THEY COULD ill afford to waste time. Grant’s tracks were already over a month old and with each passing hour, they risked turning as cold and unfathomable as the lunar surface above them. A lift led deeper, beneath Otterbein Base, so Folkard decided the group would descend to the caverns from there. Professor George guided the group to the lift, but could not accompany them further due to his responsibility for the base, particularly in Colonel Harrison’s absence. Folkard sent a message with a Sikh private instructing Ainsworth to take the cutter to Sovereign in order to notify Bedford of the amended plan. Bedford should send armed reinforcements at once; Folkard saw no value in keeping the military profile low at this point.
The base personnel provided them with several cans of yellow paint with which to mark their passage so Bedford could follow. Folkard gave these to Gibbs with instructions to mark every passageway entrance and every fork in the tunnels. He would have requested the loan of a section of Sikh infantry from the base’s garrison as well, but Colonel Harrison, their commander, had still not returned and Folkard lacked authority to order the men in his absence. He did demand an additional two hundred rounds of .476 Enfield ammunition from the base’s armoury, and protocol be damned. The six rounds in the chamber of each of the men’s revolvers might not suffice if they ran into serious trouble, but thirty more rounds in each of their pockets should do the trick. If not, ammunition was probably the least of their worries.
The party did have some reinforcements, however. Two of K’chuk’s Selenites, and K’chuk himself, joined the group as guides. Two scientists from the base also expressed a desire to accompany the Sovereign’s shore party: Staples, the closest of the group to Grant, and Phillips, whose biological interest in the Selenites now found itself with the opportunity to develop further with a rare piece of field research—the potential of seeing the Selenites in combat. Folkard had reminded both men of the potential danger, but Phillips countered with the example of Benjamin Franklin and his kite; the best scientists, he had said, like the best captains, always took risks. Folkard was of the opinion that any trouble they encountered would be a deal more dangerous than flying a kite in a storm, but their numbers were so slight as it was he willingly accepted any accretion of strength. As to that, the Selenites certainly made for robust-looking guardians, and Folkard had seen them in battle—formidable warriors when provoked.
With all in order, the only thing left was to identify the whereabouts of Grant. Conversation with the geologists working in the caverns yielded little: they remembered seeing Grant stride in a direction away from the base into the depths of the caves but had no idea where he went from there. The problem was Grant’s wanderings had become commonplace and consequently went largely unnoticed. The Selenites, on the other hand, positively reported having seen Grant passing through “long crooked cavern down below, where seven big spiders lived before it flooded”. Since Luna had no magnetic poles, compasses were useless, and so these sorts of vague landmarks were all they had to go by. Folkard had expected more mapping of the caverns to have been completed by this time, with a rationalised system of designating passages and chambers, some clear markings on the walls near the station at least, and a chart or two prepared. Survey work was part of the charge of the military garrison, after all, but as near as he could tell very little had been done in that regard.
The early stages of the expedition required the group to descend at a steep angle which they did with care. The Selenites made the descent using all six of their limbs, crawling down with ease and occasionally returning to offer assistance to Miss Somerset, clambering at an awkward angle with the assistance of Seaman Henry. Eventually the descent became more gradual, allowing the group to relax somewhat.
McKittrick, enthused by the opportunity to show off in front of the new arrivals, coaxed Stone along with a veritable deluge of antiquated jargon, which singularly failed to impress anyone. The acoustics in the cavern only served to encourage McKittrick further. Folkard was about to have a word with him when Henry turned to Leading Machinist O’Hara.
“Paddy, did I ever tell you about the terrible accident I witnessed at Newgate Prison?” he said.
“Why no, Howie, but I’d love to hear,” the short, wiry Irishman answered.
“There was this prison warder, a right tyrant he was, always shouting orders and saying very hurtful things about the prisoners.”
“Ah, hurtful was he?” O’Hara asked.
“He was. Then one day a brick fell out of the ceiling and cracked his skull open. Killed ’im! It was terrible to see.”
“I imagine it was at that,” O’Hara agreed, “although a man that hurtful—you have to think God’s justice had something to do with it as well.”
McKittrick turned and glared at them, but with a hint of nervousness as well.
“That’s enough idle chatter,” Folkard ordered.
“Aye-aye, sir,” Henry and O’Hara piped.
Folkard frowned at them to make sure they understood him, although Stone shot Henry a grateful look, and Folkard smiled inwardly himself. It wouldn’t do McKittrick any harm to keep his gaoler slang to himself for the balance of the trip, and with Henry along, Folkard expected he would do exactly that.
After perhaps half an hour of silence, Folkard heard Miss Somerset try to engage Seaman Henry in quiet conversation, but without much success. Henry was a naturally taciturn man and his dialogue with O’Hara was the most verbiage Folkard could recall issuing from him. Folkard had to smile at Miss Somerset’s attempts to amuse him with observations concerning the stalactites in the caverns or the curiously albino lunar bats. She noted his tattoos—to Folkard’s eyes, an unremarkable collection of self-applied prison tattoos and dockland ink—and angled for some autobiographical details on this front; she found that he had little interest in explaining them beyond “it looked good” or “I liked it”. Nor did she find much detail lurking behind the scar on Henry’s face, which reached from his ear to his nose. Folkard had always been too decorous to ask about the scar, so was interested in his reply. “Prison fight,” he muttered, and said no more, to the disappointment of Folkard and Miss Somerset both.
She tried to press him further by drawing his attention to her own disfigurement, the absent leg, before going on to give her opinion that the geologists giving their testimonies to Folkard were rather more interested in her prosthetic than in their own memories. “I suppose, after all, they are scientists. I do fear, Mister Henry, that I am becoming medically interesting!” she remarked, which drew only a nod from the dour sailor.
When she finally lost her patience and noted that her colleague was not the most garrulous of men, Henry remarked, “a wise man with nothing to say is silent.” This comment, practically a speech by his standards, was enough to silence Miss Somerset for some minutes.
Folkard, at the head of the party with K’chuk, soon also found that his attempts at conversation were not progressing in the manner he wished. He attempted to work out some preliminary tactics with the Selenites in the event of an attack by Russians or others, but found, not entirely to his surprise, that they were talking a different language. Folkard gravitated towards the language of conflict and battle, K’chuk preferred the discourse of discovery and understanding. There was also the dark allusion by K’chuk that there were forces of which Folkard knew nothing, which confounded him.
“Why, whatever do you mean, man?” he asked, carefully walking down an incline and straining to avoid a deadly slip on a loose rock.
“Not holy. Not peace. Enemy of Selenites,” K’chuk replied in his stridulous voice and would say no more.
After a time of looking at little more than rock, the group became aware of the sound of running water. Presently, a short corridor ended with a sharp increase in height and what was little more than a pot-hole became a great chamber, at which point they came upon the source of the sound. It was a great river, larger than anticipated and boasting a current heading broadly to their right. They were deep beneath the surface of Luna, but the river flowed downwards, further into the depths of the world.
“If Doctor Grant came this way,” said Folkard, “I see no alternative but for him to have moved down-river. The bank disappears into a canyon wall up-river, and this current is too strong to swim against for long.”
“Staples, Phillips, do you know this water?” asked Stone.
“I believe so, or at any rate have heard rumours of it,” said Staples. “This is what I warrant the Selenites call the River of Life, understood to be the largest underground river on the planet, this side of Luna at least. It is held to have regenerative qualities, which―”
“Come now, no need for local mumbo-jumbo,” Phillips interjected. “Best we restrict ourselves to the facts. Although we are yet to map it ourselves, it is believed that the river leads to the very centre of Luna.”
Folkard knew something of water, and he doubted a river just started somewhere and ended up in the centre of the planet, or by now all the water would have got there, filled it up, and stopped running. From where did the water come? There had to be a water cycle at work here, a regular system of exchange; but that was for the geologists to sort out.
“Grant has contacted the Heart before, and he sought it in this latest trek,” Folkard said. “And the Heart, as its name suggests, resides in the centre of Luna.” He nodded. “We will search down-river.”
There was some animation among the Selenites, as though Folkard’s words upset them.
“Some problem, K’chuk?” Miss Somerset asked.
“Danger downriver, friend Annabelle,” said K’chuk, although he appeared to be restraining his thoughts somewhat. K’chuk was looking to the banks of the river and Folkard followed his gaze, attempting to identify what had inspired him to raise this caution.
“Danger indeed,” muttered Seaman Henry darkly, indicating the remnants of a recently vacated campsite among the unusually lush vegetation.
Folkard, taking McKittrick and Henry with him, made his way to the campsite to inspect the remains. There were some discarded food cans among the detritus, which attracted the particular interest of the men.
“Written in Russian, sir,” reported McKittrick, yet Folkard did not respond immediately.
Indeed, he had stopped as if suddenly touched by an unseen force. “Did you feel that?” he murmured.
“Feel what, sir?” asked McKittrick.
“Felt almost as if…as if someone was breathing down my neck,” said Folkard. He felt as if he had temporarily taken leave of his senses.
“Perhaps a breeze from the river, sir,” McKittrick suggested.
“Yes, perhaps nothing more than that,” Folkard replied. He was far from convinced; still, one must keep up appearances in front of the men. “Russian, you say? Well, stands to reason. We know there are Russian stragglers who took refuge deeper in the caves after the station was taken. We rounded up several and repatriated them, but some die-hards hung on, God only knows why. “
“Clearly much has changed since we were on Luna last, Captain Folkard,” said Stone, as he struggled down the riverbank to join the men, “but I fear K’chuk was referring to this.”
He indicated a skeleton, easily overlooked in the shadow of the cliff wall, that looked quite unlike anything Folkard had seen before. It was a blasphemous approximation of human physiology, yet the proportions were all wrong and the skull strangely shaped—flat-faced in front but with an elongated back. The skeleton was picked clean of any flesh or viscera yet had an unpleasantly fresh air about it, as if the original bearer had only lately stumbled upon the misfortune which caused him to perish here.
The naval ratings removed themselves from the site of the skeleton at once. While they had encountered skeletons before, of course, Folkard imagined combining association with ant-people with proximity to this ghoulish relic was simply too much. Folkard and Nathanial remained, however, and were presently joined by Staples and Phillips, who evidenced with Nathanial a scientific interest in the mysterious entity.
“Remarkable specimen, is it not, gentlemen?” asked Stone to his fellow scientists. “Something of both the Selenite and of the human, I’d say.”
“I must say, that caught my eye, too,” said Phillips. “With alien species I frequently find myself drawn less to the differences to the anatomy of man and more to the similarities. This is an unusual specimen indeed. Almost a prehistoric version of the Selenite. Perhaps an ancestor?” he wagered, to the derision of Folkard, the evolution cynic.
“If this were to be Selenite, Doctor Phillips, we would surely find six limbs rather than four. The bones seem somewhat too fresh to be an ancestor,” said Stone, crouching down to peer at the find. “In any case, I would expect evolution to proceed from an insect form to a man-like form, not vice versa. Perhaps this is some distant relation? A different branch of the lunar tree of life?”
“This skeleton does look familiar,” said Staples. “It is reminiscent of something I once saw in Doctor Grant’s laboratory, although he was evasive about its identity and I never learned a name for it. Either way, it is certainly no Selenite.”
“Not Selenite,” said K’chuk, from the top of the bank. “Something worse. Need to move.”
Folkard turned to K’chuk at this. “What is that creature?”
“A bad thing. Enemy of Selenite.”
“An enemy of humans too?”
“Not all men,” K’chuk said, dropping his gaze. “River of Life full of danger. Not good for human or Selenite.”
Miss Somerset appeared to have a further question on her lips, but said nothing. She wore a frown that suggested she was not altogether convinced that K’chuk was telling the team as much as he could. Folkard made a mental note to take the matter up with K’chuk at a later point. For now, however, it was time for action.
“I dare say,” he answered, “but the river is our only lead. If you know a parallel route, we can take it. Otherwise I’m afraid we’re obliged to follow its course, at least so long as we have a solid bank. If the cavern walls close in and we lose the ledge, we will have to improvise.”
The party continued to follow the River of Life on its journey downwards, towards the centre of Luna. Folkard felt a certain shiver of the spine, a tremulous sensation for which he could find no outward explanation. He noticed some of the others in the group exhibit a peculiar awkwardness as they travelled, an uneasiness, and Folkard saw in their faces they probably felt the same thing as he.
It was almost as if someone was breathing down their necks.
GEORGE BEDFORD liked to think that he ran a tight ship. So, too, he felt, did Jacob Folkard. It was simply a fact that they held different opinions on certain aspects of the maintenance of discipline. Leniency regarding minor transgressions, for example. Bedford believed that if these transgressions were addressed and ironed out early, it would save them problems in the long run. Folkard, however, believed that minor slip-ups could go without punishment on the first instance, with a warning of serious redress on future examples. How much stock to hold in the opinions of the men was another area in which they differed. Folkard felt that holding the opinions of the men in high stock was the finest way of ensuring content onboard. Bedford felt that the men felt more comfortable following a leader who had confidence in his own judgment and of that of the officers and petty officers who had risen to rank by experience and merit, rather than if every novice ordinary seaman’s view was held to be of equal merit to veteran officers. What did that say to the men about an officer’s faith in his own decision-making?
The most notable disagreement since serving together on Sovereign, however, had of course been on Luna. Luna was a devilish rock which had held no prior interest for the British Government and for good cause. It was not for nothing, Bedford felt, that physicians considered the minds of the insane to be controlled by the impulses of Luna, hence the phrase “lunacy”. The myths of a dark side of the moon were exactly that, of course: it was, in fact, only made to appear light from Earth by the Sun. It rotated in the same way as the Earth, so no part of it could strictly be considered to be the “dark side”. Nonetheless, he felt certain that there was, after all, a dark side to Luna; a metaphorical darkness that appeared horribly tempting to the susceptible mind and led only to ruin.
It was for these reasons that he was wary of returning to Luna to begin with. The previous mission, from an outsider’s perspective, could have been considered a success: they had, after all, uncovered a secret Russian compound and secured it for the Empire. However, many lives had been lost and the cost to Sovereign could have been greater still if Bedford’s team had not been led by Annabelle to an atmosphere pocket. The team had, after all, been abandoned by Sovereign with barely an hour’s oxygen in their tanks. Normally, in spite of their disagreements, Bedford had to admit that Folkard characteristically demonstrated impeccable behaviour and judgement; on this occasion, however, the decision to leave the men on the lunar surface without warning was a nearly inexcusable one. Bedford hoped that there were no similar lapses in the captain’s judgement this time: one could simply not be said to be fit to run a ship if their conscience deserted them whenever they approached a planet or a moon. One would hardly expect a commanding officer of the Army to be excused were he to make a series of blunders whenever his men marched into Rhodesia!
Whatever happened on Luna, it was important that Bedford himself should demonstrate exemplary behaviour while protecting Sovereign. The ship, after all, was the finest in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy and boasted a number of singular characteristics. Not least of those was the armament with which Versailles had already been familiarised. Bedford had a feeling Sovereign’s firepower would be needed once more before the mission was complete, perhaps this time the big 14-inch guns fore and aft rather than the smaller 4.7-inch quickfires Folkard had used to warn away the French cutter.
Although he dared not admit it even to himself, there had been a number of innuendos made with regards to how he was making for rather a mature lieutenant, although on the premier ship of the Royal Navy. He had worked his way up from the life which his parents had had, this was for sure; the son of a tanner, he had escaped from following in his father’s footsteps by virtue of his sheer force of intelligence and willpower—and some extraordinary good luck. Catching the eye of their Member of Parliament, an octogenarian retired Royal Navy post captain named Swinton, had proved his salvation. The man had learned his trade as a midshipman under Cochrane in the Napoleonic Wars, and lost an arm in ’54 commanding a three-decker in the bombardment of Sevastopol. Old Captain Swinton had secured Bedford’s appointment as a midshipman. After that, it was up to him, and nothing to fall back upon but a life as a tanner, the same as his brothers. His father was long since dead, alas, yet Bedford still remembered the threat of the tannery. Having got this far, merely finishing a competent second would be insufficient.
Yes, a bit old for a lieutenant, and a bit old to still be single. In his seafaring days, Bedford had wanted little for the extended company of women, preferring the advantages of a temporary relief before setting to sea once more. Yet gone were the days when a sailor could find a mate in every port, that was for sure, and if the docks of Mars or Mercury could be said to be lacking in anything, it was whorehouses, although at least on Mars that lack seemed to be by way of remedy on their last visit. With all the troops arriving at the Crown Colony it was no wonder.
Sovereign had escorted three liners rigged out as troop ships and herself made berths available for two companies of the Rifles. Something was brewing there for sure, and there had been more ladies of the evening than he remembered from before. Still, even when the option had become available to him, this time he had found reasons to remain aboard. Duty was his excuse, but he suspected that he was growing out of such pursuits, which left him with mixed feelings—a certain melancholia for his passing youth, but also an appreciation of the possibility of a far better stage of life opening up to him.
What he required was a strong woman, one who could hold her own against his intelligence and force of will. He was not content to simply have a woman to make his home, to cook his dinner, to father his children. He wondered…
A clangourous alarm interrupted his ruminations. The sound came from the landing bay and announced the arrival of a cutter. Presumably this was Mister Ainsworth with a message from Folkard and his crew, since that was the only cutter gone. Ordinarily, a change of plans so early in the mission would concern him; however, he had learnt from his last expedition to Luna to take nothing for granted and avoid complacency.
Whatever it was, best to find out right away in case action was required. He started out but remembered his standing order to officers on watch to wear sidearms while down in the Lunar canyon. It wouldn’t do to violate his own order, would it? He plucked on the leather pistol belt as he left his day cabin.
When he’d nearly reached the landing bay he encountered Sub-Lieutenant Barry, the officer of the watch, on his way as well.
“Bedford,” Barry said by way of greeting and they entered the bay.
Other than the bosun’s mate on duty and one seaman, who secured the recovery gear and winch which had pulled the cutter inboard on its docking cradle, the pad seemed empty of life. That struck Bedford as odd. Ainsworth was not the sort to tarry unnecessarily in a cutter. On recent missions, he had excelled in the position of messenger; the cutter would have barely come to a standstill before he was rushing to convey the latest information from the ground as if he were the Pheidippides of legend. The boson and his assistant exchanged a curious glance as well. What was the delay?
Cautiously Bedford led his party towards the ship, the only sound the echoing of their footsteps in the bay. As they crept closer, he drew his revolver, in the event he was confronted with something out of the ordinary.
“Ainsworth?” he tried, his voice sounding deafening as it broke the silence and reverberated around the walls of the bay. “Hardly common practice to retire in the cutter after a journey, Able Seaman. Out with you!” There could hardly have been anyone this side of the Sea of Tranquillity who had not heard Bedford, yet still the cutter remained undisturbed.
It could not have reached Sovereign unmanned. It could perhaps have been launched, to race upwards, but how would it avoid colliding with the canyon walls, how make the transition from air screw to aether propeller, and most importantly, how decelerate and dock, without a hand on the controls? He had heard mysterious tales of ghost ships roaming the seas with no crew but that was different. This was no empty hulk bobbing on the waves. The cutter, however, was deadly silent. The macabre prospect of facing a ghost spaceship and, worse, one that had originally come from Sovereign, was upon him. He could feel the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end.
He motioned to Barry to draw his revolver. He did so and the bosun picked up and hefted a large spanner, longer than his forearm. The seaman reached into his rear trouser pocket and produced a screwdriver, looking absurdly ineffective next to the spanner. Still, Bedford looked the seaman over and decided he wouldn’t want to give that lad an excuse to slide the business end of that screwdriver between two of his ribs.
Bedford continued toward the cutter when suddenly the door of the small vessel’s hatch sprang open.
There was a moment before anything happened. Bedford froze, his men following suit. Weapons still at the ready, the men watched in horror as a grotesque figure scrambled out of the cutter with more right behind it. The sight left the men momentarily stunned.
FURTHER DOWN the River of Life, Folkard had identified a clue. Scattered on the bank of the river were a number of shavings from branches, together with uncoiled rope which lay discarded near a bush. A nearby small stand of tall, slender mushroom-like trees had been decreased in number by four, judging from the stumps and sign of their trunks dragged across the loose shale. The leathery branches and fronds had clearly been trimmed from them and by the shore the group found the charred remains of some papers apparently torn from a notebook. Those which could still be deciphered showed a few sketches against which were some hurried notes.
“This writing is scarcely legible,” said Folkard.
“Yet certainly it is Grant’s,” said Stone, contemplating the burnt documents. “During our work together he would often pause and scribble notes like this on the blackboard. These particular notes do not illuminate his destination, but his intentions are clear. He meant to build himself a raft, which I can only presume he succeeded in doing. He’s a resourceful fellow, it has to be said. This at least serves as confirmation that our navigation thus far is accurate. He must have attempted to cover his tracks by burning his papers.”
“Why burn them?” Folkard asked. “Why not just throw them in the river?”
“Possibly the party from which he desired to hide his intentions was down-river,” Stone said. “Perhaps there are more remains which might serve as a clue as to where he was heading.”
As he scouted around the group to search for further clues, Folkard halted abruptly. His early sensation of being watched now was backed by solid evidence: footprints differing from those of the group. They seemed fairly fresh and pointed unusually outwards from each other, which, it could be presumed, gave the walker a bent gait, clearly unlike that of anyone in the party. Someone else had been here, and recently.
“Bad things are coming,” muttered Seaman Henry in a pessimistic tone.
“I would have to agree, Captain,” said Stone, looking from Henry to Folkard. “Whoever these others are, Grant clearly considered them dangerous.”
Folkard nodded. “Still, there is little choice, men. Sooner or later we will have to confront these men―if they are men―and I would rather we meet them on our terms than theirs.”
“Can we really entertain even the possibility that they are men, Captain?” Stone asked. “I mean―God―those footprints!”
“Highly possible, Professor Stone. Who knows what sort of torturous exercises the Russkies subject their soldiers to? In any case, whether man or alien, they mean us no good or they would have shown themselves—if not to us, to the research station personnel. So everyone draw your weapons and when we move we will spread out, so if someone does fall upon us, some at least will be free of the melee and able to give supporting fire.”
“Permission to speak, sir?” asked Henry, somewhat surprisingly. When Folkard gave his consent, Henry continued. “Sir, permission to guard Miss Somerset if she stays behind? Likely to be conflict in other group. Can’t have a lady abducted.”
“Ah, and you’re suggesting that she may need someone to fight for her, Henry?”
Henry merely nodded in reply.
“Very chivalrous, Mister Henry,” said Miss Somerset.
“Yes, I do rather agree with you, Henry,” said Folkard. “Excellent thinking. I suspect the danger will be greatest for the forward party so I shall lead. McKittrick, Burroughs, you shall accompany me. Professor Stone, you as well, if you please.”
“Perhaps I might also be of assistance, Captain Folkard?” offered Phillips. “I am not yet too old for adventuring and I may have some insight that could be useful. That is, if you are amenable to the input of a civilian?”
“Very well and thank you. Miss Somerset, Seaman Henry, Doctor Staples, I would like you in the centre of the party. Chief Charles, you take Gibbs and O’Hara and form the rearguard. You’re the senior petty officer here, so if something happens to me, you’re in command, and no backtalk from any of these civilians, no matter how many doctorates they hold. Understood?”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“K’chuk,” Folkard continued, “I would be obliged if you and your men went in the centre, with Miss Somerset, to guard her and Doctor Staples in the event of an attack.”
The Selenites looked among themselves with an air of reluctance. They were communicating telepathically, as ever; it did seem, however, that K’chuk was displaying more of a desire for combat than his men. “Selenites fight if needed,” K’chuk eventually replied.
“Very well. Now let’s move out, but proceed with extreme caution.”
They walked for several hours along the river. It could not be said to be silent, as the sound of the water was always present, contained, amplified, and distorted by the narrow covered canyon through which it ran, now murmuring, now gurgling, now roaring as it dropped over a low falls or broke into foamy waves among the rocks of a rapids. But the river’s voice was so omnipresent that after a while it seemed almost to dwindle into half-heard background noise.
Something about the skeleton, the strange footprints, the burnt remnants of cryptic notes, and this seemingly-endless river combined to silence their tongues as well. None of them spoke until Stone raised his hand and cried out.
“Hallo! What’s that up ahead?”
Folkard held his hand up and the column halted. He studied the small, dark feature on the ground Stone had seen, perhaps a quarter of a mile on, studied it with eyes used to picking out the single flickering white light of a cutter from a background of a thousand stars.
“Bodies,” he said at last. “Two of them, I’d say, although we’ll have to get closer to be certain. Charles, you stay here with the rearguard and the main body. Find yourself some cover and stay put, no matter what happens, until I give you the all-clear and wave you forward. Clear?”
“Aye aye, Sir.”
“Good man. I’ll take the advanced party on ahead and see what’s what. Everyone on your toes.” Folkard cocked the hammer on his Enfield to emphasize the point.
As the captain and the four others of the advanced party drew near their objective, it became all too apparent whose bodies had been piled in such a way, and the sight—to say nothing of the stench—were enough that men with weaker constitutions would have run screaming for the surface.
“I knew those men. Captain, say it isn’t so!” McKittrick appealed to his captain, who was knelt by the bodies.
“I’m afraid it very much is so, gentlemen,” Folkard said grimly. “Ensign Challoner and Able Seaman Clements, late of Sovereign.”
“Surely this is impossible. Those men were taken months ago!” gasped Stone. “Yet these corpses are fresh. Why, they’re barely three hours dead!”
“But why keep a man alive for seven months, only to then kill him?” mused the young and nervous-looking Burroughs.
Folkard rose to his feet only to see the fresh horror that had materialised in a circle around them, seeming to rise from the sandy ground.
Ambushed!
“This is why,” Folkard murmured, raising his revolver, “you kill them to lay a trap.” He fired the weapon, and one of the creatures spun backwards, blood and grey fluid spurting from its head. Before he could get off a second shot they were on him and knocked the revolver from his hand.