Patterson grumbled to himself as he checked and rechecked the cards in his hand. He knew that the inevitable was coming and Rogers smirking face wasn't making it any easier. Jessop, lounging on an ammunition crate nearby tipped his cap up and harrumphed.
"Just bloody fold, Pat. We all know you're ruddy done."
With curse, Patrick "Pat" Patterson slapped the cards down on the barrel between him and Rogers, the Lance-Corporal in charge of their section, "That's another ruddy pay-chit I'm not seeing. Beers on you next time, corp."
Rogers chuckled and shuffled the cards, "Fancy another one, boyo?"
"Nah, bugger that." Pat stood and stretched, then looked up and down their small redoubt - a small pit more like a crater than a fortification. Part of a slowly extending network of trenches, just beyond the range of the Martians. He could just make out, a bit further off to the west, the scattered artillery emplacements and a few other firing points down their line. He stared along at a small group moving down the trench run.
Jessop grumbled and followed Pat's gaze then swore softly, "Cleanup. Jesus, look at 'em, not a happy bunch."
Ten men trudged down the line, using the slats to move amidst the slowly muddying ground. Their faces were stained with soot and oil, white eyes hollow and tired. Men had trouble meeting their gazes as they passed and even surly Jessop blinked and looked away as they passed through their little holdout.
One of the men paused and looked at Rogers. Pat had to do a bit of a double take as he realised that, under the soot stained blues and overcoat, the man was an officer. Young, clearly, but already with the hardening of the eyes from seeing far too much too soon.
"Corporal. Anything to report?"
Rogers was a bit slow on the uptake, but he managed to cut back a snarky comment in time, mostly as he heard the cut-glass accent issuing from the grimy face, "Well, uh, no sir. Quiet three days now, since we heard them pull out of London. And bugger all heading towards Aldershot or Salisbury sir."
The man nodded and Patterson couldn't help himself, "What news, sir? From the clearances?"
The man fixed him with a near-dead stare, "No survivors. But they walk. We've cleared another village to the north, can't remember its name, Deepcut or some such. Burned the bodies, then shot them and burned them again when they tried to get up," The tone was deadpan. The man rolled his shoulders, nodded at the Corporal and gestured in the direction of Woking, "keep a weather eye out. They've got most of the South east it seems, breaking through to the north. We need to fix them here, I'm told, if they try to push through."
Patterson swallowed and Rogers shuffled his feet, "That bad then sir? We can't beat them?"
The officer seemed to realise his words and he shook his head slowly, "I did not say that Corporal and speak anything like that again, you'll be flogged for sedition. We bloodied them at Portsmouth. They can be beaten. No, keep to your post, keep vigilant. And leave us to do the clean up. Pray you don't have to."
The Corporal threw a smart salute up, as did Jessop and Patterson. The officer returned it, then trudged to where his men waited. They headed off, back to the rear of the lines. Patterson doubted he'd see them again. He just hoped he didn't have to see what made men look so… haunted.
George lay back in the warm water and groaned. He felt the aches flow away again and his muscles relax. It was his second bath in three days, but it felt novel still. The first had basically been from a tin bath with freezing water to get the sweat and grime of days off of him. And that was only once he and Carrie had been prised apart. Now, really, it was a reminder of just what they'd waded through. A near week of mud, sleeping under stars and running without change of clothes or more than stream-water for washing wore on one not of a military bent.
The bath room of the Officers mess in HMS Nelson was a communal affair, several tubs arrayed next to each other, bare pipes pumping out heat to keep the room itself warm. Inlaid oak and brass coat-hangers, quality ceramic tubs and racks full of shaving soaps and ointments. It felt decadent, but then the navy always did get the most money of the services from the War office, as his various journalistic colleagues told him.
You ever get a government correspondent role, hope it's with the Naval office. Army just sends you to places like ruddy Crimea one friend had told him.
His arms lolled out of the water and draped over the side of the bath. A hand reached out and gripped his gently. He smiled and looked over to the other bath where Carrie lounged. The Major… well, the Colonel had basically given them permission to recuperate. Which meant they were being left alone for now. The Naval chaps had practically turned blue when the man had let them into the Mess, with a woman no less. But they'd had it pointed out that they could bluster all they wanted when they drove a Martian war machine onto the base themselves.
The past few days had been hectic - debriefs, visiting the Artilleryman, David, in the infirmary where he was recovering well, alongside Halstead. They'd rode the machine through Portsmouth as if it was a ticker-tape parade. A band had followed them, made up of people just spilling from their homes, instruments in hand, playing a slightly off-tune note of Rule Britannia.
They'd been met by a cohort of cavalry and escorted into the City, where the base had welcomed them with open arms and astonished expressions. The refugees they'd had with them, the former prisoners, had been whisked off for treatment and "interviews"; the cargo they'd towed in was likewise seized, the coffins and metal crates set aside with mixtures of trepidation and reverence.
And then the incessant interrogations, the incredulous faces, the stark disbelief. Which was rather countered by the thirty foot long mechanical spider in a warehouse. His pistol had been taken but Anderson had taken an interest in it and seemed to have taken ownership for some unknown reason. Likely worried the navy would stick it in a warehouse and forget about it.
And then, yesterday morning, the man had taken a freight ship, loaded with some bits of their seized hoard and set sail. Apparently, so someone had mentioned in the Mess dining room, for London, as the roads and rail were now too treacherous. Carrie and he had watched as the ship had chugged out of the docks, followed by a vessel called Benbow - a massive ironclad.
So now, here they sat, in some form of limbo. Not enlisted men or women, but in some sort of level of understanding as, perhaps, experts. He didn't know how long they'd be here for, before the military grew tired and pushed them out with the other crowded refugees. In his mind, they weren't that special. But right now he was savouring it.
Carrie glanced over, "Penny for your thoughts?"
He smiled back at her, "Blessed, my love. Blessed."
It wouldn't last, he knew. But for now, he would hold on to it.
Bradford stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together, eliciting a smirk from Shen. His man, Zhaoji, stood nearby, quietly conversing with another Chinaman. Bradford sighed, "Something funny, sir?"
"Just that you are still not adapted to this country's… unique attitude to weather."
The Captain couldn't help but crack his own smile at Shen's dry delivery, "Yeah, nearly summer and we get rain and fog. I thought people back home were joking, y'know? 'Pack a raincoat, John!' Never take the damn thing off, more like."
True, the near ever-present pall of smoke that hung over London, mingling with the smog, had done nothing good for warmth or rain prevention. Now it was a mixture of either muggy damp or freezing morning drizzle. They were stood atop a small building, overlooking a warehouse and lumber yard in the eastern part of London, beyond Whitechapel.
Zhaojie came over to join them and nodded respectfully to Bradford. Shen glanced at his aid and sighed, "Much as I enjoy woodwork, my friend, why have you pulled me here from my crucible?"
Bradford was inclined to agree. And wondering why the man had asked him to bring a group of their soldiers with them. The men were hunkered down in the warehouse beneath their feet, clad in the leather apparel recently manufactured by Shen's workshops. A few even carried crossbows and rifles now upgraded with magazines. He knew he could catch some shrapnel from the Brits for breaking their weaponry, but the man had worked miracles in only a few days. But then, give a man fifty engineers and a huge workshop, of course he was ahead of the game.
Zhaojie pointed and they saw a small group of men walk into the lumber-yard, glancing around surreptitiously. Bradford and his group were concealed by not just mist, but chimneys and guttering. Provided they didn't move too fast, of course.
As they watched, another group of men emerged from the other side of the yard. Taller and all clad in the same funeral garb. Bradford swore under his breath and looked at Zhaojie.
"Collaborators?"
Zhaojie shrugged, "They are Irish, I am given to understand. So, they were not exactly loyal to begin with, I believe."
Shen chuckled, "Wartime makes strange bedfellows."
"Brits ain't gonna like this."
Zhaojie nodded, "So you see why I thought this urgent."
Bradford nodded, then turned to a Sergeant standing near the stairwell, "Get the guys downstairs ready to go. I want all exits to that place covered. Prisoners if possible. We need more intelligence. So, if you can stop them executing traitors at their first opportunity?"
The man chuckled darkly but nodded, "Right-o sir."
The trio watched as the small section of soldiers crept through the side alleys and covered the doors and exits. A few of Shen's cadre of… volunteers joined them, taking up spots with good overwatch. Shen's men had a penchant for either close combat weapons, crossbows or a particularly nasty rifle, a jezzail. He'd been told it was actually an Afghan weapon - muzzle loading and with a particularly long range. Shen had, apparently, re-stocked a few of them with bolt loading, similar to some of the currently-tested American variants. Bradford made a mental note to find out where the man had gotten the ideas. And when.
He gave a small signal to the Sergeant below, who gestured to his men. There was a crack as they shoved the heavy wooden gate to the lumber yard open and the squad spilled in. At the sides, the other elements pushed in. There was the crack crack of rifle fire as the snipers took shots through the large windows into the opposing warehouse. The muffled cries of dying men echoed up.
In the yard, the tall-men reacted fast. One hunched over and seemed to hiss, though the sound was lost in the distance. It sprinted to cover and began firing the strange green bolts at the gate. A second leapt and did a back flip onto an awning, then began firing as well, standing tall and proud, as if certain bullets could not hit it. The third fell back towards a doorway, but was winged by a sniper and wend down in a cloud of green mist.
"Watch the gas, nasty!" Bradford heard the Sergeant yell. The three Irishmen were apparently off guard. One was cowering behind some barrels, whilst the other two fired wildly with small pistols. Shen winced as a soldier fell, clutching his arm, to a bullet that punched into the leather. The man seemed unharmed and waved off a comrade - the leather had taken the brunt of the shot it seemed. Shen grinned as another man took a green-bolt to the arm; the man staggered but was able to duck into cover, the leather burned and charred but the man himself still functioning.
"A good live-test, Shen," commended Bradford.
"We all know these things work in theory. But it is gratifying to see. Of course," and here he held a small set of binoculars to his face, "The damage seems severe - each piece will likely need replacing and I doubt a second shot would be so easily rendered… moot. But it buys our men time, yes?"
Bradford nodded then tensed. From within the warehouse came a road. There was a tinkle of glass as a soldier flew through a window and crumpled, hard, onto the earth outside. The body rolled and thudded against a pile of cut timber and lay still.
A figure followed burst from a doorway, splintering the wood outwards as it smashed through. Bradford gasped. The brute was huge, clearly over eight feet tall. The bulky, green armour it wore just added to the imposing figure it struck. The beast surveyed the lumber yard as all turned to stare at it. Then it pounded its chest once and charged forwards. A soldier was shoulder-barged out of the way, like an unfortunate fly-half caught off guard. The man flew through the air and landed with a wheeze but seemed alive. The creature slid into cover and began to lay down precise shots, pinning the soldiers at the gate.
The Irishmen, sensing their chance, began to retreat. Until one of Shen's snipers took a shot and one of the men fell, clutching at the stump of a leg, blown off by the heavy calibre round. The other two men dove back into cover.
Bradford yelled down, "FOCUS! TAKE DOWN THE BIG ONE!"
The soldiers close to the wall nodded and several focused fire onto the cover, where the Mutant was taking blast of opportunity.
The two Tall-men were re-positioning themselves. The one on the awning was moving to the windows of the warehouse, seeking cover. The one down with the green-beast seemed to be moving up to the wall, trying to get a bead on a soldier. It disappeared from view, the angle of their perch hiding the creature. Bradford cast about then cupped his hands about his mouth.
"SERGEANT! BREACH THE WALL!"
The man looked up at him, then comprehension dawned. There was a scuffle, then the soldiers on the right hand side of the gate fell back, leaving a pair of fizzing dynamite sticks in their wake. There was a thunderous crack-boom and the wall vanished in a cloud of red brick-dust. The shriek of the Tall-man was lost in the cacophony, but Bradford could make out the mangled corpse amidst the wreckage.
The creature's companion was at the window and turned at its fellows' distress. Which meant that it didn't see the soldier duck out of cover on the gantry within, crossbow levelled. A dart thudded into the creature and it went down with a thunk, then rolled off of the awning onto the ground below. Unconscious,
The green beast roarded in frustration and stood, firing from the hip. Bradford gawped as pullets pinged off the armour like spitballs. Sparks flew and the creature seemed to take stock, looking at the dents. It spread its arms and Bradford realised it was laughing. Then it lowered it's head and charged forwards. The soldiers scattered as it powered forward. One man was too slow and he found himself hefted up by a meaty hand and tossed aside. Bradford swore he heard the man's bones break as he hit a lamppost.
The beast turned and then staggered as a loud blast sounded in the alley. Zhaoji strode forward, his weapon levelled. It was blunderbuss-looking thing, with a lever action similar to a Winchester. Bradford glanced at Shen, "One of your designs?"
The man shrugged, "I may have seen a design from a friend who knows a fellow in your Americas."
They watched as Zhaoji advanced, firing shell after shell into the beast, aiming for the face. Brown-green gore spattered back as the creature stumbled, but still it did not fall. There was a cry from one of the men who charged forwards. He shoved his rifle forwards, bayonet fixed. The blade slid off the armour, but the man charged again.
Another joined him and the creature bellowed as the blades sunk in. A third man ran up, blade thrust forth. The creature sagged, but raised its weapon and sent a blast clean into one soldier's face. The trooper reeled back and fell, head a burnt mess. The creature grabbed another man and there was a crack as it squeezed his neck. The soldier went limp and fell.
Another man gave a cry and leapt forward, he brought his rifle down and stabbed into the beasts neck. Another man joined and stabbed. Five men ringed the creature. It tired to raise its weapon again but another blast from Zhaojie sent the rifle skidding from its grip. They watched as the Chinaman approached.
Beast and man stared at one another. Then Zhaojie bowed slightly. The monster tilted its head, as if in acknowledgement. Then it sagged. There was the hiss of escaping gas and a puff of green emerged from its face mask, then it went still.
Bradford shook his head, then glanced at Shen, "One thing. How'd he get down there without us noticing?"
Shen shrugged, "The man is like a ghost. And just as annoying at times."
Below, the Sergeant rallied his remaining men. The few troops inside emerged, yelling the all clear, and the Irishmen were dragged out of hiding. All told, six men dead out of twenty, with two of Shen's six support also down. Two wounded, one likely gravely. But, three prisoners and a new sample for Moira to get her scalpels into. Bradford heaved a sigh and clenched his fist to stop it trembling. At this rate they'd run out of men before the enemy even bothered dispatching a new wave of tripods.
"Time to go home, boys," he muttered, and headed for the stairs.