It was then that he noticed, sheltering by Jack’s feet, two men. One was naked, bowed, filthy, balanced on only one leg, his hands tied tight behind his back and his neck in a noose. The other end of the rope was held by a man in a tattered and soiled suit, one shoe on, the other missing.
It was Dickson, and his prisoner was Robert Henbury.
The ministry man just happened to glance round as Thacker approached. Certainly, he couldn’t have heard him through the noise. He almost turned back, his eyes not believing what they were seeing. He brought up his pistol, and instinctively Thacker threw his spear.
It was a throw worthy of a hero. The broad leaf blade slammed completely through Dickson, and out the other side, the red, white and blue cloth tied to it turned violent crimson. Dickson sank to his knees and pitched over onto his side. The gun clattered to the floor, and at that, both Henburys looked round.
Thacker didn’t hesitate this time. He put his head down and charged.
Chapter Eleven
He felt time expand. Thacker wasn’t given to moments of pure, unadulterated terror, but he knew that this was what it was like. The only other time had been the two seconds he’d had to stop a balaclavered man from dropping a flask full of plague down a ventilation shaft and into the London Underground.
Two seconds, and he’d unholstered his Browning, emptied the full clip into the man’s chest, and still managed to catch the stoppered bottle before it had fallen a foot.
Everyone except himself moved like they were imbedded in glass. Robert Henbury was still open-mouthed at the death of his immediate captor. Jack Henbury was projecting waves of hate at him, even as he struggled to bring his body around.
Thacker watched Jack’s left foot rise uncertainly, and dived for his right. Mid-flight, he discarded his shield and stretched out both hands for the thin leg.
He connected. How could he fail to? The god span and fell, like a sawn-through tree.
Then time restarted. All the noise and confusion and enormity of what he had done rushed in on him. Unlike the moment in the dark tunnel under the capital, Jack was more than capable of striking back.
Strike he did. The road heaved up in a fountain of stone, blasting Thacker free of his grip. Landing on his back, Thacker kept rolling until he was upright. The houses either side of the street fell in on themselves and roared towards him in a tidal wave of debris.
He jumped back, onto the roof of a car caught up in the flood. It swung and bucked unpredictably, crushed below and sinking. The sea of rubble stopped heaving, and a street light launched into the air like a rocket and arced towards him.
He dodged the great length of steel as it whistled through the car roof and deep into the rock below. Jack got to his feet, slowly, ungainly.
A rumbling beneath him warned him a fraction of a second before another stone fountain ripped the road surface in two. He was showered with earth and cobbles, and was forced back. Jack advanced a step, and the tactic was repeated. No sooner had the last eruption ceased than a new one began, and Thacker was always on the back foot, holding his arms above him to protect himself from the hard rain.
Jack collapsed the last houses in the row, using the rubble to form a bank, then added to it until it became an unstable rampart. He set fires in the other houses, and they quickly began to burn with acrid, black smoke.
He’d trapped Thacker, who’d retreated just about as far as he could. He gathered his powers, and the road surface began to steam.
Thacker looked for a way out. He’d cause an avalanche if he tried to scale the wall of loose stone behind him. It would bury him, and by the time he could free himself, Jack would be able to do anything to him. He could run through the burning buildings to either side. And Jack would drop the first storey on him, and the result would be the same.
He’d made a mistake right back at the very start. He should have thrown his spear at Jack, not Dickson. He’d not get a second chance.
Robert Henbury would, though. He’d cut through his bonds with the bloodied blade of the spear. No-one had the wit to stop him, they were so in awe of their god’s manifestations.
As the tar melted, and Thacker felt his feet begin to burn, Robert Henbury used what little strength he had left to lift the spear up, and to drive it into the back of his cousin’s knee.
Whether it was pain or the sheer surprise of being assaulted by the last person he considered to be a threat, Jack’s concentration broke. He’d never controlled Robert. He wanted him to see everything, to suffer the unique fate of being a conscious witness to the world’s end. Now, Robert twisted the spear haft and drove the point deeper.
Thacker, his boots sinking in molten tarmac, tore himself free and flung himself forward. The air shimmered, blinding him, moving Jack away.
Not trusting his false vision, Thacker went by faith alone. He grabbed something that gave, and twisted with all his might.
The god toppled again.
Thacker pulled the spear free and swarmed up Jack’s body like a brass beetle. He stabbed at his shin, his injured knee, his thigh: quick blows meant to disorientate, not disable.
Jack was looking at him over his prostrate body. As Thacker raised the spear again to bring it down in the thin grey skin over the stomach, an incredible force deflected it aside.
He wrestled with the shaft, trying to bring it back into line. Every muscle was knotted like a cord, and the joints of the suit groaned. They were locked together. Jack even brought up his misshapen arms and started batting Thacker’s back. Physical strength was not his forte, and Thacker hardly noticed.
The point of the spear bore down, slowly but inexorably. It punctured the altered flesh, and Jack writhed and howled in a distant, high whine.
Thacker was suddenly struck blind. The shock of it, the almost audible pop inside his skull, made his whole body spasm. The spear bit deep, then his hands flew to his eyes. He was thrown clear, landed hard on his back, and everything was still dark. He tried to listen above the hoarseness of his breath, the thundering of his pulse in his ears: Jack’s wail kept on and on, slowly fading away. The sound of burning◦– bursting glass, cracking timbers, collapsing floors and ceilings◦– took over.
Someone was picking at his visor, probing for unseen catches.
‘Who’s that? Who’s there?’ He ought to get up, because the mob was still there, and still baying for his blood. But where would he go, and how would he get there? He couldn’t see.
‘Lie still, man,’ said a familiar voice.
‘Henbury? Robert Henbury?’
‘There. That’s done it. Yes, it’s… Good God. Major Thacker.’
‘Why can’t I see?’
‘You’ve blood everywhere. Don’t tell me that you didn’t get that head wound seen to.’
‘There wasn’t time. There was never time.’
‘You ought to have made time. You almost had him.’
‘Jack? Where is he?’
‘Staggered off, holding his guts in. A moment.’ Henbury’s voice lessened, then came back. Something soft, but faintly gritty, was used to wipe the blood away.
Thacker’s vision cleared to the point where he could blink and see a shape leaning over him.
‘What are the others doing?’
‘Currently, standing there watching us. Thacker, the things I’ve seen. I thought the trenches were bad, but if I wasn’t mad before, I certainly am now. I never imagined such depravity.’
‘Will they attack us?’
‘I don’t know. I could ask.’
‘No, don’t. Don’t provoke them. If they’re still under Jack’s influence, they’ll just be waiting for the order.’
Henbury continued wiping. ‘I wish I had some water. Is this some sort of British secret weapon you’re wearing?’