The Ironclad Prophecy

by Kelleher, Pat

  Exhilaration mixed with fear as, across the open, rubble-strewn space, they caught sight of the withered bark gates that once guarded the main entrance to the edifice.

  The ground shuddered beneath their feet as something pummelled away beneath them, making it hard to keep their balance. Great chunks of hardened earth, compacted to rock-like density, plummeted from the domed ceiling high above, like a barrage, exploding around them in rocky shrapnel.

  It was just like going over the top into No Man’s Land, Atkins thought, as they sheltered in the mouth of the tunnel, only here there was no officer’s whistle to set them off. It was down to him. Another time, another place, they had done this before. Atkins checked his rifle. “Mercy, Gutsy, you’re with me. The rest of you, wait for my signal. Leapfrog us. We’ll hold the middle ground while you make for the door. Cover us from there.”

  His section returned almost imperceptible nods. He took a deep breath and darted out in the domed space, amid the pounding and crashing rubble, Mercy and Gutsy at his heels.

  They made a stooped run to the middle of the chamber, weaving between the crashing debris. They threw themselves down by a large chunk of rubble, sweeping the other openings for pursuing tentacles, as the pounding continued around them, reverberating through the chamber. “Come on!” hollered Atkins, beckoning the others.

  Gazette, Chalky, Pot Shot, Porgy and Chandar raced across the open space, dodging masses of falling masonry that sent showers of dirt and rocky shrapnel into the air.

  “Bleedin’ hell, it’s just like old times!” yelled Porgy, flinching as chips and shards of rock whistled past them.

  “Yeah, what price your soft caps now, eh?” said a cocky Pot Shot, patting the steel battle bowler on his head.

  A huge chunk of masonry plunged to the floor and shattered close by. A lump sheered off, smashing the lanky Fusilier in the back of the head. He dropped to the floor like a bag of bones.

  Gazette had gone a few paces before he realised his mate wasn’t by his side. He turned and saw the gangly figure lying on the ground like a broken marionette. “Pot Shot!”

  Gazette ran back to him. He knelt, gathered in the lanky man’s limp limbs, and turned him over. He lifted Pot Shot’s head. His hand came away covered with blood.

  Mercy crouched at his side. “Come on, mate, let’s get him out of here.” He gathered up Pot Shot’s rifle, and slung it over his shoulder, and together the pair of them dragged their fallen comrade to the shelter of the rubble.

  The walls shuddered under the continual impacts. From around them, in the ruins of the edifice, came the sound of collapsing tunnels, crumbling passageways and the awful thud, thud, thud of pounding tentacles. The whole place was coming down.

  Atkins ducked as a piece of roof, the size of a gun limber, smashed down a dozen feet away. They couldn’t stay here. Atkins gave the order. “Make for the door!”

  Gazette and Porgy carried Pot Shot, staggering under his weight and the juddering impacts from under the floor. Chalky stuck with Chandar as they weaved drunkenly towards the opening.

  Cracks crazed across the walls, racing them to the entrance. The mouth of one of the tunnels began to flake and crumble. A tentacle burst from it, flailing blindly.

  Porgy opened fire, five rounds rapid, driving it back.

  “Did you see the size of that?” he grinned.

  The floor bucked beneath their feet. Great blocks of floor split and lifted. The broken slabs tilted violently. Another pounding sent them spinning up into the air.

  “That?” said Gutsy. “Pff. That was a tiddler. Now that,” he said, as a huge tentacle erupted through the floor, “is something worth worrying about.”

  “Don’t like the look of yours much!” Atkins yelled to Gutsy, as they ran, stumbling over the debris towards the door.

  Lumps of roof rained down around them, exploding into dust, adding to the clouds of dirt that already hung in the air.

  Smaller tentacles sprouted violently from the weakened floor about them. They swerved to avoid them, Gutsy taking a swipe at one with Little Bertha.

  Reaching the entrance with Chandar, Chalky gave covering fire, sniping at the tentacles until his ammunition ran out.

  Mercy and Gazette, with Pot Shot between them, stumbled into the sunlight cutting into the chamber. Atkins, Gutsy and Mercy followed close on their heels.

  “Good, shooting, Chalky,” said Atkins, patting the lad on the shoulder. Chalky beamed with pride.

  Under cover of the dust cloud that billowed from the edifice, an oily black mist drifted out of the entrance and something caught Chalky’s ankle. It yanked his feet out from under him. Chandar hissed in alarm.

  “Atkins! Dear God, Only, save me!” he shrieked, his fingers scrabbling at the dirt, leaving brief, bloodied gouges in the earth, as he was dragged feet first back into the waiting darkness.

  Porgy grabbed his wrist, but found himself dragged along too, until his shoulder crashed into a boulder. He screamed and let go.

  Gazette fired three rounds rapid at the tentacle before his magazine emptied, but it wouldn’t release Chalky.

  As the tentacle pulled Chalky into the edifice, he looked pleadingly at Atkins to save him one way or another.

  Gazette spoke urgently. “Only, he’s being dragged into hell. You can save him from that at least.”

  Atkins blinked away the stinging tear in his eye, raised his Enfield, gritted his teeth and fired. Chalky went limp as his now lifeless body was reeled back into the collapsing edifice.

  1 SECTION WAS racing from the shadow of the crumbling building and running towards the tank, shouting. Mathers, peering out of the sponson, couldn’t make out what they were saying over the sound of Ivanhoe’s engine, the ground trembling under a relentless pounding, and the roaring of rubble slides, as parts of the ruined edifice toppled and collapsed.

  Gauging from their urgent waving, however, it meant trouble. Best to be safe. He clambered into the tank, the fug of petrol fruit fumes embracing him as he entered. The engine ran up. The tank made a jerky turn to face the edifice, then lurched towards the retreating soldiers, black smoke belching from its back.

  Tentacles writhed out of the edifice now.

  The soldiers ran past, carrying one of theirs between them, the chatt scurrying alongside. The tank clattered and clanked towards the edifice to face the large writhing tentacles of the creature. This was no job for infantry now. This was a job for the Machine Gun Corps Heavy Section.

  Cecil was loading a shell into the breech of Jack’s starboard six pounder when a huge tentacle unfurled from the disintegrating ruins. It seized the Ivanhoe and began to drag it, slowly, inexorably, towards the edifice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “There’s a Silver Lining in the Sky-ee...”

  EXHAUST FUMES BELCHING from its back, its engine growling, the Ivanhoe clawed doggedly at the ground as it hauled against the tentacle clutching it, like a determined hound worrying a rope. It made some ground, its track plates pawing at the earth, pulling away from the tentacle until it began to lose its grip on the tank, but the creature was unwilling to let its prey go. More tentacles whipped out, lashing themselves around the ironclad, drawing it back again, foot by foot towards the collapsing ruins.

  In a tug of war for its life, the tank fought back valiantly. Bursts of machine gun fire tore through the tentacles. The port gun spoke, demolishing a section of the edifice, bringing it down on yet more tentacles.

  The Ivanhoe’s engine began to whine under the strain. The tracks slipped, losing traction against the slow, insistent pull of the tentacles. Gradually, but certainly, it was being drawn into the edifice. The tank’s tracks scored great long furrows in the ground as the tentacles dragged it towards the gaping entrance.

  Inside the Ivanhoe, the compartment began to fill with black smoke from burning oil and grease. The track wheels clanked and whined, trying to keep purchase on the iron track plates as they slipped.

  “Oh hell, don’t let us throw
a track now, please God,” said Reggie, crossing himself as he passed Norman a shell for the port gun. Before returning to his gear station, he let off a short burst from the belt-fed Hotchkiss machine gun, the bullets chewing through another tentacle.

  “It’s no use, I can’t get a shot!” Norman bellowed over the engine noise.

  From his seat at the front, Mathers indicated that Reggie and Alfie should use the track gears to try to swing the tank to starboard and get him a better shot.

  Reggie put his track into second as Alfie, cursing under his breath, shifted his into neutral. The tank began to swing round to the right. Alfie could feel the gears beginning to judder through the gear lever.

  AS THE IRONCLAD occupied the creature’s attention, Atkins, Mercy, Gutsy and the others dragged Pot Shot to safety across the clearing. A little distance away, a foul smelling fire was still burning itself out.

  Lying discarded on the ground nearby were the two tank crew coveralls, stuffed with stone jars and sacred scents. Chandar chattered and insisted they carry them to safety, too. They picked them up as they passed, dragging them along.

  “Over here!” Nellie waved from the edge of the clearing. “Where’s Chalky?”

  Mercy shook his head.

  “Oh.”

  As soon as they laid Pot Shot down, Nellie, thankful for the opportunity to do something other than watch the tank struggle with the creature, fell to her knees and set to work examining him.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Gazette asked, fearful of the answer.

  With as much care as a battlefield would allow, she gently slipped Pot Shot’s steel helmet off. In some cases she’d seen, that had been all that was holding the skull together, or the brains in.

  Delicately Nellie felt his skull, feeling for fractures or breaks.

  “Is he – ?”

  She let out a small sigh. “No. Thank God. It’s only a scalp wound. He’s suffering from concussion. His helmet probably saved him. He’ll live.”

  Atkins turned his attention to the tank. All he had to do was bring the tank back. One simple order. One simple bloody order. It should have been a piece of cake. His heart sank as he saw it losing its struggle against the creature. The engine whined and the tracks churned up the ground. Despite its weight and power, it seemed to be fighting a losing battle, but at least it was still fighting. “Let’s see if we can’t convince that thing to let go!” Atkins said.

  They moved as close as they dared, took up position and fired at the sinuous tentacles gripping the ironclad. Bullets tore through flesh; others struck the iron hide, sparking as they did so.

  Inside the Ivanhoe, splashes of molten metal, caused by the impact of the bullets, flew around the compartment.

  Cecil shrieked as one hit his cheek, “Jesus, now our own side are trying to kill us too! Why the hell are they shooting at us? Oh, God. Frank said Mathers would get us killed, he did!”

  Jack turned and with a warning glance at Mathers’ back in the driving seat, bellowed into Cecil’s ear. “Button your lip!” Not that Mathers could have heard him over the noise of the engine.

  Across the clearing, Gutsy pulled out a rifle grenade. “Last one,” he said. He dropped it into the barrel of his rifle, braced the shoulder stock on the ground, and fired. The grenade arced through the air, landing near the entrance. It exploded, shredding a tentacle and releasing the tank, even as others sought to take its place.

  The Ivanhoe lurched backwards as its tracks, running in reverse against the pull of the edifice creature, engaged with the ground. Once it had ripped free of the smaller tentacles, Mathers slammed on the brakes. “There’s your shot,” he yelled over the engine.

  “Thank you, sir!” shouted Norman ecstatically as he manhandled the portside gun round. He fired. Through the gunner’s vertical viewing slit in the gun shield, he saw the shell explode and a section of huge, black tentacle vaporise in a plume of atomised flesh and ichor. “Yes!”

  Seconds later, Jack fired the starboard gun. That, too, hit home. The creature thrashed in pain, its tentacles demolishing the edifice, sending rubble crashing down on the Ivanhoe. The tank jerked into motion, reversing clear of the tumbling debris.

  The Ivanhoe’s guns fired again, bringing down more of the decaying structure. The tentacles wavered uncertainly, and then, by degrees, retreated into the ruins with a long, low rumble of pain.

  WATCHING THE ROUT of the creature, as the shelling of the ironclad drove it back underground, the Fusiliers cheered in jubilation. It was short lived.

  Cutting through the rumble of the edifice and growl of the tank, came the crashing sound of trees creaking and falling and the high-pitched jabbers and squeals of animal fear.

  Atkins’ eyes narrowed. Where the hell had they come from? The dulgur had hunted the area clean of game, hadn’t it? He noticed the queer cast of light across the clearing, a strange kind of pre-storm twilight. It was as if the sun were being filtered through dirty glass.

  “What now?” He looked up, irritated.

  An immense bank of drifting clouds was obscuring the sky. No, not clouds; creatures, with vast snake-like members hundreds of feet long, hanging beneath them, tearing up trees, lifting them into the sky, plucking animals from the canopy as though they were grazing.

  The ruined edifice and the clearing around it fell under a twilight shadow as they drifted across the sky, eclipsing the sun overhead.

  Atkins watched in horror as the animals were flayed, as they rose to where yet more tendrils grasped the things and fed them into great wet mouth tubes. Underneath the tubes, swarms of black things danced like flies around dung.

  Mercy gaped up at the sight. “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

  “Get under cover!” yelled Akins. Not that anyone needed telling. They ran for the shelter of the trees. They all saw what was happening to beasts snatched up by the shoal of airborne leviathans overhead. None of them wanted to be next.

  The great sky-borne creatures filling the sky drifted over, oblivious to their presence. The light strained through the massive translucent gas sacs that kept them aloft, like huge living zeppelins.

  “What the hell are they?”Atkins yelled above the cacophony.

  Chandar chittered and shrunk down on it legs, almost as if it were trying to curl itself into a ball. “GarSuleth protect us!”

  “Kreothe!” said Napoo, craning his neck and watching them in fear.

  “That’s bad, then, is it?” Mercy remarked as he looked up to watch the stately procession of creatures across the sky. Most had their long limbs curled up under their gas sacs. Only a few of the bigger ones fed as they drifted lazily over the jungle, dragging their long snake-like limbs, dredging the ground for food.

  There was a terrible sound, a long low bass cry from the edifice, accompanied by the sound of collapsing walls crushing vegetation as they fell.

  A huge Kreothe floated sedately over it, its long harvesting tendrils draped below it, into the ruins. Although the creature was hidden by the ruins, Atkins could see its black tentacles lashing and wrestling with the trailing tendrils of the Kreothe, wrapping themselves around them, trying to pull the sky leviathan down.

  The two great beasts grappled tentacle-to-tendril, appendages slipping and sliding through and round and over as they each tried to gain an advantage.

  The Kreothe’s vast gas sacs inflated and it rose up, accompanied by the sound of crashing as walls collapsed. There was a terrible cry, a deep bass groan that shook the ground around them and a deep sickening tearing as the Kreothe ripped the creature from its setting amid the ruins, uprooting it, and drawing it up into the air.

  As the Kreothe drifted over the section, it worked to haul in its slippery catch. Long harvesting tendrils firmly gripped the black, shapeless creature. Where they gripped it, great wounds opened, as if it were being flayed. Now seen whole, the creature looked to Atkins like a shellfish plucked from its shell, slick, wet and raw.

  In retaliation, the creature threw up tentacl
es around the Kreothe’s feeding tendrils, while lashing down at the spindly scab trees below, trying to anchor itself, but they, too, were torn from the ground.

  The black shapeless mass writhed and shifted, extruding new tentacles to thrash against the gas sacs of the Kreothe. Locked in a life or death struggle, the two creatures each fought to dominate and subdue the other, tentacles wrapping, enfolding, and choking.

  The flock of scavenger things began to swarm about the shapeless creature, pecking and tearing.

  The creature had now gained a purchase on the sky beast’s gas sac and pulled itself up, allowing its form to change and flow, trying to engulf and swallow its opponent.

  They drifted off over the crater, the slow silent battle shifting first one way and then the other. It seemed that the epic sky duel would continue until one lost out to sheer exhaustion.

  “Only!”

  Atkins’ attention returned to the ground. A smaller Kreothe had latched onto the tank and was trying to haul the Ivanhoe up, but the sheer weight of the ironclad resisted its efforts. It lowered several more harvesting tendrils in an effort to increase its grasp on the vehicle.

  It proved too heavy for the Kreothe to lift, yet it was unwilling to let go of its prize and, as the wind drove the enormous creature on, it dragged the Ivanhoe backwards with it across the clearing, almost, but not quite, lifting it clear of the ground.

  The tank couldn’t get enough traction on the ground to drive in the opposite direction and break free. Occasionally, the tracks would bite into the earth and it would make some small, defiant gain of ground, only to be lifted off again. Atkins could see its guns trying to target the Kreothe above, but they couldn’t get enough elevation.

  “Damn! Come on!” said Atkins. “Napoo, stay there with Nellie and Pot Shot, don’t let anything happen to them.”

  The section moved off quickly, staying in the shelter of the trees to take cover from the great dredging sky limbs. Chandar lagged behind, hesitant.