"No, seriously," Mary said urgently. "What can we do?"
>From the very depths of his soul, Professor Einstein heaved a mighty sigh. "I honestly have absolutely no idea, Niece."
Without comment, Mary reached out to clasp Benjamin's hand, her dainty fingers almost lost in his grip. Toying with a spoon, the professor put an ungentlemanly elbow on the table and listened to the growing sounds of the destruction of London.
"This could be the beginning of the end of the world," Professor Einstein admitted glumly.
***
Charging up the sidewalk, the breathless police constable slammed open the door to Metropolitan Central.
"Oy!" he shouted to the boisterous mob of policemen milling about inside. "There's a bloody great squid tearing up Waterloo Road!"
"We know," a burly sergeant said, tossing over a carbine rifle.
Making the catch, the constable could only stare aghast at the weapon. He hadn't touched a rifle since training days!
"This also," the sergeant added, passing a bulky shoulder bag made of military canvas.
The bag was surprisingly heavy. The constable opened it to discover a dozen boxes of ammunition. Bloody hell!
"What are my orders, sir?" the constable managed to ask, while working the bolt to load the weapon.
"Maintain order, and prepare for an evacuation," the sergeant said brusquely. "Plus, shoot any looters. And if you get the chance, pop a few rounds towards the Loch Ness monster."
In ragged stages, the room became totally quiet.
"Cor blimey, tain't really, is it?" somebody asked, above his knocking knees.
Breaking open his Webley revolver to check the load, the old sergeant scowled. "Who knows? I don't care if it comes from Mars or the Bermuda Triangle! Our task is civilian control. The military will do that nasty up a proper treat."
The faces and hearts of the constables lightened at that pronouncement. Yes, indeed. What invader could possibly stand against the might of the Royal British Army?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ripping the roof from a warehouse on College Street, the Squid God gobbled the raw fish and sides of beef, using two ropy limbs to shovel the food non-stop into its mouth. Ah, until you come back, you never realize how much you miss home cooking!
On the ground, a group of shouting men smashed lanterns onto barrels of oil. Soon, the warehouse was ablaze. The shouting changed to cheering as the fire spread, and the disgruntled squid knocked down a burning wall and sadly moved on. Fried food? Bleh.
Lumbering across the Humberford Bridge with bits of stonework splashing into the river in its wake, the squid reached the Charing Cross embankment. Lifting an overloaded rowboat from the shore, it slurped down the sailors like an oyster from its shell, and then swallowed the boat as well for a bit of roughage. Ignoring the Authors Club as unworthy, the squid ate a milk cart, complete with driver, horses, and the glass bottles, and then proceed down the street until it encountered Cleopatra's Needle.
Hmm.
Languidly, it wrapped a tentacle about the lower half and pushed. The stone cracked in half, and the squid began using the monument as a pick to clear something caught in its beak. For some reason this seemed to annoy the locals more than anything it had done so far. How very odd.
At breakneck speed, a steam locomotive charged straight at the squid as it started across the railroad tracks. On board, the engineer and stoker together shoveled more coal into the roaring engine already under full steam. The boiler was ready to burst from the mounting pressure. Rocketing along the tracks, the juggernaut was almost upon the Squid God, when the monster flicked out several tentacles and snatched the train off the tracks. With a hoot of delight, the squid grasped the main driving wheels and chuckled as the locomotive spun about like a child's whirligig. Soon tiring of the toy, the squid gave a twitch and the locomotive went sailing away high above the city.
Seeing no more trains to play with, the squid wriggled further along the river, eating horses, people, and small buildings in a non-stop orgy of inhuman gluttony.
***
On a main street, iron-shod hooves clattered on the cobblestones as a full company of Royal Dragoons rode into view. Pausing at an intersection, the white-faced riders straightened their green coats, leveled their deadly six-yard-long lances, and prepared to charge. Frowning, the major stared through field glasses to find the enemy, and then almost inhaled his moustache at the sight of the squid.
"We're to use lances and swords against that ?" the major screamed. "Are those fools on Downing Street mad?"
Without waiting for an answer, the fat major turned and bellowed, "Dragoons, retreat!"
"You stinking coward!" a corporal screamed, releasing his reins. Drawing a pistol, the soldier shot the officer dead.
"Dragoons!" the corporal bellowed, waving the smoking gun. "Charge!"
However, the trumpeter sounded retreat anyway. Unfortunately, the lancers and soldiers were busy fighting to keep control of their mounts, given that the horses screamed and bucked in raw terror at the grotesque sight of the towering squid now looming above them…
***
A major on a nearby rooftop grimaced at the sight of chaos below. Damn the cavalry! "Lieutenant," he shouted, "have the 104thand the 57thtake positions on these roofs! Horses are worse than useless. The Highlanders will have to hold the road! Send a runner to the field headquarters. We'll need bloody cannon to kill this thing!"
Blaring bugles relayed the orders, and soldiers raced to obey.
Meanwhile, the troopers on the street had begun firing upon the monster as it ripped apart an orphanage searching for a little snack.
"Company, cease independent firing!" a color sergeant shouted furiously, his bristle moustache quivering. "You will fire upon my orders! Form two columns for volley fire!"
With oft-practiced ease, the soldiers quickly formed a double line across the road, leaving the pavement clear for the hordes of civilians to run past them.
"It's the apocalypse!" a man shouted, waving a Bible.
Another fellow knocked him down, stole the Bible, and was promptly shot by a constable.
Hundreds more people streamed by in every conceivable stage of dress: a clean chimney sweep, a butcher with cleaver in hand, a bare-breasted woman, a gang of ragged children, and a group of men and women carrying a tall man holding a whiskey crock.
"Wha' y'mean it's really there?" the drunk demanded. "Shitfire! Leg it, lads!"
"We are, mate!" shouted one of the people carrying him. "Now shut up and keep still!"
The crowd seemed to take heart as they saw the soldiers standing at the ready, and many gave a 'hurrah' as they passed by at a full run.
"Steady on," the sergeant ordered in a soothing voice. "Doomsday or not, you'll follow orders, or answer to me."
Most of the civilians were past the soldiers as the squid finished rooting through the cellar. The creature consumed one last pit bull, gave a polite burp, and turned in the direction of the soldiers.
Ah, the demon squid thought gleefully, I just love a man in uniform.
"Fire!" the lieutenant cried, and the front row of guns boomed. "Advance!"
In sharp response, the first line knelt to reload, while the second line took aim.
"Fire!" the major cried, and the second row of guns discharged in perfect unison.
"Advance!" The second line stepped in front of the first, knelt, and began to reload. The first line stood.
"Fire! Advance!"
"Fire! Advance!"
"Fire! Advance!"
In wry amusement, the Squid God watched the maneuvers. Sure and steady, the troopers moved up the street, their rounds hitting it with machine precision. The rooftop gunners joined the battle, and a series of continuous volleys now struck the hellbeast from every direction. Then even more troops joined the assault. The volley became a barrage, a fusillade, a bombardment!
Furrowing its mottled brow in concentration, the squid roughly calculated that the
soldiers would march into the range of its tentacles in five minutes. That was rather impressive for a suicide ritual. So it relaxed to watch the show and wait for dinner to arrive.
***
In the War Office at Whitehall, the general in charge of Her Majesty's Royal Forces raised his head from the war map as striding footsteps sounded from the hallway. Then the door slammed aside and in strode Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli.
"Well?" Disraeli snapped, sidestepping a group of scurrying clerks. "What the devil is happening out there? Report!"
"The situation is poor, Prime Minister," General McTeague said, glancing out the nearest window. "The civilians are stampeding and rioting. The police have been armed to help stop any looting. Five thousand troops fill the city and the reserves have been activated. The Horse Guards have been divided. Half have been sent to help patch any holes in our defensive arc, and the rest are on the way to Buckingham Palace."
"Sounds good," the Prime Minister said resolutely. "Well done!"
"No, it is not," McTeague countered angrily. "We had established emergency medical facilities at several locations, but so far there has been no need for them."
"How can that be? That monstrosity has ravaged several square miles of the city!"
"Because, Mr. Disraeli, the creature devours anybody it encounters. There are no wounded."
That somber observation caused the Prime Minister to signal for a chair, and a corporal delivered one posthaste.
"What about deploying the Navy?" Disraeli asked, sitting down heavily.
Surrounded by a mob of scurrying military aides, General McTeague walked over to a large map of London tacked to the wall. "Four iron-clad gun boats, two destroyers, and ten gunnery ships are on the way from the yards. As you can see, the thing is still close enough to the river that the Navy should be able to hit it fairly easily with their large guns."
"Wouldn't that simply drive the creature inland?"
"No, Prime Minister. Because we have already set cannon positions at St. Clements, Blackfriars, Leicester, and Charing Cross," the General said, indicating the positions on the map. "The monster will be caught in the crossfire, without any place to run."
"Excellent!"
Scowling darkly, McTeague returned to the strategy table. Colored markers and tiny flags showing troop locations covered the map of London, with a large ball of twine sitting prominently near the Strand Hotel to mark the current spot of The Thing. They had markers for German gunships, Russian balloons, even American Cavalry, but who could have foreseen this?
"I only hope this is enough," the General added softly.
"Whatever do you mean?" Prime Minster Disraeli asked, accepting a cup of tea from an aide. "It sounds like a rather good plan!"
"But you haven't seen this bloody thing, sir," the General said, gazing at the smoky city. "And I have."
***
A sweaty officer slashed downward with a saber, cutting the blindfolded draft horses free from the wheeled cannon. Another officer shouted orders, and teams of frantic soldiers positioned the weapon on the road before St. Clements Church, while privates carefully unloaded 12-inch shells from a straw-laden lorry. There were forty assorted cannon filling the intersection in a broad semi-circle, including ship cannon, garrison pieces, siege guns, and even some massive field artillery.
Dozens more wagons constantly arrived, carrying shells and powder, even though there were already enough explosives at the barricade to sink Gibraltar. The big guns, garrison and siege class, were aimed west on the Strand: the monster's most likely avenue of approach. The ship's cannons, backed by field artillery, were pointed northwest on Aldwych and south on Milford Lane, just in case.
Taking a brief swig from a canteen, the colonel in charge of the artillery post reflected that similar batteries had been formed at other critical intersections, and he could only guess at the defenses of Buckingham Palace. Thank God the animal is heading in the wrong direction!
Soon stripped empty of their deadly cargo, the lorries were rolled into position and toppled over to form a crude barricade. Razor-sharp pikes were placed in clusters between the wheel spokes, and barrels of fulminating guncotton with fast-burning fuses were hidden under crates of nails.
Several blocks away, a small building collapsed. The Squid God began picking through the rubble.
"Does that bloody thing do anything else but eat and kill?" a sergeant demanded of nobody in particular.
"Not so far, Sarge," a corporal replied. "You would think by now it might need to use the loo."
"It's getting bigger," a private said, shifting his grip on a Henry rifle. "The more it eats, the larger it becomes. Not fatter, mind you. Bigger in size."
The other soldiers paled at that news, but continued their work with a renewed determination.
"Bring about the other guns!" the colonel bellowed, ignoring the trickle of sweat running down his back.
Moving in unison, grim soldiers swarmed over the other cannons and swung them around until every weapon was pointing at the monster mollusk.
"In position and loaded, sir," a lieutenant said with a salute.
"Fire!" the colonel shouted, brandishing a fist.
The barrage of shells hit the squid, along with several nearby buildings. The missed rounds blew off chunks of granite and liberally peppered the creature with shrapnel. When the smoke cleared, the squid dripped green blood. Strangely, it appeared to have only taken damage from the shrapnel, and none at all from the shells that had hit it directly.
Radiating a monstrous fury, the Squid God turned to glare hatefully at the massed troops. Once more, the death rays lanced from its bulging eyes, and the first row of men simply exploded into a bloody mist.
Frantically grabbing shells and shot, the rest of the terrified troops quickly reloaded. The colonel tried to speak but could only manage a high-pitched squeak. His batsman handed over a canteen of Scotch whiskey and the officer took a quick swallow. Invigorated, the officer now managed to bellow, "F-fire all g-g-guns!"
In ragged stages, the cannons loudly spoke again. This time, every shell precisely hit the oncoming squid and created no visible damage. Hooting a war chant, the squid increased its speed. When it moved over the barricade, the hidden barrels of guncotton were detonated. As the blast filled the street, the whole body of the squid visibly rippled, its eyes bugged out, and wisps of smoke shot out of its previously unnoticed ears. The behemoth wobbled, and then it weebled. The cadre of soldiers held its breath. Then the squid's eyes uncrossed and swiveled in their direction. Raising two tentacles to expose its underside like a saucy French can-can dancer, the squid then spat a cloud of nails out of its beak, the hellstorm of bent iron cutting down squads of soldiers. Men shrieked, gunpowder charges detonated, and the squid advanced.
Engulfing the intersection with its tentacles, the squid cut off any possible escape by pulling up chunks of the roadway. Completely trapped, but not yet defeated, the British soldiers bravely emptied handguns and rifles into the beast, while others used swords, lances, and pikes.
Quite unaffected by the metal weapons, the squid simply swept the struggling men into its insatiable maw with long fluid motions. Munching the tasty treats, the squid considered the actions of the humans. If they were making this big a fuss, then it would seem logical that the ornate building over by the small lake must be where their leader lives. Excellent! Eating the emperor would add greatly to the confusion and fun.
When no more soldiers remained, the titanic squid licked its beak clean and headed in a westerly direction, wriggling straight towards Buckingham Palace.
***
>From the second-story window of a private home, a tall, thin man contemplated the increasing devastation.
"Doctor, come quickly!" he shouted, laying aside his Meerschaum pipe. "A giant squid appears to be ravaging London!"
"Come off it, old man," a somber voice replied from inside the flat. "It's just another of your cocaine delusions."
"No, I sw
ear! A colossal squid!" the thin fellow said, peering at the monster through a spyglass. "Dutarian, I'd say. About four thousand years old."
"Nonsense!" a fat man snorted, waddling in from the other room. "Now how the hell could you possible know its age from just looking at the thing?"
"Elementary, my dear John. You see…"
But the dissertation was interrupted by the arrival of a steam locomotive dropping out of the sky and crashing onto the apartment. The meteoric impact flattened the entire building, leaving only a group of howling urchins standing in the street, and the smell of freshly baked bread.
***
On the other side of London, a platoon of soldiers struggled to carry a lumpy, canvas-wrapped object along a dank alley behind Morley's Hotel on Trafalgar Square. The item was larger than a pregnant cow, and seemed heavier than original sin. Over the rooftops of the brick buildings lining this street, only the smallest part of the monster squid could be seen.
Very briefly, Lieutenant Curtis checked a map. "This is it. The Lion and Eagle Tavern. Sergeant, break down that door."
A single hard kick from Color-Sergeant MacScott rendered the portal passable. The platoon of soldiers swarmed inside. The storage room was empty, and the bar itself was completely deserted. There was money lying on the counter, and a spilled beer still dripped onto the sawdust floor.
Crossing to the front shutters, the Lieutenant gently swung them open just enough to see several of the mottled tentacles of the invader filling the street outside. Perfect!
"Move these tables," Lieutenant Curtis whispered, pointing around the bar. "There, and over there! Quickly now, lads! Double time!"
In short order, the platoon created a clear area before the window and set their cargo down with grunts of great relief.
Taking a small can from a canvas bag at his side, Corporal Moorehouse went about oiling the hinges on the shutters, while the rest of the platoon busied itself cutting the ropes and peeling back the canvas to reveal the shiny mechanism of a brand new Gatling gun.
THAT DARN SQUID GOD Page 27