Read Online Black Hand Gang by Pat Kelleher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Pat Kelleher
Tags: Horror
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face, looking like she had that day outside the factory: threading her way across the street towards him between honking motor cars and horse and carts. Her joyous smile made his heart sing. He had to tell her. How would she react? He didn't know. He wasn't sure he could find the words at all. In the end he didn't have to. As she approached her face fell, but she caught herself and smiled again, although this time it seemed strained and polite.
"I - I thought you were William."
His stomach dropped away and his heart rose to his throat. "No, he said quietly, lowering his head and wringing his army cap in his hands as if in contrition. "I'm sorry."
She clasped his hands in hers gently. "No, I am."
"I've no news of William. He's been officially missing for weeks. Lots of lads have. But I'll keep trying for you. He'll turn up, I'm sure."
Unable to look her in the eye, he found himself looking at the small hands that embraced his, and the engagement ring his brother had bought her. He looked up, tears welling in his eyes to see the same in hers, united in grief.
"Hush, Tom. Walk me home."
As quickly as it materialised the shade dissipated. Unseen in the twilit gloom of poison gas, he could hear the gas hood-smothered cries of others.
"Porgy! Porgy! Where are you?"
He thought he heard an answer from somewhere over to his left but the lethal cloud around him left him completely disorientated. He could be stumbling straight towards the German wire for all he knew. And he wished his world would stop spinning. He leant on his rifle to steady himself but, unable to keep his balance, he keeled over again and the ground loomed up to meet him. He just wanted the great big world to stop turning. With a groan he moved into a sitting position and pushed himself to his feet with the help of his rifle butt.
A deep bass rumble filled the featureless miasma around him and his world lurched, lifted upwards and dropped with such a jarring force that it drove him into the mud up to his knees. An explosion? Not any kind of shell he was familiar with. It wasn't a Five Nine or Whizz-Bang or Jack Johnson, that was for sure. It seemed to come from below the very ground he was standing on. Perhaps a mine had been set off. That must be it. Hundreds of tons of high-explosive going off underground. That'd give Fritz something to worry about.
A bright, diffuse light illuminated the smog from above, penetrating its suffocating gloom and throwing strange, disturbing shadows onto the moving banks of mist. There were cries of alarm from all around, moans of pain; calls for help, for pals, for mothers.
An eddy of wind caught the gas cloud and, for a moment, it thinned. Atkins thought he could make out the shapes of others, before the gas closed in again. He lay back in the mud as far as he could, feeling the jumbled contents of his backpack pressing into his back, and slowly began to pull his right leg from the sucking mud. Men had died getting stuck in this mire. His leg came free with a loud sucking noise. Scrabbling to gain a foothold with his free heel again he levered himself backwards, digging the shoulder butt of his rifle into the ground for extra purchase and slowly drawing his left leg free, almost losing his boot in the process.
Stopping to catch his breath, he noticed the silence. The wailing of the distant bagpipes had ceased. But even more disconcertingly, the guns had stopped. He had grown so used to their incessant roar that their absence now startled him. What the hell was going on?
"Only!"
He turned his body trying to gauge where the sound was coming from.
"Only! Where are you?"
"Over here!"
He could make out things moving in the mist. Three hunched shades with gaunt faces containing empty sockets resolved themselves into solid corporeal soldiers in gas hoods and Battle Order.
"Only!"
It was Porgy, Pot Shot and Lance Sergeant Jessop. Well, it was definitely Pot Shot. There was no mistaking the size of him, or Jessop's
"I - I thought you were William."
His stomach dropped away and his heart rose to his throat. "No, he said quietly, lowering his head and wringing his army cap in his hands as if in contrition. "I'm sorry."
She clasped his hands in hers gently. "No, I am."
"I've no news of William. He's been officially missing for weeks. Lots of lads have. But I'll keep trying for you. He'll turn up, I'm sure."
Unable to look her in the eye, he found himself looking at the small hands that embraced his, and the engagement ring his brother had bought her. He looked up, tears welling in his eyes to see the same in hers, united in grief.
"Hush, Tom. Walk me home."
As quickly as it materialised the shade dissipated. Unseen in the twilit gloom of poison gas, he could hear the gas hood-smothered cries of others.
"Porgy! Porgy! Where are you?"
He thought he heard an answer from somewhere over to his left but the lethal cloud around him left him completely disorientated. He could be stumbling straight towards the German wire for all he knew. And he wished his world would stop spinning. He leant on his rifle to steady himself but, unable to keep his balance, he keeled over again and the ground loomed up to meet him. He just wanted the great big world to stop turning. With a groan he moved into a sitting position and pushed himself to his feet with the help of his rifle butt.
A deep bass rumble filled the featureless miasma around him and his world lurched, lifted upwards and dropped with such a jarring force that it drove him into the mud up to his knees. An explosion? Not any kind of shell he was familiar with. It wasn't a Five Nine or Whizz-Bang or Jack Johnson, that was for sure. It seemed to come from below the very ground he was standing on. Perhaps a mine had been set off. That must be it. Hundreds of tons of high-explosive going off underground. That'd give Fritz something to worry about.
A bright, diffuse light illuminated the smog from above, penetrating its suffocating gloom and throwing strange, disturbing shadows onto the moving banks of mist. There were cries of alarm from all around, moans of pain; calls for help, for pals, for mothers.
An eddy of wind caught the gas cloud and, for a moment, it thinned. Atkins thought he could make out the shapes of others, before the gas closed in again. He lay back in the mud as far as he could, feeling the jumbled contents of his backpack pressing into his back, and slowly began to pull his right leg from the sucking mud. Men had died getting stuck in this mire. His leg came free with a loud sucking noise. Scrabbling to gain a foothold with his free heel again he levered himself backwards, digging the shoulder butt of his rifle into the ground for extra purchase and slowly drawing his left leg free, almost losing his boot in the process.
Stopping to catch his breath, he noticed the silence. The wailing of the distant bagpipes had ceased. But even more disconcertingly, the guns had stopped. He had grown so used to their incessant roar that their absence now startled him. What the hell was going on?
"Only!"
He turned his body trying to gauge where the sound was coming from.
"Only! Where are you?"
"Over here!"
He could make out things moving in the mist. Three hunched shades with gaunt faces containing empty sockets resolved themselves into solid corporeal soldiers in gas hoods and Battle Order.
"Only!"
It was Porgy, Pot Shot and Lance Sergeant Jessop. Well, it was definitely Pot Shot. There was no mistaking the size of him, or Jessop's
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