The Ironclad Prophecy (44 page)

“That’s for Frank!”

“Do that to our
Ivanhoe
, will you?” bellowed Cecil, stamping on a weakly twitching tendril.

Wally, incoherent with rage, thrashed his chain down, over and over again. His face turned red, and spittle flew from his lips, as he took out the frustrations he realised he could no longer take out on the Hun.

Alfie held back, fretting. “Stop!” he cried, “stop!” But they weren’t listening. Alfie grabbed Norman’s arm as he raised it to land another blow. “Stop it! Look,” he said. “Look!”

Amid the now beaten, shapeless bulk, its wounds running with thick viscous fluid, they could make out a shadow in the depths of the creature that looked vaguely human in shape. Because it had been.

“Oh Jesus. Frank!”

Norman dropped the wrench, drained. The others too, sobered up, their chests heaving.

Mathers clambered unsteadily from the sponson, a tin of grease in his hand. He tipped it over the creature as the roots of the corpsewood spread further into it. He lit a Lucifer and dropped it on the thick lubricant. It ignited with a bright indigo flame. The tentacles writhed feebly in the flames before shrivelling. As the grease melted with the heat, it ran, spreading out, coating the rest of the creature, basting it. The flames followed, consuming it, the corpsewood, and Frank.

Jack pulled Cecil back from the monstrous pyre. Reggie made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer.

“Get the tank started,” Mathers ordered, quietly.

Alfie, Cecil, Reggie and Norman squeezed in through the small sponson hatches, one after the other. Wally followed. Mathers paused in the sponson hatchway. He heard the grind of the giant starting handle. The engine caught and the
Ivanhoe
awoke from its slumber with a growl.

A breeze caught the burning creature, fanning the flames, causing the corpsewood embers to burn brighter, and the flesh to char and crackle in the heat.

Mathers turned into the wind, a hand on his belly as if it pained him. He felt weary, too weary to worry, too tired to care, and too exhausted to fight it anymore.

“Now it comes,” he said, almost with relief, before climbing into the tank.

T
HE
T
OMMIES RACED
down the sloping tunnel and burst out into the giant space of the ancient antechamber. It echoed with the continual pounding of the creature around them, unseen.

Exhilaration mixed with fear as, across the open, rubble-strewn space, they caught sight of the withered bark gates that once guarded the main entrance to the edifice.

The ground shuddered beneath their feet as something pummelled away beneath them, making it hard to keep their balance. Great chunks of hardened earth, compacted to rock-like density, plummeted from the domed ceiling high above, like a barrage, exploding around them in rocky shrapnel.

It was just like going over the top into No Man’s Land, Atkins thought, as they sheltered in the mouth of the tunnel, only here there was no officer’s whistle to set them off. It was down to him. Another time, another place, they had done this before. Atkins checked his rifle. “Mercy, Gutsy, you’re with me. The rest of you, wait for my signal. Leapfrog us. We’ll hold the middle ground while you make for the door. Cover us from there.”

His section returned almost imperceptible nods. He took a deep breath and darted out in the domed space, amid the pounding and crashing rubble, Mercy and Gutsy at his heels.

They made a stooped run to the middle of the chamber, weaving between the crashing debris. They threw themselves down by a large chunk of rubble, sweeping the other openings for pursuing tentacles, as the pounding continued around them, reverberating through the chamber. “Come on!” hollered Atkins, beckoning the others.

Gazette, Chalky, Pot Shot, Porgy and Chandar raced across the open space, dodging masses of falling masonry that sent showers of dirt and rocky shrapnel into the air.

“Bleedin’ hell, it’s just like old times!” yelled Porgy, flinching as chips and shards of rock whistled past them.

“Yeah, what price your soft caps now, eh?” said a cocky Pot Shot, patting the steel battle bowler on his head.

A huge chunk of masonry plunged to the floor and shattered close by. A lump sheered off, smashing the lanky Fusilier in the back of the head. He dropped to the floor like a bag of bones.

Gazette had gone a few paces before he realised his mate wasn’t by his side. He turned and saw the gangly figure lying on the ground like a broken marionette. “Pot Shot!”

Gazette ran back to him. He knelt, gathered in the lanky man’s limp limbs, and turned him over. He lifted Pot Shot’s head. His hand came away covered with blood.

Mercy crouched at his side. “Come on, mate, let’s get him out of here.” He gathered up Pot Shot’s rifle, and slung it over his shoulder, and together the pair of them dragged their fallen comrade to the shelter of the rubble.

The walls shuddered under the continual impacts. From around them, in the ruins of the edifice, came the sound of collapsing tunnels, crumbling passageways and the awful
thud, thud, thud
of pounding tentacles. The whole place was coming down.

Atkins ducked as a piece of roof, the size of a gun limber, smashed down a dozen feet away. They couldn’t stay here. Atkins gave the order. “Make for the door!”

Gazette and Porgy carried Pot Shot, staggering under his weight and the juddering impacts from under the floor. Chalky stuck with Chandar as they weaved drunkenly towards the opening.

Cracks crazed across the walls, racing them to the entrance. The mouth of one of the tunnels began to flake and crumble. A tentacle burst from it, flailing blindly.

Porgy opened fire, five rounds rapid, driving it back.

“Did you see the size of that?” he grinned.

The floor bucked beneath their feet. Great blocks of floor split and lifted. The broken slabs tilted violently. Another pounding sent them spinning up into the air.

“That?” said Gutsy. “Pff. That was a tiddler. Now that,” he said, as a huge tentacle erupted through the floor, “is something worth worrying about.”

“Don’t like the look of yours much!” Atkins yelled to Gutsy, as they ran, stumbling over the debris towards the door.

Lumps of roof rained down around them, exploding into dust, adding to the clouds of dirt that already hung in the air.

Smaller tentacles sprouted violently from the weakened floor about them. They swerved to avoid them, Gutsy taking a swipe at one with Little Bertha.

Reaching the entrance with Chandar, Chalky gave covering fire, sniping at the tentacles until his ammunition ran out.

Mercy and Gazette, with Pot Shot between them, stumbled into the sunlight cutting into the chamber. Atkins, Gutsy and Mercy followed close on their heels.

“Good, shooting, Chalky,” said Atkins, patting the lad on the shoulder. Chalky beamed with pride.

Under cover of the dust cloud that billowed from the edifice, an oily black mist drifted out of the entrance and something caught Chalky’s ankle. It yanked his feet out from under him. Chandar hissed in alarm.

“Atkins! Dear God, Only, save me!” he shrieked, his fingers scrabbling at the dirt, leaving brief, bloodied gouges in the earth, as he was dragged feet first back into the waiting darkness.

Porgy grabbed his wrist, but found himself dragged along too, until his shoulder crashed into a boulder. He screamed and let go.

Gazette fired three rounds rapid at the tentacle before his magazine emptied, but it wouldn’t release Chalky.

As the tentacle pulled Chalky into the edifice, he looked pleadingly at Atkins to save him one way or another.

Gazette spoke urgently. “Only, he’s being dragged into hell. You can save him from that at least.”

Atkins blinked away the stinging tear in his eye, raised his Enfield, gritted his teeth and fired. Chalky went limp as his now lifeless body was reeled back into the collapsing edifice.

1 S
ECTION WAS
racing from the shadow of the crumbling building and running towards the tank, shouting. Mathers, peering out of the sponson, couldn’t make out what they were saying over the sound of
Ivanhoe’s
engine, the ground trembling under a relentless pounding, and the roaring of rubble slides, as parts of the ruined edifice toppled and collapsed.

Gauging from their urgent waving, however, it meant trouble. Best to be safe. He clambered into the tank, the fug of petrol fruit fumes embracing him as he entered. The engine ran up. The tank made a jerky turn to face the edifice, then lurched towards the retreating soldiers, black smoke belching from its back.

Tentacles writhed out of the edifice now.

The soldiers ran past, carrying one of theirs between them, the chatt scurrying alongside. The tank clattered and clanked towards the edifice to face the large writhing tentacles of the creature. This was no job for infantry now. This was a job for the Machine Gun Corps Heavy Section.

Cecil was loading a shell into the breech of Jack’s starboard six pounder when a huge tentacle unfurled from the disintegrating ruins. It seized the
Ivanhoe
and began to drag it, slowly, inexorably, towards the edifice.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“There’s a Silver Lining in the Sky-ee...”

E
XHAUST FUMES BELCHING
from its back, its engine growling, the
Ivanhoe
clawed doggedly at the ground as it hauled against the tentacle clutching it, like a determined hound worrying a rope. It made some ground, its track plates pawing at the earth, pulling away from the tentacle until it began to lose its grip on the tank, but the creature was unwilling to let its prey go. More tentacles whipped out, lashing themselves around the ironclad, drawing it back again, foot by foot towards the collapsing ruins.

In a tug of war for its life, the tank fought back valiantly. Bursts of machine gun fire tore through the tentacles. The port gun spoke, demolishing a section of the edifice, bringing it down on yet more tentacles.

The
Ivanhoe’s
engine began to whine under the strain. The tracks slipped, losing traction against the slow, insistent pull of the tentacles. Gradually, but certainly, it was being drawn into the edifice. The tank’s tracks scored great long furrows in the ground as the tentacles dragged it towards the gaping entrance.

Inside the
Ivanhoe,
the compartment began to fill with black smoke from burning oil and grease. The track wheels clanked and whined, trying to keep purchase on the iron track plates as they slipped.

“Oh hell, don’t let us throw a track now, please God,” said Reggie, crossing himself as he passed Norman a shell for the port gun. Before returning to his gear station, he let off a short burst from the belt-fed Hotchkiss machine gun, the bullets chewing through another tentacle.

“It’s no use, I can’t get a shot!” Norman bellowed over the engine noise.

From his seat at the front, Mathers indicated that Reggie and Alfie should use the track gears to try to swing the tank to starboard and get him a better shot.

Reggie put his track into second as Alfie, cursing under his breath, shifted his into neutral. The tank began to swing round to the right. Alfie could feel the gears beginning to judder through the gear lever.

A
S THE IRONCLAD
occupied the creature’s attention, Atkins, Mercy, Gutsy and the others dragged Pot Shot to safety across the clearing. A little distance away, a foul smelling fire was still burning itself out.

Lying discarded on the ground nearby were the two tank crew coveralls, stuffed with stone jars and sacred scents. Chandar chattered and insisted they carry them to safety, too. They picked them up as they passed, dragging them along.

“Over here!” Nellie waved from the edge of the clearing. “Where’s Chalky?”

Mercy shook his head.

“Oh.”

As soon as they laid Pot Shot down, Nellie, thankful for the opportunity to do something other than watch the tank struggle with the creature, fell to her knees and set to work examining him.