“Shh.”
Atkins froze. They felt a soft draught. A faint rumble from up ahead grew louder. Atkins looked at the Sergeant who raised his eyebrows, shook his head and shrugged. He obviously had no idea what it was either, but whatever it was, the noise was getting louder.
Gordon squeaked and darted back between Atkins’ legs and down the slope toward the others.
“Good enough for me!” Atkins said. “Run!”
They ran back down the passage towards the rest of the party. Atkins told himself not to look back, but he couldn’t help himself. He glanced over his shoulder and instantly wished he hadn’t.
A large sphere of stone filled the tunnel, rolling down the incline towards them and picking up speed.
There was a sound like cellophane being scrunched up as the boulder crushed the bodies of the dead Chatts behind them.
“Shit! Come on!” grunted Gutsy as he tried to haul his sled of equipment.
“Leave it!” cried Atkins as he pounded past.
But Gutsy wouldn’t. He leaned forward in his harness and cried out as he dug one foot in front of the other. The boulder was almost upon them now. Half Pint dashed forwards and gave the sled a shove from the back. The sled shot forward but Half Pint lost his footing. There was a sickening thud and the rumbling stopped.
The boulder had ground to a halt, jamming itself against the tunnel walls by the sled. Half Pint lay in front of it, screaming, his right foot under the giant stone.
Atkins reached him first and hurriedly knelt down to examine his leg. Not that he could have done anything. He had no medical training and the only medical supplies he carried were the regulation Field Bandages.
“Tell me the worst, I can take it.” Half Pint said through a grimace of pain as he grabbed Atkins’ forearm.
“Well, put it this way,” said Atkins, “it’ll really give you something to grouse about now.”
Everson and Hobson trotted forward and examined the boulder.
“We’re not going to be moving this any time soon,” Hobson said. “Looks like this is their way to block access to the upper levels.
“The Chatts know they’ve got us cornered. They’ll be here with reinforcements soon. We’ve got to clear this blockage and we can’t do it with Nicholls there,” said Everson. He paused briefly. “Get Blood up here.”
Everson squatted beside Atkins to talk to Half Pint. “We’ve got to get through this boulder, Nicholls. We’ve got to blow it. We can’t do that with you here.” Nicholls looked up at him uncomprehendingly, eyes clouded with pain.
Out of the corner of his eye, Atkins could see Hobson talking quietly to Gutsy, flicking discreet glances at the trapped soldier. Gutsy sagged visibly then walked leadenly towards them.
Half Pint caught sight of him as he shucked off his pack and pulled out his cleaver, its broad blade reflecting the dull blue light of the luminescent lichen. He gripped Atkins’ hand in fear, tears welling up in his eyes. “Oh God, no. Please. No. Only. No, don’t let them cut my leg off. Please, Only, I’m begging you. Please!” Sobbing, Half Pint began clawing at the ground, desperately trying to drag himself free of the boulder. “Please Gutsy, don’t do this.”
“I’m sorry Half Pint, there’s no other way,” he said, avoiding his eyes.
He knelt by his comrade and tore strips from his trouser leg, making a tourniquet that he began to tighten around Half Pint’s thigh.
“No, wait. Wait!” begged Half Pint.
“Sorry, mate,” said Gutsy, before punching Half Pint solidly in the head. He went out like a light. “Right. Are we doing this?”
Everson nodded.
“Only, you’re going to have to hold his leg steady.”
Gutsy placed Atkins’ hand on Half Pint’s thigh. Atkins closed his eyes and heard a brief, faint whistle as the cleaver cleft the air before striking through flesh and bone and hitting the compacted earth floor beneath.
When Atkins opened them again the Lieutenant was trying to apply the field bandages to the bleeding stump below the knee as blood pulsed out, soaking them as fast as he applied them.
“Ketch, Hopkiss,” he called, “get up here and take Nicholls back to cover.”
They jogged up, looked at Half Pint and then at Gutsy, who was cleaning his cleaver with another field bandage. He glared at them, daring them to say something. Atkins shook his head. Silently, the two men carried the unconscious Half Pint back out of sight, round the gentle curve of the tunnel.
Atkins held out a Mills bomb. “Grenades, sir?”
“Yes, I think so, Atkins,” said a visibly shaken Everson, before marching smartly back around the curve himself.
Atkins approached the boulder and chose spots to wedge the grenades while trying to avoid the crushed and bloody leg that protruded from under the great ball.
Gordon had found his nerve again and was snuffling hopefully about the base of the sphere, sucking hungrily for a faint air current. Atkins scooped him up and tucked him under his arm. He licked his dry lips, pinched his lower lip between his teeth nervously and put a finger though the ring of the grenade’s safety pin. He braced himself, took a deep breath, pulled the pin out and ran.
“Take cover!”
The detonation filled the corridor with clouds of dust, smoke and debris. The force of the explosion blew Atkins over one of the sleds.
Once the dust had settled Atkins followed the others as they began to make their way over the litter of rubble that was strewn across the floor of the tunnel. Gutsy shouldered his sled harnesses again and moved out, an unconscious Half Pint lying on the soft bed of fungus that covered the weapons supply. Ketch followed with his own sled. Atkins clipped a full magazine into his Enfield, fell in with Hobson on point and pushed on, Gordon nosing on ahead snuffling and sniffing, occasionally giving out little high-pitched sneezes. Then Atkins heard the familiar clatter of Chatt carapaces rubbing against each other.
“Ready, lad?” asked Hobson. “Look sharp, here come more of the verminous brood.”
As the Chatts skittered toward them they opened fire, five rounds rapid, and the insects fell beneath their fusillade. Atkins and Hobson moved on, leaving any wounded to Gazette and the Lieutenant.
That was when they heard the scream. A human scream.
“Sir!” yelled Hobson, running up the incline to a junction where the floor levelled out. Gordon pattered excitedly past him, his tongue flickering out of his furry proboscis as he scampered off to the left.
Atkins followed and they came to a barbed plant door. Gordon was snuffling excitedly at the bottom of it. The bodies of two Chatts lay twisted and dead against the passage wall.
Everson came up and quickly appraised the situation “Evans, Hopkiss!” The pair came up with Evan’s Flammenwerfer. “Get that door open!”
“Stand back!” cried Evans and, a few seconds later, with Hopkiss operating the valve, a spurt of flaming oil blasted the door. It shrivelled under the jet of liquid fire, spitting and popping, a sound like a human scream coming from it as it burnt. There was a crack and barbs exploded from the door, some embedding themselves in the wall opposite.
“Gordon!” cried Atkins, pushing men aside.
The little rodent lay bleeding and whimpering, impaled by one the barbs. His nose twitched as he sought comfort in the musty smell of fresh lice he would now no longer taste. He looked up at Atkins, pitifully, and was then still. Atkins sighed briefly and stood up.
Once the smoke and flame had dissipated, the chamber beyond stood revealed amid a circle of glowing cinders. The faces of about twenty men looked back at them.