Nellie peered round Napoo in horror. “What on earth is it?”
Distracted, Mathers looked towards the tank. He seemed clear and lucid, for the moment. “It is the spawn of the thing that inhabits the ruins. It is not of this place,” he declaimed.
Reggie started towards him, concern etched on his face. “Sir?”
Mathers turned to him and spoke as if he might have been discussing the finer points of cricket over cucumber sandwiches on a summer’s evening. “Didn’t you realise?” He gestured vaguely towards the ruined edifice. “It has no protection of its own against the predations of this world. Its sire found its way inside the ruins for shelter. This one found its way inside the tank. Don’t you see? It’s using it as a shell, as a hermit crab does, to armour itself.”
“But Frank. What about Frank, sir?”
“Frank?” Mathers stared blankly at the tank, unconcerned. “Frank’s gone.”
Norman tried to follow the Lieutenant’s logic. “So you’re saying all we have to do is winkle it out? Then we’re going to need a bloody big pin, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”
“A bayonet!” suggested Cecil.
“Going to need something bigger than a pig sticker, son,” said Jack.
Nellie frowned. “I know just what we need to lance this boil.” She ran over to the undergrowth, to the little copse of black-barked, silver-veined saplings she had spotted when they arrived at the edifice. “Napoo, help me.”
Napoo joined her. He arched an eyebrow as he realised what she was looking at. “Corpsewood?”
“Will it work, do you think?”
“What is it?” asked Alfie.
“It’s a scavenger plant. It usually feeds on dead or rotting flesh, but eats living things if it can, hence the name, so be careful.”
“It… might work,” said Napoo, with caution. “But it must be handled with great care. We have never used it in such a way.”
Alfie was insistent. “We need the tank back. If this is the only way, then let’s do it.”
Since the creature in the ruins had frightened off anything that the corpsewood might feed on, pickings were thin. The wood had grown up around the bodies of small creatures, their bones embedded it its trunk and protruding from the black bark.
The tank crew watched, fascinated, from a safe distance, distracted occasionally by the creature within the tank as its tentacles whipped and thrashed hungrily.
Wrapping his hands in bandages from Nellie’s webbing pouches, Napoo set to work, cutting down the stand of black corpsewood saplings. Thin and reedy specimens, eager for sustenance, the silver vein-like creeper stems around them unwound and inclined towards Napoo’s hands, like a plant following the sun. He threw them aside too quickly for them to latch on. With deft strokes of his sword, he stripped them of their spiny branches and fashioned their tips into sharp points. He bound part of the shafts with a lengths of split vine to give some protection against the corpsewood for the wielder. Within fifteen minutes, Napoo had a brace of crude corpsewood spears.
Alfie watched in awe as Napoo threw the makeshift spears with confidence. Lashing tentacles knocked some aside to clatter harmlessly off the iron plating, but he targeted the open sponson hatch, and the corpsewood spear buried itself in the exposed black flesh. It puckered and shrivelled around the wound as the silver grey creepers wormed their way slowly into the creature. It was enough to prove that the idea worked, but not enough to rid them of the thing.
“We can’t get close enough,” said Norman, as he and the others tried to target the creature while avoiding its tendrils.
Mathers walked up and hefted one of the corpsewood spears experimentally. “I can,” he said, exchanging a look with Alfie. He picked up a bunch of the spears and walked towards the tank. Reggie and Norman tried to stop him, but he waved them back.
The tendrils whipped and lashed wildly, but he pressed on, showing no fear, for he had none left to show. The things inside him saw to that, he was sure of it. He was within the reach of the flailing tendrils, but they wavered uncertainly, and then retreated before his advance, as if loath to touch him. Its sire could sense the things within him, and so, too, could its spawn. He was an anathema to them. By the time he was in striking distance of the tank, the creature had completely retreated inside it.
He thrust the corpsewood spears through the drivers’ visors, the pistol ports, and through the view slits in the gun shield. Trapped inside the ironclad, the creature recoiled from the pain as the corpsewood sought to burrow into it.
Mathers climbed onto the top of the tank, threw open the manhole in the roof and thrust another spear down into the compartment, driving the creature down. In desperation, the thing began to squeeze itself out of the port sponson hatch. He dropped down into the tank to push his advantage, herding the shapeless creature back out of the tank with his last spear.
The heaving bulk flopped gracelessly from the ironclad and it grew tendrils to help drag itself away. However, the creature’s back half was dead, atrophying beneath the corpsewood. Starved for so long, the many spears had sent their vein-like silver creepers deep into the creature’s body, and had begun to leech its life from it. Weakening, the creature’s tentacles could no longer keep the men at bay.
Once they realised it was dying, the tank crew fell on it in a fury, using sticks, wrenches and chains to take out their fear and anger.
“That’s for Frank!”
“Do that to our Ivanhoe, will you?” bellowed Cecil, stamping on a weakly twitching tendril.
Wally, incoherent with rage, thrashed his chain down, over and over again. His face turned red, and spittle flew from his lips, as he took out the frustrations he realised he could no longer take out on the Hun.
Alfie held back, fretting. “Stop!” he cried, “stop!” But they weren’t listening. Alfie grabbed Norman’s arm as he raised it to land another blow. “Stop it! Look,” he said. “Look!”
Amid the now beaten, shapeless bulk, its wounds running with thick viscous fluid, they could make out a shadow in the depths of the creature that looked vaguely human in shape. Because it had been.
“Oh Jesus. Frank!”
Norman dropped the wrench, drained. The others too, sobered up, their chests heaving.
Mathers clambered unsteadily from the sponson, a tin of grease in his hand. He tipped it over the creature as the roots of the corpsewood spread further into it. He lit a Lucifer and dropped it on the thick lubricant. It ignited with a bright indigo flame. The tentacles writhed feebly in the flames before shrivelling. As the grease melted with the heat, it ran, spreading out, coating the rest of the creature, basting it. The flames followed, consuming it, the corpsewood, and Frank.
Jack pulled Cecil back from the monstrous pyre. Reggie made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer.
“Get the tank started,” Mathers ordered, quietly.
Alfie, Cecil, Reggie and Norman squeezed in through the small sponson hatches, one after the other. Wally followed. Mathers paused in the sponson hatchway. He heard the grind of the giant starting handle. The engine caught and the Ivanhoe awoke from its slumber with a growl.
A breeze caught the burning creature, fanning the flames, causing the corpsewood embers to burn brighter, and the flesh to char and crackle in the heat.
Mathers turned into the wind, a hand on his belly as if it pained him. He felt weary, too weary to worry, too tired to care, and too exhausted to fight it anymore.
“Now it comes,” he said, almost with relief, before climbing into the tank.
THE TOMMIES RACED down the sloping tunnel and burst out into the giant space of the ancient antechamber. It echoed with the continual pounding of the creature around them, unseen.