Worldshaker 01; Worldshaker Page 11

  Panic took over, his deepest fears re-surfaced. They had called him food! Filthy cannibals!

  He struggled to rise up off his back. But he was in some kind of net and couldn’t get a purchase. His left foot sank through between the cords, leaving him snagged and trapped.

  “What we got here?” growled Scarface.

  “Must be a one of ‘em,” said Greasy.

  “Urr, fell down from above,” agreed Toothless.

  Col could hardly hear for the noise of machinery, but he could read the words on their lips. Toothless was holding Col’s book on mountains and volcanoes under his arm. He had already torn off the paper and string.

  A wiry hand caught hold of Col’s chin and twisted the angle of his head. “Let’s have a look at ‘im,” said Scarface.

  With a frantic tug, Col managed to pull his foot free. He felt the side of a hand in front of his mouth and bit down with all the strength of his jaws. Teeth into flesh, teeth meeting on bone.

  “Aaaaaghh!”

  As Scarface snatched his hand away, Col rolled sideways on the net. Over and over – he didn’t try to stand but kept rolling until he fell off.

  “Gettim down!”

  The three Filthies were on the opposite side of the net. Scarface stood wringing his hand and the other two had to run around him. It was just enough time for Col. He scrambled to his feet and fled.

  Massive blocks of black metal ringed him in, but he found one narrow gap like a ravine. He darted along it, came to a T-junction, swung right into another ravine.

  “Gettim down! Gettim down! Gettim down!”

  He heard the yells of his pursuers, felt the vibration of their footsteps through the floor. Vague impressions flashed past, of pipes, bolt-heads, iron plates. But he had eyes only for the gaps between the black metal blocks. If he ran into a dead end, he was finished.

  Catapulting round corners, he kept banging into bits of machinery: some oily, some grimy, some burning hot. He ducked under projections that seemed to leap out at him, jumped over ground-level ducts and sills.

  All at once, the floor came to an end and there was only a void filled with smoke and flying sparks. He skidded to a halt on the very edge. Peering through the smoke and sparks, he made out the monstrous shape of a cylindrical steel tank, so big that he could see neither its top nor its bottom.

  His pursuers were almost upon him when he spotted a ladder attached to the outside of the edge, going down. He flung himself onto it. Missing more rungs than he touched, he half-slid and half-fell for twenty feet. A succession of floors rushed past in front of him, narrow passages between the dark bulk of the machinery.

  Choosing a floor at random, he swung off the ladder and ran back in reverse direction. He had to run in a crouch because the ceiling was so low. The light dimmed: no longer a glow of red but a sickly yellow from occasional bulbs along the passage.

  On either side were niches like wire cages, stacked one on top of the other. Four levels of them, each barely a couple of handsbreadths high – yet Filthies lived in them. Col glimpsed bodies curled up under rags, their backs turned to the passage. Sometimes they lay huddled in groups or pairs, pressed tightly up against one another. Col didn’t like to think about what they might be doing. Dirty, disgusting Filthies!

  He took a turn to the right, then a turn to the left. Shouts rang out behind: “Where’d he go?’ ‘Which way?” Scarf ace, Greasy and Toothless were still on his trail. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw bodies roll over and heads pop out of niches. With squinting eyes, the Filthies stared after him.

  “Wassa noise?”

  “Who’s shoutin’?”

  They were rousing up ahead of him too. It was hopeless. The news was travelling faster than he could run.

  He came to an intersection and turned left again. Here rags hung across the roof of the passage, Filthy clothes spread out to dry. Forced to duck even lower, he noticed a row of empty niches on the bottom level. He flung himself into one before his pursuers came round the corner, rolling as far as possible away from the light.

  Lumpy objects jabbed into the small of his back. He dug them out and discovered three tiny figurines carved from pieces of coal.

  The niche had other forms of decoration too. Lengths of string had been knotted onto the wire in a pattern round the sides, and tufts of hair had been fastened onto the wire overhead. Human hair? Col shuddered at the thought. What else could it be down here?

  Someone had even tried to make the niche more comfortable with a soft bag like a pillow. It seemed to be filled with soot or very fine ash. When Col pulled it towards himself, he found a metal spike hidden underneath. A weapon, sharpened to a murderous point.

  He gripped it in his fist. At the same moment, the pounding feet of Scarface, Greasy and Toothless swept by outside.

  He counted them past. They had fallen for his trick, they were chasing a phantom. Still gripping his spike, he rolled out of the niche and turned to run the other way.

  But he was too soon. A whole horde of Filthies had joined the pursuit – and now they were rushing towards him along the passage.

  He had no choice but to turn again and run on in the same direction. Scarface, Greasy and Toothless were no more than twenty paces ahead – they only had to look back and see him, then he’d be trapped between the two groups. But there was a further intersection ahead too.

  He made it to the intersection just as Greasy spotted him and yelled “There he is!” He swung left along another passage. Arms reached out from niches as he raced past, hands clutched to hold him. He slashed in great arcs with his spike and the hands dropped away.

  They were all after him now. He heard the chant swelling louder and louder “Gettim down! Gettim down! Gettim down!”

  He took another turn and suddenly there were no more niches, only massive blank plates of metal. He darted forward and the floor whirled under his feet. A moving turntable! Hurled sideways, he slammed into a wall of metal. The spike fell from his hand and he dropped into the gap between wall and turntable.

  With a bone-jarring clang! he crashed down onto another floor. Huge rotating spindles and humming drive-belts hemmed him in on all sides. The belts moved so fast he could see them only as a blur, even inches in front of his face. One touch, and he would be sucked in and ground to a pulp.

  Still he had to keep moving. He staggered to his feet and edged his way forward, bending and swaying to avoid the belts. Their hum was hypnotic, their wind fanned his cheeks. Finally he climbed over a rim and found himself in a kind of trough.

  The Filthies hadn’t followed him through the spindles, but they were approaching from other directions. All around he saw them, clambering down ladders, swarming along walkways. The ladders and walkways hung as if suspended in the smoky air.

  Which way now? Before he had time to think, there was a thunderous sound and an avalanche came surging down the trough towards him. Hot slag – red embers and grey cinders! He sprang across the trough and somersaulted over the rim on the other side. The avalanche passed by behind him.

  Now he was in an area of flues and chimneys. They rose out of the floor, tapering upwards, and radiated waves of heat that almost knocked him off his feet. The sound from inside was like rushing, roaring fires.

  He broke into a stumbling run. He had to escape. His clothes were starting to smoulder, he could hardly draw breath and his eyeballs were stinging from the heat.

  By the time he got through, the threads of his jacket were alight with tiny flames. He beat out the flames, blinked the tears from his eyes and stared at a track of shiny rollers ahead, sloping down between black walls. Where did it lead? He could see nothing but darkness.

  He took a flying leap and dived full-length onto the rollers. He would choose his own death sooner than be captured by Filthies.

  Down the slope he went, as the rollers turned under him. Darker and darker…until the slope came to an end, and the rollers pitched him forward.

  He had a sense of dropping t
hrough some kind of hole.

  It was pure instinct to reach out with his arms, pure luck to catch onto a chain he couldn’t even see. The instant deceleration nearly wrenched his arm from its socket.

  He hung in mid-air, swinging from side to side, hearing the creak of the chain. An acrid stench came to his nostrils, a strange fizzing sound to his ears. Looking down, he made out a faint phosphorescence that floated on a thick porridgelike sea.

  He must have arrived at the very bottom of Worldshaker.

  “Gettim down! Gettim down! Gettim down!” The cries of the Filthies were coming closer.

  Raising his eyes, he saw a grille of bars overhead. The hole through which he had dropped was a large square opening in the centre of the grille. Several chains spanned the darkness, including the one to which he clung.

  “He ain’t down yet!” snarled a voice. “I see ‘im!”

  Filthies walked out across the grille. Viewed from beneath, they were vague misshapen shadows, all feet and legs. They squatted to peer down between the bars or through the central opening.

  “I’m not your enemy!” Col shouted.

  The only answer was a barrage of jeers and abuse. A missile went whizzing past in front of his nose.

  “Aim for ‘is hands!” someone bellowed. “Gettim down! Into the bilge!”

  They were trying to knock him off his chain. So that was what they meant by Gettim down. They wanted him to die in the porridge.

  Another missile skimmed his chest, another struck him on the shoulder. When one bounced off the chain, he saw they were hurling chunks of cold cinder.

  Down below, he could hear ominous fizzing sounds as the chunks landed in the porridge. The stuff was in a state of yeasty ferment.

  One chunk hit him on the wrist and he nearly lost his grip. He was trying to jink and dodge, but it was only a matter of time.

  Then a new voice spoke out overhead, lighter yet somehow authoritative. “Stop that!”

  The bombardment of missiles ceased at once.

  “Pull up the chain,” the voice commanded. “Bring him up here.”

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Twenty-Seven

  The chain rattled and Col see-sawed through the air. They were hauling him up towards the opening. He was thankful for the reprieve – but what would they do with him?

  Many hands reached down as he approached. They grabbed him by his jacket, hoisted him up and deposited him on the bars. His feet slipped on the grille and he ended up sitting with his legs dangling through the bars.

  Filthies clustered around. He recognised Scarface, Greasy and Toothless, all grinning with vicious satisfaction.

  “Stand back!”

  Again the authoritative voice. It was a female voice, Col realised. As the crowd stepped back, he saw that the person giving the orders was a girl with blonde-and-black hair, sharp cheekbones and large eyes.

  Riff!

  He gasped in disbelief. Riff merely nodded at him. She must have already recognised him on the chain.

  He remembered what she’d said about being a leader down Below. Now she was his one and only lifeline.

  “Riff, please!” he appealed. “You said you owed me once. You promised help if I ever had to ask.”

  She frowned and bit her lip. A ripple of muttering ran through the crowd.

  Riff turned to face them. “Yeah, it’s true. You all heard the story. This is the boy that hid me in his cupboard.”

  The muttering changed tone. Less hostile? Col looked around, and noticed how young most of the Filthies were.

  But Scarface didn’t change. He held out his hand, displaying Col’s teethmarks etched in blood. “See what he did to me? I say he dies now.”

  Riff nodded at the teethmarks. “I made a promise to help him, though.”

  “Help him how?” asked one of the other Filthies.

  “Dunno. Save him for the Revolutionary Council to decide.”

  “No!” Scarface was livid. “He’s a one of ‘em! He has to pay!” He turned to the crowd. “For everything they’ve done to us, right? For all the blasts of steam!” He pointed to the puckered tissue that disfigured half his face. “Like this, right?”

  The Filthies appeared undecided.

  “Only one place for his kind!” Scarface pointed to the porridge. “Into the bilge!”

  He advanced on Col, but Riff stepped forward and blocked him off.

  “Okay,” she said. “If that’s the way you want it. I’m ready.”

  What now? Col wondered.

  The Filthies spread out to form a ring, linking arms. Scarface and Riff backed off to a distance of twenty paces, flexed their arms and bent at the knees. They were going to fight over him.

  Col’s hopes crashed. It was a totally one-sided contest. Scarface was older and bigger and stronger. His only disadvantage was his injured hand, and even that didn’t seem to bother him. Riff wouldn’t stand a chance.

  For a minute or two, the combatants circled one another. They were both surefooted on the bars, as though they sensed the gaps without needing to look. They kept clear of the opening in the centre of the grille and Col beside it.

  When Scarface launched forward with a roar, Riff remained poised until the very last moment, then ducked under his reaching arms and sprang to the side. She flung herself against the ring of Filthies, rebounded, somersaulted lightly on both hands and flew through the air feet-first. Her scything kick caught Scarface just above the kidneys.

  Col winced at the savagery of the blow. Scarface coughed and doubled up, but quickly recovered. He swivelled to face Riff as she went onto the attack.

  She danced forward, feinting left and right. Scarface balled his fist and swung. A tremendous punch – if it had landed. But Riff caught his fist and deflected the punch over her shoulder, hooked a foot round his ankles and overbalanced him with his own momentum. He ended up punching downwards, driving his fist between the bars. For a moment his arm was trapped up to the armpit.

  The Filthies cheered and Riff responded with a bow. Very deliberately, she turned her back on Scarface and sauntered across to Col.

  “It’s all in the timing, see?” she told him. “Timing and technique. I use his own strength to defeat him.”

  What was she doing? The fight wasn’t over. Scarface had freed his arm and was getting back on his feet.

  Col opened his mouth to shout a warning – in the same instant that Scarface charged forward like a raging bull. He was aiming to knock Riff through the opening in the grille.

  “Watch-!”

  No need for the warning. Riff had been waiting for this very move. She pushed Col aside and burst into action.

  Everything happened in a split-second blur. As Col sprawled sideways, Riff kicked off in a great leap across the opening. Scarface tried to skid to a halt – too late. He slid off the edge of the grille, twisted as he fell and managed to catch onto the very last bar. He hung dangling over the void.

  Riff ran back around the opening, knelt and grabbed him by the wrists. She gave him a moment to contemplate the bubbling porridge below.

  “Who wins?” she asked.

  “You do.”

  “Who decides what happens to the boy?”

  “You do.”

  She hauled him back up onto the bars, where he lay sullen and defeated. The Filthies unlinked arms. As the crowd began to disperse, Riff picked out half a dozen of them by name.

  “Swale. Tobbs. Jarvie. Channa. Gart and Sess. Go find the other members of the Revolutionary Council. Tell them I’m calling a meeting now.”

  Col saw Greasy and Toothless slinking away, without waiting for Scarface. Toothless had something tucked under his arm – the book on mountains and volcanoes.

  “Hey!” Col jumped to his feet. “That’s not yours!”

  Riff followed his pointing finger. “What?”

  “It’s yours,” Col told her.

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s that book you wanted to borrow. I dropped it down the foo
d chute for you.”

  “Yeah? Why would you do that?”

  “As a present. I wrapped it up and drew a picture of you on the front.” Col turned to Toothless. “Tell her.”

  Toothless gave a reluctant grunt of agreement.

  “Bring it here.” Riff snapped her fingers.

  Toothless came forward and handed her the book. She opened it up and turned the pages. Col sensed a growing delight behind her severe expression.

  “I thought you deserved it,” he said. “Because you wanted to learn to read. You said you never had the chance.”

  “No, I never had the chance.” She closed the book with a snap. “Okay, I’ll argue your case with the Council.” Suddenly, she was beaming from ear to ear. “Let’s go.”

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Twenty-Eight

  Col followed Riff up ladders and along walkways. When they came to a narrow defile between gleaming, oiled machinery, she turned with a warning. “Move as I move.”

  The defile was a death trap, where huge pistons shot out and slammed across from side to side. Or it would have been a death trap, but for Riff’s guidance. She took Col by the hand and pulled him forward in sudden jumps and halts.

  “Now,” she said. “Wait. Now. Wait. Now.”

  Riff’s movements were as unpredictable as the pistons, but he learned to react to the pressure of her hand. Half a dozen times, he barely escaped being crushed to a pulp.

  “You gotter have fast reactions down here,” she explained when they were through. “That’s why I beat Sculler so easy. He’s gettin’ too old. Reactions slow down after you turn twenty. Ain’t no one here lives much past thirty.”

  Col remembered how young most of the Filthies were. It no longer seemed so strange that Riff was a leader at the age of fourteen.

  He would have asked more, but Riff hushed him with her instructions for the next part of the journey. “Thick smoke now. We climb four ladders. When you get to the top of each ladder, run left on the platform, lean out, take a deep breath. Make it last while you climb. Got that?”