The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (4 page)

"They're indestructible!" Reed stared in amazement from behind the sofa,
until Quatermain pulled him back down. The assassins returned fire, and bullets
tore through the upholstery, popping out coarse hemp stuffing near Reed's
ear.

"No. Just armor-plated." Quatermain cautiously reached around the couch to
check Nigel's nonexistent pulse. "Remember what I was saying about losing
friends every time someone wants me to get involved in another adventure?" He
sighed with utter world-weariness. "Nigel was one of the last friends I
had."

As the young bureaucrat huddled against the continuing gunfire, Quatermain
grabbed a handy wicker chair and heaved it over the back of the bullet-riddled
sofa. Using the chair as a distraction, he leaped up and over the couch.

The three bulletproof assassins fired with new weapons now—fully automatic
machine rifles, far more modern than Quatermain's Webley revolver. After the
thrown wicker chair exploded into splinters and dust, the killers turned their
noisy, deadly weapons at the new target.

Shocked to see the automatic machine rifles cause faster and more thorough
carnage than he had ever imagined, Quatermain realized he was caught in the
crossfire. He dove for cover so frantically that his trusted revolver went
skittering across the debris-strewn floor of the club. He ducked a stuffed lion
that was shot to pieces, then took cover next to an elderly hunter, who was
clumsily loading his shotgun.

"What in God's name! Automatic rifles?" he said.

"Dashed unsporting, if you ask me," said the elderly hunter. "They're
probably Belgian. Shouldn't be allowed in the Club." Indignant, the old man
stood up and fired his shotgun, winging one of the assassins. Quatermain was
glad to see that their armor protection did not extend to their arms as
well.

A second assassin coolly shot the elderly hunter dead, using at least a dozen
more bullets than was necessary and expending the last rounds in his automatic
machine rifle.

Furious, Quatermain snatched up the elderly mans fallen shotgun and blasted
with the second barrel. His shot sent the assassin diving for cover, then he
waded in, his anger endowing him with more confidence than the bulletproof
plating gave his attackers.

Recovering from the shock, the downed assassin crawled across the floor,
clutching the flesh wound on his blood-soaked sleeve. The second killer
struggled to reload his empty automatic rifle. The third assassin wrenched a
thick paw from the ruined stuffed carcass of a lion; the taxidermist had
extended the lion's claws to make the trophy look more ferocious. Using the
stiff paw as a club, he slashed at Quatermain with the hooked claws.

But the old adventurer was faster. He smashed the man with a liquor bottle he
grabbed from the bar, shattering it over his unprotected head. "Wicked waste of
good scotch."

Finally finished reloading his machine rifle, the second assassin raised his
weapon to fire—but Quatermain crashed into him with a rattling tea trolley. He
sprawled with a yelp, and the famous adventurer lifted the cart and broke it
over the man's head. Cakes and china cups went flying in all directions.

The distinctive click of a gun being cocked made Quatermain whirl, ready. His
heart pounded, his blood flowed, his muscles worked—just as they had in his
younger days. But instead of another enemy, he saw pallid Sanderson Reed
nervously aiming the old Webley, which he had retrieved from the floor.

"You're liable to hurt someone with that," Quatermain said.

"I—I just wanted to help—"

"Allan!" Bruce the bartender called out. "Heads up, man!"

Quatermain whirled and barely dodged a swarm of sharp silver throwing knives.
With a staccato patter, the blades thunked like arrows up the face of a wooden
pillar in the middle of the gathering room. The last few knives stapled
Quatermain's collar to the mahogany.

The man who had been grazed by the elderly hunters  shotgun blast looked
badly wounded, his right shirt sleeve soaked with blood. But he was still
coming, and  he could throw with his uninjured arm.

Quatermain grimaced. "Just my luck the bastard's left handed."

Bending awkwardly, he tried to pull the knives loose, but the thick material
of his sweat-damp shirt would not tear free. He succeeded only in slicing his
callused hand. Seeing his victim pinned like a moth to a specimen board, the
wounded assassin brandished a big gutting knife. He smiled as he stabbed at
Quatermain's head.

Though he had limited mobility, the old adventurer thrashed and evaded the
wicked strikes. So the assassin gripped the big knife and tried for his victims
gut, using an underarm swing.

Amazed at his own resilience after being so long out of practice, Quatermain
squirmed his hips and hauled his body up out of the way, just as the assassin's
blade stuck
into the wood, driven by all his force.

Coming down from his agile move, Quatermain whacked the man on the head. The
assassin grunted, and his own weight finally succeeded in pulling the wedged
blade free—just in time for him to fall onto the point of his own gutting
knife.

Then, covered with cream and jam like a monster from a mad bakers nightmare,
the last assassin broke from beneath the tea trolley, where he had lain stunned.
He lunged forward, frothing frosting, and picked up his own gun.

Quatermain spun, now that he was free of the knives. With a roar, he hefted a
table as a shield, scattering checkers. He charged the pastry-clotted killer at
full hitting the man hard and driving him back toward the trophy-covered
wall.

The blow spiked the assassin on a curved rhino horn mounted for show over the
fireplace. The man's eyes bulged and he coughed powdered sugar, then oozed a
bright red that was definitely not raspberry jam.

The impact knocked loose a large British flag hanging overhead; it floated
down, smartly shrouding the assassin in his final death throes.

"Rule Britannia," Quatermain said, standing back and lifting his chin in
satisfaction. He wiped perspiration off his forehead, catching his breath.

Reed shook his head, amazed by what he had just seen. "Well, Mr. Quatermain,
I believe that only verifies—"

Impatient and still angry, the adventurer looked around. "Wait. Wasn't there
one more of these buggers? I don't think I lost count—"

The black valet gestured at the door, calling out in high-pitched alarm,
"Mister Quatermain!"

He looked to see the last killer running for his life. He'd been wounded in
the scuffle, but that hadn't slowed him in the least. The assassin had already
left the Club grounds and sprinted some distance down the dirt street toward the
milling villagers, vegetable stands, shacks, and rickety cattle corrals.

"Bloody jackrabbit," Quatermain said, and turned to the bartender. "Bruce,
it's time for Matilda."

The barman reverently pulled an elephant gun from behind the bar. "Matilda,
sir." He tossed the long weapon to Quatermain, who caught it in mid-stride on
his way to the Club doorway.

Quatermain glanced down at a small leather case that he thought one of the
four assassins had been carrying when they'd entered the room. He frowned,
wondering why the killers would have tucked it under a small table by the
bar—but he turned his attention to the immediate problem at hand. The last of
the four assassins was getting away.

Eyes gleaming, Reed followed him through the doorway onto the shaded porch of
the Club.

"Our bolter may have answers." Quatermain inspected and then shouldered the
elephant gun.

"But he's so far away," Reed said. "You'll never hit him."

Quatermain ignored the remark, taking aim. He squinted, shook his head and
lowered the gun.

"Yes, I thought he was—" Reed said, nodding with a trace of smugness.

But Quatermain wasn't finished. He took a pair of wire glasses from his shirt
pocket. "God, I hate getting old." He put the glasses on, adjusted them, and
took aim again. The elephant gun belched a roar like a cannon, and Reed
flinched, squeezing his eyes shut and clapping his hands over his ears.

The bullet covered the distance to its target at incredible speed. The
wounded assassin glanced back, thinking he'd gotten away—and the projectile
slammed into his unprotected shoulder, shattering bone and flesh. He yelped and
fell to the ground, sprawling on the trampled dirt of the road.

Quatermain lowered his gun and put his glasses away. He cracked his neck,
surprised and exhilarated. "Well then, let us see what that fellow has to say
for himself." He went to the hitching post and swiftly untied one of the waiting
horses. He handed the reins of a second to Reed. "Nigel wont mind if you borrow
his horse."

The two men approached the downed assassin, riding hard. Many locals had
already left their market stalls and huts, gathering to stare at the bleeding
killer, who was dressed as an Englishman.

Reed shook his head, his face paler than usual. "They must have learned I was
coming for you. They wanted to kill you before you could offer to help."

"Obviously," said Quatermain.

They dismounted, striding forward like conquerors. The wounded assassin
looked at them with fanatical determination, then used his one good arm to
fumble desperately in his pockets. His other shoulder was a smashed and bloody
ruin from the elephant gun.

"It's no use, man," Reed told him. "We'll get you to a doctor, and then to
jail."

Finally, the assassin found a pill in his rumpled pocket and pulled it free
with blood-spattered fingers.

Quatermain rushed forward. "Step him! We need the information!"

He grabbed the mans wrist, but it was too late. The assassin bit down on the
pill with a smug smile that instantly transformed into a pain-wracked grimace as
he died.

Cursing, Quatermain dropped the man's wrist in disgust. The crowd looked at
him in awe, but the old adventurer wanted no part of them.

After all that had happened, Reed did not forget his primary mission. He
cleared his throat. "You may have no love for the empire, Mr. Quatermain, but I
know you love Africa." He gestured around him, as if there might be something
admirable to be found in Nairobi. "A war in Europe will spread to its
colonies—"

Suddenly, behind them, the Britannia Club exploded.

Flames erupted through the door and roof; windows shattered. Splinters flew
up into the air. The support beams toppled, and the whole structure groaned,
then collapsed into an inferno.

Quatermain stared, his lips curled downward in a frown.

No longer interested in the assassins motionless body, the crowd of natives
turned their attention to the explosion. Shouting with excitement, they rushed
toward the Brittania Club to help, or at least watch from up close.

Quatermain's eyes were steely as he watched his home burn.

"It appears the war has already arrived here," Reed finished. "You cant hide
from it, Quatermain."

"All right. I'm in," the old adventurer said. "Damn…"

Reed smiled. "Excellent. Pack for an English summer."

With a smug look, the young bureaucrat strode away to the waiting buggy. The
driver hadn't moved from his seat, watching all the excitement with bemused
interest.

As he took two steps to follow, Quatermain hesitated, then looked back toward
the African veldt, with its open skies and waving grasses. Thunderheads were
gathering over the windswept plains.

Near the burning wreckage of the old Britannia Club, the forlorn, crumbling
graveyard stood against the magnificent vista, and Quatermain thought of all the
friends, acquaintances, lovers he had buried there.

It was time to leave.

Under torrential rain, a hansom cab drove north from Oxford Street. The
driver tilted his derby, and cold water poured off the brim onto his already
drenched lap. The rubberized fabric of his mackintosh was proof against the
downpour, but the water found ways to creep between the folds of his coat and
down his trouser legs into his shoes.

Nevertheless, the driver maintained his good cheer. His grin was sincere as
he called down into the cab at his fare. "Nice day for doing, eh sir?" As if
anyone could carry on a conversation with the din of the drumming rain and the
clopping and splashing of the horses hooves on the wet cobblestones.

"Yes… absolutely idyllic," said Quatermain. His voice was the only dry thing
on the whole street.

The cab had as many leaks as it had uncomfortable lumps on the seat, and more
than its share of groaning, creaking noises. He felt very far from home, and
comfort. After his long journey from Africa, he had hoped to nap in these last
few moments before attending the meeting that Sanderson Reed had arranged.

But as with so many others, those hopes had been dashed.

The hansom cab pulled up outside the stately Albion Museum in London, where
Reed waited, holding an open black umbrella. Moving as if he was afraid of being
attacked at any moment, the bureaucrat hurried forward into the rain. He opened
the cab's door, and muddy water sloshed from the sideboard. "You made good time
getting here, Mr. Quatermain."

"Not as good as Phileas Fogg." The old adventurer stepped out of the cab and
stood in the rain, taller than Reed's umbrella. "Fellow went round the world in
eighty days."

He had been in monsoon seasons before, and had spent many a night in swamps
or huddling under baobab trees for shelter. Monsoons on the veldt had a purity,
cleansing the air with fresh moisture; here, confined in the city, the downpour
simply turned the grime into muck.

"No need to go around the world. Coming to London is sufficient, sir." Reed
paid the driver, meticulously counting out the appropriate amount in coins and
intentionally forgetting a tip. Then he took the umbrella's protection for
himself, even if Quatermain didn't want it. "This way, please. Your contact is
waiting."