perspiration, and we had stripped to trousers and shirts. But for the thought of those muzzles on bare flesh we would have stripped to the skin. To be naked before those things!
Bingen, with eyes reddened by cinders and a stubble of beard darkening his white face, lapsed into a brooding silence from which I vainly tried to coax him. He would not survive many more days of this, I thought, as I watched him. Neither, for that matter, could I. I prayed, I think, for something to happen. For the things to move. For them to struggle to get at us, go away, return, anything but this terrible, motionless waiting. We tried to drive them from the gates with concerted attacks of the bayoneted rifle, but it was as though one attacked a pile of corpses, so that we’d give it up and go down the tunnel to suck water from the puddles on the floor if the river was in ebb, and bathe lavishly if it were high.
Four nights and three days we spent there in that hell with the Vampires clustered unmoving on the gates. Four nights when Bingen cried, swore, and fell silently brooding by turn. Three days when we stared hopelessly at the things on the gates and they stared bleakly back at us. Four nights which sapped comprehension from my brain and weakened muscles in my legs. How did we survive? How did we?
Times we grew almost contemptuous of the Vampires, kicked them, and withdrew our boots before reaching muzzles could clamp on the leather. Then we shuddered at the sight of them, hid faces in arms, crouched at the bend hidden from the gates. And the things waited silently. If only they would move, make a noise, was the ominant thought throbbing ceaselessly in my brain during the last hours of our confinement. If only they would move!
The fourth night passed uneventfully but for a hectic five minutes when Bingen woke from a nightmare in which the Vampires had reached him, to spring at me, fighting, kicking, screaming. Limpetwise he clung to my throat. I had to lift him a crack to the jaw to loosen him. God knows the reality could not be improved upon even by nightmares, but that outburst did both of us good, for afterwards we smiled at each other and cracked sheepish jokes.
Bingen was asleep when, with the dawn, there came to me an eerie sensation, a feeling that something was different, something missing. Trying to analyze that premonition I fail. It might be my nostrils noticed the change. There was no perception of relief, safety, danger past; rather was there a tense nursing unconsciously of muscles ready for some new peril. Whatever it was, that impulse was sufficient to make me waken Bingen.
What had I wakened him for?
Gradually, green and red reflections from the river faded, and the tunnel was lighter than it had been with the things humped about the gates. They had gone! We sat silently watching the light, the empty gates, and I believe both of us doubted our eyes. And the river crept out of the tunnel. I nudged Bingen.
‘Let’s go to the gate.’
Up the tunnel we walked warily, expecting some fearsome development, but, with the gate clear to our gaze, Bingen jumped ahead of me to the bars. They were red-hot, and his hands fell from them as he peered into the brewery yard. Nothing could be seen but burned buildings, cobbles littered with fallen brickwork, and having stared we turned with one accord, raced down the slope for the river. Raced, I said, but it was a feeble run, for all our excitement. I felt almost too weak to run. We looked out to the river, our faces pulled back a few inches from the hot iron of the gate.
‘They’ve gone! God! They’ve gone!’ Bingen cried, and punched me so that I swore at him, for I wanted to do something foolish, cry. He shouted into the morning. ‘There’s not a damned horror in sight. Nothing. We’re going to get out of here.’
‘You fool,’ I answered thickly. ‘Not a horror in sight! What the hell do you call that?’
I gestured over the water.
On the north bank, the river
Bingen, with eyes reddened by cinders and a stubble of beard darkening his white face, lapsed into a brooding silence from which I vainly tried to coax him. He would not survive many more days of this, I thought, as I watched him. Neither, for that matter, could I. I prayed, I think, for something to happen. For the things to move. For them to struggle to get at us, go away, return, anything but this terrible, motionless waiting. We tried to drive them from the gates with concerted attacks of the bayoneted rifle, but it was as though one attacked a pile of corpses, so that we’d give it up and go down the tunnel to suck water from the puddles on the floor if the river was in ebb, and bathe lavishly if it were high.
Four nights and three days we spent there in that hell with the Vampires clustered unmoving on the gates. Four nights when Bingen cried, swore, and fell silently brooding by turn. Three days when we stared hopelessly at the things on the gates and they stared bleakly back at us. Four nights which sapped comprehension from my brain and weakened muscles in my legs. How did we survive? How did we?
Times we grew almost contemptuous of the Vampires, kicked them, and withdrew our boots before reaching muzzles could clamp on the leather. Then we shuddered at the sight of them, hid faces in arms, crouched at the bend hidden from the gates. And the things waited silently. If only they would move, make a noise, was the ominant thought throbbing ceaselessly in my brain during the last hours of our confinement. If only they would move!
The fourth night passed uneventfully but for a hectic five minutes when Bingen woke from a nightmare in which the Vampires had reached him, to spring at me, fighting, kicking, screaming. Limpetwise he clung to my throat. I had to lift him a crack to the jaw to loosen him. God knows the reality could not be improved upon even by nightmares, but that outburst did both of us good, for afterwards we smiled at each other and cracked sheepish jokes.
Bingen was asleep when, with the dawn, there came to me an eerie sensation, a feeling that something was different, something missing. Trying to analyze that premonition I fail. It might be my nostrils noticed the change. There was no perception of relief, safety, danger past; rather was there a tense nursing unconsciously of muscles ready for some new peril. Whatever it was, that impulse was sufficient to make me waken Bingen.
What had I wakened him for?
Gradually, green and red reflections from the river faded, and the tunnel was lighter than it had been with the things humped about the gates. They had gone! We sat silently watching the light, the empty gates, and I believe both of us doubted our eyes. And the river crept out of the tunnel. I nudged Bingen.
‘Let’s go to the gate.’
Up the tunnel we walked warily, expecting some fearsome development, but, with the gate clear to our gaze, Bingen jumped ahead of me to the bars. They were red-hot, and his hands fell from them as he peered into the brewery yard. Nothing could be seen but burned buildings, cobbles littered with fallen brickwork, and having stared we turned with one accord, raced down the slope for the river. Raced, I said, but it was a feeble run, for all our excitement. I felt almost too weak to run. We looked out to the river, our faces pulled back a few inches from the hot iron of the gate.
‘They’ve gone! God! They’ve gone!’ Bingen cried, and punched me so that I swore at him, for I wanted to do something foolish, cry. He shouted into the morning. ‘There’s not a damned horror in sight. Nothing. We’re going to get out of here.’
‘You fool,’ I answered thickly. ‘Not a horror in sight! What the hell do you call that?’
I gestured over the water.
On the north bank, the river
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