Napoo was still keeping his distance, not approving of the Ruanach’s worship of Croatoan. Atkins’ Black Hand Gang and the others sat round the fire eating, Everson and Everson mucking in with them, while Pot Shot and Gazette stood on sentry duty. The tank crew sat together by the Ivanhoe. Old habits were hard to break, Tulliver guessed.
Tulliver sniffed the air. “Smells good! What’s cooking?”
Mercy was about to open his mouth when Atkins spoke up. “Don’t ask; just eat it. You’ll be better off.”
Tulliver caught sight of the slain beast and was about to venture a query when he was distracted by someone calling his name.
“Tulliver!” cried Werner, striding towards the pilot and shaking the man’s hand. Tulliver was taken aback. This was truly a day for dead men.
“Werner? How the devil did you survive? I saw your bus crash, I found the wreckage.”
Werner shrugged with false modesty. “I managed to slow my airspeed almost to a stall, so when I crashed, the tree canopy cushioned the impact. I was lucky; I was able to climb out and down a tree while those whip creatures tore my aeroplane to bits. Still, any landing you can walk away from, am I right?”
“Well, yes,” said Tulliver, still stunned at the sight of the German.
“Did you see, up there?” he asked earnestly. “I was not trying to kill you. Did you see what I wanted to show you, the Heilige linien? It is a big mystery, is it not?”
Tulliver nodded. “Yes it is, we both saw it,” he said, indicating the padre and getting caught up in Werner’s enthusiasm. “The scale of it! It’s unbelievable.”
Everson patted the Roanoke journal resting on his lap. “We’ve learnt a lot about this world, and yet there is so much more that we don’t know.” He shook his head, daunted by the sheer scale of the task. “What is this structure that’s buried in the ground, which covers hundreds of square miles and discharges telluric energy?”
“Well, I’ve no answers,” said Tulliver, shaking his head, “but I do know we can use it to navigate by. It means I can fly further and higher. It gives us a network of landmarks, a vast geometric web, like roads or canals, to fly by. If one gets lost, one can simply follow one of these to a crossroads until you come upon some other landmark. We can map these lines, use them to explore.”
Riley joined in. “We can send telegraph signals along them, carried on the telluric current that flows through them. That gives us lines of communication. We can stay in contact with patrols and exploration parties at much greater distances. There might even be a way we can tap the telluric current itself.”
“All very admirable, gentlemen,” said Everson, bolstered by their enthusiasm, “and with an armistice in place with the Khungarrii we may be able to do just that—if we can avoid colonies like the Zohtakarrii, that is. But I don’t intend that we should stay here if there is a way home. We’ve come this far and discovered a lot about this world, but dare we go further?”
Everyone knew what he was talking about. It was hard to avoid it.
“It appears that Jeffries has descended into the Chatt underworld to free the imprisoned demon, Croatoan.”
“Tartarus,” muttered the padre, glowering at the pitch-black cavern. “The great pit, a hell for fallen angels.”
“Quite. The point is—”
“We have no proof,” said Alfie. “I know what the Ruanach say, but you pointed out that it’s all just myth based on fact. This search for Jeffries could be a wild goose chase.”
Everson nodded, frowning. “But surely we have to be certain?”
A high-pitched scream interrupted them.
“Nellie!” said Alfie in alarm.
“Yes?”Nellie said from behind, where she was applying a salve to Tarak’s raw branded flesh. They had all been surprised that Tarak had hitched a lift on Ivanhoe, although Alfie was secretly relieved. Tarak was already proving himself invaluable.
“If it wasn’t you, then who?”
“Over here!”
The cry came from a grove of trees by the side of the cavern entrance. It was Hepton. He staggered towards them, throwing an arm out towards the grove. “I was just, you know, call of nature. I think you ought to see.” Something had clearly put the wind up him.
Pot Shot went to investigate; Atkins grabbed his rifle and caught up with him. They moved up past the body of the beast. Something glinted over to the side of the entrance, amongst some large boulders. Atkins nodded to Pot Shot and, cautiously, they made their way over.
“Ah,” said Pot Shot. “Well, that’s not nice,”
“Better call Everson,” said Atkins.
BACK AT THE trenches, under Doctor Lippett’s watchful eye, Edith had begun administering the first medicinal doses of petrol fruit liquor to a group of five Chatt-blinded volunteers. For a couple of days now, they had been taking a measure three times a day at a controlled dilution.
Sergeant Warton, blinded in the Khungarrii siege, was one of the first to volunteer; the bandages were still round his head, covering his eyes. Edith took him for a short constitutional walk around the parade ground. She held onto his arm while he tentatively shuffled along, one arm out to warn him of any unexpected obstacles.
The weather was warm, and across the veldt, in the distance, there was a peculiar lightning storm. Edith could swear the lightning flashes were zagging up, not down.
The tattered Union flag fluttered from the flagpole in the centre and Warton turned his head towards the sound.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Not as peculiar as I expected,” he said, a trifle amused.
He stopped and cocked his head. “I thought I saw something.”
“Don’t tease,” said Edith, “it won’t be working yet. And there’s no promise it will,” she added sternly.
“No, really,” he said. He turned blindly and pointed out across the veldt, past the Khungarrii siege workings and their scattered grave balls. “There,” he said.
Edith was glad he couldn’t see the disappointment on her face. “There’s nothing there,” she said gently.
A second later there was. A bolt of lightning struck up into the sky, followed a few seconds later by a soft, muted rumble.
“And there,” he said again, turning round and pointing elsewhere.
Moments later, another bolt struck skywards from the spot. Another muffled timpani roll.
Edith’s eyes widened and she clapped her hands. “Again!” she demanded gleefully.
Warton smiled, bowed theatrically, and then correctly predicted several more flashes.
It was working. Already, the petrol fruit liquor was allowing him to sense the lightning bolts before they happened.
With time and training, wondered Edith, what else might Warton and the other volunteers be able to see?
EVERSON STARED AT the find. It was a totem, the body of an Urman lashed with vines to crossed posts in the form of an ‘X,’ a warning to bad spirits. The man had been dead for about a month, from the look of him, although there wasn’t much left after the jungle creatures had been at him. From what clothing remained, he seemed to be one of the Ruanach. The men stood around in solemn silence as it stared at them from empty sockets, its jaw hanging open in mockery of their slackjawed surprise.
“Dear God,” said the padre, making the sign of the cross. “It is Garam,” said Tarak, reaching out to touch a scar on the arm. “He was Jeffries’ guide. He was supposed to guide the sky-being on the first leg of his journey to the Village of the Dead. Garam never returned. We thought he had gone on ahead with Jefferies.” Tarak’s face twisted with fury at the sight of his kinsman. “That he should be placed here, like this, it is jundurru, bad magic.”
It wasn’t crucifixion that killed him, however, but the bullet hole in the centre of the forehead. But the most marked thing about it was the British Army Officer’s cap that it wore, complete with a Pennine Fusilier cap badge. Someone was sending a message, and they’
d hung it round Garam’s neck to make sure it was received, scrawled on a flattened piece of bark; “Everson, the underworld is mine; the rest is yours—for the moment. Do not attempt to follow me—Jeffries.”
Everson gave a guilty start. How did Jeffries know he would find it? Almost on impulse, he reached up to the tunic pocket where he kept the fetish of Jeffries’ button, but thought better of it and let his hand drop.
“Looks like we’re on the right track, then,” said Pot Shot.
“So it would appear.” Everson took no joy in the fact, but at least now he had his proof. Jeffries had descended into the underworld to free his demon.
Everson knew what he must do. They should go after him. They had suffered the worst that War-torn Europe and this place could throw at them; how could this be any worse?
“And if indeed Jeffries has gone into the underworld, then that’s where we’re going. To Hell.”
He was surprise by how certain he sounded. Still, that’s what officer training was for. He summoned the signallers.
“Riley, I want you to see if you can send a message back to the canyon. Let them know what we’re doing.”
Riley nodded and went to collect the kitbag that contained the Signals equipment.
“Tonkins, stop stuffing your face. We’ve got work to do!”
Tonkins, who hadn’t gone to view the grisly find, hastily finished chewing, wiped the grease from his mouth with his cuff and followed Riley out towards the Strip.
AT THE CANYON, nobody was eager to go back up to the wall after it had lit up like a star shell, least of all Buckley, and certainly not Sergeant Dixon, but the lightning flashes and the thunderous booms were receding, and somebody had to do it.
Sergeant Dixon pushed out his chest and looked at Buckley with the curdling contempt that only an NCO could muster. “You will go up that scree slope and set up your Iddy Umpty equipment again. I don’t care what might happen. So you can either have a thousand volts up your arse, or my boot; which is it to be?” he bawled, warm, thick spittle speckling Buckley’s face.
