The Fall

47

Noon, Christmas Day, 1865

Even in the bloody mire of the battle there was a weird grace and harmony to it all.

From the height of the bus’s passenger deck Sam witnessed it.

The movements of the fighting men were like those of a basketball match. There was an ebb and flow of motion. One moment they were fighting down by the river. Then the focus of the action moved smoothly away to the middle of the pass. Clumps of men formed into intense clamouring knots, battling with absolute passion. Then these groups dissolved, moved away, reformed, fought again, before dissolving once more.

Sam watched as the bus drove backward and forward. Artillery guns thundered. Soldiers fired rifles, muskets, pistols. They threw grenades.

Explosions formed a surreal pattern of orange, yellow and gold blooms above the surface of the snow. They were like huge roses, abruptly flowering before vanishing into nothingness again. Everywhere, barbarians and Casterton’s defenders alike lay dead in the snow. Most of the cars were reduced to wrecks now, some upside down, wheels still turning. One burned with a furious intensity, a black smoke-column rising from it into the air.

And everywhere, the landscape was flecked red with blood.

At the front of the bus Carswell gripped the door strut and, leaning forward like a carved figure on the prow of a ship, fired his handgun down at the barbarians. Miraculously he was unharmed. He didn’t seem to tire, either. His eyes still blazed icily as he fired, reloaded, fired, reloaded.

Ryan Keith fired the shotgun, swearing, laughing, crying, all at the same time. ‘This is yours!’ Bang. ‘Come and get it!’ Bang.

Zita and Jud stood behind the boxed-in driver’s compartment, where they lit the fuses of hand grenades from a lamp before pitching them over the side of the bus. The explosions tore holes in the air with a God-Almighty CRACK!. Red-hot pieces of the grenades’ casings tore radiating lines in the snow. More tore holes in the bodies of the attacking barbarian warriors.

And there was a gleaming intensity to the way they – everyone – worked on the bus. If the bus had been destroyed there and then Sam could have believed the spirits of those on board would still continue as before – loading, firing, reloading, firing again.

Sam hung onto the king post as the snow-covered ground blurred by. He felt a hand on his arm.

‘Sam.’ He looked up into the face of Rolle. The corkscrews of red hair fluttered and his eyes blazed. ‘Sam Baker… have you seen what’s happening?’

Sam looked round the landscape of the dead and dying. He shook his head, puzzled. ‘What’s happened to the Bluebeards? Where have they gone?’

Here goes, Nicole told herself as the group of freed captives and Liminals approached the barrier between Limbo and 1865.

There wouldn’t be time to run away if they met the Bluebeards returning from their latest raid.

Ahead, the boy who was fused into the cow, so creating a kind of bovine centaur, was first through, moving at a slow gallop.

Quickly, Nicole did a head count. There were perhaps a hundred or more of Casterton’s people there. Many of the women simply hadn’t survived the last three days. There were also perhaps 150 Liminals. They were armed with anything from clubs to shotguns. Not nearly enough if they should meet a returning army of barbarians.

William smiled at her. ‘It is just one short step, Nicole.’

She was going to hold her breath and grit her teeth ready for the transition. But then it had happened as quickly and as easily as stepping through a doorway from one room to another.

The England of 1865 was full of snow.

The cold rushed at her; she shivered.

And coming towards them through the falling snow were figures.

‘What did I tell you?’ came Bullwitt’s croak. ‘Bluebeards. Bloody Bluebeards!’

‘Stop the bus! Lee, stop!’ Sam shouted the words as soon as he noticed something about the battle had changed.

Lee braked hard, bringing the bus to a sliding halt. He killed the engine.

Instant silence.

No gunshots.

No sounds of battle.

Only a silence that seemed so devoid of anything it cast a ghostly spell over the landscape.

Sam leaned out through one of the glassless windows. Snowflakes drifted down from the sky.

Here and there riderless horses stood, not knowing where to go next.

Bodies littered the snow. Everywhere there were either black smudges left by exploding shells and grenades, or pools of bloody red that stood glaring out from the white.

But there was no movement.

Casterton’s surviving soldiers stood looking around, baffled.

‘Dear Lord,’ Thomas said in a hushed voice as he took off his glasses. ‘Where have they all gone?’

‘They’ve run for it,’ shouted one of the soldiers. ‘They’ve only gone and bloody run for it.’

‘We’ve won!’

Rolle held up a hand. His piercing gaze swept the landscape.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not over yet.’

Nicole saw there were Bluebeards walking towards them.

That was, moving towards them. Those that could actually walk were either bent double or limping. Many crawled on hands and knees.

‘Something tells me they’ve taken a rather severe beating,’ William observed.

‘About bleeding time. If they’ve had a bloody good hiding it serves the bastards right. Go on, William.’ Bullwitt gave a delighted chuckle. ‘That one over there. Give him a good kicking while he’s down.’

William glanced down at one of the Bluebeards. A huge man in a grey cloak with a clutch of starling chicks springing from his face was dragging himself along the ground. He left a red smear that ran across the snow and into the distance, as if he’d been dipped in red paint.

‘What’re you waiting for, William? Stick the boot into the ugly sod!’

William shook his head. ‘There’s been a battle fought here. And undoubtedly the Bluebeards have met formidable opponents.’

Nicole gazed down at the dying warrior as he struggled back in the direction of his home. ‘But Rolle told us that Casterton was defenceless.’

‘No doubt we will find out more presently,’ William said softly. ‘But in the meantime we should devote our attention to these poor souls from Casterton, and see them safely back home.’

Sam shook his head, then said to Rolle, ‘You’re telling me that the Bluebeards aren’t in retreat?’

‘Retreat? No, far from it. They have only fallen back to regroup.’

‘Damn. We were that close to stopping them.’ Sam placed a forefinger and a twin-jointed ‘thumb’ together as if about to pluck an invisible flower stem from out of the air in front of his face. ‘That close. We’d nearly finished the Bluebeards for good.’

‘What a pity,’ Carswell said drily. ‘I was rather beginning to enjoy this. So, what are your orders now, Sam, old boy?’

‘We don’t quit. We hunt them down. Every last one of the sons of bitches.’ He called across to Jud, who was pulling arrow shafts out of the flanks of the bus. ‘Jud… Jud! Get all the foot soldiers and cavalry together… Tell them to follow the bus.’

‘Oh, goodie.’ Carswell snapped a fresh clip of ammo into his automatic. ‘The fun isn’t over yet.’

‘Right,’ Sam called out to the people on the bus. ‘Reload the guns.’

Zita shook Sam by the arm. ‘I think we’re going to need them sooner than we thought. Look what’s coming this way.’

Sam looked along the pass. A straggling line of people approached through the falling snow. ‘Damn,’ Sam hissed under his breath. ‘Okay, everyone. More Bluebeards are coming this way. We’re going have to deal with those before we go after the others.’

Rolle looked too. ‘Not more enemy.’ He turned back to Sam and smiled. ‘These are our allies.’

‘Our allies?’ Sam looked again. Approaching the bus were what appeared to be two or three hundred men and women. Some of the women he recognised as having been taken from Casterton on the night of the raid. Others were strange-looking figures. One he immediately recognised: the creature that was part cow, part boy. It moved quickly across the snow, the thick bovine legs eating the distance easily. The boy carried a bow with the arrow notched lightly against the string, ready to shoot the moment he needed it.

‘These are our reinforcements, Sam Baker.’

‘Dear God,’ Thomas breathed in astonishment as he saw what kind of people were approaching. He couldn’t take his eyes from the man with the mass of bees squirming on his face. A blond-haired man held up a hand to halt his people. Meanwhile a pair of bulging brown eyes peered from a slot in his jacket. ‘My dear God,’ Thomas whispered. ‘Who are these people? Where are they from?’

Sam smiled grimly. ‘I think we should consider them as heaven-sent and leave it at that, don’t you?’

Introductions, and reunions when Nicole and Sue came on board, were of necessity brief. Half a dozen Liminals continued walking on towards town, accompanying the rescued women and children.

The rest of the Liminals, armed with swords, axes, spears and shotguns, would follow the bus, together with what was left of the cavalry and foot soldiers.

‘Is everyone ready?’ Sam shouted from the front of the bus.

This time he was greeted by a cheer. Everyone there had got the bit between their teeth. They wanted to finish the job.

It didn’t take long to find the Bluebeards. Rolle had stood beside the timber box where Lee sat at the steering wheel. Like a maritime pilot he pointed ahead, talking to Lee constantly.

The bus lurched across the snow-covered meadow.

Hanging on tightly to the king post, Sam watched as hundreds of figures emerged through the mist of the falling snowflakes.

Already the Bluebeards had regrouped and were ready to fight once more.

He thought: If it’s a fight the barbarians want, then they’ve got it. They’re going to get themselves the mother and father of all battles.

The bus must have appeared as a great roaring dragon to them.

One that spat fire.

The artillery thundered from the sides of the bus, tearing the barbarians apart.

Soldiers fired their rifles. More barbarians fell dead.

Meanwhile, the surviving Bluebeards charged the bus.

They ran straight into a blizzard of bullets and grenades.

Dozens fell, kicking and screaming, clutching their stomachs, chests, faces.

Now there was pandemonium.

Even though there must still have been two thousand or more of the barbarian warriors, they’d had enough. Turning their backs on the advancing soldiers who followed the bus, they scattered back along the pass and into the woods.

Rolle shouted, ‘Don’t let them use the time-gates here. Drive them into the gorge farther along the pass.’

Sam leaned through the window and shouted to the soldiers to follow the retreating Bluebeards.

Rolle hung onto the king post and called to Sam. ‘Have the bus cut them off from going back through the pass. You’ve got to make sure you drive them up into the gorge. There’s no way out of there.’

No way out? Sam licked his dry lips.

Was Rolle, the Christian mystic, suggesting that they trap the two thousand Bluebeards in the gorge, then kill them one by one?

Sam watched, feeling cold inside now, as the soldiers from Casterton barracks, helped by the Liminals, sealed the trap.

In less than an hour a cavalry officer rode up alongside the bus as it stood in the mouth of the gorge. ‘We have them locked up in there, sir. There’s no way out unless they grow wings and fly up the cliff-faces. What are your orders now?’

Sam paused, thinking hard. The gorge held the two thousand or so men, that was true. But it was perhaps half a mile long by almost a quarter wide. Deeper into the gorge the trees grew densely in the spaces between the walls of sheer rock. If he sent the soldiers in there the Bluebeards would still cut them to pieces.

If anything, they’d reached a Mexican stand-off. Going into the gorge and massacring the Bluebeards would be nigh impossible, irrespective of the morality of butchering the trapped enemy.

The mouth of the gorge was narrow, and largely open ground, so the Bluebeards would have a hard time of if trying to break out.

Sam rubbed his jaw. This was a stalemate. They couldn’t kill the Bluebeards without losing most of their own people. And, for sure, they couldn’t stand here at the mouth of the gorge forever, holding the Bluebeards prisoner in there.

He told the cavalry officer to wait. Then he found Rolle.

‘What now?’ Sam asked. ‘We can’t just sit here and keep the prisoners in the gorge forever.’

‘No, I had no intention of doing that,’ Rolle replied. ‘There is a time-gate there, just a little way inside the gorge.’

‘But do the Bluebeards know that?’

‘They do,’ Rolle nodded.

‘Then why aren’t they disappearing through it like rats into a hole?’

‘Because it leads farther back than they’ve ever gone before. Also it is the only entrance – and the only exit – to that particular time.’

‘You mean, they’re afraid that if they go there they’ll never be able to come back?’

‘Yes. And that’s what I intend.’

‘But how do we get them to leave the woodland and go through the time-gate?’

‘There’s the knot of the problem.’ Rolle scratched his beard. ‘How do we do just that?’

Sam looked back at the soldiers standing in a line across the mouth of the gorge with their rifles ready. They looked as if they could hold the Bluebeards there for an hour or so. But soon the barbarians would probably recover their senses, and their strength, and rush the line. If they broke through it they’d scatter into the woods upstream. It would be only a matter of time before they regrouped, rearmed, then raided Casterton again.

Sam realised he must nip this in the bud once and for all. He looked back at Rolle. ‘Can you stay here and make sure the soldiers hold the Bluebeards until I get back?’

‘Where are you going?’

‘There’s something I need from the amphitheatre.’

That ‘something’ was the 20 or so barrels of wood alcohol.

Before taking the coach back to the amphitheatre, Sam had the cannon unceremoniously dumped over the side and into the snow. They’d done their work well enough, but they’d be dead weight when it came to the bus making its last short journey.

‘Okay, what’s the plan, Sam?’ Lee called as he drove the bus back to the amphitheatre.

‘After loading all these barrels of what to all intents and purposes is Victorian napalm? I reckon you can guess for yourself.’

‘That’s what I was afraid you were thinking.’

‘Don’t worry, Lee, I’ll drive the bus for this one.’

‘We’re talking crash-and-burn here, aren’t we?’

‘Got it in one, Lee. Got it in one.’

Carswell laughed with disbelief when he heard Sam’s plan.

The bus stood facing the entrance of the gorge where the remaining Bluebeard forces had taken refuge. On the bus Carswell, Zita, Lee, Jud and Sam were holding a council of war.

Every so often Sam would glance out at the line of soldiers and Liminals who stood at the entrance of the gorge, ready to try and prevent any breakout. Not that their chances would be over-favourable now. They were running low on ammunition. Many of the soldiers were wounded; all were exhausted. As Zita observed, this was the Last Chance Saloon. A flurry of snowflakes dimmed the line. If it fell any heavier, visibility would be reduced to virtually nil.

Meanwhile, Carswell was still making the most of his dry, humourless laugh.

‘Mr Baker, you mean to say,’ he said, ‘that you intend getting onto that bus and driving it alone into the narrowest part of the pass, where you will then set it alight?’

‘I am, Carswell.’

‘What then?’

‘Then either the Bluebeards roast in there or they make use of what, after all, is a temporal fire exit back into the dim and distant past.’

‘No, Mr Baker. I mean what do you do then?’

‘I run back here as fast as these two legs can carry me.’

‘Your optimism is astonishing. From where I’m standing your plan is nothing less than a suicide mission.’

‘It’s a chance I’m going to have to take.’

‘Oh, I see… Playing the little people’s champion again, are we?’

‘Carswell—’

‘If you’re not killed by the fire, those barbarians are going to rip you limb from limb.’

Sam acknowledged the statement with a grim shrug. ‘You’re welcome to ride shotgun with me, Carswell.’

‘Ah, no. I’m going to decline. I think I’ve done more than enough for the little people. It’s time for me to leave now and enjoy the fruits of my labours.’

Lee said, ‘Sam, I’ll drive.’

‘No, Lee. This is my idea. If anyone’s going to stick their neck out it’s—’

‘No, Sam. I know how to handle the bus. You don’t. You’ve got to let me drive.’

Sam considered for a moment. ‘Okay. Thanks, Lee. I appreciate it… Wait, Lee.’

Lee had opened the doorway to the timbered driver’s compartment.

‘You’re not going alone,’ Sam told him. ‘Those devils will probably rush the bus the moment you enter the gorge. I’ll ride up front with a couple of rifles.’

‘Those will be pretty cumbersome,’ Carswell said. ‘You’d best take these.’ He handed Sam a pair of automatics, then gave one of his characteristic dry smiles. ‘Happy Christmas, Sam.’

‘They’re loaded?’

‘They are. Eight rounds apiece. Also I’ve used Glazier Safety Slugs. Basically they explode inside the target’s body. One slug can bring down a charging bull.’

‘Thanks, Carswell, I appreciate… Wait. Where are you going?’

‘Oh, Mr Baker, I’ve been here more than long enough, and now I have some more fish to fry. Good luck and goodbye.’ With that he climbed down from the bus, pulled his collar up against the falling snow and walked steadily away in the direction of Casterton.

Jud sighed. ‘It was too much to expect him to await the outcome of this, I expect.’

‘We don’t need him anymore,’ Sam said briskly. ‘Right, let’s finish this once and for all. Jud, what’re you doing?’

‘You’ll need someone to chuck a grenade or two.’

‘Maybe, but not you, Jud.’

‘But – ’

‘But nothing. When that bus starts to burn we’re going to have to run like hell. How are you going to run with that injured leg?’

‘But you still need more people to ride shotgun. Those Bluebeards are going to be swarming aboard like rats the first chance they get.’

‘He’s right.’ The voice came from behind Sam and he turned.

‘Ryan?’

Ryan Keith stood with his double-barrelled shotgun over one arm. ‘I want to help.’

Sam looked Ryan up and down. All signs of the chubby kid who had played the Oliver Hardy role were long gone now. He looked calm, cool, collected.

Sam gave a nod. ‘Lee drives. Ryan and I are going to repel boarders. Okay, let’s do it.’

Zita and Thomas Hather also offered to ride along. Sam firmly refused their offers.

Deep down he knew why. Carswell was probably right, damn him. This might well turn out to be a suicide mission after all.

Sam intended taking the bus that, to all intents and purposes, was now nothing more than a huge firebomb on wheels into the narrowest part of the gorge.

Somehow they had to get clear of the thing as it began to burn, then run back to their own lines at the mouth of the gorge.

And that would be with some mightily pissed-off Bluebeards hard on their heels.

‘Ryan, are you okay?’

Ryan nodded and took up his position at the right-hand side of the bus. He pulled the hammers back on the shotgun. Behind him, wedged the full length and width of the bus’s deck, were the barrels of wood alcohol. Sprinkled liberally over those were 50 or so grenades.

Quite a nice little firework cocktail it all makes, Sam told himself as he pushed the automatics into his belt.

‘See you in ten minutes,’ he said to Zita, touching her cheek.

‘Make it five, you big lummox.’ She tried to force a smile, but only managed to make her lips twitch.

‘God go with you, Sam,’ Hather said and shook his hand. Sam nodded. Behind him, Lee fired the bus’s big diesel motor into life.

Quickly he climbed onto the bus and slapped the driver’s timbered compartment twice. Move it on out.

The engine bellowed and they were moving forward through the line of soldiers, and then between the cliff walls of the gorge itself.

Sam was aware of Zita, Hather, Rolle, Jud and the rest watching them go. He didn’t look back now.

Ahead the gorge was nothing more than a narrow channel cut by a million years of rainwater. Snow covered the ground.

Here there were only a few bushes and saplings. But deeper into the gorge he knew it became thickly wooded.

Sam had told Lee to drive as far as he could before the trees stopped the bus. In theory the Bluebeards would be penned there in front of him in the couple of hundred yards or so of gorge that remained.

What would happen then God alone knew.

‘Take it nice and steady,’ he shouted to Lee as the bus flattened saplings. ‘I think we’ve got company.’

‘Dear Lord, help them,’ Thomas said under his breath.

‘I’ll second that,’ Zita said. She put her arm around him. The man was trembling like a frightened child.

She watched as the bus disappeared into the swirling blizzard. Now all she could hear was the growl of the motor.

She stared into the snow, willing her vision to penetrate that wall of white. But she could see nothing.

Seconds later the sound of gunshots reached her.

A dozen or so Bluebeards ran at the bus and began hurling rocks.

One glanced off Sam’s shoulder as he hung onto the window frame.

Behind him he heard the deep thuds of Ryan’s shotgun.

Two of the attackers fell back onto the snow.

Now Sam drew one of the automatics from his belt as a giant of a man armed with a spear ran in front of the bus.

Sam aimed. Fired.

The man dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach. The bus rolled steadily forward. Sam heard the thump of metal against flesh. Then he felt a jolt as the front wheel of the bus passed over an object in the snow.

More Bluebeards appeared at the sides of the bus. He hoped this wasn’t the main force, only a picket line protecting the rest deeper in the gorge.

If those two thousand or so did break out, he didn’t give much for the chances of Zita, Jud and the rest back there. ‘Step on the gas, Lee, old buddy,’ he called. ‘Let’s kick these bastards’ asses once and for all.’

Through one of the slots in the timbered driver’s compartment, Sam saw Lee nod. The engine roared and the bus’s tyres slipped in the snow.

But the weight of the vehicle kept the tyres biting.

The machine lurched. Vibrations ran from end to end.

It took a moment or so for Sam to gauge it was picking up speed.

But when he looked out of the windows he saw the saplings had started to blur.

Pushing the automatic back into his belt he shouted back to Ryan, ‘Hang on tight. This is it!’

The bus must have been hitting the 40 mark.

Snow sprayed up at either side. Bushes, saplings, men were smashed against the front of the bus.

The rock faces of the gorge began to close in.

Behind him the barrels of wood alcohol bounced. One broke free from the lines, rolled forward and crashed against the timber sides of the driver’s compartment. Instantly it cracked open to flood the floor of the bus. Sam’s nostrils tingled and his eyes watered at the intense aroma of the stuff. It smelled pungent, lethal.

Hell, Sam thought, one spark and this bus becomes a shooting star.

He looked ahead. That was when he gritted his teeth. Just yards ahead was a line of mature oaks.

‘Lee! Hit the brakes!’

Lee braked.

But on that snow no way was the bus going to stop in a hurry.

Without losing speed it slid on, throwing up gouts of snow like whale plumes.

The line of trees seemed to hurtle towards them, as if eager to meet the charging steel and rubber of the bus.

Sam heard the crash. Then he was flying.

After she heard the gunshots Zita froze. They lasted only for a moment, then stopped.

For a second she thought all had gone silent. She stared into the falling snow in the direction of the gorge.

Then she heard the sound of the bus’s motor. It grew louder and then abruptly stopped.

Before she even knew it, Thomas had grabbed her arm in his two hands.

‘Don’t go in there,’ he told her. ‘We must wait.’

‘We can’t just stand here.’

‘Yes, we must and we will. They’re in God’s hands now.’

Every fibre of Zita’s body strained to carry her into the gorge to find out what had happened. Her gut instincts told her something had gone badly wrong.

It came from far, far away. A distant calling. The sound was indistinct. It seemed to shimmer. But there was something about it. Something important.

For a while Sam Baker didn’t know what it was. He opened his eyes.

‘Sam… Sam… Sam?’

Floating above him was the man in the moon. A big round disc with dark smudgy eyes and down-turned mouth.

‘Sam? Can you hear me?’

The man in the moon’s voice was muffled.

Then it did a peculiar thing. The face turned away. A moment later came a loud bang.

The face turned back to Sam, the smudgy eyes looking down into his. ‘Sam… Sam!’ More explosions.

‘Sam, snap out of it! They’re going to kill us!’

Sam did his best to speak. Only his mouth didn’t work. What was more, he felt like a broken doll lying there.

His shoulder throbbed. His ribs radiated pure agony every time he breathed. He was sure his arm was broken at the elbow. And from the exciting new way his tongue could roam about the inside of his mouth he figured that most of his teeth were smashed, too.

‘Sam…’

He hoisted himself up painfully onto one elbow. The moment he looked around, his mind snapped into focus. They were in deep, deep shit. Lee and Ryan were firing their rifles at the Bluebeards, who were coming at them through the woodland, whooping like Red Indians.

He turned his head. A flash of pain cracked up through his neck and into his head, where it seemed to bounce around the inside of his skull for a while – clearly in no hurry to leave.

He took a deep breath, blinked.

Twenty paces from him was the tour bus.

Carswell’s Thunder Child had made its last valiant charge. It lay on its side. The barrels of wood alcohol lay all around it in a tumbled heap. Some had shattered; pools of violet liquid lay in the snow.

Sam sneezed. To his astonishment a crimson spray filled the air.

He touched his nose. It had a flattened, rounded feel to it, like a mushroom.

‘Sam!’ Lee shouted. ‘We’d appreciate a hand if you’re up to it.’

Lee fired a rifle at one of the attackers who ran from the trees, an axe gripped in his two hands.

The man’s face disappeared in a splash of crimson.

Sam felt at least half the bones in his body were broken.

His teeth were gone. One eye was nearly closed.

He must have been thrown clean out of the bus when it hit one of the trees.

Nevertheless, he heaved himself to his knees, then from his knees to his feet.

Pains shot from head to toe.

Only one arm worked; the other hung limply, terminating in a bloody cluster of fingers.

With his single functioning hand he pulled a handgun from his pocket and blasted a pair of Bluebeards. Carswell was right about the killing power of the ammunition. The two went down in mid stride.

‘Thank God you’re back with us,’ Lee shouted. ‘They’re swarming out of the woods like ants!’

‘Lee… you’ve got to… set fire to the bus.’ Sam had to work the words through his broken mouth. ‘We’ll hold them back here.’ He nodded at Ryan, who’d just decapitated another axe-man with a single shotgun blast.

‘Okay, then I’ll come back here and help.’

‘No, you won’t, Lee. Once it’s burning get out of here.’

The smell of neat wood alcohol filled the gorge. Although it was evaporating slowly, the rock faces were containing the vapour as if it were a liquid. If anything, the cold air brought by the snowfall pressed it down from above, too.

A Bluebeard ran from the trees at Sam.

Sam dropped him with a single shot in the stomach. He glanced back to see Lee light the fuse of a grenade, then toss the miniature bomb into the bus.

Lee clearly hoped he would have chance to escape the blast before the grenade exploded.

But the burning fuse was enough by itself to ignite those hundreds of gallons of spilt alcohol.

That didn’t so much burn as explode.

One moment the world was white with snow. The next it was a shimmering blue.

A fireball ripped from the bus.

And it did not stop.

It just kept on coming. Like a moving wall of flame.

Sam glimpsed Lee running out of the fireball, his hair on fire.

‘Run!’ Sam yelled to Ryan.

Instinct kicked in.

Sam turned and ran away from the bus, deeper into the gorge.

He didn’t feel the pain any more.

He flung himself under the cover of the trees. Ahead of him he saw the Bluebeards running too. They were throwing away their swords, spears, axes.

Sam looked back. That wall of flame wasn’t stopping. It advanced remorselessly through the undergrowth, popping, snapping, firing out sparks like machine-gun bullets.

Sam’s smashed ribs barely allowed him to breathe; even so, he ran faster.

Now he heard the explosions of detonating grenades.

He jumped over a stream.

A rainbow sheen on the water told him that more wood alcohol floated there.

A second later the blue flames rushed along that, too. Now it seemed as if the whole wood was ablaze.

A man ran towards him. Sam didn’t notice the face, only the wickedly curving knife. Sam fired point-blank into the chest. The man went down like a sack of potatoes, eyes bulging.

Just for a moment he glimpsed Ryan Keith. He was using the shotgun as a club and was trading blows with a massive man in an iron helmet.

Ryan’s forehead had been split open by a sword blow.

Blood streamed down his face, but still his two eyes blazed like twin silver balls. Sheer rage drove him on.

Sam turned, intending to help. But with another tremendous roar like thunder, a wall of fire ran between him and Ryan, obliterating the two men as they fought.

Now the flames seemed to be all around him. The heat was so intense that snow melted in seconds to reveal black earth. Sap bubbled from tree trunks. Then they, too, flashed into flame until the wood became a mass of pillars of fire.

He backtracked until the heat grew too intense, then he cut along a different path. Fires raged on either side. The blood that soaked his shoulder began to steam. His skin smarted; his eyes watered. Sparks landed on his clothes and hair.

Brushing them off with his one good hand, he ran again towards the mouth of the gorge.

Ahead was a mound about as high as his shoulder. He ran up it in order to get a better idea of the lie of the land.

From there he saw he was surrounded by a sea of fire.

He screwed his eyes against the incandescent flare. With difficulty, he could just see over the burning scrub to where the mouth of the gorge lay, perhaps a hundred paces away.

The heat had driven Casterton’s defenders back but they were still holding a steady line, preventing the Bluebeards’ escape.

And now Sam could see the Bluebeards. Rather than burn in the gorge or be gunned down by the soldiers they were running into the time-gate.

For a moment Sam watched them being funnelled from this world of 1865 back to God knew when.

So it really was over. The last of the surviving Bluebeards ran with their hands over their burning hair into the gate.

Sam held up a hand to protect his own face from the stinging heat as the flames crept closer to him.

In theory, once the fires had died down the Bluebeards would be able to return, but he knew that somehow Rolle would seal the gate shut for ever. Maybe the soldiers could…

But, no. That didn’t matter now. That was a problem for someone else to solve.

Now the flames were like a rising tide that encircled the mound. His cool island in a burning sea.

Sam realised he could stay put and slowly roast.

Or he could make one last dash through the burning bushes to the mouth of the gorge.

You never know, he told himself, I might make it. The miracles have been coming thick and fast today.

Strangely, he felt a grin come to his face as he took a deep breath.

So this was it. All the roads of his lifetime converged on this single moment. Maybe this was why he’d survived that lightning strike after all.

He pushed his face into the crook of his raised arm. And ran.

The flames enveloped him. He’d entered a world full of light…

There was no pain.