Edith blinked away tears, shook her head, and watched, relieved, as Sister Fenton put a firm hand on Nellie’s shoulder, holding her back.
Several men advanced slowly towards them. Jeffries stilled them with a wave of the pistol in their direction. Napoo, having made his decision, took advantage of the brief distraction and lunged for Jeffries. Jeffries was too quick and pulled the trigger. Edith squealed and Napoo dropped to the floor with a grunt of pain.
“Ah-ah. The rest of you stay back,” said Jeffries. “You wouldn’t want your little Rose of No Man’s Land to wilt prematurely, would you? Don’t try and follow me if you know what’s good for you, hmm.” As Edith struggled to find purchase with her toes in order to relive the pressure against her throat, she felt the last dying embers of her anger fade, leaving only the cold ashes of fear.
“Is it true then? Are you? Are you Dwyer?” asked Grantham with a look of hurt betrayal, like a whipped dog.
“Oh, I’ve been many people,” said Jeffries as he continued to edge toward the door. “I was Dwyer once and I have been many others since. And now, it seems I am done with Jeffries too. The Great Snake sheds its skin once more. Adieu.”
“Then where is the real Jeffries?”
“Dead in a ditch outside ’Bertie the last time I saw him,” said Jeffries. He stepped back towards the barbed door and called out to the guards. “I want to see Rhengar. GarSuleth wills it!”
There was a brief pause and the doorway began to shrivel open. As soon as he got a clear shot, Jeffries fired through the gap, blowing away the head of the scentirrii outside. He then forced his way through the narrow opening and shot the second scentirrii as he dragged Edith through, her dress catching on the barbs and ripping as he yanked her into the passage. “Don’t struggle. You’re only alive for as long as I need you. You start struggling, you’re a liability.”
Some part of Edith, some small part of her, the part that had dried up and withered away that night long ago, accepted this and was at peace with it, perhaps even longed for it. It was as if she had been guided to this moment all along, and that now, at last, she would rejoin her friends. It was almost a relief.
“Ediiiiiii!” she heard Nellie scream before the plant door dilated shut.
NOW THAT THE Chatt scent had worn off, the week old stink of sour sweat, smelly feet and musty uniforms was telegraphing their position to every insect in the edifice. Everson and his party had to fight every step of the way.
The Chatts proved no match for the Tommies’ weapons; a few had got off discharges from their lances, but otherwise they only had rudimentary spears and swords. However, their sheer numbers were another matter and the Chatts were reacting to their intrusion in a more organised manner now.
Hobson and Atkins continued their advance on point, sticking to the outer wall of the spiralling passage, maximising their field of fire as they fought their way up the edifice; a task made all the more awkward by the restrictive vision of their gas hoods. Everson followed with Poilus. Atkins had that dashed Chatter of his, nosing its way forward on its string lead. Everson felt he was taking a chance trusting the rodent, but it was the only lead they had in finding their friends and comrades.
“Keep a look out, Sergeant. We must be almost there,” Everson yelled over the staccato chunter of the Lewis gun behind him. He was vaguely aware of a thick whoosh, a smell of fuel oil and a light blooming and fading as Evans and Nicholls sent a spurt of cleansing flame down an adjoining passage.
ATKINS HEARD A roar from Sergeant Hobson ahead of him as he fired at another mob of advancing Chatts. They seemed to exhibit no sign of fear, despite their brethren being mown down in front of them. Atkins ran forward, emptying his clip into the Chatts as he did so, but they were upon him before he could reload. One lunged with its short sword, cutting Gordon’s leash. Atkins parried with his rifle before driving his bayonet through the creature’s thorax and twisting the blade. His weapon caught fast on the chitinous armour. Atkins lifted his leg and stomped forwards, driving his foot against the creature’s chest, freeing the blade as a second Chatt lunged at him with a spear.
Hobson fired and the Chatt fell back. Atkins brought his hobnailed boot down squarely on the creature’s head, smashing its facial plate and grinding his heel into the soft pulpy tissue beneath. He fired again and took out a further two, a single bullet driving straight through both of them.
There was a loud report to his right as Lieutenant Everson finished off another Chatt with his service revolver.
As a fifth lunged with a short spear, Atkins stepped aside and swung his rifle round, catching it in the faceplate with the shoulder butt, sending it reeling against the wall. He fell against it, the length of the rifle barrel against its throat, trying to choke it. He pushed harder on the barrel and felt something crack, but the Chatt continued to struggle. Something stabbed at his abdomen. He felt the claws of the middle limbs pressing into his skin though his tunic and shirt, holding him in a vice-like grip, as the creature’s mandibles scythed lethally together again and again in front of his gas-hooded face.
Then the Chatt pushed forward with its powerful limbs, slamming Atkins into the opposite wall. He collapsed heavily to the floor, gasping for breath, lights bursting in front of his eyes. His gas hood had been knocked askew in the impact and he could only see out of one eyepiece. The Chatt’s mouthparts filled his small circle of vision. Atkins struggled to keep the scissoring mandibles as far away as possible, saliva dripping thickly onto his mask. He felt his strength fading. In seconds, the weight of the Chatt would bear its mandibles down towards him. He thought of the face of the German soldier he had killed in the shell hole and began to sob with desperation. He didn’t want to die, he couldn’t die. He had to survive; he had to get back to Flora.
Oh, God, Flora. Poor Flora.
He roared in frustration as the muscles in his arms began to burn with the effort of keeping the thrashing louse at bay, then he heard a crunch and felt the weight lifted from him. He felt a hand find his.
“Up you get, son,” said Sergeant Hobson, pulling him into a sitting position. Atkins ripped the suffocating gas hood from his head and sucked in a lungful of air, his face dripping with sweat. The Chatt lay by his side, its head caved in by ‘Little Bertha.’
“You were bloody lucky. By rights, that thing should have spat acid at you,” said Hobson.
“It tried,” he said. “But I think I broke something in its throat.”
“If you get in that close again — and I don’t recommend you do — go for their antennae, lad. It doesn’t always stop them but it does seem to confuse ’em for a while.”
“Thanks, Sarn’t,” Atkins rasped. Coughing, he picked up his rifle and struggled to his feet, shoving his gas hood back into its bag. It was proving more a hindrance than a help. He noticed the string hanging limply on his belt. “Blood and sand! Gordon, where are you? Gordon!”
“I have it,” called Poilus, rounding the corner, holding the thing up, its belly cupped in the palm of his hand, its legs hanging limply as its nose twitched eagerly. Poilus handed him over. Relieved, Atkins held it up to his face and cooed at it. Gordon’s long tongue flicked out and licked him briefly, before the creature sniffed mournfully at his chattless khaki jacket. Atkins crouched down, intending to tie Gordon’s broken string leash, but the little devil struggled out of his grip.
The Sergeant, back against the outside wall of the tunnel, edged forward, craning his neck in order to look as far forward as possible. “I can’t see anything. They’ve pulled back.”
“Gordon!” hissed Atkins. The Sergeant looked back to see the furry rodent dash past him. He attempted to grab it, but missed. It stopped just ahead, and sat up on its hind feet, sniffing. Atkins raced towards it but Hobson stuck out an arm to stop him.