Thacker thought hard. ‘I still don’t know. What if Dickson’s right? I think you’re mad, but are you telling me the truth?’
‘You said you were only going to ask me that once.’
‘So I did.’
He heard distant gunfire, echoing through the night. Rifle, fully automatic, one long burst until the magazine was empty. Adams sat up abruptly, crying out in alarm.
‘Stay here,’ said Thacker. Of course they would stay. They had no choice.
In the dark and the rain, the guards at the main gate were scanning the Hall and the wasteland around it with night sights.
‘Who fired?’
‘Someone down at the house. We’ve lost radio contact with the men by the kitchen door.’
‘Tell everyone else to stay in position. No one’s going off half-cocked.’ More soldiers came up behind him, struggling to put on pieces of kit as they ran. He waited until he had collected half a dozen of them, then stepped through the barrier and started down the drive.
‘Sir? What about your suit?’
‘I think the creeping plague is the least of our worries. Keep trying on the radio. Tell me if you get through. Right, you lot. Double time down to the Hall. Stay together, keep your eyes peeled. If you see anything that’s not human, kill it.’
Chapter Seven
They found one soldier in the shadow of the workshop wall. He was just standing, swaying slightly backwards and forwards, holding his rifle loosely in his arms. The rain fell on him as it did everyone else.
Thacker motioned for his troop to halt, then approached the man slowly. He swung a borrowed torch around until he found the man’s name tag.
‘Patterson? Easy son.’
He got close enough and reached out to take the gun from Patterson’s unresisting grip. Slowly, the squaddie became aware of the officer, and that he wasn’t wearing a respirator. He slid back his hood, and unbuckled his own rubber mask.
‘It got Gary, sir.’
He pointed at three separate shapes on the ground down by the paint-peeled kitchen door.
Thacker dispatched two men to investigate. They got within a few feet, and recoiled in horror.
‘Sir, he’s in pieces.’
Thacker walked over, shining his torch. There was a head, together with part of the right shoulder. There was a torso, one arm attached, one arm not. And there were the legs. As if the body was a statue, and dropped to the ground.
Or perhaps frozen.
‘Patterson? Did you see what did this?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Was it like an octopus that walked on its legs?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, much to the consternation of the others.
‘Did you hit it?’
‘It’s over by the wall, sir. I just kept on firing. I don’t think there’s much of it left.’
A cluster of torch beams darted to the wall, picking out the gouges in the brickwork and the dark splatter that was still dripping in sticky strands to the ground. Thacker drew his pistol, chambered the first round, and advanced.
It was there, in the angle between dirt and building. It looked like an explosion in a python’s nest. There were thick, ropy tentacles coiled this way and that, joined by thin shreds of dark, rancorous flesh where its head had been. It looked very dead.
‘Someone keep an eye on this.’ He waited until a couple of rifles had been trained on the remains, then went to inspect the soldier.
The man’s protective suit was covered in a veneer of ice, and where the body had broken, he could see layers like tree rings: clothes, skin, flesh, bone.
‘What happened to him?’ asked someone.
Thacker knew, but didn’t tell. He looked around and saw a corporal standing nearby. ‘You, man.’
‘Sir?’
‘Take charge. Stand right here, in a circle, facing out, away from the buildings as best you can. Patterson, reload and come with me.’
Almost in a dream-like state, Patterson wandered over, and Thacker shook him hard.
‘Time for nightmares later. Right now, we’ve got a job to do.’ Still holding onto his arm, Thacker dragged him around the front of the building to the main doors. He shouted to the pair of guards on duty there: ‘Radio. Get the Warrior down here, along with every last man who can carry a weapon. Break out the anti-tank rockets and grenades.’
Patterson stumbled along behind him. ‘Sir? What’s happening, sir?’
‘I think we’re being invaded.’ He deposited the man with the guards and flipped out his mobile phone. It rang and rang, and finally:
‘Dickson.’
‘Thacker. We have a situation.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Ankhani. Lost one man, sentry killed it.’
Dickson was silent while he digested the information. ‘You think there’s more?’
‘Pound to a penny there are. I’m taking up defensive positions around the house, and if I get the chance, I’m taking out the machine.’
‘You mustn’t do that. That machine is of paramount importance.’
‘That’s how they’re getting through, and I’m going to shut it down, one way or another.’
‘No.’
‘And while you’re there, tell the PM to keep the nuclear option open.’
‘Don’t touch the machine, Thacker. Do you hear me?’
‘Try and stop me.’ He flicked the phone shut and ignored the immediate call back. ‘Radio, now.’
One was pressed into his hands.
‘Comms. I want you to get on to Whitehall, find the most senior officer on duty, and tell him I need men, ammunition, tanks, artillery, gunships and ground attack aircraft. With a bit of luck they might offer us a platoon or two.’
There were soldiers, white-faced, running down the drive. The Warrior had lumbered to life, as had a couple of four-ton trucks and a Land Rover. Their headlights were bright and sharp. They hurt Thacker’s eyes and ruined his night vision. He turned away, blinking.
‘Move fifty yards out. We’ll dig in there and set up a firing line.’ As he spoke, he saw thick grey ropes snake out around the front door, feeling its weight before opening it. He shot at the door, and the tentacles rushed back inside. ‘Run.’
The four of them ran towards their own advancing line. There were shouts for them to duck, to get out of the way, but Thacker urged those with him on until he thought he’d covered enough ground.
‘Down and turn. Fire at will. Aim for the heads.’
And now he could see why the soldiers behind him were so desperate. Ankhani, bloated ichor-filled sacs with glittering eyes, were bounding on their sinuous grey limbs towards him, closing the distance with a tremendous rush of speed. A dozen, two dozen, more, were charging him, spraying black mud in a storm around them.
He was momentarily transfixed, lying on the sodden ground, feeling the moisture wick up beneath him and the rain fall on his back. He heard the man next to him click his rifle to automatic, and the roar of gunfire.
The muzzle flashes were sparks of flame, the empty cases a red-hot cascade of metal that sang over his head. Thacker came to, and tried to pick his targets.
The Ankhani burst and fell, their fragile heads ripped apart by the force of the bullets. As more men lay in the mud and aimed their rifles, the noise grew from singular pops and individual rasps of gunfire into a continuous bellow of rage.
Still they came, pouring through the front doors. The Warrior trained its cannon there and fired until it ran out of shells.
Thacker retreated from the front line, ordering a dozen men to support those by the kitchen door. Some wise sergeant was issuing fresh clips of ammunition before they were needed.
Two men lifted a fat green crate from one of the trucks.
‘Those the missiles?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Do you know how to operate them?’