The Tunnel Rats

by Stephen Leather

  Wright had counted to two thousand when he saw the patch of light ahead of him. He stopped and stared at the sunbeam that lanced through the dusty air of the tunnel. It looked solid, almost as if it could be sliced with a knife. He started crawling, oblivious to the pain in his leg, all thoughts of booby traps forgotten, his eyes fixed on the small square of light, staring at it as if he feared it would disappear at any moment.

  He roared with triumph as he got closer, an animal-like bellow that swelled to fill the tunnel. He'd made it. He'd survived.

  He dragged himself up through the opening, and rolled over and over in the sand like a puppy. He stared up at the brilliant blue sky and the white feathery clouds that moved slowly across it, revelling in the fact that he was alive, then rolled on to his front and sat up on his knees, his eyes half closed against the blinding sun. He shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted around, trying to recall where the Mercedes was. If he could find the car, then Chinh, the driver, would help him.

  He tried to get to his feet but he had no strength left and fell back on to his hands and knees. He kept his head down and began to crawl, his left leg dragging in the sand. After several minutes he realised he was in the shadow of a rock formation. He clawed himself up the sandstone rock, then twisted around and sat with his back to it, breathing heavily.

  He rolled up his trouser leg and examined the wound on his calf. His ripped jeans were stained with blood, but the cut itself wasn't too deep. Wright could see grains of dirt among the cut tissue and he realised there was a good chance of the wound becoming infected if he didn't clean it soon. He didn't have any antiseptic or water, so he put his head close to the cut and spat at it several times, then smeared the saliva around it. He tried to spit again but his mouth was too dry.

  'Chinh!' he shouted, but his voice wasn't much more than a hoarse whisper.

  The elation that he'd felt as he climbed out into the open began to fade, and Wright's mind started to wander. A series of disjointed images flashed through his mind. Eckhardt's mutilated body in the Battersea tunnel. The blood streaming from Hammack's chest wound. Bamber, the crazed look in his eyes and the knife in his hand. His father, hanging from the beam, his shoes stinking of urine.

  Wright's head slumped forward and the jolt woke him up. He slapped his face several times, but barely felt the blows. His whole body seemed to have gone numb. He had to find Chinh. He pushed himself up, using the rock for leverage, and scanned the surrounding vegetation. There were no features that he recognised. He staggered out of the shadow and back into the searing sunlight, shading his eyes with his hands. Once he'd walked some distance from the rocks, he turned to look at them, trying to recall what they'd looked like when he and Bamber had first approached the hatch. He stood staring at the rock formation for almost a minute, then figured that they'd come in from an angle to his left. He looked down to see if there were any footprints, but the wind had obliterated all tracks.

  A large black and yellow bird flew overhead and settled in the branches of a spreading tree. Wright staggered towards a gap in the vegetation, wincing each time he put his weight on his left leg.

  He had to stop after a dozen steps to rest. He wiped his forehead with his hand and it came away sopping wet. Sweat was pouring off him. He put his hands on his hips and took deep breaths, then started walking again.

  He heard a noise behind him and whirled around. Bamber was crawling out of the hatch, his knife in his right hand.

  'Wright!' he yelled.

  Wright felt as if he'd been punched in the solar plexus. Any remaining strength he had seemed to drain away from him and his arms hung uselessly at his sides. He was exhausted. He couldn't run. He couldn't hide. He couldn't fight back. He stood and watched as Bamber hauled himself out of the tunnel.

  'It's over, Wright!' shouted Bamber. He walked slowly towards Wright, the knife raised in the air. The steel glinted in the harsh sunlight. The yellow and black bird cawed and took flight.

  Wright's heart began to race and he felt a surge of adrenalin. He turned and staggered into the jungle, pushing branches and vines away with his hands, barely managing a fast walk, his left leg dragging, a dead weight. It was like walking through treacle, as if the ground was sucking at his feet, slowing him down so that every step required a superhuman effort. Wright looked over his shoulder. Bamber was gaining. He too was exhausted, but he didn't have an injured leg and he had a knife.

  Wright turned and forced himself to jog, though every step was agonising. He could hear Bamber breathing and snorting behind him, and the sound of his feet slapping into the dirt. Wright stumbled over a fallen branch and pitched forward. He fell on to his hands and knees, his chest heaving, tears of frustration and rage stinging his eyes. He pushed himself up. In the distance he could see the Mercedes, its windscreen a mass of reflected sunlight. He got to his feet and staggered towards the car, his arms outstretched as if reaching for it.

  His legs became heavier and heavier with each step, but behind him Bamber maintained his pace, breathing like a bull at stud. Wright risked another look over his shoulder. Bamber was only six paces behind him, the knife held high. He was grinning maniacally, his eyes wide and staring, his face smeared with blood and mud like hastily applied warpaint.

  Wright fell again. He hit the ground hard and rolled over on to his back, his hands up in front of his chest in an attempt to defend himself against the attack he knew would come. Bamber slowed and stood over Wright, a look of total triumph on his face.

  Bamber opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, there was a swooshing' sound and something thwacked into his neck, just below his right ear. The look of triumph turned to one of disbelief. His hand clawed up at the object in his neck, but as he touched it his legs folded under him and he fell to his knees. Blood streamed from his neck, and Wright watched in horror as Bamber's mouth worked soundlessly. It was a crossbow bolt, Wright realised. Someone had shot Bamber with a crossbow bolt. Wright scuttled away on his back like a startled crab, but he couldn't take his eyes off Bamber's face. Bamber reached out a hand as if begging Wright to help him, but then he fell face down into the sand.

  Wright rolled on to his front and crawled, head down, towards the car. He had to find Chinh. Blood was pouring from the wound in his leg, but he ignored the pain.

  He crawled into a clearing and towards the Mercedes. 'Chinh!' he shouted hoarsely. There was no sign of the driver.

  As he got closer to the car, Wright heard a muffled ringing sound. It was his mobile telephone. 'The phone!' he muttered. He could use it to call for help. He struggled to the rear of the car and pulled himself up, grunting with the effort.

  He pulled open the boot, then stepped back in horror. Chinh was there, his eyes staring lifelessly up at the sky, dried blood over his chin. The telephone continued to ring. It was inside his suitcase, at the bottom of the boot. Wright grabbed the body by the arms and heaved it out. It dropped on to the dirt with a dull thud. Wright pulled Bamber's metal suitcase out of the boot and placed it next to the body, then opened his own suitcase.

  The mobile was under a pair of Levis. He put it to his ear. It was the last person in the world he expected to hear from. Gerry Hunter.

  'Nick!' said Hunter. 'Thank God.’

  'What the hell do you want, Hunter?' asked Wright.

  'The killer,' said Hunter. 'I know who the killer is.' Wright smiled grimly. He slammed down the boot door 'yeah well, you're about three hours too late,' he said, looking flown at Chinh's corpse.

  'Nick, shut up and listen, will you?' interrupted Hunter 'It was Eckhardt's wife. May. She's the killer.’

  Wright stiffened. He heard a footfall behind him and turned around, slowly. May Eckhardt was looking at him, a puzzled frown on her face. She was wearing black pyjamas and sandals and around her neck was a black and white checked sc^rf. She hiad her hair tied back and her face was streaked with dirt In hier right hand she carried a loaded crossbow; in her left the knife that Bamber had been h
olding.

  Gerry Hunter paced up and down the hallway, his mobile phone pressed against his ear. 'Nick? Are you there?' The phone buzzed and clicked 'Nick?' 'Yes, I'm here.’

  'Did you hear what I said? May Eckhardt killed her husband ' 'Are you sure?’

  'Positive. She was flown out of Vietnam when she was a kid holding a set of dogtags. The dogtags belonged to Max Eckhardt; 1 here was a longer silence. Then the line went dead. 'Nick? Nick, can you hear me?' There was no reply.

  The phone drOpped from Wright's hand. 'Why Mav?' he asked. “

  May slung the crOSsbow on her back and transferred the knife to her right hand.

  |He Was going to kill you,' she said flatly.

  Not Bamber!' he shouted. 'Your husband- And the rest ?r them.’

  Wright fell again. He hit the ground hard and rolled over on to his back, his hands up in front of his chest in an attempt to defend himself against the attack he knew would come. Bamber slowed and stood over Wright, a look of total triumph on his face.

  Bamber opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, there was a swooshing sound and something thwacked into his neck, just below his right ear. The look of triumph turned to one of disbelief. His hand clawed up at the object in his neck, but as he touched it his legs folded under him and he fell to his knees. Blood streamed from his neck, and Wright watched in horror as Bamber's mouth worked soundlessly. It was a crossbow bolt, Wright realised. Someone had shot Bamber with a crossbow bolt.

  Wright scuttled away on his back like a startled crab, but he couldn't take his eyes off Bamber's face. Bamber reached out a hand as if begging Wright to help him, but then he fell face down into the sand.

  Wright rolled on to his front and crawled, head down, towards the car. He had to find Chinh. Blood was pouring from the wound in his leg, but he ignored the pain.

  He crawled into a clearing and towards the Mercedes. 'Chinh!' he shouted hoarsely. There was no sign of the driver.

  As he got closer to the car, Wright heard a muffled ringing sound. It was his mobile telephone. 'The phone!' he muttered. He could use it to call for help. He struggled to the rear of the car and pulled himself up, grunting with the effort.

  He pulled open the boot, then stepped back in horror. Chinh was there, his eyes staring lifelessly up at the sky, dried blood over his chin. The telephone continued to ring. It was inside his suitcase, at the bottom of the boot. Wright grabbed the body by the arms and heaved it out. It dropped on to the dirt with a dull thud. Wright pulled Bamber's metal suitcase out of the boot and placed it next to the body, then opened his own suitcase.

  The mobile was under a pair of Levis. He put it to his ear. It was the last person in the world he expected to hear from. Gerry Hunter.

  'Nick!' said Hunter. 'Thank God.’

  'What the hell do you want, Hunter?' asked Wright.

  'The killer,' said Hunter. 'I know who the killer is.’

  Wright smiled grimly. He slammed down the boot doo*-. 'Yeah, well, you're about three hours too late,' he said, looking down at Chinh's corpse.

  'Nick, shut up and listen, will you?' interrupted Hunter. 'It was Eckhardt's wife. May. She's the killer.’

  Wright stiffened. He heard a footfall behind him and. turned around, slowly. May Eckhardt was looking at him, a puzzled frown on her face. She was wearing black pyjamas and sandals, and around her neck was a black and white checked scarf. She had her hair tied back and her face was streaked with dirt. In her right hand she carried a loaded crossbow; in her left, the knife that Bamber had been holding.

  Gerry Hunter paced up and down the hallway, his mobile phone pressed against his ear. 'Nick? Are you there?' The phone buzzed and clicked. 'Nick?’

  'Yes, I'm here.’

  'Did you hear what I said? May Eckhardt killed her husband.’

  'Are you sure?’

  'Positive. She was flown out of Vietnam when she was a kid, holding a set of dogtags. The dogtags belonged to Max Eckhardt.’

  There was a longer silence. Then the line went dead.

  'Nick? Nick, can you hear me?' There was no reply.

  The phone dropped from Wright's hand. 'Why, May?' he asked.

  May slung the crossbow on her back and transferred the knife to her right hand.

  'He was going to kill you,' she said flatly. 'Not Bamber!' he shouted. 'Your husband. And the rest of them.’

  back on to his hands and knees. He kept his head down and began f to crawl, his left leg dragging in the sand. After several minutes * he realised he was in the shadow of a rock formation. He clawed himself up the sandstone rock, then twisted around and sat with his back to it, breathing heavily.

  He rolled up his trouser leg and examined the wound on his calf. His ripped jeans were stained with blood, but the cut itself wasn't too deep. Wright could see grains of dirt among the cut tissue and he realised there was a good chance of the wound ? becoming infected if he didn't clean it soon. He didn't have any *? antiseptic or water, so he put his head close to the cut and spat at it several times, then smeared the saliva around it. He tried to spit again but his mouth was too dry.

  'Chinh!' he shouted, but his voice wasn't much more than a hoarse whisper.

  The elation that he'd felt as he climbed out into the open began to fade, and Wright's mind started to wander. A series of disjointed images flashed through his mind. Eckhardt's mutilated body in the I.

  Battersea tunnel. The blood streaming from Hammack's chest ?< wound. Bamber, the crazed look in his eyes and the knife in his hand. His father, hanging from the beam, his shoes stinking | of urine.

  Wright's head slumped forward and the jolt woke him up. He slapped his face several times, but barely felt the blows. His whole body seemed to have gone numb. He had to find Chinh. He pushed himself up, using the rock for leverage, and scanned the surrounding vegetation. There were no features that he recognised. He staggered out of the shadow and back into the searing sunlight, shading his eyes with his hands. Once he'd walked some distance from the rocks, he turned to look at them, trying to recall what they'd looked like when he and Bamber had first approached the hatch. He stood staring at the rock formation for almost a minute, then figured that they'd come in from an angle , to his left. He looked down to see if there were any footprints, but the wind had obliterated all tracks.

  A large black and yellow bird flew overhead and settled in the branches of a spreading tree. Wright staggered towards a gap in the vegetation, wincing each time he put his weight on his left leg.

  He had to stop after a dozen steps to rest. He wiped his forehead with his hand and it came away sopping wet. Sweat was pouring off him. He put his hands on his hips and took deep breaths, then started walking again.

  He heard a noise behind him and whirled around. Bamber was crawling out of the hatch, his knife in his right hand.

  'Wright!' he yelled.

  Wright felt as if he'd been punched in the solar plexus. Any remaining strength he had seemed to drain away from him and his arms hung uselessly at his sides. He was exhausted. He couldn't run. He couldn't hide. He couldn't fight back. He stood and watched as Bamber hauled himself out of the tunnel.

  'It's over, Wright!' shouted Bamber. He walked slowly towards Wright, the knife raised in the air. The steel glinted in the harsh sunlight. The yellow and black bird cawed and took flight.

  Wright's heart began to race and he felt a surge of adrenalin. He turned and staggered into the jungle, pushing branches and vines away with his hands, barely managing a fast walk, his left leg dragging, a dead weight. It was like walking through treacle, as if the ground was sucking at his feet, slowing him down so that every step required a superhuman effort. Wright looked over his shoulder. Bamber was gaining. He too was exhausted, but he didn't have an injured leg and he had a knife.

  Wright turned and forced himself to jog, though every step was agonising. He could hear Bamber breathing and snorting behind him, and the sound of his feet slapping into the dirt. Wright stumbled over a fallen bra
nch and pitched forward. He fell on to his hands and knees, his chest heaving, tears of frustration and rage stinging his eyes. He pushed himself up. In the distance he could see the Mercedes, its windscreen a mass of reflected sunlight. He got to his feet and staggered towards the car, his arms outstretched as if reaching for it.

  His legs became heavier and heavier with each step, but behind him Bamber maintained his pace, breathing like a bull at stud. Wright risked another look over his shoulder. Bamber was only six paces behind him, the knife held high. He was grinning maniacally, his eyes wide and staring, his face smeared with blood and mud like hastily applied warpaint.

  Wright fell again. He hit the ground hard and rolled over on to his back, his hands up in front of his chest in an attempt to defend himself against the attack he knew would come. Bamber slowed and stood over Wright, a look of total triumph on his face.

  Bamber opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, there was a swooshing sound and something thwacked into his neck, just below his right ear. The look of triumph turned to one of disbelief. His hand clawed up at the object in his neck, but as he touched it his legs folded under him and he fell to his knees. Blood streamed from his neck, and Wright watched in horror as Bamber's mouth worked soundlessly. It was a crossbow bolt, Wright realised. Someone had shot Bamber with a crossbow bolt.

  Wright scuttled away on his back like a startled crab, but he couldn't take his eyes off Bamber's face. Bamber reached out a hand as if begging Wright to help him, but then he fell face down into the sand.

  Wright rolled on to his front and crawled, head down, towards the car. He had to find Chinh. Blood was pouring from the wound in his leg, but he ignored the pain.