Black Hand Gang (28 page)

"Load off my mind then," said Gazette. "If they've got no souls, killing them will be just like reading my shirt."

By now darkness was rising in the depths of the forest. They halted for the night. Unwilling to light fires for fear of giving away their presence, they ate cold meals of bully beef, hard biscuit and pozzy before bivvying down as best they could.

Atkins found himself on watch with Ketch, whether by accident or design, he wasn't sure. The Corporal glanced sullenly about the undergrowth. Ketch had been riding him for weeks and he didn't have a clue why. He'd always tried to do the right thing. Why had Ketch taken against him? He started to ask the question several times, but hesitated. Finally, he worked himself up enough to get it out. "Look, Ketch, what the hell is your beef with me, anyway?"

"You, Atkins?" he growled.

"You've had it in for me since I joined the platoon."

Ketch sat hunched like a gargoyle, ready to pour forth venom like a waterspout. Atkins could smell the man's rank breath as he spoke.

"Always want to be seen to be the good man, the hero, don't you, Atkins. Why is that?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"This desperate desire to be accepted. What is it you're afraid people will see? Your true colours, the kind of man you
really
are?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know. You carry it with you, in here," Ketch said, tapping his chest. "It eats away at you. Gnaws at you like a corpse rat; feeds on you," he said, with relish. "And I'm glad."

"You... you know?"

"About Flora Mullins? Yes. I was on leave, too, remember? I know Flora. I was sweet on her myself, but she spurned me. Spiteful bint. Didn't give a shit about Old Ketch. But then I saw you both. At the Picture House. Outside."

"You spied on us?"

"Didn't have to. You weren't exactly discreet."

"It was a kiss... one kiss and... and... it wasn't like that. It didn't mean anything."

"Affianced to your brother. Your
own
brother!" he said in mock outrage, then softly. "How many weeks had he been missing?"

"You bastard, you've no right. No right at all."

"Nor did you."

"We vowed it would never happen again; that we would never speak of it again."

"Oh well," said Ketch nodding, as if in sympathy, "that's all right, then."

"It's true. If William were to find out..."

"Ah. William. Your beloved brother. The Atkins boys. Always together, never apart. A bit different now, isn't it? You haven't got William to stand up for you now."

"You know he's bloody missing in action."

"Yes, and more to the point, so did you," hissed Ketch. Atkins felt warm spittle spray his cheek. "Always want to be seen to be a good man, the hero, don't you, Atkins?"

"What is this, blackmail? Just what the hell is it you want, Ketch?"

"Me, Atkins? I want you to suffer."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"When John Bull Starts to Hit..."

Before dawn they prepared themselves for the attack. Atkins was still smarting from his confrontation with Ketch; he could barely bring himself to look at the man. The seedy little corporal revolted him almost as much as the damn Chatts did. The fact that he had intentions towards Flora just riled him even more. Ketch looked over and grinned at him, obviously enjoying his discomfort. Atkins responded with a sullen stare. The rest of the Section didn't notice his change of mood; men acted differently before going over the top, they sank into themselves and resorted to prayer or their little rituals to marshal their own fears. Atkins took out his last letter from Flora, held it close to his face and inhaled, gently. He could still smell her perfume, although it was not as strong as it once was. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel her lips on his cheek. No. No, he would not die today.

Everson went to set up a forward OP to spy out the lie of the land, Mathers and Baxter accompanying him, Poilus scouting the way. They crawled on their bellies through the undergrowth towards the edge of the clearing. As the rising sun seeped over the trees it illuminated the top most towers of the Khungarrii edifice, bathing it in a rich crimson light that made its mineral deposits sparkle. Everson raised his field glasses and scanned the mound. The earthen structure rose hundreds of yards into the sky, towering over the cultivated area around it.

It looked as if the Khungarrii had built the edifice over generations, each generation repairing and maintaining as well as expanding the towering colony, buttressing the main thrust of the spire with additional towers of various height and thicknesses. The excavated earth used in its construction had bonded and toughened over the years to a sedimentary rock-like hardness. Everson could see no sign of structural defences although he did notice small holes at varying heights, but whether these were window or vents he could not be sure. Maybe a combination of both. A movement about two thirds of the way up - about fifty or sixty feet above the tree canopy - caught his eye. He watched for a second. Hanging from one of the vents was a piece of white cloth. As it fluttered in an updraft he could made out a small red cross. It was a nurse's apron. "Good girl!" he muttered. That was one question answered. They were in there. However, fighting their way up inside two thirds of that thing wasn't going to be easy. "Hobson," he called softly.

The Sergeant crawled up through the undergrowth with a grace that Everson never thought possible for a man his size. "Sir?"

"Prepare the men and tell Evans that we'll need my little acquisition, will you?"

"Sir."

Everson returned the field glasses to his eyes and refocused his view on the base of the edifice. A series of large midden piles lay slumped against the sides and, clinging precariously to their slopes, was a jumble of crude dwellings. These, Poilus told them, were Urman dwellings. Not part of the colony, they nevertheless sought whatever protection their proximity to it could afford them. The Khungarrii themselves did not concern themselves with these casteless Urmen unless they became too numerous or they affected the running of the colony. They lived on whatever detritus and chaff they could scavenge from the colony, scouring the midden heaps that accumulated like scree round certain portions of the edifice. Even at this early hour, Everson could see figures moving about, searching for food or other items they considered to be of value.

Over to one side of the vast clearing stood what looked like several small pyramids fifteen feet high or so, each composed of clay spheres, about four or five feet in diameter. Some of the pyramids appeared to be incomplete. "What are they?" he asked Poilus.

"Khungarrii dead. Each ball is a Khungarrii body encased in clay. They are left there for Skarra, the dung beetle, god of the underworld to roll down into his domain, where they undergo a final change into their spirit stage to join GarSuleth in the Sky World. I remember when I awoke in your camp, with the stench of the dead all around me and your great metal beast squatting there in the mud, at first I feared I'd been taken by Skarra, too."

There was a tap on his shoulder and an urgent whisper: "Everson, there." Baxter made him refocus his field glasses on the base of the edifice, on one of several huge bark-like doors. Boughs and trunks were embedded in the wall around the doorway, branches interwoven so they formed a jamb, roots thrusting into the ground. Out of the great openings began to spill Chatts, some bearing the electric lances and clay backpacks he'd heard about. They spread out across the clearing, behind them followed a mixture of Chatts and Urmen. Great elephantine larva-like beasts brought up the rear, bearing large panniers along their lengths.

Everson and the others crawled back to the camp and the waiting platoons, where they quickly mapped out the plan of attack. Everson noticed the Chatts avoided the dung ball pyramids of the dead and so, too, did the Urmen. If that was the case then they could use them as cover to get them in close to the Edifice. From there they could head for the midden heaps which would provide cover for their break-in.

"I suspect we have a window of opportunity now before the workers start returning to the edifice. I'll lead the assault with 1 Section," he said. "I doubt that we'd win an all out pitched assault. Stealth is the only option. We'll have to bypass those entrances; they'll be too heavily guarded. We'll make our own way in. Dixon, see that the rest of the party take up defensive positions on the outskirt of the clearing. Baxter, your Vickers and Lewis MGs I want set up to provide a field of fire to cover our escape from the edifice. Mathers, hold your tank in reserve. We may need it. And if Hepton gives you any trouble, you have my permission to stick his camera so far up him he'll be able to use himself as a darkroom. If we're not out in six hours don't waste time attacking. Get back to the entrenchment. You'll have a better chance of survival there. It's easier to defend."

"If it's still there," muttered Ketch.

Blood glanced at him blackly.

"Hobson, Ketch. You and your men are with me. Poilus, you're coming too." Everson had no doubts. He knew the men could do this. He had every faith in them. After all, hadn't Hobson himself told him they were the best Black Hand Gang he knew? He raised a hand and the entire section melted into the undergrowth.

"Bloody hell," said Atkins when he got his first full view of the edifice. "It's not quite what I was expecting." The scale of it tied a knot in his stomach. How many Chatts lived in there? Thousands? Tens of thousands?

"What were you expecting?" asked Half Pint.

"I don't know; exotic palaces, gleaming towers, metal roads, automatons, flying machines. Not this. Not earth. Not dirt. We can do that. We have done that. Look at the way we're living, we're still bloody doing it."

"Well, then you should feel right at bloody home, then shouldn't you, Atkins," sneered Ketch as he crawled up beside him.

Atkins' mouth was dry. He took a swig from his canteen. The thought of attacking the Khungarrii edifice made his balls shrivel. He'd done trench clearance and even been down the mines dug under No Man's Land as a guard, neither of which could prepare him for invading a giant insect nest.

He and William had poked twigs into wood ant nests as boys. He remembered Flora squealing, equal parts delight and horror, urging them on. Emboldened by her, they squatted down on their haunches and thrust their sticks further in with more and more savagery, taking glee in watching the ants pour out frantically - just before the biting began as they swarmed over their clogs. William threw away his stick and danced around yelping and howling, much to Flora's delight.

There were probably thousands of the revolting Chatts in there - and they'd do a damn sight more than just nip.

Poilus tapped Everson on the shoulder.

"We must move to keep down wind of the scentirrii."

"Scentirrii?"

"Soldier Khungarrii, may Croatoan curse them!"

He hadn't factored in the wind. He was getting slack. Even in the trenches, it was one of the main factors of a daily report. Gas attacks were dependant on wind strength and direction. Here, apparently, these considerations were just as important.

"You," said Poilus to Atkins, thrusting a grey army blanket into his hands. "We will need to capture a Khungarrii to help us get into the edifice. As soon as I grab it you must throw the blanket over its head and wrap it tight, do you understand?"

No, he didn't, but he knew when to follow an order. Atkins nodded.

They watched and waited as the parties of workers and Urmen disbanded across the clearing, each appointed their daily tasks. Chatt soldiers accompanied the groups who walked off into the forest. As the Chatts drew near they heard the harsh, clicking language for the first time.

"Bloody hell," hissed Mercy. "They're only talking flamin' iddy-umpty. We should've brought a Signaller."

Atkins noticed that the Urmen each had a mark on their foreheads, a blue rune of some description.

"Why don't they make a break for it?" said Porgy.

"You've seen what's out there. Where the hell would they go?" said Atkins.

"Better that than serving some chatting tyrant race of insects. Makes my blood boil, does that," said Gutsy.

"Well maybe it just takes someone to show 'em eh? That's why we're here. Get our men back and just maybe teach these Urmen a thing or two about standing up to them bloody bug-eyed Bosche," said Pot Shot.

One Chatt wandered too close, its curiosity piqued by some sign or spore. Poilus gave an almost imperceptible nod to Atkins, who gripped the edges of the blanket firmly and tensed his legs. The Chatt's segmented antennae started twitching moments before Poilus leapt up from the undergrowth. He grabbed the creature from behind and Atkins tossed the blanket over its head, wrapping it round as Poilus sliced through its neck with a bayonet. The creature dropped with Poilus still on top of it. Atkins tensed, expecting a cry of alarm at the Chatt's absence, but none came.

"They can raise the alarm by scent," explained Poilus in a hushed tone as the men gathered around the kill. "It looks like we caught it in time though." He carefully unwrapped the blanket from the creature's head and handed it to Atkins. "Take it and bury it, carefully. We don't want the scent getting caught on wind."

Poilus then sliced his bayonet into the segmented abdomen of the dead Chatt, ripped down, pulled the wound open and exposed dark, swollen organs, sheathed in a slick wet cawl. This he tore from the body before easing his hand inside.

"Poilus, what the hell are you doing?" asked Everson.

"Looking for scent organ," Poilus pulled his hand out, holding a soft translucent greenish-red bag that sagged over the end of his palm. "We need to smear ourselves with its contents. We need to smell like Khungarrii."

"Oh Jesus!" groaned Porgy.

"He's right," said Pot Shot. "Many insects use scent as a primary sense. Those that don't smell like them are attacked as enemies."

"That'll be you and the Worker's Institute Library again, will it?" said Half Pint.