They
did not move. They had slipped into their statue mode.
What
if they never came near the gates again? Maybe they had learnt after
all that those in the seafort had the ability to destroy them. The
choice then would be did they leave the safety of the seafort to
attack the Saf Dar on the beach?
He
watched Mark put a box containing shotgun shells on the top of the
wall beside Tom and John Hodgson. When it came to the showdown they
wouldn't want to waste time fumbling in pockets for ammunition.
Reloading the guns after two shots would be cumbersome enough anyway.
Tom
grunted, "It looks as if the buggers are in no hurry."
His
brother chuckled heavily. "You fancy playing bait, Tom? Nip down
there and do a fan dance for them on the causeway. It'll bring the
fuckers flocking in."
Chris
began to space the bottles out on the table. If he let one of these
slip through his fingers when it was lit they'd all be in trouble,
with a pool of blazing petrol running along the walkway.
He
glanced up at his wife. Her dark eyes were fixed on the Saf Dar. She
was willing the bastards to move in close.
Come
on. Cluster around the gates then we'll blast you to kingdom come.
"Thought
I could help."
They
turned to see the Major standing at the top of the steps, the
revolver in his hand. The dog sat at his feet. The old man's hand,
knobbly with arthritis, shook, and the weight of the handgun pulled
it down.
"Ah
... Thanks for the offer, Major," said Tony. "But we've got
the situation under control."
"Make
it quick," said Mark as calmly as he could. "We've got some
movement out here."
Tony
continued, "Er, we thought it would be best if you could look
after the, er, villagers in the seafort."
"Of
course ... Of course." The Major sounded puzzled, as if not
really sure now why he had come up here. " 'Course, we should
really be getting home. Way past lunchtime."
"Ye-es.
Quite."
"Tony,
they're coming," Mark warned. "We're going to need you any
minute."
Tony
smiled at the senile old man. "Major, lunch will be served in
the mess in five minutes. Best pop down and have a brush-up first."
The
Major brightened. "So soon? Good job. I'm starving. Come on,
boy." He quickly went down the steps, the dog following, its
claws clicking on the stone slabs.
Ruth
shot him a look. "He'll have a long wait till lunch. It's only
half-nine."
"It
doesn't really matter. The old boy will have forgotten every word I
said in five minutes."
"Pick
your targets," said Mark. "This is it."
"Strategy?"
asked Tony.
"Kill
them. Burn them." Mark Faust thumbed off the shotguns's safety
catch.
"But
what the hell do we do then?" asked Ruth.
"I'm
out there with this." Mark held up the shotgun. "I'm
finishing what we've started."
Chris
felt uncertain. "What about those two out on the causeway?
They're out of range and they'll not come any closer when they see
what happens to their cronies in the next ten minutes."
Tony
said, "Chris's right, Mark. We don't take chances. No heroics.
We take our time. No one goes chasing these things across the bloody
beach. There're going to be no casualties on our side. We can afford
to sit here and pick them off when they get close enough."
Mark
nodded. "No heroics. Right. ... Tom ... John. Listen. We want to
make sure we hit these bastards hard."
As
Mark spoke Chris looked down at the Saf Dar.
Of
the eight that had been standing on the causeway, two had stayed
midway, well out of range of the shotguns and petrol bombs.
The
other six had moved nicely forward into the slaughter zone. Twenty
feet below on the cobbled area outside the seafort gates, they stood
in two lines of three. The first line must have been six paces from
the gates, the other line of three ten paces behind that. Their bald
red heads gleamed dully in the misty light. From this high angle he
could not see their faces. He was glad.
As
he stared down at their massive shoulders, almost bursting with a
muscle growth that forced veins and arteries up against the skin so
it looked as if living snakes wormed beneath, their heads moved.
Smoothly, slowly, they tilted their heads to look directly up at
Chris. Their glass-shard eyes glittered coldly, faces expressionless,
mouths parted to expose uneven yellow teeth.
It
was as if they were silently willing the seafort to collapse into
dust so they could pick out the fragile human beings from within,
like a boy picking out the white flesh of a coconut from its broken
shell.
"Let's
do it."
It
was time. His heart pumped, sweat prickled like pins on his forehead.
For Christsake don't let those bottles of petrol slip through your
fingers.
"Looks
as though those two out on the causeway don't want to come to the
party today. ... Might as well start without them." Mark,
resting his elbows on the wall, brought the shotgun butt to his
shoulder. He said to the Hodgsons: "The three of us will take
out the three of them that are farthest from the gates. Tom, you take
the one on the left. John ... the one on the right. I'll hit the one
dead center. Tony ... Chris. You lob the petrol bombs at the three
nearest the gate. At this angle just drop them straight down ... let
gravity do the work for you. And for God's sake burn the bastards to
ashes. Get ready. Together on the word go. All right?"
Everyone
nodded.
Chris
wet the wick of his first petrol bomb. Tony did the same. Ruth stood
ready with the lighter.
Mark
Faust stood, shotgun snug to his shoulder, squeezing every gram of
concentration down the gunsight.
The
word came:
"Go."
All
three men fired simultaneously. All three shots struck their targets.
The
three Saf Dar jerked back.
Strangely
none reacted to the shots, even though one lost a face in a
spattering of shot. A cavity appeared in the chest of Mark's target.
The third's stomach split open and something resembling a white bag
of minced steak slipped wetly out onto the cobbles at its feet.
The
things stood, like wounded statues.
The
shotguns cracked again. An arm vanished in a spray of cherry red.
Mark's shot kicked in the monster's forehead. The thick dark stuff
they'd seen before poured down the bodies as if they were melting.
Tom's
shot blasted the leg off another. Smoothly, it slipped into a
kneeling position, its broken leg at an angle beneath its bare
backside.
A
wave broke over the causeway and washed around the three, carrying
away a dark slick that made the water look unnaturally smooth, like
oil.
"Chris
..."
He
looked at his wife. She held out the burning lighter. Carefully he
prodded the rag wired around the end of the bottle into the blade of
flame.
The
petrol-soaked rag flared immediately, spitting blobs of blue flame,
scorching the back of his bare hand.
Carefully,
he turned, leaned forward over the wall, and released the bottle.
It
seemed to take seconds to drop down to the three stationary figures.
Then
they vanished in a blossom of white fire. Chris felt the uprush of
air hot on his face.
Two
seconds later the flare subsided to a burning puddle of petrol on the
cobbles.
Another
bomb flared brilliantly; Tony had dropped his.
Quickly,
Chris dropped another. Then Tony. Then Chris.
They
established a rhythm, making sure that the three things below were at
the center of a furnace. Those bastards might not burn in hell but
they were burning here on earth. And still too frigging stupid to
move.
"One
down!" cried Mark. His shot sent one of the Saf Dar toppling
back onto the causeway-now a chewed-up rag doll of a thing, with a
frayed head; splinters of white bone stuck out through the chest like
raw French fries.
The
Hodgsons roared out, an ear-vibrating cheer. A wave rolled in,
tugging the fallen Saf Dar with it. It vanished into deep water.
"Four
to go, lads," called Tom Hodgson.
Along
the wall the two boys also fired their rifles, the small .22 bullets
pecking holes in the red skin of the Saf Dar.
The
one still kneeling on the causeway had become a chewed-up stump,
hardly even approximating a human shape.
Chris
lobbed a petrol bomb at it and a rose-colored flame bloomed around
it.
The
three Saf Dar directly below who were enduring the fire bombs had
sunk into a sitting position, the withering heat eating into the
great blocks of muscle in their legs and torsos.
Still
they did not react.
They
should have been writhing across the ground in agony as the flames
turned their bodies to charcoal.
Chris
pitched another bottle at the crippled one. This time, burning, it
rolled over and dropped off the causeway into the sea. It sank,
leaving a slick on the surface.
"Four
to go!"
The
three gunners concentrated on the remaining figure at the back, the
lead shot taking bites out of the creature as if it was being eaten
alive by an invisible Pit Bull terrier.
It
began to lean back, almost at an impossible angle. Then it toppled,
as stiff as a pine tree. The sea swallowed it.
Chris
and Tony had not let up with the bottles of fuel on the three nearest
the gate. They sat in a lake of flame; the petrol even ran in burning
rivulets down the causeway to where the sea washed over it. Smoke
climbed into the sky like a ghostly black pillar.
Then,
as the final bottle crashed down, splintering, sending flaming pieces
of glass across the stone slabs, the three things began at last to
move.
They
moved like crippled crabs, arms and legs jerking awkwardly. They
crabbed their way slowly, whether on their backs or fronts Chris
couldn't tell, as far as the causeway edge, then slipped into the
water.
"None
to go."
"You've
done it. ..." Tony Gateman sounded as if he didn't believe it
himself. "You've bloody well done it."
"Thank
God," breathed Ruth with feeling.
Chris
reached out and pulled her close, hugging her trembling body.
"That's
a total of seven, including the one I took out before," called
Mark, resting the barrel of the shotgun across his shoulder. "Eight
left. Now we sit and wait for them to get close again."
"If
they come," said Ruth.
"Oh,
they'll come back," said Tony. "Believe me, they'll come
back."
"Tony,
what makes them blow up like that?"
David
noticed how surprised Tony was when he asked the question.
"Makes
what blow up?"
"These
coalmines."
"Oh
... It's in the book?"
David
hadn't been allowed out of the seafort building, so he'd sat with
the other people from the village (which had been dead boring) and
looked at a pile of books he'd brought with him.
That
morning he had heard a lot of shooting outside. Also a burning smell
had floated through the windows.
But
when he'd asked people what was happening they'd replied, "Nothing."
He'd also asked the old man with the revolver and dog. He was nice,
ruffling David's head with one of those old-men hands, bony with
brown splotches on the back.
The
old man said, "Damn natives again. Still, the NCO's got it in
hand." Then he'd looked around the big gundeck room full of
people as if he'd seen it for the first time. "Should really be
getting off for a spot of lunch."