Atkins knew Everson couldn’t afford to lose either the tank or the aeroplane. Both were major advantages in their survival on this world. From what Miss Abbott said, the tank crew had overcome their addiction, and it would take a while for the substance to build up in their bodies again. It was a risk he seemed willing to take, at least in the short term.
Atkins, however, couldn’t just cut and run. “But Talbot and his men, sir. Those things, those men, they should be… in their graves. Dead is dead. You’re their officer, sir. We can’t leave them like that. It isn’t proper. It isn’t right. It’s an abomination worthy of Jeffries himself. We owe it to them to see that they’re put to rest. They shouldn’t be walking round like some… mouldy Lazarus. It ain’t natural. What about their immortal souls?”
Everson looked to the Padre. The Chaplain raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips and shook his head. “They didn’t say anything about this kind of thing in the seminary, but yes, if these poor souls can be put out of their misery and lifted to their Reward, then I think it behoves us to act, Lieutenant.”
Atkins nodded. “It’s the right thing to do, sir.”
“Atkins, we can’t defeat these things, we can’t shoot, bomb, or burn them without spreading those spores and facing the same fate ourselves.”
“I think I can help,” offered Tulliver, “Those things don’t react well to those telluric blasts and well, to be brutally honest, John, the petrol fruit fuel has sharpened my vision in some way. I can see where those charges will build.”
Atkins saw the dark look cross Everson’s face. Tulliver waved it away with an air of indifference.
“Yes, yes, I know you don’t trust this petrol fruit stuff, but I’m the least of your problems. If I can get to my bus, I can lead you towards the next telluric discharge. This bizarre land storm is practically on top of us, so there should be another one or two from within the crater, somewhere along the Strip, surely? If we can lure them there, they’ll be vaporised instantly.”
Everson frowned and chewed his bottom lip. “That’s a lot of ifs, Lieutenant. By all accounts, you barely survived one of those blasts.”
Tulliver shrugged his shoulders. “But I did, and I’ve got the measure of them now; I know what I’m looking for. If we don’t move soon, these telluric geysers will pass beyond us and we’ll be back to square one. You have to make your mind up.”
Everson considered for a moment. “Do it.”
Tulliver grinned, and then paused. “I’ll need someone to fly with me. I can’t start the engine on my own.”
“Take the Padre, I can’t spare anyone else,” said Everson.
“Come on, Padre. We’ll make an angel out of you yet.”
“You may well have your wings, Lieutenant. I’m not quite sure I’m ready for mine yet,” said the Padre archly.
Tulliver tutted. “And you call yourself a sky pilot.”
The tank crew and Nellie nodded and headed off into the jungle with Tarak, who had offered to guide them back to the tank, while Tulliver departed with the Padre, leaving Everson, the Black Hand Gang, Riley, Tonkins, Hepton and Napoo to await the coming of the grey men.
Mercy watched the two groups go off.
“So,” he said cheerfully. “We’re the bait, then.”
WITH TARAK’S HELP, the crew of the Ivanhoe stuck to the edge of the Strip for as long as possible and avoided the labyrinthine groves. In the distance, through the trees, they heard the muffled roaring of the river as it headed for its underground fall.
Alfie felt an odd mixture of joy and anxiety when they finally came upon the Ivanhoe, like meeting an old sweetheart with whom he’d parted awkwardly. He barely remembered the crash over the edge of the crater, and didn’t recall Tarak rescuing him at all, but there were many other memories, not all pleasant, that stirred at the sight of the ironclad.
Looking at his crewmates, the old concerns rose unbidden. For almost two weeks they had been without the balm of the sense-altering petrol fruit fumes, and until he saw the tank, he thought he, too, was over them. Now it sat there, he could feel the dull need deep in his bones.
The Ivanhoe was quite hidden, at first sight. The ubiquitous pale strangling creepers had overgrown and entangled themselves round the machine. Thin tendrils entwined the great six-pounder guns, quested their way in through the gun slits and loopholes and tried to force themselves between the iron plates.
The lidded eyes of the drivers’ visors peered out of the fast-growing foliage as if it were some ancient forest spirit, waiting to be invoked and awoken.
Tarak started to bow before the tank, until Alfie hobbled over on his crutch to stop him, catching his arm under the urman’s armpit.
“No,” he said quietly. “We’ve had quite enough of that.”
Tarak stood, confused, but obeyed. He touched the still-livid scar on his chest with bewilderment. “My clan…”
“They were killed,” said Alfie softly. “I’m sorry, lad.”
Tarak looked at him, uncomprehending. Alfie shuffled uncomfortably, at a loss for something to say.
Nellie interrupted the awkward silence. “Right,” she said, rolling up the sleeves of her coveralls and taking charge. “We need to start cutting back this undergrowth and find those fuel drums. I do hope they’re intact. Jack?”
“We’ll find out,” said Jack. “Norman, Cecil, with me. Let’s hope that Fusilier was right.”
Nellie, Wally and Reggie set to work hacking at the liana with the fire axe from the tank and their entrenching tools, while Tarak set about it with his short sword.
Even as they cut it back, the insidious pale growth sought to regrow. “Watch it,” said Wally, ripping a thin stem as it sprouted along the track plates. “I reckon if you stand still long enough it’ll have you an’ all.”
“What the hell is this stuff?” said Reggie as he tore his hand away from a few grasping feelers. “It spreads like some pernicious weed.”
“We don’t know. It appeared many spira ago,” Tarak answered bitterly, punctuating his answer with savage swipes of his sword. “We call it GarSuleth’s Curse. Ranaman believes,” – Tarak faltered and swallowed – “believed that it was sent by GarSuleth in revenge for our faith in Croatoan. It chokes the trees we live off. It kills the animals we hunt. It poisons those things that eat it. It is of no use, yet it spreads like a plague and nothing is able to stop it.”
There was a dull metallic rumble as Norman, Jack and Cecil herded five recalcitrant fuel drums towards them.
“We found these caught in the shrubbery,” said Jack. “A little dented, but none the worse for wear. A few others were split, worse luck. Still, we have these. We have fuel.”
“So the show will go on!” said Norman, clapping his hands together.
Jack and Cecil set about refilling the petrol tanks in the front track horns, either side of the driver’s cabin, with the salvaged fuel. Alfie, his splinted leg proving something of a liability in the tank’s cramped interior, directed Wally, Norman and Nellie as they set about restoring the compartment and stores to some semblance of order and checking the engine.
They were soon ready to depart. Alfie clambered in through the starboard sponson hatch. Tarak made to follow him, but Alfie held up his palm.
“You can’t come with us,” he said shaking his head. “There isn’t room. You must make your own way now. You saved my life and now I’ve saved yours and where we’re going you can’t follow. But thank you for all you have done for me. For us.”