Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

“That occurred to me, too,” admitted Tulliver. “It’s more than that, Everson. If you are right about the wall and the Strip, it would seem to indicate some sort of superstructure underpinning the landscape. The chatts believe it to be a kind of geomancy, divine proof that GarSuleth wove this world for them. And another thing, these reverse lightning bolts–”

“Riley calls them telluric discharges,” said Everson.

“–these telluric discharges seem to emanate from points where these lines converge and intercept. Here and here, for instance,” he said quickly pointing out nodes on the rapidly darkening glass plate. “If you ask me, there’s a much bigger mystery at the heart of this than mere chatt theology. I’d stake my life on it.”

“Hmm.” Everson nodded thoughtfully. “The urmen believe these telluric discharges are the agonies of Croatoan, imprisoned and tortured in some chatt version of hell.”

As they studied the image on the plate, Tulliver felt a faint tingling in his hands. He lifted his arm, inspected his palm, and turned it over. The hairs on the back of his hand stood on end, as if a static charge were building. He looked at the rocks and noticed out of the corner of his eye, in the cleft between them, the same kind of peculiar shine; as if the air had been polished to a high patina and worn thin in the process. He couldn’t think of any other way to describe it.

“John,” he said in measured tones, “I think you should step away from the boulders.”

A faint intermittent buzz started to issue from the two halves.

“He’s right, sir, better step back,” said Riley, foregoing military conduct and grabbing Everson’s braided cuff.

By now the other urmen were moving back, all except Tarak, who watched the proceedings with growing concern. Ranaman held the metal-clasped book, mesmerised by the sudden activity, as small writhing threads of white-blue energy began to spit between the two halves. As they built in power to a crescendo, crackles of energy leapt from the rock to the walls of the dome like Tesla arcs.

“The Heart of Croatoan begins to beat!” cried Ranaman, his voice filled with wonder and triumph, his hair now billowing out with collected static.

“No!” cried Riley, dropping to the ground. “Get down and for gawd’s sake take off yer battle bowlers if yer wearin’ ’em!”

Bolts of energy, attracted by Ranaman’s proximity, leapt across the space and earthed through him, jerking him like a crazed marionette. He let out a strangled scream that cut off abruptly as the bolt vanished. He dropped to the ground, a broken puppet, as if it had been all that was holding him up. The book skittered between the two halves of rock.

There were moans and screams from the urmen, who got up and stampeded for the temple doors, knocking the crouching Fusiliers and tankers aside.

Tendrils of blue-white energy spat out from the split rock to lick the inside of the dome before dying down as if someone had turned a dial, leaving one or two stray arcs that still sparked and spat intermittently between the halves.

Everson looked back past Ranaman’s body to the rocks. The fallen book lay in the cleft between them.

Everson made to go back and get it, but Perkins grabbed him.

“It’s too dangerous, sir.”

“We need the book, private!”

Tarak hesitated for a second, and then bolted past Ranaman’s body towards the sacred rocks.

“No, son!” yelled Perkins.

Tarak knelt low by the rocks, stretching his hand out to reach the tome. Fingers flexed as he strained to reach for the book. Small arcs of energy snapped angrily about it, like electric teeth. Undeterred, Tarak edged into the cleft and grasped the book firmly. As he retrieved it, clasping it to his chest, a bolt of energy arced out and struck the book, propelling him back across the chamber.

Perkins began to drag himself on his belly and elbows across the dirt floor towards the urman.

Then, from outside, the shouts and screams began, accompanied by the sound of rapid rifle fire.

6 thApril 1917

My Dearest Flora,

Still no blessed tank. Would you believe it? We did meet up with the RFC chap, though. Not blagged a go in his aeroplane yet, then again, I’ve been a bit busy. Still, when all is said and done, we had a grand ride in a hot air balloon. You could see for miles. Who says the Army is all hard work and no play?

Having said that, we’ve come down to Earth with a bit of a bump now. The place where we are now is completely overgrown, it’s worse than your dad’s vegetable patch. I think we might have to do a bit of weeding.

Mind you, we do actually have all the modern conveniences – and your Mama worries about us poor lads at the Front. We have Electricity at the moment. All I need is a smoking jacket and an armchair while I read my book and look at photographs and I’ll be right at home. I know my Grandma doesn’t hold with it, and I can see why. I very nearly did have a smoking jacket! The Company Quartermaster Sergeant wouldn’t have been too happy about that.

ON THE FLOOR of the temple, Alfie shook the prostrate Tarak by the shoulders, as the indoor lightning played over his head. Splayed on his back, Tarak still clutched the book tightly to his chest.

“Lad? Lad!”

The youth groaned.

“He’s alive. Nellie. Nellie!”

Nellie came over on all fours, the medical knapsack swinging at her side from one shoulder as she sought to avoid the tendrils of energy that spat from the rocks. Needing to do something, Padre Rand went with her on all fours.

Nellie checked Tarak’s pulse and breathing. He was still alive, but unconscious.

She gently prised the book from the lad’s grasp, and as she did so, she gasped.

The Padre made the sign of the cross. “Dear Lord, the poor man,” he said under his breath.

Seared into Tarak’s chest, from the iron design on the front of the tome, was the Sigil of Croatoan.

STAYING LOW, TULLIVER scrambled over to the temple wall and, with a wary glance back at the arcing rock, raised his head to look out through a loophole.

The clearing surrounding the temple was white, as if someone had draped a fine muslin sheet over everything. It was like a thick white cobweb. Through it, taut, swollen bulbs had fruited. It seemed as alien to the surrounding vegetation as that did to the flora of Earth, and that, thought Tulliver, was saying something.

The urmen, fleeing the electrical discharge in the temple, had run straight into the deadly carpet. The fruiting bulbs exploded, enveloping them in yellowish clouds. They coughed and choked, gasping for breath in the noxious plumes, clawing at their throats.

“Christ! Gas! Gas! Gas!” cried Gutsy, peering out of a loophole in the wall.

“It’s not gas, it’s spores,” yelled Nellie.

By now, the Tommies were at the loopholes, peering out as stray bolts of energy crackled out at the wall of the temple around them. They fumbled at their chests for their PH gas hoods, pulled them over their heads and tucked them into their collars. With their circular mica eyepieces and short red rubber non-return valves, they looked as alien as anything else there.

The urmen of the Ruanach succumbed to the spore clouds and fell to the ground, where the gossamer fine carpet of mycelia advanced inexorably over their bodies, and the spores that they had inhaled sprouted from their mouths and noses, choking them.