Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

The whirring noise continued. Was something wrong with the backpack? Atkins twisted his neck in alarm, trying to look over his shoulder for signs of damage, but couldn’t see any, and with his gas hood on it was difficult to tell where the sound was coming from.

“Then what the hell is that… noise…” His voice trailed away as he turned.

Hepton stood with his box camera set on its tripod, cranking the handle and panning it across the shroud-covered clearing and its fungus-animated corpses.

Atkins didn’t know what was worse, the fate of those Fusiliers or Hepton’s exploitation of them. Did the man only have eyes for the main chance? Those were men out there, dead men who deserved better. Perhaps he should have left him to them.

“I can see the caption card now,” bellowed Hepton cheerfully from beneath his gas hood. “Attack of the Crater Mass!”

Atkins shook his head in disgust and deliberately barged into the kinematographer with his shoulder as he pushed past, jarring the camera.

“I say, there was no call for that,” said Hepton, looking up from the viewfinder. “I’m only doing my job!”

Atkins strode off after the others without looking back. Cecil followed, leaving Hepton alone.

Alarmed, the kinematographer hoiked his tripod and camera box onto his shoulder and hurried after them.

“Wait, don’t leave me!”

RAGGED WHEEZES AND dry gasps filled the air as men collapsed against tree trunks and rocks to catch their breaths; all except Napoo, who looked at the rest of them impatiently, as if they were dawdling children. Slowed down by Alfie and a dazed Tarak, Everson had let them rest only when he felt they were safe. Although here, safe was always a relative term.

Atkins’ lungs burned with effort. Running and breathing in his gas hood, sucking in air through the thick layers of flannel and blowing out through the red rubber-titted non-return valve was hard work at the best of times. Couple that with your limited vision, the stink of the chemical-impregnated cloth and the stifling heat of the whole thing; it was a relief when he dragged the thing from his sweat-drenched head, before shucking off the clay battery backpack and lance.

They might have put some distance between them and the fungus, but neither could he hear the usual sounds of the jungle. They weren’t out of the woods yet.

Riley and Tonkins began inspecting the chatt weapons, fussing over them as if they were old family heirlooms.

“They worked. We did it, Corp. We saw the buggers off!” said Tonkins, flushed and ecstatic.

Riley carried on checking the clay battery backpack. “I don’t think so, lad. I think they’re just moving at the pace of a Hom Forty, a bit like Buckley. Even he gets there in the end.”

Keeping a discreet distance from Atkins, Hepton laid his camera and tripod down carefully, and then ripped his gas hood from his head before doubling over with a hacking cough.

Atkins eyed the man, his resentment smouldering like a moorland peat fire. “I can’t tell whether the man’s a coward or a cad,” he muttered.

“Saved his neck again, eh, Only? You’re a better man than me,” admitted Gutsy, following his gaze.

Atkins felt his cheeks flush with shame and guilt. He knew he wasn’t, and if he told Gutsy about Flora, he’d know it, too. He brushed the compliment off. “I don’t intend to make a habit of it but, like it or not, he’s one of us. Besides–”

“–it was the right thing to do, I know,” said Gutsy. “You’ll have to watch yourself. You’ll put the Padre out of a job.”

Hepton began patting his pockets, idly at first and then with increasing desperation. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he panted. “I’ve dropped my gaspers!” He looked around at the disinterested Tommies, a haunted look in his eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Has anyone got a fag? Anybody? I’ll pay.”

If they had any gaspers left, they were keeping them to themselves.

“Bastards,” muttered Hepton.

“Only.” Mercy nudged Atkins and with a wink, nodded down at his tunic pocket. In it was a packet of Woodbines, crushed but serviceable. “Lifted them from him back in the temple.”

Atkins shook his head. However incorrigible Mercy was, he took some small pleasure in Hepton’s distress and allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction.

“See,” said Gutsy, joining him, “there’s hope for you yet.” The large man nodded towards Everson. “Eh up, the Lieutenant wants you.”

Lieutenant Everson was talking to Nellie and Norman from the Ivanhoe . He beckoned Atkins across.

“No rest for the wicked,” groaned Atkins.

“Or NCOs,” grinned Gutsy, tapping the stripe on Atkins’ upper arm.

Atkins heaved himself up with a groan and walked over, smartening his tunic as he went.

“LIEUTENANT EVERSON, SIR,” Norman was saying. “Me and the lads want to see if we can get the tank running. If there’s fuel down here, then we’re in with a chance.”

“It’d offer us some protection from those things, at least,” said Nellie.

“Possibly,” said Everson. “Splitting up might make some sense. There’s no point staying all together to be all caught in a spore cloud.”

Atkins wondered whether it was really the tank or access to the petrol fruit fuel they were more concerned about. They’d become quite animated since they heard about the fuel. “Sir, we’re down here looking for Jeffries. We’re so close; we can’t give up now.”

Everson studied him for a moment, and then shook his head. “Yes, but I don’t see how, Corporal. There’s nothing we can do to those things that won’t make the situation worse. I can see no other option other than to fall back. The tank would be useful. It would give us more protection down here.”

Atkins knew Everson couldn’t afford to lose either the tank or the aeroplane. Both were major advantages in their survival on this world. From what Miss Abbott said, the tank crew had overcome their addiction, and it would take a while for the substance to build up in their bodies again. It was a risk he seemed willing to take, at least in the short term.

Atkins, however, couldn’t just cut and run. “But Talbot and his men, sir. Those things, those men, they should be… in their graves. Dead is dead. You’re their officer, sir. We can’t leave them like that. It isn’t proper. It isn’t right. It’s an abomination worthy of Jeffries himself. We owe it to them to see that they’re put to rest. They shouldn’t be walking round like some… mouldy Lazarus. It ain’t natural. What about their immortal souls?”

Everson looked to the Padre. The Chaplain raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and shook his head. “They didn’t say anything about this kind of thing in the seminary, but yes, if these poor souls can be put out of their misery and lifted to their Reward, then I think it behoves us to act, Lieutenant.”

Atkins nodded. “It’s the right thing to do, sir.”

“Atkins, we can’t defeat these things, we can’t shoot, bomb, or burn them without spreading those spores and facing the same fate ourselves.”

“I think I can help,” offered Tulliver, “Those things don’t react well to those telluric blasts and well, to be brutally honest, John, the petrol fruit fuel has sharpened my vision in some way. I can see where those charges will build.”

Atkins saw the dark look cross Everson’s face. Tulliver waved it away with an air of indifference.

“Yes, yes, I know you don’t trust this petrol fruit stuff, but I’m the least of your problems. If I can get to my bus, I can lead you towards the next telluric discharge. This bizarre land storm is practically on top of us, so there should be another one or two from within the crater, somewhere along the Strip, surely? If we can lure them there, they’ll be vaporised instantly.”