The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(168)

“Follow me!” Shackleton cried, darting into the tunnel from which the priest was beckoning.

We all ran after him, trap or no trap.

“Go straight down the tunnel,” I heard the priest say as I ran past him. “It’ll take you to the river, and it’s clear, I’ve checked. Hurry, you’ve no time to lose! I’ll hold them up while you flee,” he murmured, glancing toward the bend.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked him in amazement, stopping automatically beside him.

Without looking at me, his face glowing with a kind of inner illumination, the priest said, “I am a priest. My name is Father Nathaniel Wrayburn, and I’ve never known anything else. I was born old, and I’m far too old to change now. Go in peace, my son. Go in peace.” He stepped into the center of the tunnel, his back to me, and started to pray, projecting his voice loudly: “The thief cometh not, but for to steal and to kill and to destroy . . . I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.”

Clayton grabbed my arm, dragging me with him even as I yelled a brief “Thank you, Father.” While I ran after the inspector, I looked back at the old man standing like a frail tree, trying to make his voice heard above the clamor of footsteps coming from the other tunnel. Then he opened his arms slowly, and his hands began to sprout claws, the prelude to the metamorphosis that would soon spread to the rest of his body. In the distance, the immense figures of his two fellow Martians bounded out of the other tunnel. I didn’t want to see more. I turned round and followed my companions, splashing through the puddles of water on the tunnel floor. The deafening, otherworldly roars echoing ominously down the tunnel behind us announced the beginning of a fight to the death between these monsters from outer space. For a few minutes we ran for our lives, as the din of the combat grew fainter, gradually dying out. There was no way of knowing what was happening, although I don’t think any of us would have wagered on the priest. Then Murray appeared to stumble and came to a halt, propping himself up against one of the walls. We all turned to look at him.

“What’s the matter, Gilliam?” Wells asked between gasps.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop . . . I’ll catch up . . . I just need to rest for a moment,” Murray said, deathly white, grimacing as he tried to smile and clasping his stomach, almost doubled over.

“Are you mad, Gilliam? We’re not leaving you here!” Emma declared, alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing, Emma. I’m fine. I just need to rest for a few—,” he began to say, but suddenly lost his strength and slumped to his knees.

Murray gazed up at us almost apologetically and to our surprise began unbuttoning his jacket, revealing the deep gash across his stomach, while he grinned sheepishly, as if he had just spilled wine down his front. Emma raised her hands to her mouth, stifling a scream. Through the awful wound a few bloody lumps protruded, which could only be part of his intestines. Blood was oozing copiously from the gaping wound, drenching his trousers. Only someone who was desperate to stay alive could have managed to run for so long in this state, I reflected.

“Unfortunately, the Martian I killed had time to transform one of his hands,” he apologized, resting his faltering gaze on the girl. “I was afraid to look before, I didn’t want to see how serious it was . . . I didn’t want to leave you, Emma, forgive me.”

Emma fell to her knees beside him, her horrified eyes fixed on the terrible gash, reluctant to believe it was real. Her hands fluttered around the mortal wound that had exposed Murray’s intestines, then she placed them over the wound, trying to cover it, as if she believed this simple gesture could dissuade Murray from his silly notion of dying. But his life went on trickling out of him through her fingers. Emma gave a guttural cry of pain and rage and impotence. Then she clutched hold of him desperately, in an embrace like none I had ever seen before.

“No, Gilliam, don’t die . . . You can’t die!” she sobbed, frantically pummeling his chest. She would have killed him if by doing so she could have brought him back to life.

All of a sudden, we heard a thunderous roar of triumph in the distance, which made us raise our heads, even as the blood curdled in our veins. A few seconds later, thudding footsteps echoed down the tunnel as the huge creatures bounded toward us. It didn’t take much intelligence to realize who had won the fight. In a matter of minutes, the victors would be upon us. And it seemed there were more of them, many more than two. I think we all knew we were going to die at the hands of this frenzied pack.

“Inspector Clayton,” Murray managed to splutter, blood streaming from the corners of his mouth and falling onto the hair of the girl, who was still clasping him in her arms, “I don’t know what your new plan is, but there’s only one way you’ll have time to carry it out. I’ll stay here and when the Martians arrive I’ll detonate your accursed hand. That’ll take care of a few of them for you, and at the same time I suppose the tunnel will collapse, forcing them to find another way through. It’ll give you a chance to escape—”

“No, Gilliam, no!” the girl cried.

“Emma,” Murray whispered with difficulty, “you know I love to argue with you, but now isn’t the time. Go, go with them, please . . .”

“I’m not going anywhere, Gilliam. I’m staying right here with you,” the girl declared resolutely.