Pat Kelleher - The Ironclad Prophecy

Atkins had no doubt that Jeffries could well have summoned what he saw from some demonic circle of hell. Its existence stirred a deep revulsion, not just in him, but the whole section, and this from men who had seen bloated corpses move and writhe obscenely in the Somme mud, infested by feeding corpse rats burrowed into their putrefying innards.

This was the evil spirit that had been stealing urmen. This was what they had come to kill.

THE THING SQUATTED in a large ruined central chamber. The roof had collapsed around it, leaving its back, if that’s what it was, half-exposed to the elements. It was a great black mass larger than several zeppelins. The black, feathered tripe-like flesh bore a cross-hatching of scars, old and new. It had tentacles sunk into lower tunnels, like roots. Others were constantly dipping into seemingly random passage openings around it, even as others withdrew. It seemed rooted to the spot. That would explain the absence of animals around the edifice. It had exhausted its local food supply. Forced to stretch its tentacles further to find food, it had encroached on the enclave’s hunting grounds to snatch urmen.

The thing throbbed as it withdrew a tentacle from a tunnel below where the Tommies stood. It was wrapped delicately around the remains of one of its young. Following some primitive instinct, it dangled the sloppy, burnt, shapeless mess before it, shaking it gently, trying to revive it. It created other, more delicate, tendrils to prod and probe it. After a cursory examination, they retreated into the mass. Then it drew the tendril, holding the dead creature, back into its body, and its offspring along with it.

“It doesn’t look happy,” said Mercy.

Gutsy peered down. “You wouldn’t be, either, if someone had killed your baby.”

“It just ate its dead baby, so I hardly think it’s that bothered,” Porgy declared.

“What the hell is it?” Atkins asked Chandar.

“This One does not know,” it wheezed, forcing out the words. “It — it is not mentioned in any aromapedias. It is not GarSuleth-made.”

“Whatever it is, I think we’re going to need the damn tank to take it out,” said Gazette, unfazed, his mind never straying from the job.

“Hell, no!” Porgy slapped Atkins on the back. “Only here can do it single-handed, can’t you, Only?” He grinned at his mate. “Come on, Chalky’s told us all the tales.”

“Aye,” said Mercy with a grin. “Seven at one blow!”

Atkins curled his lip. “Piss off. How many bombs do we have left?”

Gazette did a quick tally. “Six.”

Atkins leant forward to get a better look at the thing, doubting that they would be enough. He stepped back sharply as the edge of the lip crumbled away beneath his feet. Several large chunks skittered down the exposed walls before hitting an outcrop, and bouncing off over the lower slopes, where some were ensnared by thickets of creepers. The rest bounded down in ever increasing arcs, before landing on the creature’s back in a shower of thuds.

A stream of tendrils exploded upwards towards them from around the fallen rubble.

“No, it’s definitely not happy,” said Mercy.

“Back!” ordered Atkins, but the section was one step ahead of him. Chandar, though, hesitated, mesmerised by the sight, until Atkins put a hand on its carapace and pulled it away.

He took a last look over his shoulder as thin black tendrils appeared over the lip of the truncated tunnel. Some had already begun searching the gaping hole where they had stood. As they explored the tunnel further, they began to entwine and merge into one, growing in bulk, thickening and expanding until one single tentacle filled the space, blocking out the light.

Rushing down the tunnel, it expanded further until the walls began to crack and shudder under the pressure of its passing.

Atkins ran for his life.

THE GREAT IRON hulk of the Ivanhoe sat where they had left it, hunkered in the clearing, waiting patiently like a faithful beast.

Exhausted, the tank crew staggered towards the waiting behemoth.

Norman, Reggie, Cecil and Wally set down their coverall loads of chatt jars and stretched. In the daylight, Mathers’ swollen face looked much worse than they had imagined.

“And I thought impetigo from petrol fumes was bad,” Norman remarked.

“How comes he’s the only one that’s got it, though?” asked Cecil.

“Officer in’t ’e? They’ve got more sensitive skin than us lot. Known fact, is that.”

“The sooner I’m back in the Ivanhoe , the better I’ll feel,” said Wally.

“Best get the tank started up, then, I reckon,” said Jack.

Nellie patted Napoo on the forearm. “Thank you.”

With a faint smile, the urman gave a grunt of acknowledgement and nodded as she left his side.

He squatted down on his haunches, looking decidedly uncomfortable. He was wary of the Lieutenant, but just as cautious about the tank. Although aware that men operated it, he was convinced that there was sorcery involved. Alfie approached the urman, “Thanks for looking out for Nellie — I mean, Miss Abbott.”

Napoo looked up at him. “She is a good woman.” It was a threat as much as a statement of fact.

“Yes. Yes, she is,” replied Alfie, sensing that he had outstayed his welcome. He made for the tank. His path took him past Nellie, who was splashing water from her canteen on the back of her neck. She was relieved to see that Alfie’s eyes had almost returned to normal. He wanted to tell her about the thing inside Mathers, but changed his mind. “Will you check the Lieutenant out, again? He doesn’t look too clever.”

“Do I tell you how to tune your precious engine?” she remarked.

“Yes, actually.”

She beamed as she made her way over to check on Mathers, who seemed to be enjoying the soothing wind on his face. “Then I’m much too good for you, Mr Perkins.”

Norman saw her examining the Lieutenant. “We just need to get the engine started up, is all, Miss. Once the Sub can take a drag on the fumes he’ll be top o’ the bill again,” he insisted.

“Top o’ the bill?” said Nellie. “He’s had so many turns he’s a regular Marie Lloyd. It’s not those blessed fumes he needs, it’s rest and proper medical attention.”

Frank intercepted Alfie on the way to the tank. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To start the engine, if three of you lazy buggers’ll lend a hand.”

Frank shook his head. “I don’t think so, Alfie.” He leaned in. “You may have won the Lieutenant over, but he’s not quite himself at the moment. Me and the lads? We ain’t decided on you yet, you and your sweetheart. You see, we was all cushy ’til she and them Tommies showed up. The Sub’s scheme has all gone to pot since then. You was never for it, was you? I reckon you’ve been sabotaging us all along. You stay there, with your lady friend.”

“What the hell’s got into you, Frank?”

Frank crossed to the tank and noticed an oily stain on the grass under the sponson. “Bloody hell. Perkins. I knew it. Look like something has been leaking here!” He went to open the sponson hatch. His forehead creased with disbelief as he tugged at the handle. “It’s stuck.” He pulled at the handle again.

“Put some oomph into it!” jeered Cecil.

The door resisted, then came free with a sticky, sucking sound. He toppled backwards onto his arse, causing a ripple of belly laughs across the clearing.

Frank’s brow buckled under the weight of incomprehension as he sat staring up at the open hatchway.