by Pat Kelleher
"I have it," called Poilus, rounding the corner, holding the thing up, its belly cupped in the palm of his hand, its legs hanging limply as its nose twitched eagerly. Poilus handed him over. Relieved, Atkins held it up to his face and cooed at it. Gordon's long tongue flicked out and licked him briefly, before the creature sniffed mournfully at his chattless khaki jacket. Atkins crouched down, intending to tie Gordon's broken string leash, but the little devil struggled out of his grip.
The Sergeant, back against the outside wall of the tunnel, edged forward, craning his neck in order to look as far forward as possible. "I can't see anything. They've pulled back."
"Gordon!" hissed Atkins. The Sergeant looked back to see the furry rodent dash past him. He attempted to grab it, but missed. It stopped just ahead, and sat up on its hind feet, sniffing. Atkins raced towards it but Hobson stuck out an arm to stop him.
"Shh."
Atkins froze. They felt a soft draught. A faint rumble from up ahead grew louder. Atkins looked at the Sergeant who raised his eyebrows, shook his head and shrugged. He obviously had no idea what it was either, but whatever it was, the noise was getting louder.
Gordon squeaked and darted back between Atkins' legs and down the slope toward the others.
"Good enough for me!" Atkins said. "Run!"
They ran back down the passage towards the rest of the party. Atkins told himself not to look back, but he couldn't help himself. He glanced over his shoulder and instantly wished he hadn't.
A large sphere of stone filled the tunnel, rolling down the incline towards them and picking up speed.
There was a sound like cellophane being scrunched up as the boulder crushed the bodies of the dead Chatts behind them.
"Shit! Come on!" grunted Gutsy as he tried to haul his sled of equipment.
"Leave it!" cried Atkins as he pounded past.
But Gutsy wouldn't. He leaned forward in his harness and cried out as he dug one foot in front of the other. The boulder was almost upon them now. Half Pint dashed forwards and gave the sled a shove from the back. The sled shot forward but Half Pint lost his footing. There was a sickening thud and the rumbling stopped.
The boulder had ground to a halt, jamming itself against the tunnel walls by the sled. Half Pint lay in front of it, screaming, his right foot under the giant stone.
Atkins reached him first and hurriedly knelt down to examine his leg. Not that he could have done anything. He had no medical training and the only medical supplies he carried were the regulation Field Bandages.
"Tell me the worst, I can take it." Half Pint said through a grimace of pain as he grabbed Atkins' forearm.
"Well, put it this way," said Atkins, "it'll really give you something to grouse about now."
Everson and Hobson trotted forward and examined the boulder.
"We're not going to be moving this any time soon," Hobson said. "Looks like this is their way to block access to the upper levels.
"The Chatts know they've got us cornered. They'll be here with reinforcements soon. We've got to clear this blockage and we can't do it with Nicholls there," said Everson. He paused briefly. "Get Blood up here."
Everson squatted beside Atkins to talk to Half Pint. "We've got to get through this boulder, Nicholls. We've got to blow it. We can't do that with you here." Nicholls looked up at him uncomprehendingly, eyes clouded with pain.
Out of the corner of his eye, Atkins could see Hobson talking quietly to Gutsy, flicking discreet glances at the trapped soldier. Gutsy sagged visibly then walked leadenly towards them.
Half Pint caught sight of him as he shucked off his pack and pulled out his cleaver, its broad blade reflecting the dull blue light of the luminescent lichen. He gripped Atkins' hand in fear, tears welling up in his eyes. "Oh God, no. Please. No. Only. No, don't let them cut my leg off. Please, Only, I'm begging you. Please!" Sobbing, Half Pint began clawing at the ground, desperately trying to drag himself free of the boulder. "Please Gutsy, don't do this."
"I'm sorry Half Pint, there's no other way," he said, avoiding his eyes.
He knelt by his comrade and tore strips from his trouser leg, making a tourniquet that he began to tighten around Half Pint's thigh.
"No, wait. Wait!" begged Half Pint.
"Sorry, mate," said Gutsy, before punching Half Pint solidly in the head. He went out like a light. "Right. Are we doing this?"
Everson nodded.
"Only, you're going to have to hold his leg steady."
Gutsy placed Atkins' hand on Half Pint's thigh. Atkins closed his eyes and heard a brief, faint whistle as the cleaver cleft the air before striking through flesh and bone and hitting the compacted earth floor beneath.
When Atkins opened them again the Lieutenant was trying to apply the field bandages to the bleeding stump below the knee as blood pulsed out, soaking them as fast as he applied them.
"Ketch, Hopkiss," he called, "get up here and take Nicholls back to cover."
They jogged up, looked at Half Pint and then at Gutsy, who was cleaning his cleaver with another field bandage. He glared at them, daring them to say something. Atkins shook his head. Silently, the two men carried the unconscious Half Pint back out of sight, round the gentle curve of the tunnel.
Atkins held out a Mills bomb. "Grenades, sir?"
"Yes, I think so, Atkins," said a visibly shaken Everson, before marching smartly back around the curve himself.
Atkins approached the boulder and chose spots to wedge the grenades while trying to avoid the crushed and bloody leg that protruded from under the great ball.
Gordon had found his nerve again and was snuffling hopefully about the base of the sphere, sucking hungrily for a faint air current. Atkins scooped him up and tucked him under his arm. He licked his dry lips, pinched his lower lip between his teeth nervously and put a finger though the ring of the grenade's safety pin. He braced himself, took a deep breath, pulled the pin out and ran.
"Take cover!"
The detonation filled the corridor with clouds of dust, smoke and debris. The force of the explosion blew Atkins over one of the sleds.
Once the dust had settled Atkins followed the others as they began to make their way over the litter of rubble that was strewn across the floor of the tunnel. Gutsy shouldered his sled harnesses again and moved out, an unconscious Half Pint lying on the soft bed of fungus that covered the weapons supply. Ketch followed with his own sled. Atkins clipped a full magazine into his Enfield, fell in with Hobson on point and pushed on, Gordon nosing on ahead snuffling and sniffing, occasionally giving out little high-pitched sneezes. Then Atkins heard the familiar clatter of Chatt carapaces rubbing against each other.
"Ready, lad?" asked Hobson. "Look sharp, here come more of the verminous brood."
As the Chatts skittered toward them they opened fire, five rounds rapid, and the insects fell beneath their fusillade. Atkins and Hobson moved on, leaving any wounded to Gazette and the Lieutenant.
That was when they heard the scream. A human scream.
"Sir!" yelled Hobson, running up the incline to a junction where the floor levelled out. Gordon pattered excitedly past him, his tongue flickering out of his furry proboscis as he scampered off to the left.
Atkins followed and they came to a barbed plant door. Gordon was snuffling excitedly at the bottom of it. The bodies of two Chatts lay twisted and dead against the passage wall.
Everson came up and quickly appraised the situation "Evans, Hopkiss!" The pair came up with Evan's Flammenwerfer. "Get that door open!"
"Stand back!" cried Evans and, a few seconds later, with Hopkiss operating the valve, a spurt of flaming oil blasted the door. It shrivelled under the jet of liquid fire, spitting and popping, a sound like a human scream coming from it as it burnt. There was a crack and barbs exploded from the door, some embedding themselves in the wall opposite.
"Gordon!" cried Atkins, pushing men aside.
The little rodent lay bleeding and whimpering, impaled by one the barbs. His nose twitched as
he sought comfort in the musty smell of fresh lice he would now no longer taste. He looked up at Atkins, pitifully, and was then still. Atkins sighed briefly and stood up.
Once the smoke and flame had dissipated, the chamber beyond stood revealed amid a circle of glowing cinders. The faces of about twenty men looked back at them.
There were brief cheers and backslapping as the parties were reunited.
"Where's Jeffries?" Everson said.
"He escaped, kidnapping the Nurse. It turns out his real name isn't Jeffries."
Porgy pushed his way though the huddle, Lewis gun slung from his shoulder. "Edith!" he called "Edith?" He found a tearful Nellie Abbott trying to staunch the bleeding from Napoo, who was lying wounded beside her. "Where is she? What the hell's happened here?"
"He's taken her! He's going to do her in, I know he is. You have to save her!"
Atkins exchanged a glance with Everson. He'd known there was something fishy about Jeffries. Their findings in his dugout had aroused his suspicions, now the latest events had confirmed them.
"Edith said he was that murderer, Dwyers," one of the Tommies said.
"Dwyers the Diabolist?" said Everson.
"The same, sir," replied the Lance Corporal.
"We've got to save her, sir!" said Porgy.
"Damn!" muttered Everson. "Hobson, start moving these men out. Hopkiss go with him."
"But sir!"
"That's an order. Atkins, with me."
Hobson and Ketch began handing out weapons from the sleds and a chain quickly formed as the men passed them on. Gutsy carefully lifted a semi-conscious Half Pint so they could get to the rest. Poilus helped lift Napoo onto the empty sled.
Everson found Grantham slumped against the wall, muttering to himself.
"Sir!" he said, shaking the officer.
Grantham looked up at him blankly. "Jeffries."
"I know," said Everson. "We need to leave. Now, sir."
Grantham shook his head. "I've served my men badly, Everson. Funked it. If I go back, it's a court martial for me. At least here, I can do something useful. Give me a gun. I can buy you some time, watch your back."
Everson studied the man carefully. He didn't have the time or the inclination to talk him out of it. He was a bad officer, but if he wanted to buy himself some dignity, so be it.
"Sergeant, get the Captain a Lewis gun and magazines. Leave him some grenades and an Enfield, too."
"Thank you," Grantham whispered.
Everson caught sight of the Corporal. "Ketch, follow me!"
Ketch fell in behind him and glanced at Atkins, barely managing to suppress a sneer.
"Hobson," called the Lieutenant, "we'll meet you in that fungus farming chamber where we got the sleds. Maybe you can rally some of those captive Urmen to rise up, give Jellicoe a chance to exorcise his Labour urges. I think we could use a General Strike after all."
Porgy grabbed Atkins' forearm as he left with the Lieutenant. "Save her," he said. "And make that bastard pay!"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"While You've a Lucifer..."
"D'you think it's true then, sir, Jeffries is that bastard Dwyer?" asked Atkins as he jogged to keep up with Everson. He'd promised Porgy he'd save Edith. But what could he do up against someone of the likes of Frederick Dwyer? He was infamous, the Most Evil Man in England according to the Daily Sketch. As a hate figure, he was second only to Kaiser Bill. Half the stories that were in the press you didn't know whether to believe or not, they were so far-fetched. And even though they had been thinking that maybe the Chatts had brought them here to this god-forsaken place, what if it had been Jeffries... Dwyer... whatever, all along? Could he do that? The papers had been full of sensational stories of his past, the adventure magazines doubly so. Had he really made a pact with the devil?
"Well he's as good as admitted it, by all accounts," said Everson. "Even if he isn't, he's still in a hell of a lot of trouble. If those papers are anything to go by that's fraudulent enlistment, impersonating an officer, at the very least. Not that any of that matters a jot against a death sentence. Chap was going to swing before we ever came across him."
"I can't believe it," said Ketch. "He seemed like such an upstanding bloke."
"Well, he would to you," said Atkins. "Man after your own heart by the sound of it."
"Watch your mouth, Atkins, I'm still your NCO and don't you forget it."
"How could I?" muttered Atkins. "You never bloody let me."
Behind him, Atkins heard the rattle of the Lewis gun and the confused squealing of Chatts as Captain Grantham covered their escape.
Everson halted at a junction. Ahead, the passage branched. There was an opening to their left, decorated with some kind of hieroglyphs. After the unadorned, functional nature of the rest of the edifice, this struck him as something important, at least to the Chatts.
"Damn! I think Jeffries has given us the slip."
The excited clicking of alien jaws and joints alerted them to another approaching troop of insect soldiers ahead.
"Heads up, chaps," Everson warned as he backed against the wall, pistol arm extended. Ketch stopped beside him, dropped down on one knee and raised his rifle. Atkins fell in behind him, rifle at the ready. The troops of Chatts skittered round the corner, some carrying lances, others carrying short swords and spears.
"Wait for it," said Everson. "Fire!"
Atkins and Ketch fired and cycled, fired and cycled. The Chatts went down in a hail of bullets.
"Well Jeffries obviously didn't go that way," said Everson, and looked again into the dark opening to his left.
The distant sound of the Grantham's machine gun had stopped. It was replaced by several rifle shots, followed by several high-pitched squeals. There was a brief silence then a defiant shout. "Come on you bastards. I'll show you what backbone is. For the Pennines!" The tunnel echoed to the sound of a roar of rage and, following closely on its heels, a drawn out wail of anguish, pain and terror, punctuated by the explosions of Mills bombs.
"Sir?" said Corporal Ketch, looking at Everson expectantly.
"We can't help him."
A muffled pistol shot rang out from somewhere beyond the ornate doorway.
"This way!" said Everson, reloading his revolver before advancing cautiously. Behind him, the two soldiers slotted fresh magazine cartridges into their rifles.
Jeffries strode confidently through the dark high space of the temple, his hand tightly around Edith's wrist, dragging her along like a recalcitrant child. A large scentirrii in a silk scarlet tabard approached him with a spear. Jeffries shot it in the head. In the shadows, he saw dhuyumirrii and acolytes withdraw, melting into the shadows, clicking in agitation. He only had a few rounds left in his pistol but he only had to make it to the chamber where the Khungarrii had deposited their trench equipment. But his main priority was Chandar's little heretical collection.
"Please, stop," said Edith. "Whatever you thinking of doing, please don't!"
"What?" he said distracted. He stormed into the library chamber of niches where he saw again the scriptural jars filled with their holophrastic scents. "Chandar!" he called, waving his pistol and swinging Edith brusquely round in front of him for a shield, like a clumsy dance partner.
The acolyte Chatts backed away. He shot a jar, taking delight in the Chatts' alarmed reaction as it shattered, leaving a sticky sour smelling unguent to drip thickly from its niche. "Chandar!" he bellowed at a cowering insect. "Chan-dar, you arthropodal cretin! Where. Is. He?"
The old, maimed Chatt appeared. "What is this? We had an agreement."
"We did," said Jefferies. "Change of plan. I'm afraid it's off. However, if you want my men they're yours. Keep them, cull them, it's all the same to me."
"This trait of disloyalty is one we know runs through Urman culture, but you took the Rite of GarSuleth. How can you do this?"
"It's called individuality. You should try it sometime," said Jeffries.
He pushed the pistol into the holst
er of his Sam Brown and flung Bell to the floor before picking up a jar of sacred unguent. He swirled it around and watched particles of aromatic compound dance in a thick suspension of what he surmised was some sort of oil. He pulled the stopper from it and sniffed cautiously.
"It contains a distillation of ancient proverbs," explained Chandar.
"And this?" Jeffries asked, indicating another jar.
"The commentaries of Thradagar."
"And this?"
"The Osmissals of Skarra."
"And this?"
"The Aromathia Colonia."
All Jeffries could smell was rotting plums, pine sap and a hint of motor oil. It was intensely frustrating. All this knowledge and no way to access it. He pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief from his trouser pocket and poured some of the oil onto it, soaking the cloth before stuffing the handkerchief into the neck of the bottle. From his pocket, he withdrew a battered packet of gaspers, put one in his mouth, took out a packet of Lucifer matches and struck one against the box. It flared brightly.
Chandar staggered back, awed by the sight, and watched nervously, its eyes locked on the jar.
"What are you doing?" The pungent smell of phosphor drifted around the room, which seemed to alarm and frighten the other Chatts, who backed up against the wall, all except Chandar.
Jeffries casually lit his cigarette, took a deep draw, and smiled before holding the lit Lucifer to the corner of the oil-soaked cloth. He hurled the improvised petrol bomb down a gallery where it smashed with a splash of flame, catching other containers which quickly combusted. Jeffries watched in satisfaction before making another makeshift bomb, this time ripping a strip of cloth from Bell's already torn dress to use as a wick.
"What have you done?" cried Chandar, his mouth parts slack with horror.
"I've done you a favour," said Jeffries, pulling his pistol from his belt once more. Thick heady smoke coiled against the roof of the Receptory chamber and began to sink down. He grabbed a coughing Bell and a shocked Chandar, bereft at the sudden brutal loss of its precious scent texts. He urged them at gunpoint down the interconnecting passage that led to the Chatt's alchemical work chambers, closely followed by tendrils of smoke.
