“Fascinating,” said Hepton, as he fixed his camera box to the tripod and began cranking away.
“Sir,” said Pot Shot, addressing the Lieutenant. “Do you think we should try picking one of those fruits for the MO, sir?”
“My thoughts exactly, Jellicoe,” said Everson, “once we make sure those damn creatures aren’t harmful.”
As if in answer, Ginger’s haversack began to writhe impatiently. Closer to its own kind again, Gordon became excited and sought a way out of the bag.
“Fuck’s sake, here we go again!” said Gazette as he saw Ginger struggle to control his haversack.
“No, Gordon!” cried Ginger as the creature wriggled its way out from the under the flap and jumped down to the ground, scampering across the glade to be with its fellows, squeaking gleefully. The others stopped and stood on their hind legs, squeaking in answer.
“What the deuce!” Everson exclaimed.
“Gordon, come back!” hissed Ginger, striding into the glade. Startled, the creatures scattered and Ginger clumsily switched this way and that, raising sniggers from his mates as he tried to catch his pet, or the one he thought was his pet, for they all looked the same. The creatures panicked and squealed and ran around bolting into holes in the ground. Others poked their noses shyly out of their holes all except, presumably, Gordon, who sat calmly by the plant in the middle of the glade, preening itself.
“This is better than Charlie Chaplin,” said Hepton, as he followed the slapstick antics in the glade.
“Mottram, get back here!” hissed Everson.
Ginger, a look of grim determination on his face, advanced on his pet. There was a soft pfffft and a giant red thorn exploded from the ground where he stood, ripping up through his groin, the tip exiting through his shoulder. The force of the thrust hefted him off his feet and he hung suspended on the thorn. He screamed, struggling to free himself, but barbs protruding from the spine held him fast. At the bottom of the thorn, large leaf like structures fell open, forming a cup at the base.
Hepton stopped cranking in horror.
“Ginger!” cried Atkins as he Porgy, Mercy and Lucky dashed into the grove.
Atkins saw now, as he ran across the ground, that it seemed soft and springy, yielding under his weight, like boggy earth. It undulated with shallow tussocks. Lucky’s foot came down on one and another thorn sprang up from the earth. He squealed as the point tore up though his gut, ripping out through his back, jerking him off his feet. Lucky’s helmet rolled across the glade and came to a halt near Atkins.
Porgy, Mercy and Atkins stopped dead still.
“It’s burning me! Burning!” screamed Ginger. His pleas degenerated into a meaningless, agonised wailing. He twisted his head and fixed his bloodshot, watery gaze on Atkins. “Help me!”
“God help us,” croaked Gutsy hoarsely. “That thing in the middle — it’s some kind of carnivorous plant. This must be how it feeds.”
“Don’t move,” said Everson. “You may trigger off more of those things.”
Lucky was screaming too, thrashing about in a frenzy as he tried to work himself free, but only succeeding in driving himself further down the thorn. As he slipped down he revealed little sacs that pulsed at the base of small barbs, pumping out some vile secretion. Atkins realised that similar sacs, caught within Ginger and Lucky’s bodies, were even now pumping this stuff into them; some sort of poison or digestive juice. The whole glade was a honey trap. Gordon and its little friends had been safe, being too light to trigger the plant’s mechanism.
Pot Shot had his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to blot out the anguished screaming. “Somebody do something!”
Everson cocked his pistol and aimed at Ginger’s head. It was the only thing to do to save him from a slow, agonising death by internal liquefaction. He pulled the trigger and the back of Ginger’s head exploded across the glade. He turned and re-cocked his pistol, this time aiming at Lucky who looked straight back at him.
“Thank—”
Everson met his gaze as he fired again and Lucky slumped lifelessly down on the thorn. Everson sagged visibly as he holstered his pistol. Atkins didn’t envy him. But they were still stuck. One wrong move and their fate could be that of their companions.
“Right,” said Everson eventually. “These things are obviously set off by weight. Otterthwaite, can you shoot the tussock things and trigger the remaining thorns?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Hobson. “But there’s a quicker way. Jellicoe, give me your Mills bombs.”
Atkins, Mercy and Porgy exchanged glances. Atkins watched as the Sergeant got down on his hands and knees to sight along the floor of the glade, looking for the tell-tale tussocks of untriggered thorns.
“Right-o, watch yourself, lads, sir,” said Hobson, pulling the pin from a Mills bomb. Hobson counted to three and tossed it towards the edge of the clearing, away from the trapped men, who crouched down where they were. The grenade exploded and Atkins felt himself showered with dirt as one, two, three huge thorns, triggered by the concussion wave, sprang up around him. The engorged sacs on the barbs pulsing and ejaculating their venom impotently.
Hobson threw a second grenade and it landed in the cup of the furthest thorn before it exploded, shredding the plant. “There’s your way out,” said Hobson, indicating the path of triggered thorns. “Watch where you step.”
Mercy and Porgy edged their way carefully past the thorns, now oozing with digestive acids.
“We can’t leave them here, sir,” said Atkins, looking back at the impaled bodies.
“I’m sorry, Atkins, it’s too dangerous.”
“Then just their pay books, sir?” he pleaded, William foremost in his mind. If someone had taken his brother’s disc and pay book they might now have known his fate.
“Very well, but be careful.”
Atkins stepped as gingerly as he could in his hobnails towards Ginger’s slack body. Standing on his tiptoes and leaning over the shiny red collecting cup at the thorn’s base, he tentatively opened up what was left of Ginger’s tunic and pulled the cloth-covered pay book from his inside pocket. God, this was never a pleasant job at the best of times. A wet splash made him jump as half-liquified organs and viscera slipped out of Ginger’s torso and fell into the waiting plant cup. The stench drove Atkins back a step. Used to the charnel stench of the trenches as he was, this was a foul odour that turned his stomach. A squeak startled him. He whirled round almost losing his balance, his foot coming down inches from another tuft. It was Gordon. He’d almost trodden on the creature. It looked up at him, squeaking. He felt a hot flush of anger burst across his face.
“Piss off. This is your fault, you little shit!” he took a swing at it with his boot but it hopped back. It looked up at him from the safety of a tussock.
“Atkins, come on!” called Everson from the edge of the glade.
As he moved round to Lucky’s body Atkins blatantly ignored the creature even though he was aware of it turning to watch him. He tottered precariously on his toes as he stretched to reach Lucky’s torso. Carefully retrieving his now bloodstained pay book, he made his way back across the glade slowly, step by step.
Atkins leapt thankfully to the edge of the glade only to hear a wistful squeak behind him. Gordon had followed him. He tried shooing the creature away as Everson ordered them away from the glade one by one, but it hopped mournfully after him. With a huff of exasperation, Atkins picked up the creature and put him into his gas helmet haversack as Hepton packed up his camera and tripod.