No Man's World: Omnibus Read online

  As if in answer, Ginger’s haversack began to writhe impatiently.

  Closer to its own kind again, Gordon became excited and sought a way out of the bag.

  “Fuck’s sake, here we go again!” said Gazette as he saw Ginger struggle to control his haversack.

  “No, Gordon!” cried Ginger as the creature wriggled its way out from the under the flap and jumped down to the ground, scampering across the glade to be with its fellows, squeaking gleefully. The others stopped and stood on their hind legs, squeaking in answer. “What the deuce!” Everson exclaimed.

  “Gordon, come back!” hissed Ginger, striding into the glade.

  Startled, the creatures scattered and Ginger clumsily switched this way and that, raising sniggers from his mates as he tried to catch his pet, or the one he thought was his pet, for they all looked the same. The creatures panicked and squealed and ran around bolting into holes in the ground. Others poked their noses shyly out of their holes all except, presumably, Gordon, who sat calmly by the plant in the middle of the glade, preening itself.

  “This is better than Charlie Chaplin,” said Hepton, as he followed the slapstick antics in the glade.

  “Mottram, get back here!” hissed Everson.

  Ginger, a look of grim determination on his face, advanced on his pet. There was a soft pfffft and a giant red thorn exploded from the ground where he stood, ripping up through his groin, the tip exiting through his shoulder. The force of the thrust hefted him off his feet and he hung suspended on the thorn. He screamed, struggling to free himself, but barbs protruding from the spine held him fast. At the bottom of the thorn, large leaf like structures fell open, forming a cup at the base.

  Hepton stopped cranking in horror.

  “Ginger!” cried Atkins as he Porgy, Mercy and Lucky dashed into the grove.

  Atkins saw now, as he ran across the ground, that it seemed soft and springy, yielding under his weight, like boggy earth. It undulated with shallow tussocks. Lucky’s foot came down on one and another thorn sprang up from the earth. He squealed as the point tore up though his gut, ripping out through his back, jerking him off his feet. Lucky’s helmet rolled across the glade and came to a halt near Atkins. Porgy, Mercy and Atkins stopped dead still.

  “It’s burning me! Burning!” screamed Ginger. His pleas degenerated into a meaningless, agonised wailing. He twisted his head and fixed his bloodshot, watery gaze on Atkins. “Help me!”

  “God help us,” croaked Gutsy hoarsely. “That thing in the middle— it’s some kind of carnivorous plant. This must be how it feeds.”

  “Don’t move,” said Everson. “You may trigger off more of those things.” Lucky was screaming too, thrashing about in a frenzy as he tried to work himself free, but only succeeding in driving himself further down the thorn. As he slipped down he revealed little sacs that pulsed at the base of small barbs, pumping out some vile secretion. Atkins realised that similar sacs, caught within Ginger and Lucky’s bodies, were even now pumping this stuff into them; some sort of poison or digestive juice.

  The whole glade was a honey trap. Gordon and its little friends had been safe, being too light to trigger the plant’s mechanism.

  Pot Shot had his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to blot out the anguished screaming. “Somebody do something!”

  Everson cocked his pistol and aimed at Ginger’s head. It was the only thing to do to save him from a slow, agonising death by internal liquefaction. He pulled the trigger and the back of Ginger’s head exploded across the glade. He turned and re-cocked his pistol, this time aiming at Lucky who looked straight back at him.

  “Thank—”

  Everson met his gaze as he fired again and Lucky slumped lifelessly down on the thorn. Everson sagged visibly as he holstered his pistol.

  Atkins didn’t envy him. But they were still stuck. One wrong move and their fate could be that of their companions.

  “Right,” said Everson eventually. “These things are obviously set off by weight. Otterthwaite, can you shoot the tussock things and trigger the remaining thorns?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Hobson, “but there’s a quicker way.

  Jellicoe, give me your Mills bombs.”

  Atkins, Mercy and Porgy exchanged glances. Atkins watched as the sergeant got down on his hands and knees to sight along the floor of the glade, looking for the tell-tale tussocks of untriggered thorns. “Right-o, watch yourself, lads, sir,” said Hobson, pulling the pin from a Mills bomb. Hobson counted to three and tossed it towards the edge of the clearing, away from the trapped men, who crouched down where they were. The grenade exploded and Atkins felt himself showered with dirt as one, two, three huge thorns, triggered by the concussion wave, sprang up around him. The engorged sacs on the barbs pulsing and ejaculating their venom impotently.

  Hobson threw a second grenade and it landed in the cup of the furthest thorn before it exploded, shredding the plant. “There’s your way out,” said Hobson, indicating the path of triggered thorns. “Watch where you step.”

  Mercy and Porgy edged their way carefully past the thorns, now oozing with digestive acids.

  “We can’t leave them here, sir,” said Atkins, looking back at the impaled bodies.

  “I’m sorry, Atkins, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Then just their pay books, sir?” he pleaded, William foremost in his mind. If someone had taken his brother’s disc and pay book they might now have known his fate.

  “Very well, but be careful.”

  Atkins stepped as gingerly as he could in his hobnails towards Ginger’s slack body. Standing on his tiptoes and leaning over the shiny red collecting cup at the thorn’s base, he tentatively opened up what was left of Ginger’s tunic and pulled the cloth-covered pay book from his inside pocket. God, this was never a pleasant job at the best of times. A wet splash made him jump as half-liquified organs and viscera slipped out of Ginger’s torso and fell into the waiting plant cup. The stench drove Atkins back a step. Used to the charnel stench of the trenches as he was, this was a foul odour that turned his stomach.

  A squeak startled him. He whirled round almost losing his balance, his foot coming down inches from another tuft. It was Gordon. He’d almost trodden on the creature. It looked up at him, squeaking. He felt a hot flush of anger burst across his face.

  “Piss off. This is your fault, you little shit!” He took a swing at it with his boot but it hopped back. It looked up at him from the safety of a tussock.

  “Atkins, come on!” called Everson from the edge of the glade. As he moved round to Lucky’s body Atkins blatantly ignored the creature even though he was aware of it turning to watch him. He tottered precariously on his toes as he stretched to reach Lucky’s torso.

  Carefully retrieving his now bloodstained pay book, he made his way back across the glade slowly, step by step.

  Atkins leapt thankfully to the edge of the glade only to hear a wistful squeak behind him. Gordon had followed him. He tried shooing the creature away as Everson ordered them away from the glade one by one, but it hopped mournfully after him. With a huff of exasperation, Atkins picked up the creature and put it into his gas helmet haversack as Hepton packed up his camera and tripod.

  They moved off sombrely through the undergrowth, knowing now to avoid the large airy sunlit glades, which they saw were dotted everywhere.

  “Watch it, more of them damn Sting-a-lings,” said Mercy. The name seemed morbidly appropriate and, for want of anything better, it stuck, adding a new level of poignancy to the old soldier’s song. Hobson took the lead followed by Ketch, with Everson bringing up the rear. As they progressed through the wood, each man glanced nervously about; every rustle, every breeze that stirred fronds or leaves or tendrils, every crack, every snap was now potentially something lethal. From elsewhere came the sound of muted rifle fire, screams and a whistle. One of the other sections was in trouble. There was nothing they could do about it but it didn’t help the tension any.

  Out of the corn
er of his eye Atkins caught a flash of something.

  Before he could shout a warning, something man-sized and mottled green detached itself from a trunk and sprang at Lieutenant Everson.

  Large, saw-toothed mandibles clicked lustfully on empty air as the lieutenant dived out the way.

  Even as the men ran to their commander’s aid there was a husky cry and a figure hurled itself out of the undergrowth onto their assailant, deftly working a blade between the chitinous plates on the creature’s neck and, with a twist of his arm, severing the head.

  There were three bayonetted rifles aimed at him as the man looked up, while the soldiers lifted the partially decapitated body of the manbeetle from their struggling, spluttering commander. Everson, red faced, kicked it away angrily and sat up, struggling to contain the wracking sobs of relief. With their rifles and a jerk of the head, Gazette, Mercy and Gutsy herded the wild man against a trunk and disarmed him.

  Sergeant Hobson examined the curved blade he carried.

  “Bloody hell, he looks human,” said Gutsy, peering at the wild man. The lieutenant’s saviour was a wiry, well-muscled middle-aged man with wild greying hair and a scrubby grey beard. His face and arms were tanned and weathered. He was dressed in clothing that looked as if it had been assembled from various animal hides and vegetable barks. Across his chest and tied to his upper arms were chitinous plates, worn like armour, that looked as if they’d been acquired from creatures similar to the one in front of them.

  “Here, Kameraden, you speak English?” asked Mercy.

  “Don’t be so bloody silly!” said Gutsy. “Does he look like he can?” The man’s eyes flicked from one to the other as they talked. “I am Urman,” said the man, standing erect and thrusting out his chest proudly.

  Gutsy’s mouth dropped open. When it came down to it, though, the Tommies were not too shocked that the man spoke English. As soldiers of the great and glorious British Empire, they were used to the idea that Johnny Foreigner would speak at least some English, even if it was in an odd accent. It was only right and proper, after all.

  Everson was too shaken up by his near miss to question it. “Where’d you come from, eh? Eh?” challenged Gazette, jabbing the air with his bayonet, causing the man to flinch.

  “Leave him, Otterthwaite,” said Everson, who had just about recovered his composure. “He’s not a Bosche prisoner. He saved my life. He might just be the first friendly face we’ve seen here.” He stepped between his men and held out his hand towards the man. The man looked at it blankly then tilted his head to examine the back of the lieutenant’s hand as if there might be some concealed offering or weapon. Everson grasped the man’s hand gently and shook it. “Well, I never!” said Pot Shot.

  “Hands across the sea!” declared Gutsy, dumbstruck.

  “Hands across my bloody arse!” muttered Ketch.

  “We,” said Everson, “are Human. My name is Lieutenant James Everson, 2 Platoon, C Company, 13th Battalion Pennine Fusiliers of His Britannic Majesty’s Army. And yours…” he looked expectantly at the man, “is…?”

  “Naparandwe,” he said, pointing at himself, then, eyes narrowing, “to what colony do you belong?”

  “Colony?” said Everson frowning. “None.”

  “You are Free Urmen?”

  “Free? Well, yes.”

  The man grinned again as if this was the right answer. “Yrredetti almost had you. Killed two of my clan,” he said, pointing at the lifeless bulk of the humanoid beetle creature. It seemed as if it had evolved to walk upright, and it was evidently able to blend in with its surroundings to almost devastating effect. He spat. Mercy spat, too and the man clapped his hands and grinned. “You are lucky they are solitary hunters.”

  “Yes, thank you for that,” said Everson, running a finger underneath his collar, relieved that his neck was still there.

  “Free Urman!” he said offering his hand to Mercy as Everson had done to him. As he repeated this with every man in the section his stomach gurgled obscenely.

  “Are you hungry?” asked Atkins, rubbing his own stomach with pantomime gestures. The man nodded eagerly. Atkins opened his pack and took out his iron rations.

  The action caught Ketch’s wary eye. “You touch that without permission, that’s a punishable offence,” he snapped. “Emergencies only.”

  Atkins knew all too well. Two men in his last platoon were courtmartialled for eating their iron rations while trapped in a shell hole in No Man’s Land for four days. Apparently that wasn’t emergency enough.

  “He has my permission,” said Everson. “Go on, Atkins.” Ketch grunted but backed off.

  Atkins opened the tin of bully beef, prised a piece out with his fingers and ate it. He proffered the tin to the man who sniffed it cautiously before devouring the contents within moments, never taking his eyes off Atkins. The act of gouging and prising out the meat was something he seemed to be accustomed with, though probably not from tins, thought Atkins with a quick glance at the green mottled body of the dead Yrredetti. Pot Shot and Porgy offered him their tins and that all went the same way, followed by a large and satisfied belch. He looked hopefully around for his next offering.

  “No mate,” said Gutsy shaking his head. “Napoo left. Sorry. All gone.”

  “Napoo?” the man repeated with a grin, his white teeth showing in his berry brown face.

  “Yeah. Napoo. I guess that’s what we’ll call you, too. Napoo,” said Gutsy, raising his eyebrows and nodding at the others for agreement.

  Uncomfortable with a culture not their own and unwilling to show their ignorance, this was easier than trying to pronounce the native’s own name. “Can’t say he hasn’t earned it,” said Porgy with a sigh, looking at the empty tins. He reached up idly and plucked a ripe-looking fruit from a low hanging bough, absent-mindedly shining it on his trousers before lifting it to his mouth to take a bite.

  “No!” The man suddenly leapt up and hit him squarely on the back between the shoulder blades. The fruit flew from his hand and was sent rolling across the ground.

  Porgy turned round angrily and started to rise.

  “What the hell did you do that for you, you little—”

  “Hopkiss, sit down,” barked Hobson. “The man was doing you a favour.”

  He pointed to where the fruit had fallen. It had cracked open and juice oozed out from fresh ripe flesh onto the grass, burning it away with acidic sizzles and pops.

  “That’s the second time he’s saved our lives,” said Everson. “He seems to know what’s what around here. Frankly we could use his kind of help.” He turned to Napoo. “Can you help us? We need to find food. And water.”

  “Food and water,” repeated Napoo, nodding.

  “You help us?” Everson asked.

  “In exchange.”

  Everson, surprised, glanced up at Hobson who shrugged. Napoo was obviously shrewder than he looked. “Yes, if we can,” replied Everson. Napoo took his weapon back off Hobson and began to walk away through the forest. The men watched. When he realised they weren’t following he stopped and turned around. “Follow.” The men looked at Everson. He nodded slightly and readjusted his helmet. Hobson took the lead and the rest fell into line. Eventually they came to the edge of a small clearing in front of a cave. Outside the cave a fire burned, tended by a woman of similar age to the man, her hair tied back. A younger girl was scraping out the inside of a large beetle shell, the way one might scrape the fat and meat off a hide.

  “Wait here,” said Napoo. He went ahead into the clearing where Atkins watched him talk to the woman with big, expressive gestures, pointing back at the woods where they waited. The woman called out.

  Several other adults appeared from the surroundings or from out of the cave entrance.

  Napoo turned and beckoned the Tommies into the clearing where several men stood holding crude spears and bows, eyeing the newcomers suspiciously.

  The soldiers walked slowly into the encampment, Sergeant Hobson surveying the area warily. The
two parties studied each other. The woman seemed interested in their clothes, plucking at Atkins’ sleeves.

  She felt the rough texture of the khaki cloth between her fingers and tested the strength of its seams with apparent approval.

  A lean-to had been built over the entrance to the cave using thick branches and leaves. Theirs seemed to be a miserable existence, at least as miserable as living in the trenches, thought Atkins.

  “Let the men rest, Sergeant. Post a sentry. I don’t want to be surprised again. I’ll go and see what this Napoo needs. Atkins, you’re with me.” Atkins groaned. He just wanted to sit down. Instead, he followed the lieutenant and Napoo into the cave. As they did so the ground rumbled and shook. Small pebbles and rocks bounced down the side of the rock face, showers of dirt loosed from the roots of trees clinging to lips on the cliff drummed down, “It’s another earth tremor!” said Atkins. They staggered hard against side of the cave to stop themselves from falling over. Napoo had stopped and crouched for balance.

  Almost as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

  “It always happened this time of year,” said Napoo, unconcerned.

  “The world shakes.” He led them to the back of a cave where a young man lay on a litter of vegetation and fur, his skin slick with a fever sweat, his eyes rolling in delirium. A wound on his thigh had been smeared with some sort of poultice.

  “You help him,” Napoo said.

  Atkins pulled out his field dressing pack and tore open the paper packing. He placed it over the wound and fixed it with a length of bandage. “It’s infected. The MO needs to take a look at him, sir,”

  Atkins said. “I can’t help him here.”

  Everson was silent for a moment. He appeared to come to a decision. “Very well, we’ll take him back to the trenches.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “If You Were the Only Girl in the World…”

  COMING ACROSS NAPOO had been fortuitous. It was obvious they hadn’t succeeded in finding much to eat on their own and Napoo had information that could greatly aid their chances of survival. So it was that Napoo accompanied them as they carried the injured Urman from the forest.