The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(86)
“I know, miss,” Wells reassured her. “But what matters now is to get away from here.”
As they stumbled toward the trees, the sound of the tentacle firing indiscriminately at the terrified crowd resounded in their ears. Wells could not resist looking back over his shoulder. He watched with horror as several rays cut through the air, striking the parked carriages at the edge of the common, creating a vision of Hell from which a pair of horses emerged, enveloped in flames. The condemned animals, wreathed with golden streamers by death, careened wildly over the grass, imbuing the nightmarish scene with an eerie poetry. Just as in his novel, the ray swept over the countryside swiftly and brutally, doling out death, destroying everything in its path with a cold disregard. He saw trees burnt to a crisp, smoldering gashes in the earth, women and men fleeing terrified, and upturned carts, and he understood that the much-heralded Day of Judgment had arrived. How could Murray . . . ? But his mind was unable to finish forming the question, for a few yards to their right a ray landed suddenly, sending them flying across the grass. Stunned, his ears ringing and his skin burning as though he had been scorched by a dragon’s breath, Wells looked around for the girl and was relieved to find her sprawled beside him. Her eyes were shut tight, though she was apparently uninjured. But the longer they stayed on the ground, the more likely they were to be hit by another ray or crushed by the panic-stricken crowd. He took a deep breath and was steeling himself to get up and resume their desperate flight when he heard the inspector’s voice.
“The ray has wiped out all the carriages!” Clayton shouted as he approached. “We must make our way across the fields. Come!”
Wells helped the girl to her feet, and the two of them followed the inspector. Yet Clayton did not seem to know where to take cover either, given that nowhere was safe from the rays. After pushing their way with difficulty through the terrified crowd, Clayton decided to halt for a moment to assess the situation. They had managed to break away from the mass of onlookers but were still trapped inside the rectangle marked out by flames where the slaughter was taking place. One side of that improvised cage of fire was formed by the houses stretching toward Woking Station, which were now blazing like a funeral pyre, and another by the row of trees bordering the road, which had also been transformed into a glowing curtain. The only way out was straight ahead, over the neighboring fields toward Maybury, but that would make them a tempting target for the tentacle. Before they had time to make up their minds, they saw emerging from behind the trees a luxurious carriage with an ornate “G” painted on the door. They watched in disbelief as the carriage hurtled toward them, wondering who but a madman would drive toward that carnage. Astonished, they saw a huge man stretch his out hand to the girl.
“Come with me, if you want to live!” the man cried.
But the girl stood motionless, unable to comprehend what was happening. Without thinking, Clayton shoved her into the carriage then clambered in after her. Wells followed, flinging himself inside just as the crash of another heat ray resounded behind them. A fountain of stones and sand sprayed the carriage, shattering its windows. Wells, who was the last to get in, had served as an involuntarily parapet, his back sprayed with broken glass. When the effects of the blast had died away, the author struggled to get up as best he could, disentangling himself from the heap his companions had formed on the floor. They, too, had begun hauling themselves up, wondering perhaps whether they were alive or dead. Through what remained of the window, Wells could make out the hole the ray had made in the ground, alarmingly close to the carriage, which at that very instant began racing off once more. Wells, like the others, slumped back onto the seat, relieved the driver had not been hit by any flying debris. He could hear the whip cracking furiously across the horses’ flanks, straining to get them out of there. It was then that he recognized the man who had rescued them, who was sitting right opposite him. Wells gazed at him dumbfounded. He was remarkably slimmer, but there was no mistaking him. The Master of Time himself.
“George,” Murray said, bobbing his head slightly and giving the forced smile of someone who has bumped into his enemy at a party.
“You damned son of a bitch!” Wells cried, hurling himself at the millionaire and attempting to throttle him. “How dare you!”
“It wasn’t me, George,” Murray said, defending himself. “This is not my doing!”
“What the devil is this about?” Clayton cried, trying to come between the two men.
“Don’t you recognize him?” the author declared, breathless. “It’s Gilliam Murray!”
“Gilliam Murray?” stammered the girl, who was looking on in horror at the impromptu brawl from a corner of the carriage.
“I can explain, Emma,” Murray blurted out apologetically.
“You have a great many things to explain, you damned fool!” Wells growled, struggling to free himself from Clayton’s grip.
“Calm down, Mr. Wells,” the inspector commanded, removing his pistol from his belt and trying to point it at the author, who, owing to the lack of room inside the carriage, found himself with a gun inches from his nose. “And be so good as to return to your seat.”
Reluctantly, Wells obeyed.
“Good, now let’s all stay calm,” said Clayton, who also sat down and tried to keep control of the situation by speaking in a measured voice. “I am Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard.” He turned to Murray and gave him a polite smile. “And you, I assume, are Gilliam Murray, the Master of Time. Although you have been officially dead for two years.”