The Deluge

by Mark Morris

  "Such as?" asked Libby.

  "Well, for instance, they appear to have no inkling where they come from, and no concept of space, planets, the universe. Their motivational force seems to be simply to survive. And their means of achieving and maintaining that appears to be an instinctive observation and emulation of what they consider the most efficient and ruthless life-form they encounterwhich in this case is us."

  He sat back and folded his arms, looking smug. Dylan said, "But the slug pretty much told us-well, Abby-all that in, like, ten minutes."

  As though encouraged by her brother speaking out, Abby said, "We also all got the feeling it was holding back."

  She looked at the others for confirmation and they nodded.

  Sue turned triumphantly to Brian. "So much for your rapport," she said.

  Brian flushed a deep crimson. "I can't believe you're giving more credence to the immature witterings of a few schoolchildren than you are to my own considerably more thorough observations. Or, on the other hand, perhaps I can. And perhaps this justifies my decision to withhold the information of the presence of our guest."

  "Hey, I'm not a school kid," Max grumbled.

  Sue looked about to respond to Brian's outburst, but before she could Steve raised his hands.

  "Okay, guys, let's calm it down and discuss this reasonably. Trading insults won't help anyone. It seems to nee that the creature is clearly a danger to us-potentially at least. So the question we should be asking is: What do we do about it?"

  "Kill it," said Sue.

  Brian looked appalled. "Kill an intelligent creature? What are you, a savage?"

  "An intelligent predator," corrected Sue. "Give that thing half a chance and it would kill the lot of us."

  "Nonsense," spluttered Brian. "I believe that by establishing a dialogue with these creatures we may be able to-"

  "It's not nonsense," said Dylan suddenly. "Sue's right."

  Everyone looked at him. His eyes were blazing. Steve felt a stab of unease. He had never seen his son like this before. So troubled. So haunted. Dyl had always been a laid-back kid- sonzetinmes too laid-back. There had been times in the past when even Steve had thought he needed a rocket up the arse.

  He's seen too much, Steve thought. Too much, too young.

  "That thing would kill us all if it got out," Dylan said. "I've seen the slugs in action-I've seen what they do. They don't care about us." He gestured towards Andy Poole, who was sitting beside his parents, silent and withdrawn. "We should never have brought that thing back here. I should have bashed its brains out. I thought maybe we could learn stuff from it, but I was wrong."

  "Nonsense," snapped Brian. "As I think I've ably demonstrated, I've learned a great deal from the creature."

  "You've learned nothing!" Dylan shouted, jumping up from his seat. It was only when Abby put a restraining hand on his arm that he sat back down with a thump.

  In a more reasonable tone, Libby said, "I do think Dylan's got a point, Brian. Nothing you've told us so far actually seems that... concrete. Maybe if you tell us what else you've learned, we might be more sympathetic. As it stands, I think we all need a bit more convincing."

  Brian was clearly exasperated. "It's not as simple as that," he said. "Who knows what will become useful and what will remain irrelevant in the long run? But if it'll keep you all happy..." He was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then he said, "I believe from talking to our guest that it and its kind are not inherently hostile. I believe they act mostly on instinct and that their main motivation is survival. They're intelligent, but I don't believe they're particularly sophisticated. I believe they can process memories and information enough to produce a fair simulacrum of whichever human personality they have absorbed, but I think they insinuate themselves among us not out of guile or cunning, but in the way that a parasite or a virus will affect an organism-simply in order to survive."

  "So you're saying they have no emotions?" said Libby.

  "Well... not as we understand them," said West. "They can derive emotions from us, which they assimilate and reproduce more or less appropriately, but I don't think their own emotions are complex. They feel pain and hunger, and distress when their young are threatened, but those emotions are purely instinctive, motivated by their overriding desire to survive and flourish as a species."

  "I'm not sure whether knowing they don't actually hate us makes things better or worse," said Steve.

  "Doesn't make any difference to me," muttered Sue.

  "Nor me," said Max.

  "I'm not sure whether any of this actually helps us much either," said Joe. "You said earlier, Brian, that you thought we could... what was it-establish a dialogue with these things?"

  "I believe that's a possibility, yes."

  "But to do what?" said Steve. "Persuade then that killing us is wrong?"

  "We 1... naturally," said West.

  "Do ye think that'd work?" asked Alex McGregor.

  "Who knows?" said West. "But it's worth a try."

  "It wouldn't work," Sue said fimnly. "If you think we can ever make friends with these things, you're living in cloud cuckoo land."

  "Oh,you'd hate it if we found a way to make peace,wouldn't you?" said Brian. "It would give you nothing left to destroy"

  Sue shook her head. "Believe what you like. I'm a realist, that's all. I think those things caused the flood, and I think they aim to wipe out those of us who are left. You say they're not cunning? I think they are. I think they're cunning, ruthless and manipulative. I think they know exactly what they're doing, and I think the one you've got in the cells down there has been twisting you around its little finger."

  Brian looked disgusted. "I would hate to be as cynical as you."

  "I'd rather be cynical than naive," she retorted. "It's cynicism that's kept me alive these past six weeks."

  "You'll note we've all managed to survive one way or another," said West.

  Sue snorted. "And how have you done it? By skulking in here. You wouldn't last five minutes out there."

  The argument was broken up this time by the door bursting open. They all turned to see Adam standing there, face flushed with excitement.

  "Got a... radio message," he panted, and jabbed a finger above his head.

  Steve was already pushing his chair back. "What do you mean, a radio message?"

  Adam bent double and put his hands on his knees. He had clearly run all the way down from the top of the Watch Tower. "Since the flood," he gasped, "there's been... nothing on the radio... just static. But I try it every... now and again, just in case. And today I... turned it on, and... there it was... a message. Someone speaking in French. Not very good reception... and it lasted... twenty seconds maybe. But it was definitely there."

  "French?" Libby's eyes were gleaming.

  "Can you call them back?" Joe asked. "Can you let then know we're here?"

  "Possibly," said Adam, "if I can find the frequency again. Does anyone speak French?"

  "Un peau," said Libby.

  "Ah," said Adam, "moi aussi. Peut-etre we can come up with une message together?"

  Abby nudged Steve's arm. "You see, Dad," she said, "maybe they won't beat us, after all"

  Steve smiled at her, knowing that it didn't really mean anything, that all it proved was that there was someone alive in France with a working radio. Even so, it was hard not to get caught up in the optimism of the moment.

  "Maybe they won't," he said.

  It took only the lightest touch for Steve to be instantly and fully awake. He sat up to shield Libby, who was sleeping on the other side of him. Blinking into the darkness, he said, "Who's there?"

  "It's me," came a hiss not three feet away.

  "Who's me?"

  "Max."

  Steve felt his shoulders relaxing. "Jesus, Max, why are you skulking in the dark? You nearly gave me a heart attack."

  "Sorry, man, but I think something's wrong."

  "Wrong how?"

  "I was suppos
ed to be on four-to-six sentry duty," Max said, "taking over from Alex? But he never woke me. My brain must have known there was something wrong, cos I woke up suddenly at twenty past four. I went down into the courtyard to see what was happening, but there was nobody there."

  Steve was already swinging his legs out of bed. "You ,or a torch, Max?"

  "Yeah, right here in my hand."

  "Could you turn it on? But point it at the ceiling, not into my face."

  Max did so. Steve blinked at the sudden light. He turned and shook Libby gently. Like him, she came awake instantly, letting out a startled gasp as her eyes opened. She looked at Steve, then Max. "What's wrong?" she said.

  "Hopefully nothing," said Steve. Briefly he told her what Max had said. "We're going to wake up Sue, Joe and Adam and check things out. Can you round up the rest and take them to the top of the Watch Tower? Do it quickly, but make sure everyone's properly dressed, boots and everything. Don't go outside, use the internal corridors. I know it takes a bit longer, but it's safer. Oh, and make sure you and Abby have got your guns loaded and ready"

  Steve was hauling on jeans, a sweatshirt and jacket as he was talking. Libby was nodding as she sat on the side of the bed, pulling on thick gray hiking socks.

  "Go to Sue's room first. She's got two boxes of petrol bombs in there. We'll take some, but we'll leave some for you. Take your rucksack so you can carry them."

  "What about provisions?" asked Libby. "Should we grab some food and stuff just in case?"

  "No time. Just get everyone up to the helicopter and make sure you can defend yourselves if need be. That's the priority for now."

  "Okay."

  Steve was now fully dressed, boots laced up. He pulled open the bedside drawer and took out his gun and ammunition, his torch, and a big box of matches. He stuffed them into his pockets, then swiveled round on the bed, took Libby's face in his hands and kissed her.

  "Good luck," he said. "I love you."

  "I love you too," she said. She gave his hand a quick squeeze. "Be careful."

  He tried to laugh. "It's probably a false alarm. Alex'll most likely be snoring somewhere." He patted Max on the shoulder. "You ready?"

  Max looked apprehensive, but he gave a single determined nod.

  "Then let's go."

  Steve, Max, Sue and Joe crept down the wide, plushly carpeted staircase. All four were armed and carrying torches. As they descended, their heads darted from side to side, as though snagged by the plunge and sweep of their torch beans. The overlapping cones of light on the red carpet made it look as though the stairs were bathed in blood. The oily eyes of the portraits on the walls seemed to follow their progress. A gleaming figure standing silently at the bottom of the stairs caused momentary alarm before Max's torch beam revealed it to be the suit of armour they all passed a dozen times a day.

  Steve briefly wondered how Adam was getting on. The helicopter pilot had split off from the group two floors up. If all was going to plan he would now be working his way, via a series of internal corridors, around the outer walls of the castle to a padlocked door that led directly into the Watch Tower. Steve prayed he wouldn't encounter anything nasty on the way. In many respects Adam was the most valuable member of their group, because if the castle had been breached, the helicopter would be their only realistic chance of escape.

  He tried not to wonder how sixteen people would cram into a helicopter designed for four adults. Tried also not to think about Libby and his children, about what might happen to them and whether he would ever see them again if all their worst fears were realized. He kept telling himself that this was a false alarm, that they would laugh about it later, but at the same time he knew that Alex McGregor was one of the most disciplined and reliable members of the group.

  "So far, so good," Joe murmured as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  "Don't get complacent," Sue said. "Stay alert."

  They crossed the wooden floor-once kept brightly polished, now scuffed by boots and dulled by tramped-in dirt-to the arched doorway ahead of them. This led out onto the stone-flagged walkway, supported by pillared arches, which edged two sides of the courtyard. Sue slipped her torch into her jacket pocket and curled her hand around the brass doorknob.

  "Steve, Max, you go to the left and take cover behind a pillar," she whispered. "Joe, go to the right and I'll join you there. Okay?"

  They nodded.

  She tugged open the heavy door, and as soon as the gap was wide enough the men slipped out. Five seconds later Sue had pulled the door shut behind her and was huddling behind the pillar with Joe.

  "Anything?"

  Joe shook his head. "All seems quiet."

  The four of them swept their torch beams across the cobbled courtyard. The double doors at the far end, which in medieval times would have led out onto a bridge across a moat, still appeared to be closed, which was a good thing. Perhaps not so good was the fact that there was no sign of life whatsoever. Even if Alex had fallen asleep, he still should have been visible. But when Sue directed her torch across to where he should have been sitting, on one of the stone benches beneath the left-hand walkway, all they saw was his crumpled tartan throw rug and his metallic red coffee flask standing upright on the bench beside it.

  "There's no sign of a struggle," Joe hissed. "That's something."

  "His gun's gone," noted Steve. "I'm not sure if that's good or bad."

  Sue grunted and swept her torch slowly across the courtyard, left to right, like a searchlight. Rain was falling thinly, making the cobblestones gleam, darkening the four stone nymphs atop the pedestal in the center of the fountain. After weeks of inactivity the water in the fountain had turned green and oily with stagnation. The cone of light slid across the stonework and came to rest on a patch of ground ten yards beyond it.

  "What's that?" she said quietly.

  Steve linked his torch beam with hers, shining it on to the rain-glossy cobbles.

  "Oh, fuck," Max said, "that's not blood, is it?"

  "I'm afraid it might be," said Sue grimly.

  They broke cover and moved in a half crouch across the cobbled ground, their eyes checking every archway and window, every shadowy alcove. It became clear as they neared the patch of illuminated ground that the reddish gloss was not only blood; it was a lot of blood.

  "Mary, mother of Jesus," said Joe. "What happened here?"

  Sue was stone-faced. "I think this is where Alex died."

  Joe stared at her, aghast. "Died? How?"

  "Eaten," said Sue. "Absorbed." She took another look around. Calmly, she said, "I think the enemy is in here with us."

  Joe looked ready to ask more questions, but she was already speaking rapidly to the others.

  "Max, Steve, check the main doors, make sure they're secure. I'll check our friend in the-"

  Her words were interrupted by the sudden crack of a rifle shot.

  Steve ducked instinctively, suddenly and horribly aware that he was out in the open. As he looked around for the source of the shot, he was just in time to see Joe's body falling lifelessly forward. He had the momentary but awful impression that Joe's head was the wrong shape. Then the body hit the floor with the weighty gracelessness of a flour-filled sack, and Steve's gaze shifted to the figure standing behind it.

  It was Andy Poole, Joe's son. He was framed by the arched opening that led to the staff quarters and administration offices. He was holding a gun (Alex's gun, Steve thought) and he was pointing it at them.

  Steve threw himself to the ground as Andy fired for the second time. As his knees hit the cobbles with a jarring crunch he fancied he saw a flash of white from the gun nuzzle. He was aware both that he had dropped his torch, which was spewing light across the cobbles, and that he had landed on his gun, which was now trapped between the floor and his body He was aware also that he had a rucksack full of petrol bombs on his back and that Sue had told him (unnecessarily, he had thought) to keep them upright to prevent spillage.

  He also became awa
re, as he swiveled his head, that although it was Sue who had been hit, it was Max who was yelling. He was bawling a denial at the creature which had almost certainly killed Andy Poole and which had been living quietly among the survivors in the castle ever since the day of the disastrous scavenger hunt. It now seemed that Dylan had been the only survivor from that day.

  Sue was down. She was down but she was not dead. Judging by the blood and the mess, she had been hit in the left shoulder, or maybe the collar bone. She was lying on her back, and the bulk of her rucksack gave her the appearance of a stranded turtle. Keep those petrol bombs upright, Steve thought crazily as he watched (and admired) the way she was rocking from side to side, trying, even now, to raise her head, perhaps even to get to her feet. Her face was so pasty that her lips looked livid, almost maroon, and her eyes were black, glitter-ing jewels. There was pain on her face, but also a furious in-dignation, a fierce and absolute sense of purpose.

  Even as he was screaming at the creature, Max had been running to take cover behind the fountain. He fired at it now, a couple of his shots going wild but one hitting it in the chest, another in the left temple, ripping a good quarter of its head away. The thing that had taken on the form of Andy Poole fell backwards, its legs folding under it like the collapsing supports of a rickety table. Its gun fell from its nerveless fingers and clattered on the blood-streaked cobbles. Max ran up to it and fired another bullet into its chest, making the seemingly lifeless body jerk.

  "Max," Steve called, and was amazed at how croaky his voice was.

  Max turned, eyes staring wildly, like a sleepwalker waking up in an unexpected location.

  "Don't waste your bullets," Steve said. "Burn it. It's the only way to be sure."