'How many?' 1 asked.
'Ten up front,' said Bowden.
'Two dozen behind,' answered Stig.
'Lots either side!' quivered Millon, who was more used to making up facts to fit his bizarre conspiracy theories than actually witnessing any first hand.
'What a sign it is of evil life,' murmured Shgakespeafe, 'Where death's approach is seen so terrible!'
'Okay,' I muttered, 'everyone stay calm and when I say, open fire.'
'We will not survive,' said Stig in a matter-of-fact tone. 'Too many of them, not enough of us. We suggest a different strategy.'
'And that is?'
Stig was momentarily lost for words.
'We do not know. Just different.'
The chimeras slavered and emitted low moans as they moved closer. Each one was a kaleidoscope of varying body parts, as though their creators had been indulging in some sort of perverse genetic mix-and-match one-upmanship.
'When I count to three rev up and drop the clutch,' I instructed Bowden. 'The rest of you open up with everything we've got.' I handed Bowden's gun to Floss. 'Know how to use one of these?'
He nodded and flipped off the safety.
'One . . . Two . . .'
I stopped counting because a cry from the woods had startled the chimeras. Those that had ears pricked them up, paused, then began to depart in fright. It wasn't an occasion for relief. Chimeras are bad but something that frightened chimeras could only be worse. We heard the cry again.
'It sounds human,' murmured Bowden.
'How human?' added Millon.
There followed several more cries from more than one individual, and as the last of the terrified chimeras vanished into the undergrowth I breathed a sigh of relief. A group of men appeared out of the brush to our right. They were all extremely short and wore the faded and tattered uniform of what appeared to be the French army. Some wore shabby cockaded hats, others had no jackets at all and some only a dirty white linen shirt. My relief was short-lived. They stood at the edge of the forest and regarded us suspiciously, heavy cudgels in their hands.
'Qu'est-ce que c'est?' said one, pointing at us.
'Anglais?' said another.
'Les rosbifs? Ici, en France?' said a third in a shocked tone.
'Non, ce n'est pas possible!'
It didn't take a genius to figure out who they were.
'A gang of Napoleons,' hissed Bowden. 'Looks like Goliath weren't just trying to eternalise the Bard. The military potential of cloning a Napoleon in his prime would be considerable.'
The Napoleons stared at us for a moment and then talked among themselves in low tones, had an argument, gesticulated wildly, raised their voices and generally disagreed with one another.
'Let's go,' I whispered to Bowden.
But as soon as the car clunked into gear the Napoleons leaped into action with cries of: 'Au secours! Les rosbifs's'chappent! N'oubliez pas Agincourt! Vite! Vite!' and then rushed the car. Stig got off a shot and managed to tranq a particularly vicious-looking Napoleon in the thigh. They smashed their cudgels against the car, broke the windows and sent a cascade of broken glass all over us. I thumped the central door-locking mechanism with my elbow as a Napoleon grappled with my door handle. I was just about to fire at point-blank range into the face of another Napoleon when there was a tremendous explosion thirty yards in front of us. The car was rocked by the blast and enveloped momentarily in a drifting cloud of smoke.
'Sacrebleu!' shrieked Napoleon, breaking off the attack. 'Le Grand Nez! Avancez, mes amis, mart aux ennemis de la Rpublique!'
'Go!' I shouted at Bowden, who, despite having been struck a glancing blow by Napoleon, was still just about conscious. The car juddered away and I grabbed the steering wheel to avoid a band of twenty or so Wellingtons of varying degrees of shabbiness who were streaming past the car in their haste to dispose of Napoleon.
'Up, guards, and at them!' I heard Wellington shout as we gathered speed down the road, past a smoking artillery piece and the abandoned cars we had seen on the way in. Within a few minutes we were clear of the wood and the battling factions, and Bowden slowed down.
'Everyone okay?'
They all answered in the affirmative, although they were not unscathed. Millon was still ashen and I took Bowden's gun off him just in case. Stig had a bruise coming up on his cheek and I had several cuts on my face from the glass.
'Mr Shgakespeafe,' I asked, 'are you okay?'
'Look about you,' he said grimly, 'security gives way to conspiracy.'
We drove to the gates, out of Area 21 and through the darkening evening sky to the Welsh border, and home.
34
St Zvlkx and Cindy
KAINE 'FICTIONAL' CLAIMS BOURNEMOUTH MAN
Retired gas-fitter Mr Martin Piffco made the ludicrous comment yesterday, claiming that the beloved leader of the nation was simply a fictional character 'come to life'. Speaking from the Bournemouth Home for the Exceedingly Odd where he has been committed 'for his own protection', Mr Piffco was more specific and likened Mr Yorrick Kaine to a minor character with an over-inflated opinion of himself in a Daphne Farquitt book entitled At Long Last Lust. The Chancellor's office dubbed the report 'a coincidence", but ordered that the Farquitt book be confiscated nonetheless. Mr Piffco, who faces unspecified charges, made news last year when he made a similar outrageous claim regarding Kaine and Goliath investing in 'mind-controlling experiments'.
I awoke and gazed at Landen in the early morning light that had started to creep around the bedroom. He was snoring ever so quietly and I gave him a long hug before I got up, wrapped myself in a dressing gown and tiptoed past Friday's room on my way downstairs to make some coffee. I walked into Landen's study as I waited for the kettle to boil, sat down at the piano and played a very quiet chord. The sun crept above the roof of the house opposite at that precise moment and cast a finger of orange light across the room. I heard the kettle click off and returned to the kitchen to make the coffee. As I poured the hot water on the grounds there was a small wail from upstairs. I paused to see whether another 'would follow it. A single wail might only be a stirring and he could be left alone. Two wails or more would be Hungry Boy, eager for a gallon or two of porridge. There was a second wail ten seconds later and I was just about to go and get him when I heard a thump and a scraping as Landen pulled on his leg and then walked along the corridor to Friday's room. There were more footsteps as he returned to his room, then silence. I relaxed, took a sip of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, deep in thought.
The Superhoop was tomorrow and I had my team the question was, would it make a difference? There was a chance we might find a copy of At Long Last Lust, too but I wasn't counting on this, either. Of equal chance and equal risk of failure was Shgakespeafe being able to unravel The Merry Wives of Elsinore, and Mycroft coming up with an ovi-negator at short notice. But none of these pressing matters was foremost in my mind: most important to me was that at eleven o'clock this morning Cindy would try to kill me for the third and final time. She would fail, and she would die. I thought of Spike and Betty and picked up the phone. I figured he'd be a heavy sleeper and was right Cindy answered the phone.