For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3) (5 page)

Whooshing air announces a change in air pressures as a heavy lid lifts up and into the ship. A light mist escapes with a hiss. Multi-colored, artificial lights wink and blink from unseen control panels within the vessel’s mysterious hold.

Extending in an automatic manner, a gleaming, metallic ladder stretches out of the opening and all the way to the ground.

I see a foot on the top rung. It is much like the hands I saw snatch up Mr. Grunt.

Another three-toed foot descends to the next rung.

And then another foot extends to the next rung. The first foot is then employed to take the next, and so on. Three hands make an appearance one after another, in the same manner, and soon, the whole creature is revealed.

He makes his way to the bottom of the ladder, muttering in a surly manner to himself.

“Krargle smeagle snarf.”

Foul and pungent odours from the interplanetary being threaten to overwhelm me. The scent is not unlike that of a liverwurst sandwich sprinkled with sulphur and left out in the summer sun. I steadfastly refuse to allow nausea to take its hold.

Pausing at the foot of the ladder, he grasps a short rod from his belt. Manipulating a switch, he ignites a powerful beam of light. No flames are in evidence, just an instant, un-natural source of candlepower. This handy illumination device is used to inspect his stuck vehicle. The arm protruding from the top of his head is well positioned for handling the light-rod. He investigates all three limbs of his quagmired vehicle. I keep the stanchion of the tripod’s leg between myself and the Martian as a means of concealment. Mr. Martian has an erratic way of moving around, and I have to move deftly to stay exactly opposite of the stinky fellow. I constantly adjust my position around the leg, lest I get caught out. He is inspecting his carriage, and not looking for me, thank Goodness. So far, so good, I am staying quiet, and able to nimbly move without his seeing me, using the machinery as an obstacle to his vision. He returns to the first leg and gives it a kick. He yelps in pain as this is obviously a painful thing to do. I think the impatient chap regrets his action.

I’ve gotten me a pretty good look at him by now. Standing about five foot nothing and weighing in at about three-hundred pounds, this three toed, three fingered, three legged, three armed visitor does have one normal feature. A single mouth, but this is lined with ravenous fangs and rests below the most disturbing feature of this green-skinned, inter-stellar pickle. That would be his three eyes. Though it is a pretty odd thing that he uses the third leg to sit back on, and the third arm protruding from the top of his head  enjoys a 360 degree rotation.

“Ouch,” I cry, as I investigate a wire that turns out to be busy conducting electricity. Sometimes I am too curious for my own good. This is one of those times.

“Flargle!” shouts my quarry, as he realizes my imprudent presence and
I
become
his
quarry.

The Martian transfers the rod-light back to his head hand and draws what appears to be a pistol. I think he has gotten wise to my hiding about the legs of his transport. His efforts at finding me out become more intensified. My efforts at remaining elusive become more harried. After two successful darts from one stanchion to another, I am finally forced to make a break for it as he is surely about to catch me.

“Farfle Fuegin!” I hear him curse, indicating he has spotted my tactical withdrawal.

The open field provides no cover. I am zig-zagging and moving with as unpredictable a flight path as possible to foil my foe’s murderous intent. Strange crackling noises accompany the firing of the weapon and ear-splitting retorts are combined with the emerald blossoms of powerful blasts exploding around me. Hurried along by the green rays concussive assault, I high-tail it from that field in a flurry of tracks in my desperate getaway. Martian curses pursue me long after the ray-gun blasts have subsided.

“My word, Mr. Temperance, this was a bustling city a day and a half ago. Now it is a ghost town.”

“Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Birmingham is more deserted than a schoolhouse in July.”

“The Eldermen of this city must have made a decision to evacuate ahead of the war-walker. The electric trolleys are not running and there is not a soul anywhere.”

“Everybody that owns a horse or steamer has fled this city. I hear a ruckus up ahead. I think everyone that is left in town is piled up at the train station.”

“These are desperate times, Mr. Temperance. I advise that we keep Clementine hidden, lest she become loot.”

“Gosh, I reckon that’s good thinking, Ma’am. You stay here with Clementine and Bolt, and I’ll go see how things are sittin’.”

It is late afternoon when I near the overwhelmed station. The last train available is ready to pull out. The sleek, modern, engines of the fancy passenger lines are long gone. All the freight locomotives and cars are gone, too. This appears to be the last locomotive available. This old girl should be in a museum. It is sad to see the desperation that this last dreg of Birmingham’s hapless community puts into this obsolete train engine. She is attempting to pull a motley assortment of boxcars, flatcars and bucketcars. Each of these is piled dangerously high with panicked, human cargo.

The little engine is straining, but cannot get going. The train weighs too much for the old girl. She was never built to haul this big of a load.

I need to see what assistance I might render. My hometown is in trouble and I want to do what I can to help.

I run up to the back of the train and push. It does not feel like this train is gonna budge, but I feel I need to try anyway.

“Look at that boy pushing on the train, y’all.”

“You gonna push that train to Atlanta, boy?”

“Put your back into it, sonny.”

“Ha, ha!”

“Careful, kid, you’re gonna split a gut.”

“Ha, ha!”

“You’re face is turning purple, boy.”

“Ha, ha!”

“Stupid runt.”

“Ha, ha! Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’m gonna go help.”

“Ha! You can’t push a train!”

“Hey, what are y’all doing? Y’all can’t push a train. Y’all too? Y’all look silly, pushing on that train. It ain’t never gonna move. Y’all may as well give up. What are y’all doing? Don’t tell me that you are going to go over there and push too, are you? Y’all are just ridiculous, pushing on the back of that train like that. Hunh? Are y’all gonna push on that train too? Gee, now there is a good sized throng of people pushing on that train. Gosh, maybe there is a chance it will start moving. Hey, I’m gonna help, too!”

“Push!”

“It ain’t moving!”

“Come on, push!”

“It ain’t gonna move!”

“Come on, I think we can do it!”

“I don’t think we can do it!”

“I think we can do it!”

“I don’t think we can do it!”

“I think we can!”

“I think we can’t!”

“Can!”

“Can’t!”

“Can!”

“Can’t!”

“I think we can. I think we can. I think we can. I think we can. I think we can! I think we can! I know we can! I
know
we can! Push, y’all, push!”

“It ain’t moving!”

“Push!”

“It ain’t moving!”

“Push!”

“It bidged!”

“Push!”

“It budged!”

“Push! Push! Push!”

It is all we can do to move just a few feet, but little by little, we can tell that we are increasing speed. A cheer goes up as we feel the little engine take the train under its own power.

Some prudently minded railroad men come in behind the departing train with pry bars. The tracks leading West were destroyed by our adversary. The tracks leading North and South are disrupted by these brave men, in an effort to protect rail traffic in those directions from the coming threat. It only remains to disrupt the tracks behind this last train from Birmingham. This sad, pitiful old train looks like it’s gonna be the last train from Birmingham forever. A melancholy resignation descends over these last few occupants of an abandoned city.

I spot Sheriff Woodley. He is normally a dapper fellow, but his hard work at seeing to the hasty evacuation of this city has taken its toll on his fashionable attire. He leads the efforts in disrupting the rails to protect the departing train.

“Ichabod! You’re alive!” My friend’s haggard expression briefly regains its customary happy glow. “I was afraid that you were among the Tuscaloosa casualties. I am relieved to see it is not so, but you need to get yourself and that pretty little girl of yours outta town, boy.”

“I’d like to do what I can to help here, first, sir.”

“I don’t want you to do anything foolish, Ichabod. I know how headstrong you can be. You be careful, son.”

“Yessir, I’ll behave.”

I instantly feel bad. I don’t like to fib, and I have a feeling that misbehavior and being less than perfectly careful might be necessary in the near future.

A woman’s shriek cuts through the dusk’s twilight. Her cry comes from the roof of the last boxcar. Her fellow roofmates take up the scream, pointing to the South-West.

We look in that direction. Over the warehouse districts and the fashionable homes of Southside Birmingham, we can make out in the last few of the Sun’s dying rays, something moving. The stacked double pie plate bodied craft is headed East on the far side of Red Mountain, in the Shades Valley. The leviathan stops. Its legs extend to even greater heights. The fuselage is now teetering high above the mountain that separates it from the city of Birmingham. The metal monster pauses to have a look and then lowers from its extended height.

The mechanical craft soon reappears as it climbs atop Red Mountain. The alien war machine stands impossibly high, towering over a hapless city. The Martian walker pauses atop the mountain, on the Southern boundary of Birmingham. Facing North, over the defenseless valley, its manner of standing grants it an aura of invincibility. The long, steel legs of many segments are planted wide. One could almost imagine the thing thrusting out its chest in a confident pose. The compartment on top of the three walking legs reminds me of an Olympians discus. This disc pans back and forth, taking in the amazing scene before it. A great American city spreads out before its terrible gaze. Though many of this community have fled already, there are still a number of citizens in residence. They are unable to withhold their screams at the terrible sight. The monster stands on the hill, high above the city and looks to the great steam plant. This tremendous steam plant provides huge amounts of energies for this industrious valley’s mining and steel works.

wuh-hooomm, wuh-hooomm

The maddening pulsation fills the air.

The lights of the metal-melting beam generator begin their sequential chase. Repeatedly running the length of the bowl ended rod in faster and faster cadences, the lights imply a sense of the thing’s excitement.

The lights and pulsating throb come together in a climactic release!

{{{SKRRR-
BZZZCK
-CK-CK-CK-CK!!!}}}

The great steam plant immediately glows bright with sudden heat and explodes under the tremendous fury of her boilers and furnaces. I think we have just witnessed one of the mightiest explosions in history. Everything around that plant is instantly destroyed. We are stunned at the violent eruption.

“Get back to it, boys! We have to protect that train!”

“Yessir, Sherriff!”

We immediately tear into the spikes holding the rails to the ties. This pitiful old train loaded with Birmingham’s last desperate fleeing citizens is now in mortal danger.

The monster picks its way down the mountain and begins sweeping the community with its destructive beam. Fires quickly sprout like active and dancing wildflowers of despair. Many buildings are equipped with their own boilers and furnaces for heat and the generation of energy for the many steam-driven devices we have come to rely on. These wonderful devices are now all potential molten liabilities in our present quandary.

The stubborn railroad spikes do not want to relinquish their hold upon the ties.

The tripod legs of the devilish device smash houses and topple all structures before their terrible might.

I work with focused attention, but cannot help but look up at the sound of my hometown being torn asunder.

I raise my head in time to see the wonderful Benjamin Arms Hotel burst into fiery blazes. Its copper and brass accouterments that give it such a delightful appearance now burn brightly in in a heartbreaking conflagration. Her rooftop restaurant is engulfed in flames. Gouts of fire shoot skyward from her ‘Lifterator’ shaft.

The giant monster strides forward to kick the burning building. The Benjamin Arms Hotel is Birmingham’s most luxurious accommodation treasured landmark. In a shower of brick and molten art, the illustrious fiery edifice falls before the brute’s indomitable might.

The confident bully swaggers on.

One touch of that beam on any railroad track in the city, and there are a lot of them, will send searing heat to us and the escaping train.

All the brave folks working on the rail are aware of that component of the danger.

We soon have the connectors loose from the rail.

Lavender beams sweep the city. Molten steel, copper, brass and iron spread fiery destruction wherever the ray touches.

The loudly crackling metal melting beam jangles our nerves with its harsh and harried blasts.

{{{SKRRR-
BZZZCK
-CK-CK-CK-CK!!!}}}

We pry the rails apart and swiftly secure them with logs just as the horrible beam makes contact with the rail. Several of us get scorched hands from the closeness of the break. We have narrowly saved the hundreds of poor souls on that last train of escape.

We can see that the railroad ties are catching fire one by one moving towards us. We have to work hard to bend the heavy steel rails back to where they will not make contact with the heated metal and carry the horrible heat any further. The railroad ties that are still connected to the glowing orange rails soon burst into flame. Acrid creosote from the wooden railroad beams burns our eyes and makes it difficult to breathe.

Sheriff Woodley calls for everyone’s attention.

“Every man is ordered to run for his life and make out the best he can. You boys have done good, but now is the time to skedaddle. Thank you, and good luck to you.”

With this last request of her citizenry, our sheriff has the sad task of relinquishing his city to her monstrous destroyer. I know the sheriff takes his responsibilities seriously and it is a painful exercise for him to admit surrender. I can see in his clear blue eyes, the pain of letting his city down. His countenance is a grim mask, bathed in the flickering light of his city’s cremation. It is a tough thing for me to see in someone I admire so much.

“That goes for you too, Ichabod. You go find that pretty girl that was fool enough to fall for you and you get her to safety, ya hear?”

“Yessir.” I fib to the grim peacekeeper.

I return to where I have left Miss Plumtartt and the babies, Bolt and Clementine. It is tough to get there through all the raging fires. The entire valley for as far as I can see is fully engulfed in flame.

“The sheriff says we need to get out of town, Miss Plumtartt.”

“Then who shall be here to monitor, and if the opportunity arise, defy the insidious invader?”

I have no answer for the brainy beauty.

I struggle to find safety for my family. Soon, it is a struggle just to find us some air. We are very nearly being roasted alive.

I employ the same method of concealment from the creature as I had used earlier. That is, I keep an object between myself and his questing eye and destructive beams. Heavy brick buildings shield most of the rays, I think. In addition, the confusion of the burning city keeps us out of the monster’s vision.

Walking in its rollicking method, the contraption makes its way down the same thoroughfare that Miss Plumtartt and I had employed just a few days prior. That would be the wide Twentieth Street. Glowing trolley tracks illuminate the horror with an orange light from below as burning structures provide a yellow light from the sides. At the bottom of the hill, the monster then merely steps over the intervening blocks in a catty-corner maneuver. Sturdy brick buildings are kicked aside and trampled underfoot. The bars and saloons of the cobblestoned Morris Avenue burst into flame at the pass of the lavender ray. The beam is now steadily controlled, though, as opposed to swinging wildly as had been witnessed earlier. It is my impression that the cursed conqueror is being more careful in what he destroys. He spreads his wanton destruction in every direction but one. Steadily Northward and Eastward comes our foe. His path brings him nearly straight for us, I fear, but then I see where he has slightly adjusted his course. The pilot is on a collision course with the pride of this city’s iron-producing industry: the Sloss Furnaces, the first major ‘blast’ furnaces built in the South.