Black Hand Gang (34 page)

"Is it true then? Are you? Are you Dwyer?" asked Grantham with a look of hurt betrayal, like a whipped dog.

"Oh, I've been many people," said Jeffries as he continued to edge toward the door. "I was Dwyer once and I have been many others since. And now, it seems I am done with Jeffries too. The Great Snake sheds its skin once more. Adieu."

"Then where is the real Jeffries?"

"Dead in a ditch outside 'Bertie the last time I saw him," said Jeffries. He stepped back towards the barbed door and called out to the guards. "I want to see Rhengar. GarSuleth wills it!"

There was a brief pause and the doorway began to shrivel open. As soon as he got a clear shot, Jeffries fired through the gap, blowing away the head of the scentirrii outside. He then forced his way through the narrow opening and shot the second scentirrii as he dragged Edith through, her dress catching on the barbs and ripping as he yanked her into the passage. "Don't struggle. You're only alive for as long as I need you. You start struggling, you're a liability."

Some part of Edith, some small part of her, the part that had dried up and withered away that night long ago, accepted this and was at peace with it, perhaps even longed for it. It was as if she had been guided to this moment all along, and that now, at last, she would rejoin her friends. It was almost a relief.

"Ediiiiiii!" she heard Nellie scream before the plant door dilated shut.

Now that the Chatt scent had worn off, the week old stink of sour sweat, smelly feet and musty uniforms was telegraphing their position to every insect in the edifice. Everson and his party had to fight every step of the way.

The Chatts proved no match for the Tommies' weapons; a few had got off discharges from their lances, but otherwise they only had rudimentary spears and swords. However, their sheer numbers were another matter and the Chatts were reacting to their intrusion in a more organised manner now.

Hobson and Atkins continued their advance on point, sticking to the outer wall of the spiralling passage, maximising their field of fire as they fought their way up the edifice; a task made all the more awkward by the restrictive vision of their gas hoods. Everson followed with Poilus. Atkins had that dashed Chatter of his, nosing its way forward on its string lead. Everson felt he was taking a chance trusting the rodent, but it was the only lead they had in finding their friends and comrades.

"Keep a look out, Sergeant. We must be almost there," Everson yelled over the staccato chunter of the Lewis gun behind him. He was vaguely aware of a thick
whoosh,
a smell of fuel oil and a light blooming and fading as Evans and Nicholls sent a spurt of cleansing flame down an adjoining passage.

Atkins heard a roar from Sergeant Hobson ahead of him as he fired at another mob of advancing Chatts. They seemed to exhibit no sign of fear, despite their brethren being mown down in front of them. Atkins ran forward, emptying his clip into the Chatts as he did so, but they were upon him before he could reload. One lunged with its short sword, cutting Gordon's leash. Atkins parried with his rifle before driving his bayonet through the creature's thorax and twisting the blade. His weapon caught fast on the chitinous armour. Atkins lifted his leg and stomped forwards, driving his foot against the creature's chest, freeing the blade as a second Chatt lunged at him with a spear.

Hobson fired and the Chatt fell back. Atkins brought his hobnailed boot down squarely on the creature's head, smashing its facial plate and grinding his heel into the soft pulpy tissue beneath. He fired again and took out a further two, a single bullet driving straight through both of them.

There was a loud report to his right as Lieutenant Everson finished off another Chatt with his service revolver.

As a fifth lunged with a short spear, Atkins stepped aside and swung his rifle round, catching it in the faceplate with the shoulder butt, sending it reeling against the wall. He fell against it, the length of the rifle barrel against its throat, trying to choke it. He pushed harder on the barrel and felt something crack, but the Chatt continued to struggle. Something stabbed at his abdomen. He felt the claws of the middle limbs pressing into his skin though his tunic and shirt, holding him in a vice-like grip, as the creature's mandibles scythed lethally together again and again in front of his gas-hooded face.

Then the Chatt pushed forward with its powerful limbs, slamming Atkins into the opposite wall. He collapsed heavily to the floor, gasping for breath, lights bursting in front of his eyes. His gas hood had been knocked askew in the impact and he could only see out of one eyepiece. The Chatt's mouthparts filled his small circle of vision. Atkins struggled to keep the scissoring mandibles as far away as possible, saliva dripping thickly onto his mask. He felt his strength fading. In seconds, the weight of the Chatt would bear its mandibles down towards him. He thought of the face of the German soldier he had killed in the shell hole and began to sob with desperation. He didn't want to die, he couldn't die. He had to survive; he had to get back to Flora.

Oh, God, Flora. Poor Flora.

He roared in frustration as the muscles in his arms began to burn with the effort of keeping the thrashing louse at bay, then he heard a crunch and felt the weight lifted from him. He felt a hand find his.

"Up you get, son," said Sergeant Hobson, pulling him into a sitting position. Atkins ripped the suffocating gas hood from his head and sucked in a lungful of air, his face dripping with sweat. The Chatt lay by his side, its head caved in by 'Little Bertha.'

"You were bloody lucky. By rights, that thing should have spat acid at you," said Hobson.

"It tried," he said. "But I think I broke something in its throat."

"If you get in that close again - and I don't recommend you do - go for their antennae, lad. It doesn't always stop them but it does seem to confuse 'em for a while."

"Thanks, Sarn't," Atkins rasped. Coughing, he picked up his rifle and struggled to his feet, shoving his gas hood back into its bag. It was proving more a hindrance than a help. He noticed the string hanging limply on his belt. "Blood and sand! Gordon, where are you? Gordon!"

"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.