“What’s this now, the fucking Incredible Hulk?” Hynd said as the ringing in their ears from the shooting started to fade.
“Wrong comic, Sarge,” Wiggins replied. “We’re in Fantastic Four territory here; it’s the fucking Thing.”
“Whatever the fuck it is, we know we can keep it at bay,” Banks said, peering in the direction where the thing had gone and seeing only more snow. “So eyes peeled and move out, lads. We need to be somewhere we can defend.”
Hynd and Wiggins took up the litter this time and Banks and Davies ploughed the road, all of them fully alert now, the adrenaline from the attack masking their tiredness as they headed as fast as they could muster for the clifftop and their path down to shelter.
They found the path more by luck than judgement only twenty feet to the left of where they ended up at the cliff edge. Banks used his rifle light to check ahead; there were no fresh tracks on the trail but just looking at it made him weak at the knees. Although it had a gentle gradient in the main, there had been steep portions in places coming up, especially at tight corners, and now it was covered with more fresh snow. It was still blowing a gale and they were going to have to get the injured Wilkins safely down without the litter and the private on it careering off and away down to the harbor far below.
And that’s even before we worry about the fucking rock gorilla at our back.
“Easy does it on the way down, lads,” he said. “There’s coffee and a dram waiting for us down there. Let’s make sure we all get there in one piece.”
They took it slowly. Where they were able, all four of them took a corner of the litter but at some corners the trail was only wide enough for single file and those spots they took even slower still. The wind threatened to toss them off the path at every exposed point and twice they had to hug the cliff face and get Wilkins up on his feet to negotiate particularly sharp, windswept corners. On the second of these, a gust of wind caught the private, setting him off balance and by instinct he put his weight on the broken leg.
His wail of pain was answered by a roar, like clashing rocks, from high above them.
Banks turned to the others.
“Sarge, Davies, get Wilkins down off this fucking cliff ASAP. See what you can do to make one of yon huts defensible for the rest of the night. Wiggo, you’re with me. We’ll hold here, give the others time to get down.”
It was only a minute before Banks and Wiggins were alone on the track, the others having become lost to sight in the storm. The angry roar came again from above them.
“I think somebody needs a Snickers,” Wiggins said.
“It’s a boot up the arse he’s needing,” Banks replied. He pushed in his earplugs and Wiggins followed suit then Banks knelt on the path, with Wiggins standing above him, both aiming up the trail towards the clifftop.
“Will it come?” Wiggins said.
“We pissed it off. It’ll come,” Banks said and as if in reply, the huge gray figure came down the trail at a run towards them.
Wiggins shouted, even as Banks was taking aim.
“Stop. Why don’t you just fucking stop.”
To their amazement the thing came to a halt, standing still in the wind some ten feet up the slope above them. Banks saw that its eyes were little more than deep black pits in a craggy face but there was nothing unrecognizable about the way it cocked its head to one side, listening. Wiggins didn’t waste any time, putting three shots into its face as Banks put three in its belly. They didn’t to do any discernible damage, although Banks thought he saw something slough off the body where his bullets struck it.
And there was also no mistaking the look the thing gave as it roared again and wheeled away at speed, heading away into the storm; it was a look of confusion — that and betrayal.
They waited for several minutes but there was no sign that the thing might return.
“Cover me, Wiggo,” Banks said. “I think I saw something.”
He went back up the slope to where the beast had been standing. There, in a hollow made by its giant footprint, he found a lump of tissue the size of his thumb. One end of it felt hard, like cold stone but the other end was soft and when he touched it, the fingers of his glove came away bloody.
He showed Wiggins his fingertips and the corporal smiled grimly.
“Well, at least it bleeds. That’s a start.”
- 10 -
They waited on the path for five minutes, both to ensure the beast wouldn’t return and to give the others below time to find shelter and make it safe. Wiggins even relaxed enough to have a cigarette but Banks couldn’t bring himself to drop his guard; the memory of being tossed aside like a discarded coffee cup was still large in his mind — it would be a while yet before he got over the wound to his dignity.
But after a while, with the wind showing no sign of getting any less — or any warmer — he called time on their vigil.
“Let’s go, Wiggo. With any luck, the sarge will have a brew on.”
They descended quickly to the shore and neither of them gave a look to the ruined hut and the strewn body parts, now almost obscured again in snow. The lights were on in the hut where they’d spent the night before and they found Davies working on Wilkins and Hynd getting a fire going in the grate. There was already a pot of water boiling up on the camp stove.
Banks’ first thought wasn’t for heat but for the wounded man. He went quickly to Davies’ side, initially dismayed to see that Wilkins was unconscious. Davies put him right.
“I put him out, Cap,” the private said. “We found enough sedatives in yon lab next door to keep him pain-free all the way home; I think that’s for the best.” He showed Banks several tall jars filled with a milky fluid. “An opiate of some kind. Which one I’m not sure, but it’s strong stuff.”
“Talking of strong stuff,” Wiggins said as he got some coffee going on the stove. “What was that all about out there, Cap? If I’d known it was going to obey me, I’d have told it to fuck off. Why did it stop?”
Banks didn’t have an answer for that. He put a hand in his pocket and took out the sat phone. His fingers touched the old journal that was still sitting inside his jacket.
“I don’t know, Wiggo. But maybe the answer’s in this book. In the meantime,” he said, tossing the phone to the corporal, “see if you can get this bugger of a thing working, will you? Yon supply boat skipper’s expecting a call in the morning. I’d hate to disappoint him.”
Hynd had got the fire going and had now set up guard by the door. He banged on the wall beside the doorway.
“This is the strongest of the huts, Cap,” the sergeant said. “But seeing as how our boy survived a shitload of C4 and a cave falling on his head, I don’t ken what good it’s going to do us.”
Banks removed the lump of tissue from his pocket and showed it to Hynd.
“It bleeds. As Wiggo said, that’s a start. We might have bought ourselves some time.”
“Time for what?”
“Coffee and a fag for one thing,” Banks replied and took the journal from out of his pocket. “And a look for some answers in here for another.”
Wiggins dispensed coffee and smokes and slowly they all felt some warmth creep back into their bones. Wilkins was still out for the count but they put him down close to the fire, ensuring he’d stay warm. Wiggins set to fiddling — dismantling — the sat phone and Banks took the chance of a quiet moment to do a rapid search of the journal for more clues.