The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(49)

“Reynolds . . .”

Allan’s voice roused him from his stupor. He blinked several times, coughed, and was surprised to find himself still alive. His whole body ached, but no bones appeared to be broken. He half sat up and tried to locate the gunner amid the thick clouds of smoke obscuring everything. The blast had torn some of the lanterns from their hooks, and here and there tiny fires had broken out, which would soon spread, kindled by the tinder-dry wood from which the polar frost had wrung every drop of moisture. But before Reynolds could find Allan, he made out a figure at the far end of the deck, trotting calmly toward the armory, like a sinner so used to being in Hell that he feels completely at ease there. He realized it was Griffin, that curious sailor, who apparently had not followed the others into the powder store, thus escaping with his life, and who, instead of leaving the ship, which seemed the most sensible thing to do, was arming himself, as though he did not consider the battle with the creature to be over. Reynolds shrugged. That lunatic could do what he wanted with his own life; he had no intention of trying to stop him.

“Reynolds . . . ,” he heard Allan wailing from somewhere.

Then the explorer saw him, trapped under a heap of shattered beams. He was still alive but would not be for much longer if Reynolds did not dig him out and help him to abandon ship. This time, Reynolds surprised himself by not even entertaining the option of leaving Allan there. He rose unsteadily to his feet and ran over to help him. When he arrived, he noticed a deep gash in Allan’s forehead, which was bleeding profusely. He was still half conscious, yet beneath his matted hair, his bright eyes were flickering like two candle flames before an open window. Reynolds managed to pull him out from under the fallen beams, help him to his feet, and drag him over to the nearest hatch. Hauling him up the ladder proved grueling. When they finally emerged on the Annawan’s upper deck, Reynolds felt the cold like a rejuvenating balm. But they were not yet out of harm’s way. Reynolds quickly collected himself and located the ice ramp. He pushed Allan toward it, and, placing his arms around the gunner’s waist, they hurled themselves over the side, as behind them another violent blast shook the vessel.

Once they were on the snow, Reynolds heaved Allan up off the ground and dragged him to what he thought was a safe distance from the Annawan. The two men collapsed close to the cage where the dogs were barking wildly. As they tried to catch their breath, they gazed in fascination at the slow, relentless destruction of the ship, as though it were a prearranged spectacle. The blasts followed one another at irregular intervals, and, according to how powerful they were, either blew a hole in the hull or gently rocked the boat on its plinth of ice. Meanwhile, the fire, greedy and unstoppable, had spread to the bridge. Huge tongues of fire leapt from the forecastle and coiled themselves like flaming serpents around the wooden masts, in a disturbingly beautiful display that was undiminished by the awful sight of sailors hurling themselves from the top deck, some of them in flames. The poor wretches must have been hiding from the monster somewhere on the ship and been unable to escape when the blasts began. Fortunately, Reynolds and Allan were far enough away not to hear the crack their bones must have made as they hit the ice. Then Reynolds saw a dense mass of smoke, like a thundercloud, rise from the bridge, a sinister overture to the violent explosion that followed, scattering a hail of splintered wood, metal, and human limbs in all directions. Reynolds threw himself facedown in the snow and covered his head with his arms, while Allan remained sitting beside him, admiring the deadly shower of debris with the fascination of a child enjoying a firework display. The thunderous noise resounded off the icy hillocks, and the air itself seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces. When the echo died away, only the din of the dogs barking and leaping around in their cage prevented the two men from being engulfed in a tomblike silence.

Reynolds sat up slowly, relieved to see that none of the debris had fallen on Allan, who remained sitting on the snow as though at a picnic. He studied the devastation around him and in spite of everything felt a wave of joy wash over him as he realized the Martian must have perished at some moment during that orgy of destruction. The nightmare was over. After the final explosion, the ship had been reduced to a pile of timber and twisted metal, from which a plume of smoke arose, while the snow around it was strewn with an assortment of variously burnt and mutilated bodies. By pure chance, Reynolds’s gaze rested on one of them, which was smoldering faintly, like a torch about to go out, and he was seized once more by an absurd and irrepressible euphoria. He knew he would only be able to enjoy his salvaged life for a few more hours, before cold and hunger finally snatched it from him forever, but that did not stop him from smiling to himself in the middle of that white immensity, simply because he was still alive.

It was then that the dead body he had been watching idly slowly began to stir. Reynolds contemplated it with fascination, wondering how anyone could possibly have survived that devastation. But suddenly, he realized that the figure that had begun to pick itself up from the snow was too big to be a man. With a mixture of panic and helplessness, he saw the Martian stand up, huge, unscathed, and indestructible. The skin on its shoulders was smoldering, but the monster did not appear bothered. Once it was on its feet, it sniffed the air, glancing about until it spotted them, twenty or so yards away, slumped in the snow, insultingly alive. The Martian began loping toward them over the ice. Reynolds glanced at Allan. The gunner had also seen the monster and, with a contorted expression that was beyond fear, was watching it approach.