The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(52)
“Burn in Hell, demon,” he said, contemplating the creature’s colossal build, its gigantic proportions and powerful musculature, with a scientist’s detachment.
He wondered idly how many tons a creature like that would weigh. Would it be heavier than an ox? Lighter than a baby elephant? And then, to his astonishment, a crazy idea struck him like a bolt from the blue. He withdrew his finger from the trigger. What if . . . ? Would it be worth a gamble? He glanced at Allan, who was stretched out on the snow, mesmerized by the monster’s advance, like a lamb waiting for slaughter. The change of plan Reynolds had in mind would upset the gunner, but he might forgive him if in the process he was spared dying at the hands of the creature, even if it only meant dying from starvation or exposure instead.
With a swift movement, Reynolds turned the gun away from his head and pointed it at the Martian, who gazed at him, surprised by this unexpected gesture. Reynolds shot the monster in the head without remorse or pleasure, as one carrying out a routine task. The blow knocked the monster to the ground, and although Reynolds knew he had not killed it, he hoped this would give him time enough to carry out his plan. Quick as a flash, he wrenched Allan to his feet once more and forced him to run, circling round the monster this time and heading for the wrecked ship.
“Run, run for your life!” he urged the gunner, who had begun a flailing sprint with what appeared to be the last of his energy.
Reynolds ran beside him, trying to keep the young man on the right track, all the while glancing back over his shoulder at the monster. Once it had recovered from the gun blast, the Martian had stood up, still a little dazed, and resumed its pursuit, although for the moment it did not seem in too much of a hurry, like a predator that knows its victim has no chance of escape. All the better, Reynolds thought, reaching the destroyed vessel on the point of collapse. He made the gunner stop next to a pile of debris so they could catch their breath. When he managed to tear his eyes from MacReady’s privy, which was perched incongruously on top of a pile of timber, the explorer glanced once more over his shoulder. He saw the Martian still coming toward them, taking ever greater leaps across the ice, perhaps because it was suddenly in a hurry to end that stupid chase. Smiling to himself, Reynolds skirted round the ship and pushed Allan ahead of him out onto the ice on the port side, where the unfortunate MacReady had forbade the men from walking. Allan looked at him with alarm as the ice creaked under their weight, threatening to break up like pastry crust. But instantly, a flash of comprehension crossed his dark face. Reynolds urged him on, and the gunner obeyed, filled with renewed energy, even as the ice began to crack more and more with every step. They soon had the alarming feeling of walking on a moving sea.
When they considered they had ventured a sufficient distance onto the flimsy surface, they stopped and turned toward the wreck of the Annawan, just as the Martian was rounding it. The creature took a spectacular leap, unaware it was falling into the improvised trap Reynolds had laid, and landed some five yards from where they had come to a halt. To the amazed relief of the supposed victims, the ice gave way under the monster’s incredible weight, and they watched it go down, arms thrashing about in a sea as dark as wine, as the ice closed up again. The impact, similar to a blast of dynamite, caused a skein of cracks to spread out in all directions, splintering the ice within a twenty-yard radius. The sudden tremor knocked Reynolds and Allan to the ice, and they clung to each other so as not to be separated as the ice broke into fragments around them. They listened in terror as the Martian struggled to punch its way through the thick frozen layer above its head, but it only succeeded in cracking, not piercing the ice. Gradually the frantic thudding grew fainter, until it was no more than a sinister tapping sound, ever more distant, leading them to conclude that some timely coastal current was dragging the monster away. When the tapping finally stopped, Reynolds prayed aloud to the Creator, or rather he demanded imperiously that He entomb the monster in that frozen sea. Yes, even if the Martian proved as immune to drowning and freezing as it was to bullets and fire, he prayed it would in one form or another meet its end there, for indestructible though it might seem, as far as he knew, the Creator had never shown the slightest interest in blessing any of His creatures with immortality.
After he had finished praying, Reynolds slumped down next to the gunner on the improvised raft that was floating down one of the channels the fractured ice had created. The two men were so exhausted and breathless they could scarcely speak. Even so, Reynolds heard the soft flutter of Allan’s voice.
“Thank you for saving my life, Reynolds. The last thing I expected to find in this hellhole was a friend.”
The explorer smiled. “I hope you remember that when you have no more need of me,” he replied between gasps. “Assuming such a moment ever arrives.”
The gunner gave a chuckle, which died away no sooner than it touched the air. Then there was silence. Reynolds half dragged himself up and saw that Allan had spent his last reserves of energy laughing at his jest, for the gunner lay unconscious beside him. Reynolds smiled wearily and fell back onto the ice, close to collapse, reflecting about what he had just said to Allan. Why had he carted the gunner back and forth, never even considering leaving him to his fate? It wasn’t like him. And yet he had, for he was incapable of ignoring the spell the poet’s voice cast on him each time he called out his name, with the blind trust of a child calling to its mother in the dark. Answering that desperate appeal had made him feel something profound and alien, something he had never felt before, he realized in the haze of his fatigue: for the first time in his life, someone had placed his trust in him, someone had needed him. Allan, the gunner who dreamed of being a poet, had called his name in the hold, up on deck, on the ice, and he had gone to his aid instantly. He sensed that by saving Allan, he would in some way also be saving his own selfish soul. Yes, that is what had motivated him. And who could tell—perhaps that last-minute gesture would redeem him from Hell and redirect him to Heaven. For one thing was certain: unless some miracle occurred, the merciless cold would kill them within a matter of hours.