No Man's World: Omnibus

by Pat Kelleher

  Even when they surrounded it and thrust their bayonet points towards it, the arthropod showed no recognition of the peril of its situation.

  “What’s it doing?”

  “What do you think it’s doing?”

  “I don’t bleedin’ know. If I knew, I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Fuck!” Cox fell back a step. Nictating eyelids flickered across the Chatt’s eyes. It was the only sign of movement, or indeed life, about the creature. “Did you see that?”

  Poilus backed away. “Dulgur,” he hissed. “An evil spirit. They are possessed. We should not be here.”

  Hobson was about to press Poilus further when there was a shout from Cox. “There’s more over there, Sarn’t.”

  Scattered through the thinning fog like stone angels in an unkempt smoggy cemetery, they found hundreds more of the disorientated Chatts spread out over the trampled ground. All of them were standing aimlessly. Their passivity emboldened the soldiers who began to prod them with bayonet points. No amount of cajoling or shoving could induce a reaction.

  “All right. A joke’s a joke. I’ve ’ad enough now,” said Private Wilson.

  If it had been just the Chatts, that would have been disturbing enough, but then they spotted Tommies stood in among them in a trance. All of them, human and alien alike, just standing. In union. Like statues. Not moving. For no apparent reason at all.

  By their armbands, these were the men suffering from shell-shock. “What the hell are they all doing?” Carter asked no one in particular.

  “I don’t know, but it’s giving me the screaming abdabs,” confided Cox, as they trod warily between the mesmerised individuals.

  Private Draper recognised one of the men, an old mucking-in pal. They’d shared a dugout on the Somme. The bugger always had the cheek to complain about his snoring. “Townsend? Townie?”

  Townsend offered no response. Draper put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him round, only to be met with a vacant stare. “Townie?” Not a flicker of recognition. As soon as he let go Townsend returned to face the direction he had been facing. Draper shuddered when he noticed a large swelling at the base of Townsend’s skull.

  “Let me try,” said Cox, “you need to know how to treat these types.” He slapped Townsend across the face. There was not a flicker of anything; not pain, not surprise, not anger, just a small trickle of blood from the mouth that the man also ignored.

  “There was no need for that!”

  “I was trying to snap him out of it!” said Cox.

  “What are they doing out here?”

  Draper was spooked. “You heard the Urman. Evil spirits. Possession. It’s Jeffries’ doing. ’E’s using the ’fluence, I tell you. He’s coming for the rest of us!”

  “Draper, shut your cake ’ole before I shuts it for you!” barked Hobson.

  “They’re all the shell-shocked blokes, Sarn’t.”

  “Aye. Dixon. It seems Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep,” said Hobson. “Nurse Bell won’t be happy having her patients wandering about out here. She won’t know where to find ’em. Carter, Cox. Go back to camp. Fetch some men to help round ’em up and take ’em back home.”

  “Waggin’ their tails behind ’em!” said Monroe with a grin.

  “Very droll, lad,” said Hobson. “Very droll.”

  Private Wilson pushed his soft cap back on his head and rubbed his forehead, perplexed. “Here, Sarn’t. How come they’re all facing the same direction?”

  “What’s that, Wilson?”

  Wilson pointed it out. “The same direction, Sarn’t. Tommie. Chatt. They’re all facing the same way. It’s fair giving me the creeps seeing ’em doin’ it all together like that. Like a drill parade.”

  Now Hobson could see it himself, he could feel the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He had to admit it was damned odd. None of them made a sound. They just stood there. Chatt and man, together.

  “That, Private, is a bloody good question and one I feel is for better heads than mine.”

  Private Monroe yelped with alarm. In the distance, something large rose out of a fog-enshrouded copse. It was one of the great armoured battlepillars. Ignoring them, it reared up to start languorously stripping the disc-like leaves from the treetops.

  The party came across two more further on, their great mandibles crunching their way through the tube grass unperturbed by the carnage around them.

  Hobson put a hand on their rifle barrels and pushed them down. “Enough. They could be right useful to us, beasts like that.”

  “It’s all very well saying that, Sarn’t, but how do we get ’em back?”

  Hobson puffed out his chest, played with the end of his moustache, and pointed up at the great larva-like beast. “See that box on its back, just behind its head? That there’s called a howdah. They have them in India when ridin’ helephants. Same principle.”

  “And how do we get up there? Magic rope trick, I expect?”

  “I’ve got me penny whistle if it helps,” suggested Draper.

  Hobson’s eyes narrowed. “If I thought you two was taking the mick I’d have your names so fast me pencil would leave skid marks.”

  “Us, Sarn’t? No, Sarn’t. Perish the thought, Sarn’t.”

  “Right, then. Wilson, go back and report to Lieutenant Everson. Tell him we’ll need some more men out here, jildi.”

  HALF AN HOUR later, the sun was burning off the fog, revealing the strange, new landscape before them with its scattered pyramids of clay coffin balls, earthen banks and trampled tube grass.

  Everson watched as a battlepillar lumbered towards the stronghold with a couple of Tommies sat in the howdah behind its head. The other two larval beasts fell into line and followed on behind.

  The parties that went out afterwards rounded up the dazed shellshocked Tommies, carefully avoiding the mesmerised Chatts.

  Other than them, the veldt was empty. It was true. The Khungarrii army had decamped, although exactly why still remained a mystery.

  SERGEANT HOBSON STOOD at ease as Lieutenant Everson digested his report. Outside, he could hear ragged and muted cheers as the men celebrated their apparent victory.

  “They’ve gone. Just like that,” said Everson, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “They seem to have left in a hurry, sir. Weapons have been left scattered around. There are pyramids of the dead, after their fashion and, as you can see, we have captured several abandoned battlepillars and a good many of their electric lance packs. They have been digging sir, but I couldn’t say for what purpose, exactly. Mines, perhaps, to dig under our positions. And then there were the mesmerised scentirrii, sir. Sent shivers down my spine, they did. Especially when we found a number of our mob amongst them, dazed like. Like they’d been sleepwalking. None of ’em seemed to realise where they were or how they got there. Poilus claims they’re possessed.”

  “And you, Sergeant? What’s your opinion?”

  “Couldn’t say, sir.”

  “Hmm.”

  The report left Everson with more questions than answers. “It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “They had us. Why did they leave? And why abandon their soldiers like that?”

  EDITH COUNTED THE shell-shocked patients back into the compound. She bridled when she saw them strung together with rope looped around their waists, and accosted the private escorting them.

  “Is that absolutely necessary?”

  “It were the only way we could get ’em, back, miss. It were like herding cats. They kept trying to wander off. But once we got ’em like this, they came quiet like,” he said, somewhat abashed.

  “Yes, well, they’re not wandering loose now. Take the ropes off, please.”

  The private obliged and untied each one as they went quietly and compliantly into the compound.

  “Thank you,” said Edith with a curt nod, and turned to follow them in.

  “Nurse Bell, a moment please!”

  Sister Fenton came striding towards the compound from the hospital tents. Edit
h sighed with frustration. What was it this time? She turned and waited diffidently as the senior nurse approached.

  “Yes, Sister?”

  “These men were in your charge. How on earth did they get out?”

  Edith felt her face flushing. “There was a gap in the wire, Sister. It’s been dealt with.”

  Sister Fenton seemed to find that acceptable. “I know Captain Lippett’s attitude to these men is a little harsh—”

  “A little harsh?” retorted Edith.

  Sister Fenton did little more than arch her eyebrow. Edith knew she’d just stepped over a line and lowered her eyes. “Sorry, Sister.”

  “As I said,” Sister Fenton reiterated for emphasis, her features softening. “I know Captain Lippett’s attitude is a little harsh, but he does have a greater responsibility here. If you had concerns, you should have brought them to me. I appreciate that you have managed to care for these men in your own time and now that the fighting seems to be over, at least for the moment, I came to see if there was anything you needed for them.”

  Sister Fenton’s show of concern caught Edith off guard. She was so used to seeing her as some dried-up old dragon, even though she could scarcely be more than ten years older than herself. Sister rarely, if ever, let that mask slip, but Edith realised that the woman was in an unenviable position. She was alone. At least Edith had got Nellie to befriend, to talk to and confide in, but Sister Fenton’s station as a senior nurse, and a spinster at that, left her somewhat out on a social limb. They didn’t often spare any thought for her or her plight at all. Lord knows it was hard enough for them on this world, amongst all these men, but for her? Was this her reaching out for female companionship?

  “Oh. Well, I was just about to examine them. It seems they’ve been out all night and an extra pair of hands would be welcome, Sister.”

  Fenton smiled. It was a disconcerting sight. “Right, well, let’s get on, shall we?” she said, rolling her sleeves up and stepping past Edith into the compound, her businesslike mask hardening into place once again.

  The soldiers were meandering around aimlessly, some were whimpering quietly, some fidgeting, but it was a restless movement, not the involuntary spasms and jerks of shell-shock.

  “I thought you told us that their hysterical symptoms had abated. Do they seem agitated to you?” said Sister Fenton as they walked slowly through the Bird Cage, running appraising gazes over their charges.

  “Yes,” Edith agreed, a frown creasing her forehead. “Yes, they do.”

  She found Townsend.

  “Townsend. What happened? How did you get out there?”

  He looked at her blankly at first, recognition only coming a few seconds later. “Nurse?”

  “You were found wandering out there,” she indicated the veldt.

  “I don’t remember,” he said. “I remember wandering around out there, but I don’t remember how I got there...” He looked at her in entreaty.

  She didn’t know how either. Avoiding his eyes, she began checking his hands and arms. There were lacerations, but from what? Barbed wire? Wire weed? She couldn’t tell.

  She opened his shirt. The swellings on his body had grown in number over the course of no more than a day. The growth at the back of his head had enlarged. She would have asked one of the Urmen who helped out in the hospital tents if the swelling was anything they had come across, but they wouldn’t come near the compound, claiming it was full of ‘bad magic.’

  She was distracted for a moment as a breeze picked up and blew stray stands of hair across her face. She pursed her lips to blow it away before impatiently sweeping and tucking the offending locks away behind her ear.

  “Bell!” called Fenton with a note of urgency. “Bell, look!”

  She looked up. The men were all turning in unison, as if performing some parade ground manoeuvre. They turned into the wind. Was it her imagination, or was there an almost audible sigh of relief, when they felt the wind on their faces as it blew in across the veldt, ruffling hair and billowing shirts?

  Fenton strode from one to another. “They’ve all responded in the same manner. Must be some sort of mass hysteria.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen the like. It appears they’re responding to some atmospheric change,” she observed. “What might it be? Air pressure? Temperature? Humidity?” She looked at Bell, who was just as perplexed by their behaviour. “Maybe your concerns were valid after all, Bell. I think Captain Lippett should see this.”

  Edith stepped in front of Townsend, who now faced the oncoming wind, and waved her hand in front of his unseeing eyes. “Townsend?” There was no reaction.

  She shook another man. “Miller? Miller, what are you doing?”

  Miller said nothing. She tried tugging on his arm, but he stood immobile, transfixed by the wind. They seemed oddly at peace. “Miller!” She turned and faced Sister Fenton, a look of consternation on her face. “I don’t understand, Sister. What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know, Bell, but the wind seems to calm them.”

  Edith looked in the same direction as the men, following their gaze, out across the trenches and the wire weed, out across the veldt with its flattened tube grass, where the last shreds of mist were dispersing; where, among walls of dirt and pyramids of earthen balls, the abandoned Khungarrii also turned to face the oncoming wind.

  She looked up into the blue sky, where carrion creatures shrieked and wheeled, awaiting the first warm updrafts of the day, before dropping her gaze to the horizon, towards the great grey line of clouds that hunkered there. They were moving fast, rolling across the sky towards them. Another few hours and it would be upon them.

  She shivered. “The weather is turning. Looks like there’s a storm on the way.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Hallo, Hallo! Here We Are Again...”

  ATKINS CURLED UP against the bole of a tree, his pack by his side and his rifle clasped to his chest. He was weary to the bone, aching and stiff, but too tired to sleep.

  He was acutely aware of Mathers. It was hard not to be. He sat cross-legged atop the tank on the driver’s cabin, surrounded by lighted candle stubs, still wearing his rain cape, splash mask and turtle helmet, which he never seemed to take off at all these days. He muttered to himself while the rest of his men slept fitfully below.

  It was disconcerting, because he couldn’t make any sense of what Mathers was saying. Sat there in the candle glow, with the small night creatures buzzing and whining around him and crawling all over him, he just looked damn unnerving.

  MATHERS IGNORED THE pain. The unsettled feeling in his stomach was getting worse. The fumes from the engine seemed to be a balm for it, but the engine was off. He had already taken several slugs of distilled petrol fruit from his flask and that seemed to calm it. The problem was he was having to drink more and more of the stuff. Just inhaling the fumes was no longer enough. Now, as he sat here, small creatures of the night attracted to the flame swarmed around him. He let them crawl on him. Any one of them might have a bite that would kill him, but this was a test of faith. He could hear the voice of his god, Skarra, in their incessant buzzing. His god would protect him. All he had to do was give himself over to Skarra completely, without fear. He felt none. Even though he felt a myriad of scuttling legs, fluttering wings, stings and bites, he didn’t even flinch.

  AMONG THE MEN, the fragile truce between the two groups of Tommies was barely holding, each group giving the other distrustful looks, as if just waiting for an excuse.

  Atkins hated being stuck on a wild goose chase with an officer whose orders he couldn’t countermand. They should have been heading back to the encampment. God alone knew if it was still even there. He sat there, imagining a bloody slaughter as the Chatts overran the trenches, and all because he hadn’t returned with the tank in time.

  He glanced over at the tank crew, bivouacked beneath a tarpaulin strung out from the starboard sponson. Alfie Perkins was in the middle of them. He was lying down, his head propped on his
hand, looking across the clearing to where Nellie Abbott slept, near Napoo. After a while, one of his crewmates poked him roughly and reluctantly he lowered his head.

  Chandar lay curled up on its side, almost in a ball, like a woodlouse, a length of rope tying its ankle to a tree root, a formality to mollify the others. There had been several opportunities when Chandar could have escaped but had chosen not to do so. As harmless as the old Khungarrii duffer seemed to be, it was definitely hiding something, part of which involved him, and Atkins very much wanted to know what it was.

  Porgy, Chalky and Pot Shot sat on watch by the fire, and Gazette, Gutsy and Prof lay sprawled out. Gutsy was snoring loudly enough to wake the dead.

  Atkins watched as Porgy got out his deck of cards. It was no ordinary deck. Each card was a small photograph of a girl he claimed he had stepped out with, which was odd because there were at least two of the music hall sensation, Marie Lloyd, in there. When quizzed, Porgy just winked and called them ‘his jokers.’ He started showing them to Prof, trying to engage the depressed man’s interest, reeling off the stories of spooning attached to each one. Atkins grinned as Porgy slapped Prof’s hand away as he tried to have a closer look at a particular card. Porgy’s ambition was to collect enough to create a full deck of cards from them. Poor Porgy. He wondered how his mate would ever complete the set now.

  Gazette turned over. “What’s up, Only, can’t sleep?”

  “No, Gutsy’s farted.”

  “Yeah, at least it’ll keep the beasts at bay.”

  They watched the large Tommy roll over in his sleep smacking his lips contentedly, like a dog in front of a fire.

  Goaded gently by the others, across the campfire, Chalky was in full flow. “The way I heard it, right,” he was saying in a low voice. Pot Shot leaned forwards conspiratorially and smiled encouragingly as he continued, “Only, Everson and Ketch had cornered Jeffries, right, and he was only in the Chatts’ own temple planning to use it for his own black art. He had Nurse Bell tied to an altar and he was poised with a big knife, about to sacrifice her to the devil and it should have been a shoe-in ’cause Jeffries had no other weapons. So Lieutenant Everson tells Jeffries that the game’s up and that he was to give himself up and come with them, his silver dagger poised above Nurse Bell’s heart. But he laughs at them as he raises his hand, right? Like he was going to plunge the knife down, so the lieutenant fires, right, and he shoots it right out of Jeffries’ hand. And he curses, but not in English like you or I—”