Suddenly the
vast space was echoing to Klaxon alarms, the walls flashing in reflected
crimson light.
“Up There!” someone
had shouted above the general row and, with the first bullets ripping and pinging
about them, the boys abandoned their rucksacks and scurried after Ginsbergbear
as he disappeared back down the ventilation duct. They were scuttling awkwardly in the confined space,
but the bumping and scraping behind them told of their pursuit by Chats
Souterrains far more comfortable in the claustrophobic darkness. After an eternity of blind
shoving, shouting, scrabbling they fell, sweating and wheezing, into the main
tunnel and continued their mad dash without any attempt at concealment. As they ran there were distant
shouts and explosions behind them.
Then they became aware of a throbbing whine rapidly growing in volume.
“Take cover!”
shouted Boz, and they pressed against the dark walls as the saucer, the craft
they had seen on its railway truck, whooshed past. It veered towards the tunnel wall and directed a static
discharge, ionising the air ahead, the electromagnetic crackling mingling with a
booming sound beam howl, like an amateur brass band attempting a Charles Ives
composition. The wall
dissolved into tatters akin to a moth eaten lace curtain and the gaping maw of
the Devil’s Arse appeared ahead.
Boz and Slasher broke cover,
the others following close on their heels, and rushed through the shimmering
gap before the rock wall could reform and the overlapping universes part
company once more. The saucer,
silhouetted against the sky, zoomed out and up, scattering jackdaws, its
mission unknown and its crew’s attention far from the fleeing group that followed
in its wake. Slasher broke
his step momentarily to fire his Mauser, once, into the blackness behind
them. The shot echoed around
the cavern like a fusillade; the others flinched, but the relentless pounding of
their commando-booted pursuers did not faulter. They fled past the ropewalk and workers hovels out
into the winding back alleys of Castleton – ducking, weaving, bouncing off
walls in their wild flight.
Flight of the Sore Afraid
Out
of the Devil’s Arse we blundered
Into
the street where Emos chundered
Scattering
Goths
And
Punks who wondered
“What
the f..?”
We
did not make reply
Theirs
was not to wonder why
Theirs
was but to duck or die
Les
Chats’ Sten guns thundered
Bullets
to the left of us
Bullets
to the right of us
Bullets
from behind us
Buzzed
and whined
Blasted
with shot and shell
Swiftly
we ran… ah well
Out
of that mouth of Hell
Nought
could our terror quell
I
wish we could catch a bus
We
must be mad as bats
Taking
on the pallid Chats
Rounds
ripping through our hats
Gasping
teddy wheezing cats
Tottering
Dodo
Legs
all spent
Relentlessly
pursued by Paras
Tough
old vets of Mons and Arras
Battle
hardened bold as brass
Armed
to the teeth they’ll kick our ass
Our
future looks like diddly squats
A
miracle’s our only chance
A
cavalry with sword and lance
On
mighty steeds that rear and prance
Slasher
chucks t’ward me a glance
“Is
that Plan B?”
“There’s
no Plan B”
Grovelling
upon all fours
Hammering
on shuttered doors
Mourning
for our last lost cause
Doomed
Amigos of El Boz
Is
this really our last dance?
Ginsbergbear,
Convalescing
- A four pipe recovery.
excellent read, thank you
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