Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

“If Ras-”

“Wait!” Burton interrupted. “1914. It's 1914! Rasputin will die this year. I killed him!”

“You're not making any sense, man!”

Burton hung his head and ground his teeth in frustration. A tiny patch of soil just in front of his face suddenly bulged upward and a green shoot sprouted out of it. He watched in astonishment as a plant grew rapidly before his eyes. It budded and its flower opened, all at a phenomenal speed.

It was a red poppy.

Wells suddenly clutched at the explorer's arm. “What's that over there?”

Burton looked up and saw, writhing into the air from various places around the town, thick black smudges, twisting and spiralling as if alive. They expanded outward, flattened, then sank down into the streets. From amid the continuing gunfire, distant screams arose.

“What the hell?” Wells whispered.

Some minutes later, British troops came running out from between the burning buildings. They'd dropped their rifles and were waving their arms wildly, yelling in agony, many of them dropping to the ground, twitching, then lying still. One, an Askari, scrambled up the slope and fell in front of the two onlookers. He contorted and thrashed, then a rattle came from his throat, his eyes turned upward, and he died.

He was covered in bees.

“We've got to get out of here!” Wells shouted. “This is Eugenicist deviltry!”

Many more men were now climbing the incline toward them, all screaming.

Burton hauled Wells to his feet, handed him his crutches, then guided him from the observation point back into Kaltenberg. Behind them, gunfire was drawing closer.

“Counterattack!” Wells said. “Go on ahead, Richard. Get out of here. Don't let me slow you down.”

“Don't be a blessed fool!” Burton growled. “What manner of ridiculous war is this that our forces can be routed by bees?”

Even as he spoke, one of the insects landed on the back of his hand and stung him. Then another, on his neck. And another, on his jaw. The pain was a hundred times worse than a normal sting and he yelled, slapping the insects away. Almost immediately his senses began to swim and his heart fluttered as the venom entered his system. He staggered but found himself supported on either side by a couple of British Tommies who began to drag him along.

“Come on, chum!” said one. “Move yer bleedin' arse!”

“Bertie!” Burton shouted, but it came out slurred.

“Never mind your pal,” the other soldier snapped. “He's bein' taken care of. Keep movin'. Have you been stung?”

“Yes.” Burton's legs had stopped functioning and he had tunnel vision; all he could see was the ground speeding by. There was a buzzing in his ears.

The soldiers' voices came from a long way away: “He's snuffed it. Drop him.”

“No. He's just passed out.”

“He's slowing us down. Aah! I've been stung!”

“I'll not leave a man. Not while he still lives. Help me, damn it!”

A shot. The whine of a bullet.

“They're on us!”

“Run! Run!”

Burton's senses came swimming back. Two men were dragging him along.

“I can walk,” he mumbled, and, regaining his feet, he stood and opened his eyes.

Light blinded him. It glared down from the sky and it glared up from the sand.

He raised a hand for shade and felt a big bump over his right eyebrow. It was sticky with blood.

“Are you dizzy, Captain?” asked Wordsworth Pryce, the second officer of the Orpheus.

“You took quite a knock,” observed another. Burton recognised the voice as that of Cyril Goodenough, one of the engineers.

His vision blurred and swirled then popped back into focus. He looked around, and croaked, “I'm fine. Somewhat dazed. We crashed?”

“The bomb destroyed our starboard engines,” Pryce replied. “It's a good job we were flying low. Nevertheless, we turned right over and came down with one hell of a thump.”

Burton saw the Orpheus.

The huge rotorship was upside down, slumped on desert dunes, its back broken, its flight pylons snapped and scattered. Steam was pouring from it and rising straight up into a clear blue morning sky. The sun was not long risen, but the heat was already intense. Long shadows extended from the wreckage, from the figures climbing out of it, and from the bodies they were lining up on the ground some way from the ship.

William Trounce was suddenly at his side. The detective's jacket and shirt were badly torn and bloodied but his wounds-lacerations, grazes, and bruises-were superficial; no broken bones.

“I think we've got everyone out now except the Beetle,” he said. “The boy is still in there somewhere.”

“What state are we in?” Burton asked, dreading the answer.

“Thirteen dead. First Officer Henson; Helmsman Wenham and his assistant D'Aubigny; Navigator Playfair; riggers Champion, Priestley, and Doe; the two firemen, Gerrard and Etheridge; Stoker Reece-Jones; and, of course, that cur Arthur Bingham. I'm afraid Daniel Gooch bought it, too.”

Burton groaned.

“I'm told Constable Bhatti died a hero's death, heaven bless him,” Trounce said.

“He did. There'd probably be no survivors at all but for his sacrifice. What of the wounded?”

“Tom Honesty is still unconscious. Captain Lawless was pierced through the left side. Engineer Henderson and the quartermaster, Butler, are both in critical condition with multiple broken bones and internal injuries. Miss Mayson has just had a dislocated arm snapped back into place. She'll be all right. Everyone else is battered, cut, and bruised in various degrees. Swinburne is fine. Mr. Spencer has a badly dented and twisted leg. Sister Raghavendra is unharmed, as are Masters Wilde and Cornish. Krishnamurthy was banged around pretty badly but has no serious injuries. He's devastated at the loss of his cousin, of course.” Trounce paused, then said quietly, “What a confounded mess.”

“And one that's fast heating up,” added Pryce. “We're slap bang in the middle of a desert.”

“I suppose the captain is out of action,” Burton said to him, “which makes you the commanding officer. I suggest you order the wreck stripped of everything useful. As a matter of urgency, we should employ whatever suitable material we can find to build a shaded area beside it. Please tell me the ship's water tanks are intact.”

“Half of them are. There'll be plenty enough water.”

“Well, that's something, at least. Have some of it put into containers.”

“I'll organise it at once.”

Pryce strode off.

Trounce cleared his throat. “Um. Captain, this heat-it's not-that is to say, how should we treat our-um-what should we do with the dead?”

The muscles to either side of Burton's jaw flexed. His closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at his friend. “We can't bury them, William. These sands are permanently shifting. We can't leave them in the open-there are scavengers. Our only option is a pyre.”

Trounce considered this for a moment, gave a brusque nod, said, “I'll get it done,” and walked away.

Burton turned to Engineer Goodenough: “What of the cargo hold and the expedition's equipment?”

“It's intact, sir. The vehicles are relatively undamaged. Overturned, of course, but they just need to be righted. Your supplies look like they got caught up in a tornado but I daresay we can sort them out. I'll see to it.”

“Thank you. I'll round up some help for you.”

Burton walked over to where Doctor Quaint and Sister Raghavendra were treating the wounded. Thomas Honesty was sitting up now but obviously hadn't fully regained his wits; his eyes were glazed, his mouth hanging slackly open. There was blood all over his face.

The doctor looked up from Charles Henderson, who was semiconscious and moaning softly, and said, “Almost everyone on the bridge was killed. As for the rest, the extent of their injuries depended on where they were when the ship hit the ground.” He stood, drew Burton aside, and continued in a low voice, “If we don't get the wounded to a hospital, they won't make it.”