The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [568]
“And that is?”
Stig was momentarily lost for words. “We do not know. Just different.”
The chimeras slavered and emitted low moans as they moved closer. Each one was a kaleidoscope of varying body parts, as though the beasts’ creators had been indulging in some sort of perverse genetic mix-and-match one-upmanship.
“When I count to three, rev up and drop the clutch,” I instructed Bowden. “The rest of you open up with everything we’ve got.” I handed Bowden’s gun to Floss. “Know how to use one of these?”
He nodded and flipped off the safety.
“One . . . two . . .”
I stopped counting because a cry from the woods had startled the chimeras. Those that had ears pricked them up, paused, then began to depart in fright. It wasn’t an occasion for relief. Chimeras are bad, but something that frightened chimeras could only be worse. We heard the cry again.
“It sounds human,” murmured Bowden.
“How human?” added Millon.
There followed several more cries from more than one individual, and as the last of the terrified chimeras vanished into the brush, I breathed a sigh of relief. A group of men appeared out of the undergrowth to our right. They were all extremely short and wore the faded and tattered uniform of what appeared to be the French army. Some wore shabby cockaded hats, others had no jackets at all, and some wore only a dirty white linen shirt. My relief was short-lived. They stood at the edge of the forest and regarded us suspiciously, heavy cudgels in their hands.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” said one, pointing at us.
“Anglais?” said another.
“Les rosbifs? Ici, en France?” said a third in a shocked tone.
“Non, ce n’est pas possible!”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were.
“A gang of Napoleons,” hissed Bowden. “Looks like Goliath wasn’t just trying to eternalize the Bard. The military potential of cloning a Napoleon in his prime would be considerable.”
The Napoleons stared at us for a moment and then talked amongst themselves in low tones, had an argument, gesticulated wildly, raised their voices and generally disagreed with one another.
“Let’s go,” I whispered to Bowden.
But as soon as the car clunked into gear, the Napoleons leapt into action with cries of “Au secours! Les rosbifs s’échappent! N’oubliez pas Agincourt! Vite! Vite!” and then rushed the car. Stig got off a shot and managed to tranq a particularly vicious-looking Napoleon in the thigh. They smashed their cudgels against the car, broke the windows and sent a cascade of broken glass all over us. I thumped the central door-locking mechanism with my elbow as a Napoleon grappled with my door handle. I was just about to fire at point-blank range into the face of another Napoleon when there was a tremendous explosion thirty yards in front. The car was rocked by the blast and enveloped momentarily in a drifting cloud of smoke.
“Sacre bleu!” shrieked a Napoleon, breaking off the attack. “Le Grand Nez! Avancez, mes amis! Mort aux ennemis de la République!”
“Go!” I shouted to Bowden, who, despite having been struck a glancing blow by a Napoleon, was still just about conscious. The car juddered away, and I grabbed the steering wheel to avoid a band of twenty or so Wellingtons of varying shabbiness who were streaming past the car in their haste to dispose of Napoleons.
“Up, guards, and at them!” I heard a Wellington shout as we gathered speed down the road, past a smoking artillery piece and the abandoned cars we had seen on the way in. Within a few minutes, we were clear of the wood and the battling factions, and Bowden slowed down.
“Everyone okay?”
Although not unscathed, they all answered in the affirmative. Millon was still ashen, and I took Bowden’s gun off him just in case. Stig had a bruise coming up on his cheek, and I had several cuts on my face from the glass.
“Mr. Shgakespeafe,” I asked, “are you okay?”
“Look about you,” he said grimly. “Security gives way to conspiracy.”
We drove to the gates, out of Area 21 and through the darkening evening sky to the Welsh border and home.
34.
St. Zvlkx