Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

The supply wagons and ambulances were mostly towed by steam-horses or oxen. There were a few mangy-looking nonmechanical horses in evidence, too, including mega-drays pulling huge artillery pieces. Harvestmen stalked along beside the troops, and Scorpion Tanks thumped through the dust with their tails curled over their cabins, the guns at their ends slowly swinging back and forth.

“Hey! Private!” Burton called to a nearby Britisher. “Where are we?”

“In it up to our bloody eyeballs, chum!”

“Ha! And geographically?”

“I ain't got a bleedin' clue. Ask Kitchener!”

“We're almost there, sir,” an African voice answered. “Tanga is a mile or so ahead.”

“Much obliged!” Burton said. He turned Wells. “Did you hear that? We must be near your village. Shall we hop out here?”

“Hopping is my only option, unfortunately.”

Burton slid from the tailgate into the ambulance, then moved to its front and banged his fist against the back of the driver's cabin. “Stop a moment, would you?”

He returned to Wells and, as the vehicle halted, helped him down to the ground and handed him his crutches. The two men put on their helmets, moved to the side of the column, and walked slowly along beside it.

“So what's your point, Bertie?”

“My point?”

“About history.”

“Oh. Just that we give too much credence to the idea that we can learn from the past. It's the present that teaches the lesson. The problem is that we're so caught up in doing it that we can never see the wood for the trees. I say! Are you all right?”

Burton had suddenly doubled over and was clutching the sides of his head.

“No!” he gasped. “Yes. I think-” He straightened and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes. Yes. I'm fine. I'm sorry. I just had a powerful recollection of-of-of a man constructed from brass.”

“A statue?”

“No. A machine. But it was-it was-Herbert.”

“What? Me?”

“No, sorry, not you, Bertie. I mean, its-his-name is-was-is Herbert, too.”

“A mechanical man named Herbert? Are you sure your malaria hasn't flared up again?”

Burton clicked his tongue. “My brain is so scrambled that the line between reality and fiction appears almost nonexistent. I'm not sure what that particular memory signifies, if anything. Perhaps it'll make more sense later. Where's the village?”

Wells pointed to a vaguely defined path that disappeared into a dense jungle of thorny acacias. The trees were growing up a shallow slope, and Burton could just glimpse rooftops through the topmost leaves. “Along there,” Wells said. “Kaltenberg is right on the edge of Tanga-practically an outlying district. It was built by the Germans in the European style, on slightly higher ground. The occupants fled into the town a few days ago. We'll get a good view of the action from up there.”

“I gather the role of war correspondents is to climb hills and gaze down upon destruction?”

“Yes, that's about it.”

They left the convoy and followed the dirt track. The boles of the trees crowded around them, blocking the convoy from sight. The sky flickered and flashed through the foliage just above their heads. Mosquitoes whined past their ears.

“Who's Kitchener?” Burton asked.

“One of the military bigwigs. Or was. No one knows whether he's dead or alive. Damn this leg! And damn this heat. In fact, damn Africa and all that goes with it! I'm sorry, we'll have to slow down a little.” Wells stopped, and, balancing himself on his crutches, struck a match and lit a cigarette. He took a pull at it then held it out to Burton.

“Thanks, Bertie, but I'll pass. My fondness for cheap cigars doesn't plummet to such depths. Besides, it would ruin the taste of my toffee.”

“You have toffee?”

“I scrounged it from the ambulance driver. Four pieces. I'd offer you two but I fear they'd be wasted after that tobacco stick.”

“You swine!”

Burton grinned.

“And don't do that with your ugly mug,” Wells advised. “It makes you look monstrously Mephistophelian.”

“You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“I don't recall.”

They set off again, the war correspondent swinging himself along on his crutches.

Burton said, “Remind me again why we're attacking Tanga.”

“Firstly,” Wells replied, “because we're trying to regain all the ports; secondly, because we want to raid German supplies; and thirdly, and most importantly, because it's believed the commander of the Schutztruppe , Generalmajor Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck, is holed up there, and we would dearly love to deprive him of his existence. The man is a veritable demon. He has a military mind to rival that of Napoleon Bonaparte!”

By the time they reached the first of the Kaltenberg cottages, both men were sweating profusely. “Do you remember snow?” Wells muttered as they moved out from beneath the acacias and into the village. “What I wouldn't give for a toboggan ride down a hill with a tumble at the bottom.” He stopped and said quietly, “Richard.”

Burton followed his companion's gaze and saw, in a passageway between two cottages, the body of an Askari in British uniform. They approached and examined the corpse. A laceration curved diagonally across the African's face, the skin to either side of it swollen and puckered.

“That's a lurcher sting,” Wells observed. “He's recently dead, I'd say.”

“This was a bad idea, Bertie. We should have stayed with the column.”

Wells shook his head. “It's the job of a war correspondent to watch and report, Richard. When we reach the other end of the village, you'll find that it offers an unparalleled view across Tanga. We'll see far more from here than we would if we were in the thick of it. Not to mention the fact that we'll stand a better chance of staying alive.”

The silence was suddenly broken by a rasping susurration, similar to the sound of a locust, but shockingly loud and menacing.

“Hum. I might be wrong,” Wells added, his eyes widening. “Where did that noise come from?”

“I don't know.”

They stepped out of the passage and immediately saw a lurcher flopping out of one of the cottages they'd just passed. It was a hideous thing-a tangle of thorny tentacles and thrashing tendrils. From its middle, a red, fleshy, and pulsating bloom curled outward. Extending from within this, two very long spine-covered stalks rose into the air. They were rubbing together-a horribly frantic motion-producing the high-pitched ratcheting sound. The wriggling plant rolled forward on a knot of squirming white roots-and it moved fast.

“We've got to get out of here!” Burton cried out. “Drop your crutches, Bertie! I'm going to carry you!”

“But-”

Wells got no further. Burton kicked the crutches away, bent, and hoisted the shorter man up onto his shoulder. He started to run, heavy-footed.

“Bloody hell!” he gasped. “This is a lot easier with Algy!”

“Who?”

“Um. Algy. Bismillah! That's who you put me in mind of! How in blazes could I have forgotten him?”

“I don't know and right now I don't care. Run!”

Burton pumped his legs, felt his thigh muscles burning, and heard the lurcher rapidly drawing closer behind him.

“It's on us!” Wells yelled.

The famous explorer glimpsed a house door standing ajar. He veered toward it and bowled through, dropping Wells and banging the portal shut behind him. The lurcher slammed into it with terrific force, causing the frame to splinter around the lock. Burton quickly slid the bolts at the top and bottom into place. Thorns ripped at the wood outside.

“This door won't keep it out for long. Are you all right?”

“I landed on my leg,” Wells groaned.