The Land God Made in Anger. John Davis Gordon

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СКАЧАТЬ disappearing upwards, trailing its tail of line.

      McQuade clung there, staring fearfully about. He felt no excitement about the wealth within his grasp, only the nerve-cringing dread of what he had to do, struggle and fight his way inside, down into that terrible blackness, into a charnel house, pitch black and soupy with rotten bone and hair.

      But not now. No way was he going into that submarine alone. Right now he had only one more job to do: find out if those hatches were still open. Before his nerve could fail him he kicked himself up the barnacled side of the conning tower. He clasped the rim and looked over, into the bridge.

      There was the first hatch: big and circular. And it was open.

      McQuade clung and all he wanted to do was to thrash away up to the surface, but his job was not over yet. He still had to check the lower hatch, inside the conning tower, that led down into the dreadful bowels of the mausoleum. He clung a moment longer, sick in his guts and his cold flesh creeping; then he took a deep breath, swam over the rim and down to the hole. He grabbed the hatch-cover, to anchor himself, and feverishly pulled out his underwater-torch. He thrust it down inside the hatch and peered.

      It was a ghostly sight. He was looking into a steel oval chamber, black as death, down which a ladder led. The water was completely still. McQuade stared wide-eyed into the frightening place, his bubbles roaring, darting his torch around. There were swarms of small fish, dials and instruments, rusted and encrusted and blurred and furred with barnacle and weed. He feverishly looked for the lower hatch with its telescopic tube leading down below. He swept his torch across the weed-covered deck; and there it was. It was open, but barnacle-encrusted and half-clogged with weed and anemones.

      McQuade stared at it, his torchbeam trembling. God, surely there was nothing more for him to do except get out of here … But there was: he had to find out whether that escape tube was damaged, or obstructed in some way. He flashed his trembling torch around once more, then before he could funk it he shoved his head down into the hatch, gripped a ladder-rung and kicked.

      He surged down into the conning tower, then twisted himself upright frantically and clung to the ladder, and swung his torch onto the lower hatch feverishly. He bent and parted the weed with his torch, but he could not see properly. He let go of the ladder and pushed himself down. He hovered over the hatch and parted the weed with his free hand.

      There it was, the black tube of water leading down into the charnel house below. The sides were encrusted with barnacles. Up this tube H.M. and Horst Kohler had swum forty years ago leaving scores of dead men behind. Tomorrow he had to swim down it. But he still had to find out whether anything was blocking it. Grasping the hatch-cover to anchor himself, he pulled himself down to the opening. He shoved his torch down into the blackness and he peered through the weed.

      For a horrified moment he did not grasp what he was looking at. All he knew was that something was blocking the tube right in front of his torch – and the same instant he saw the two devilish eyes, and the big octopus flew at him.

      It came flying out of its lair and in one terrifying impact it was onto McQuade’s face, its thick tentacles clutching his head and shoulders. McQuade recoiled, terrified, horrified, and dropped the torch and struggled backwards, both hands clawing at the dreadful beast, trying to tear it from his head, its fiendish suckered belly plastered to his mask. He could see nothing and all he knew was the horror of the squelchy beast in his hands, its huge tentacles lashed around his shoulders. He crashed into the ladder, and his regulator was wrenched from his mouth and he sucked in choking black water and he retched while his hands clawed into the mass of tentacles, trying to wrench the regulator from the coiling suckers. He kicked and clawed blindly. His head crashed into the edge of the hatch and he sucked in killer water again and half-screamed in choked terror. He kicked again with all his might, and his head burst through the hatch, and the octopus saw its escape and in an instant it was gone.

      The octopus shot off into the gloom in a great cloud of ink and streaming tentacles two yards long. McQuade blindly flailed around his head for the regulator, choking, strangled, panic-stricken, terrified, then his desperate hand found it and he rammed it back into his mouth. He sucked and choked and gagged and sucked again. He clung to the rim of the bridge, heart pounding, gasping, shuddering, looking about wild-eyed for more dreadful fiends, then he kicked towards the surface.

      He rose frantically between the waving nets, keeping pace with his own bubbles, trying to control his terror and the retch of bitter seawater in his throat. For an eternity he rose and rose, then the silver surface was heaving just above him, and he burst through it.

      He spun in the water looking for the dinghy, then rammed his head under and swam wildly for it. He thrashed and thrashed, horrified of the dreadful fiends following him from behind. Tucker swung the dinghy towards him. The Kid was already aboard. McQuade thrashed up to it, and frantically heaved himself out of the water, and the Kid grabbed his belt. He crashed into the dinghy. He spat out his regulator and ripped his mask off and clutched his face.

      ‘Oh Jesus …’ he shuddered. ‘Oh Jesus …’

      Tucker was open-mouthed. ‘Did you find it?’ the Kid demanded.

      ‘Big … fucking octopus … lives in it …’ McQuade panted.

      ‘Oh Lord …’ Tucker moaned.

      ‘He’s gone now …’

      ‘Oh good,’ the Kid said. ‘And his wife and family have gone too?’

      ‘Back to the ship,’ McQuade panted at Tucker. ‘Top up our tanks. And make a spear … Tie a big knife to a broomhandle. Then two of us are going down …’

      ‘Let’s think about this,’ Tucker whined.

      ‘We’re going down again! If we stop to think about it, I’ll never go back again!’

15

      It felt better having the Kid swimming beside him, but not a hell of a lot better.

      They followed the float-line down. Down they swam, down into the gloom – ten feet, fifteen – then the nets came into view, wafting up to meet them, and then the long shape of the submarine, fading away, and McQuade felt his stomach contract again. He stopped, and hovered. He could not yet see the conning tower; the float’s line curved away into the gloom towards it. The Kid hovered beside him, wide-eyed, his bubbles streaming up. McQuade peered downwards, desperate to get this over; then he kicked down between the waving nets.

      He swam in front, Tucker’s home-made spear in one hand, his satchel of tools hanging from his chest, the nets looming up on both sides of them. He swam down between their treacherous tentacles, his heart knocking above the unreal roaring of his breathing, until the conning tower loomed. And with all his fearful heart he did not want to go near the dreadful place again and he swam straight at it fiercely, and grabbed the rim, and peered over the top.

      There was no octopus. McQuade pulled himself over, spear first, and surged down to the hatch.

      There was a ghostly yellow glow in the conning tower, coming from the torch he had dropped. The Kid surged alongside him, peering down wide-eyed. McQuade thrust his new torch into the hatch and shakily shone it around. Then, before he lost his nerve, he grabbed the ladder and pulled.

      He burst down again into the conning tower. The Kid came surging after him in a flurry of bubbles, clung to the ladder and peered around. McQuade looked fearfully СКАЧАТЬ