Pat Kelleher - The Ironclad Prophecy

“Not here,” called Jack, swinging the gun round through a hundred and twenty degrees and peering through the gun slit.

“Nor here,” said Cecil.

“Can’t see it,” said Norman.

“Then where the bloody hell is it?”

As if in answer, there was a heavy thud accompanied by an oppressive green synesthetic flash as the creature landed on top of the tank. A noise like nails on a blackboard pierced the bass rumble of the engine as the creature’s feet sought purchase. Blocked by the belly of the creature above, exhaust fumes began to belch back into the compartment, filling the space with a choking black smoke.

Alfie began coughing until spots burst before his eyes.

Reggie took the commander’s seat next to Wally.

“No free rides on this ’bus!” he said, pulling on the brake lever. The Ivanhoe jerked to a halt. Unable to get a firm grip, the stone beetle slithered off the front.

“That’ll teach it,” said Wally with a self-satisfied sneer. “Go on, clear off, you great bleedin’ cockroach.”

It skittered off round out of his limited field of view. Back in the compartment, the crew flung themselves at the pistol ports again. It was too fast for the gunners to get a bead on it.

The back end of the tank tilted up as the creature shoved its horns beneath the steering tail and tried to lever it up. The tank crashed down again as it failed. It tried again.

“Oi!” Wally drove the tank forwards.

“Cecil, take a peek and see what the bleeder’s trying to do, will you.”

Cecil peered out of the rear loophole. “Lawks, it’s coming after us again!”

The tank juddered once more as the back end tilted up and crashed down again.

“We can’t take much more of this.”

There was a brief stillness. Alfie held his breath.

Then Cecil piped up, jerking back from the pistol port in the rear door. “It’s trying for the roof again.”

Alfie found himself looking up at the roof, from where the noise, and jagged green spikes, of scrambling issued. Between them, Wally, Alfie and Frank tried to swing the tank and throw it off, but it clung tenaciously to the roof.

“What the hell do we do now?”

“Aaaugh. Shit!” yelled Cecil stumbling back over the differential. “It’s trying to get in!” After several attempts, a thin exoskeletal tube about two feet long appeared through the pistol port. He reared back and cocked his revolver at it. He watched, open-mouthed, as the end opened and something wet and glistening, like a tentacle, protruded from the chitinous casing.

“It, it’s a whatsit, a prob-sis? It’s trying to suck us out!”

“I don’t think so, son.” Jack edged past Alfie, put a hand on Cecil’s wrist and forced him to lower the weapon. “Don’t shoot in here, Ces. The bullet’ll ricochet.”

“Fellas,” said Norman,warily.

The tank began to rock as the beetle creature above them sought purchase. The rocking became more rhythmic. The tentacle, if that’s what it was, began to throb.

A vile thought took hold as Alfie watched. “That’s not a bloody tentacle, or a proboscis. It’s a bleedin’ short arm!”

Reggie blanched. “A what?”

The rocking became more urgent and the occupants of the tank were being shunted backwards and forwards with every thrust. Expressions of horror and disgust dawned on their faces as they realised what was going on.

“It’s not trying to kill us. It’s after a bon time,” said Norman.

Only Cecil still looked blank.

“It thinks we’re a lady friend?” Frank suggested.

Cecil frowned. “But this is a male tank.”

Alfie braced his hands against the roof as another enthusiastic thrust rocked the tank. “I really don’t think it cares.”

“Jesus! Well don’t just stand there,” bellowed Wally.

Cecil looked at them. “What do we do?”

Moral indignation flooded Jack’s face. “Well, I’ll tell you what I’m bloody well not going to do and that’s lie back and think of bloody England.” He grabbed a wrench and took a swing at the now tumescent and dripping appendage. “D’you know, Ces,” he said, “after this, I can see me and you is going to need a long talk about… country matters.”

Frank leered. “After this, I don’t think he’ll need one.”

MATHERS WATCHED AS the giant beetle attempted to mount the Ivanhoe, using its mandibles to try to bite and hold the tank’s roof, its legs scrambling for leverage as it began to grind against the rear of the tank. All thought of its own safety washed away in a primal urge too strong to ignore.

The tank juddered forward, but the beetle was determined not to lose its mount and tottered forwards with it, almost comically, still attached.

Mathers felt a hint of shame that the ironclad should be misused so shamefully, as if it had been a faithful beast unwillingly put out to stud. He picked up a rock and hurled it at the creature, but it bounced off. He picked up another one and edged closer, this time aiming at its face. It bounced off a mandible. He felt light-headed, but didn’t stop. Whatever he was feeling, it wasn’t fear; it was… exhilaration. He picked up another rock and, yelling incoherently, he charged. He ran at the tank and, using his momentum, and the starboard gun barrel, in one swift move he scrambled onto the Ivanhoe and began smashing at the beetle’s legs, which seemed to be the most vulnerable part. Smoke began billowing out from the smothered exhaust vents beneath the beetle. He was about to leap on its back in an attempt to stove its head in when a sheering screech ripped the sky.

A shadow flicked overhead.

Mathers looked up. A large creature like a manta ray swooped down over the rutting beetle. It had a long neck and small head, with a deceptively wide mouth and sharp teeth. The beetle, locked as it was in congress with the tank, neither knew nor cared.

The flying creature Mathers recognised; the men called it a jabberwock. They preyed on the herds of tripodgiraffes that roamed the veldt. It wheeled round and extended its hind legs and sharp talons, like a hawk’s. Mathers, unperturbed, threw the rock at it, less of a defence and more of a challenge. He stood on the beetle’s back as it humped and roared at the jabberwock in defiance. So close to death and he had never felt so alive.

By now, the beetle was hastily trying to dismount the tank but seemed to be having difficulty withdrawing.

The jabberwock screeched again as it dived towards the unnatural pairing. Mathers, stood atop the mating beetle, was prepared to meet the thing head on, though with what he had no idea and didn’t care. The struggling stone beetle freed itself and slipped clumsily off the back of the tank, tipping Mathers from its back. He put out a hand but found no hold and fell from the creature onto the starboard tank track before tumbling heavily to the ground by the sponson. His graceless dismount saved his life, as talons tore through empty air above him.

Winded and dazed, he shuffled back on his buttocks away from the tracks, for fear the tank should start up again and crush him. Shrieking in frustration, the jabberwock banked sharply and, talons first, slammed down onto the disorientated and satiated stone beetle. Using its great manta wings to stabilise itself, the jabberwock sought gaps that its sharp curved claws could lock under, while its head sought similar weaknesses on its prey’s back.

The beetle flailed pointlessly, unable to grasp anything of its attacker with its mandibles. Turning this way and that like a dog chasing its tail, desperate to dislodge its assailant from its back, it slammed into the tank, shunting it sideways. Mathers watched as the vehicle slid several feet towards him. He could only see the flapping of the great wings and hear the cries of the jabberwock, hidden from view by the tank.