Operation: Sahara

by William Meikle

  An answering drone, louder still, came from somewhere above Davies, higher up the valley. As one, the beetles turned towards this new sound. Davies was looking directly into a myriad of eyes as they swivelled and found him.

  The mad scrabble below intensified as if the sight of him had enraged them.

  Davies turned away and broke into a run.

  He was heading upward and realised it might be taking him closer to the source of that newer drone. But the captain would expect him to be high in the city. Behind him the droning rose again and he didn't have to see it to imagine the beetles pulling the blockage aside and pouring in a flood up the alleyway in search of him.

  He put on a burst of speed.

  -Banks-

  Banks watched Davies flee into the city then directed the others.

  "Back to the temple entrance," he said. "Let's see if we can keep their attention off Davies to give him enough time to get free."

  They stood in a line, retreating step by step and firing until they reached the temple entrance.

  "Stand firm here, lads," he shouted. "Give them hell."

  The entranceway rang with gunfire. Bits of leg, fragments of black pincer and chunks of shell flew as the bullets ravaged the clambering beasts. A sliver as sharp as any piece of glass tore a path along Banks' cheek and blood flew. That enraged the attacking beetles even more and they pressed forward, a solid wall now floor to ceiling of scrambling, wailing frenzy. Wiggo had to step back to reload and the consequent press of the beast's attack was enough to force the three men back a step, then another. It wasn't going to be too long until they were forced back into the temple itself.

  And once there we'll be overrun in seconds.

  When it came his turn to step back to reload, he reached instead for one of the four L109A1 grenades he carried in his jacket.

  "Fire in the hole," he shouted, pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade into the mass of the beasts.

  "Leg it, to the stairs," he shouted. He deliberately slowed his own escape to allow Wiggo and Wilkins to get away first, and almost didn't get enough distance between himself and the bang, feeling the force of it at his back and the thunder of it in his ears. Ahead of him, Wiggo reached the foot of the stairs and turned. He had one of his grenades in hand.

  "To me, Cap," the sergeant shouted and as soon as Banks reached the bottom step the grenade was lobbed over his head back towards the entranceway.

  The three men were already on the stairs heading up when it went off with a bang that rang through the temple.

  They went up two dozen steps before Banks chanced a look back. The entranceway swarmed with the beasts. Many had paused to feast on the remains of their dead that the grenades had blasted into a mess of broken shell and black ichor but others had already entered the temple and were coming forward towards the stairway.

  "Do we stand, Cap?" Wiggo asked.

  "Nope. You read how that worked out for the other squad back then. Leg it, all the way up. Somebody got out of this mess once before. If he did it, so can we."

  Banks stopped again on the first main landing some forty feet above the temple floor, a floor that was now almost totally covered by beetles in a wide variety of sizes from no bigger than a small dog to monsters the size of pickup trucks. He saw them swarming around the dead bodies, both modern and old. They did not disturb the dead, moving through and around them almost as if in reverence to the huge statue that towered over them. Banks said a silent prayer against the desecration he was about to perform, took out two more of his grenades, pulled the pins and lobbed them down onto the valley floor. They landed directly at the base of the statue, under the head of one of the biggest of the beetles.

  The resultant blast shook the temple and left a stunned silence in its wake. The big beetle that had been there was gone, bits of it strewn all across the floor, the bodies and other beetles, who had stopped droning and had turned their attention on the great black statue.

  A loud crack, loud as any of their gunshots, rang out, then another as the statue wobbled to its right, appeared to right itself, then toppled, face down with a crash, directly on top of several of the bodies, squashing several more of the beetles in the process as the statue fell apart into half a dozen pieces. Another second of silence followed, then as one, the beetles took up their high, wailing drone again and the attention of every beast on the temple floor, in the entranceway and on the stairs below them turned to gaze directly at Banks.

  "Give that man a coconut," Wiggo said. "Well done, Cap. You definitely got their attention. Now what?"

  Banks didn't answer, just motioned that they should keep heading up. The swarm was heading for the stairs at their back as he went up the steps two at a time. This time he didn't look back, afraid to see what the beetles might be doing to the dead now that the idol had fallen.

  They stopped on another high landing, a hundred feet above the temple floor, and more than halfway to the top. Beneath them the beetles reached the first landing and came on fast, scuttling and crawling over each other in their frenzy.

  This time Wiggo and Wilkins did the honors, each of them lobbing a grenade down into the squirming mass. The blast, then resultant pause as the beetles scavenged their own dead, gave the three men enough time to gain several more paces on the chasing pack.

  Banks was trying not to think of the fate of the last squad to take on this flight, or to wonder at each landing which of the Victorian soldiers might have chosen it as their last stand to protect their brethren. He focussed his mind on the stairs ahead, two at a time, no farther thought than the next step. It was a few seconds before he realised they were slowing; young Wilkins was in the lead, and had developed a limping gait, taking the stairs like a careful old man.

  "It's the old wound, Sarge," he heard the private say to Wiggo. "Still gives me gip on stairs; I'm fine on the flat, but this is a right bugger."

  "Dinna fash, lad," Wiggo said. "We've got your back. Get on up. We're right behind you."

  Inadvertently or not, Wiggo had echoed the words from the earlier story, and Banks felt a chill up his spine as he joined the sergeant in turning on the next landing and looking down on the advancing horde below.

  "Don't worry, Cap," Wiggo said. "Naebody's getting dead here today."

  "I wish I had your confidence."

  "Nah, you wish you had my tadger; go on, admit it."

  Wiggo already had another grenade at the ready.

  "I've got four more after this one," he said.

  "I've got one left that I'd rather hold for an emergency," Banks replied.

  "Fucking hell, Cap? If this isnae an emergency I'd hate to see what is."

  The beetles were only twenty steps below, three abreast and packed tight on the stairs. Wiggo's grenade took out the front rank and Banks' rifle fire shot the front legs away from those that tried to follow, creating a temporary barrier where the pair of them were able to stand firm and take out any beetle that managed to scramble over.

  The rearguard action had to be abandoned when a huge specimen barreled forward, its bulk sweeping the debris of the dead beasts off the stairs and down to the temple floor. Banks took out its legs, hoping to drop it in place as a new barrier, but the beast had enough life left in it to stagger aside before toppling off and falling away, clearing the path for the horde behind to launch a fresh attack.

  Banks turned to see that Wilkins was almost at the top of the staircase above them.

  "Last one up gets the beers in," he said and was off and running before Wiggo could react.

  The beetles' drone rose in intensity; with their quarry in plain sight, they came up the stairs, a seething black train of fury.

  -Davies-

  Davies took another alley to his left that led into a narrow vennel even steeper than the first. He stopped twenty steps up, sure he had heard more muffled bangs in the distance, but the sound wasn't repeated. He turned and looked back down the alley; there was no sign as yet that he was being followed but he felt the
chase at his back and was again reminded of his youth, fleeing amid the tower blocks of flats in Glasgow's East End with an angry mob after him for no other reason than he existed in what they considered to be their space.

  Well, this time I've got a gun. Come and get it, bitches.

  He ascended with no other thought than to reach the top, no goal but to reunite with the rest of the squad. This particular alley had dwellings, smaller but no less regular doors and windows spaced up its length, but they would have been dark places in which to live, never seeing the sun, lying constantly in deep shadow and carrying a chill despite the heat of the day beyond the canyon.

  Fatigue was slowly taking a grip on him; it had been a while, what felt like an eternity, since either sleep or food. His training told him there was some more still in the tank; but not too much more. He reached the top of the alleyway and looked out over another open concourse, a narrower one this time. He turned to his right and looked up the canyon in dismay; the city rose up and away from him in a dizzying array of alleyways and streets, turrets and balconies.

  He still had a lot of climbing ahead of him and wasn't sure he had the legs for it.

  After one more upwards alley, one more long flight of steps, Davies' legs finally decided they'd had enough and developed a wobble that threatened to topple him backwards to probable broken bones or a cracked skull. He needed rest.

  Finding a defensible position proved trickier than he'd hoped but in the end he chose a chamber high in a turret with a balcony giving a view over the lower end of the city. There was only one narrow entrance up a winding stairway; the larger specimens of the beetles wouldn't be able to negotiate it and he felt confident his rifle would be enough for anything smaller that might seek him out. The high vantage would also allow him to keep an eye open for the rest of the squad. All in all, it was the best he could hope for. Before declaring himself settled, he looked out over the balcony. The drop was sheer and straight from his position, fifty feet down to what looked to have been a marketplace at one time. Now it was empty save for stone and dust; there was no sign of the beetles in this part of the city and the fact that he hadn't been in sight of one for a good half hour gave him hope that they'd given up the chase.

  He sat gratefully with a sigh of contentment to be finally off his feet, with his back to the balcony balustrade, keeping a close eye on the door to the stairwell while he had some water, a cold meal from his rations and a most welcome smoke. By the time he was done he was starting to feel better in himself but cold panic at his circumstances was always bubbling just under the surface now that the adrenaline rush of the fight then chase was wearing off.

  He wondered how the others were getting on. He hadn't heard any gunfire, nor grenade blasts, but that might just mean that they too were hiding out and resting up. He could only hope that would be the case for the thought that they'd been overcome and that he was alone now in this vast empty city would be too much to take.

  What with the reminders of Edinburgh, and thoughts of youthful flights from the gangs in Glasgow, his mind kept churning, past misery overlaying present circumstance, all jumbled together until the beetles became doped up youths and the city in the valley melded with the Scottish cities into an amalgam of almost medieval turrets and balconies with modern tower block lighting and windows and Davies' exhaustion finally wouldn't allow him to stay awake for a single moment longer.

  He slept.

  His dreams were troubled ones. He was back in Glasgow, back in his twelve-year-old body, hiding in a tower block stairwell while his tormentors prowled outside. It wasn't a new dream to him; he knew the beat and rhythm of it well enough from its recurrences over the years, but it never lost its power to unnerve him. He shivered there in the dark, for although he slept in the sun, here in Glasgow it was January, and deep in winter’s grip.

  Earlier that day the leader of the gang had got him on his own in a stairwell. That had been the lad's first mistake, but it had been enough to get him a broken nose and a blackened eye; Davies had been done messing around with the wankers. They'd been taunting him for months, blackie this and nignog that, their gang mentality giving baser instincts free rein in lieu of something better to do in the stairwells. The two punches that Davies threw had been his first ever retaliation; he knew his mother would give him hell for stooping to their level but, bloody hell, it had felt good.

  He was paying for it now though; the lad was back from a hospital trip, acolytes gathered around him and the chase was on. So far it had taken them up and down three different blocks of flats; Davies was lucky in that he knew the passageways and stairwells just as well as his pursuers. But they'd almost caught him on the last flight and he'd had to jump over a rail to escape. The drop was higher than he'd have wanted, and he turned his ankle on landing.

  Now all he could do was hide, and hope they wouldn't find him, for if they did, he didn't fancy his odds of staying out of hospital, or maybe even a coffin.

  Cold gripped harder; he felt it seeping through his clothes at his back where he was pressed against a wall. He fought to stop his teeth chattering.

  "Hey, Blackie," his main tormentor shouted from somewhere close. "Give us a smile so we can see you in the dark."

  The only consolation Davies could take was that the lad spoke with a definite slur, courtesy of the newly wounded nose. Davies did indeed smile there in the dark, but it was a grim, tight-lipped one.

  He shifted position as he heard them close in on him, pressing himself down into the darkest corner between two rubbish skips; the smell of discarded and rotted fast food was acrid, almost choking, but he was hoping that in itself would be enough to keep them from looking here for him. It wasn't that much of a hope in truth, for he knew from bitter experience that this lot would go a long way out of their way for any chance to torment him.

  All he could do was crouch there in the dark and wait, hoping all the time that he could be somewhere else, somewhere he could see sunlight without fearing the exposure it lent.

  Instinct woke him some time later, blinking confused for an instant by the brightness and heat in his hiding place, reality slowly creeping in around the remnants of the dream. He had no idea how long he'd slept, only that he didn't feel rested and that the sun was still high in the sky. None of that mattered in the face of the sounds coming from beyond the dark doorway ahead of him. Taloned legs scrambled and scratched on stone, clicking and clattering. A high droning wail rose up to wash over the balcony. Davies raised his rifle and pointed it at the doorway.

  "Sarge, if that's you playing silly buggers I'm going to shoot you just for the hell of it."

  It wasn't Wiggo. The beetle that came out of the shadows was no larger than a small dog and Davies almost laughed in relief. The wee bugger was fast though, he had to give it that, and he barely had time to pull his trigger and blow it apart with two rounds before it reached his feet. He reached down, scooped up the dead thing and lobbed it over the balcony, taking care to avoid touching the sickly black ichor that oozed from where its head had been. As the sound of the echoing gunfire faded and died around the canyon, he realised he'd just made a mistake, possibly a fatal one.

  The only thing he had going for him was that the stairs up to his position were narrow, so he'd only have relatively smaller beasts to deal with. He stood, groaning as his legs and back rebelled, and moved inside the doorway to stand at the head of the stairwell. Now he had two things going for him; he also controlled the higher ground. But renewed scrambling and scratching down below him told him that the beetles must be aware of his position and it was only a matter of time before he had company.

  He was trapped, no way out save over the balcony, with a limited supply of ammo and no backup.

  The scuttling of talons on stone got louder, closer and a high wailing drone rose up from the dark stairwell.

  Any time now would be fine by me, lads. Any time now.

  -Banks-

  They fled up the stairs towards where Wilkins waited a
bove, into the dark, imagining the black bodies of the beasts of hell at their back, thinking at any second to be plucked away into a death of a thousand cuts. Any daylight that made its way into the temple floor far below was thin and diffuse up here and they ascended into increasing darkness and shadow.

  When they reached Wilkins' position Banks felt cold fresh air on his face, and saw, for the first time in long seconds, a hint, a merest glimmer, of light ahead.

  "This way, lads," he shouted, and ran full pelt towards the light.

  He reached a rock wall within five yards and saw light beyond a narrow cleft ahead. He forced himself into it, having to turn side on to pass through. For a horrible second he thought he might get stuck; if he'd had a beer gut he might be there yet, but with some degree of straining he was able to finally push through onto a wide open cliff-top ledge under blazing sun looking out over desert dunes far below.

  Wiggo and Wilkins emerged at his side seconds later. They stood back, weapons raised but despite some frantic scrambling and scratching from the far side, none of the beetles made it through.

  "Looks like this is how the old soldier must have got out," Banks said.

  "Aye, I think you could say that," Wiggo said dryly. "You need to see this, Cap. Wilko, watch our backs."

  Banks turned to Wiggo to see him look down at a desiccated body sitting against the canyon wall to one side of the crack they'd just come through. It wore the red serge of a Victorian soldier, but obviously wasn't the one who'd written the journal. Banks knew immediately who this must be. He had a bullet hole between his eyes and a hastily scribbled note tucked into his tunic. Banks took it out and read it aloud.

  "For desertion and abandoning his command in the face of the enemy. The sentence is death."