The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(180)
Doyle, who had been following everything as he slid around on the floor, cried out to Murray, “Grab hold of the captain! Let’s form a chain!”
Murray, who at that moment was passing close to Sinclair, stretched out his arms and managed to seize Sinclair’s legs even as he felt Doyle’s viselike grip around his left ankle. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Doyle grab hold of Clayton’s collar just as the whirlwind wrenched him free from the tangle of wires. The four men remained like that, forming a kind of human snake of which Sinclair, clasping the column, was the head, and Clayton, unconscious and missing a hand, was the tail, while the hole pulled at them as if it were tightening the string on a guitar.
“The column is giving way!” Captain Sinclair announced, to their dismay.
? ? ?
A DRAGON WAS BLOCKING their way . . . He had never imagined that the course his life took might lead to any such situation, Wells told himself as they fled from the invisible creature. And yet it was true. The dragon was from another world, from a world in which dragons existed because in a universe made up of infinite worlds, everything was possible. Everything man could imagine already existed somewhere, like the myths and fairy tales full of captive princesses, brave knights, and angry dragons that breathed fire. That was why they had come across the beast folk, and why Martian tripods were razing London to the ground . . . It was the end of the world, of all possible worlds, of all the imaginable worlds. And the book he was clasping to his chest, the book he himself had written, contained the key to preventing that, even though for them it seemed like mumbo jumbo.
Still running, Wells and Jane entered one of the museum’s side galleries. They felt worn-out, but the sound of the Villain’s grunts behind them spurred them on. They ran through the whale room filled with skeletons and gigantic models of cetaceans, through another containing every species of plant, and finally they ventured into the fossil room, from which there was no exit. Gasping for breath, their faces bathed in sweat, the couple leaned against the end wall, too exhausted to regret their misfortune. The Villain’s watery form entered the room, found them propped against the wall, and sauntered toward them. He looked tired as well and eager to bring to an end this prolonged chase across so many worlds, in which Wells and Jane were the last relay. As the creature approached, they could see that the bluish substance had almost completely defined his figure, although a few patches still needed coloring in—for example, his left arm and part of his chest. His face, in contrast, was complete, although most of his head was still missing, so that his expression seemed to be floating in the air, as though painted on a crumpled cloth. He stopped a few yards from them and gave a sigh of genuine dismay.
“Was this absurd chase really necessary, George? What good has it done you?” He contemplated Wells at length. “Give me the book. You have no choice, George. You can’t fight me alone.”
Rhys extended his one visible hand, which looked as if it were made of glass. Wells stared at it with a distracted air, as though thinking to himself. Then, when it seemed he was about to hand over the book, he held it even tighter to his chest, shut his eyes, and bowed his head slightly, as he were praying. Jane looked aghast at her husband’s submissive posture, while the Villain contemplated his final eccentricity with amusement.
“As you wish . . . ,” he said sadly, as though regretting that things had turned out that way. “Then I will just have to take it from you by force.”
But before he could take a step, an unruly group of about a dozen men burst into the room from God knew where—among them a tram conductor and a couple of laborers.
“The Invisible Man!” one of them cried, pointing at the alarmed silhouette of the Villain.
A huge laborer stepped out from the group and, hurling abuse, lifted his spade and brought it crashing down on the creature’s head. Rhys fell to the floor and was instantly surrounded by the men. His body started to flicker, but before he was able to jump, an angry torrent of kicks and punches rained down on him. Anyone coming into the room might have thought that an exceptionally vicious game of rugby was in progress. Despite the continuing blows, the Villain managed to drag himself to his feet, but the tram conductor grabbed him by the neck and shoulders and forced him to the floor again, where his companions gave him another savage kicking. Wells and Jane watched the scene from against the wall, appalled by the display of brutality. Then, when it was clear the Villain was not going to be able to get up or jump into a parallel world, Wells took his wife’s hand and led her toward the exit, skirting around the group of men still engaged in that fearsome beating, until suddenly they all stopped. From the doorway, Wells and Jane saw the men step away with bloodied fists, panting for breath, and in the center of the circle they saw the inert figure of the Villain.
“G-Good God, B-Bertie, it happened exactly like . . . ,” Jane stammered, too bewildered and horrified to finish her sentence.
“Yes, exactly as at the end of The Invisible Man. Rhys died in the same way at the hands of the same people as the deranged Griffin.”
“But how can that be?”
“Because I imagined it,” replied Wells.
Jane looked at him, puzzled.
“Haven’t you seen everything that is going on around us? The Island of Doctor Moreau, The War of the Worlds . . . Those are my novels, Jane, but apparently they are also worlds that exist somewhere. And now they are colliding with ours, and I see that somehow my creations, if indeed they ever belonged to me, felt . . . drawn toward me.”