With cautious slowness, he stood up. Patting at the environment suit he was still wearing, he felt his pistol, still in its holster under his arm. His cane was still tucked away safely inside as well.
The cold gust of wind took him by surprise.
He took a deep breath, sniffing the air as he did so.
He was outside somewhere and, wherever that was, it had a breathable atmosphere.
He looked up, the all enveloping darkness that had first met his gaze softening to midnight blue.
As he blinked the last of the grey patches from before his eyes he began to make out pinpricks of light in the heavens above. The luminous white ball of the Moon gazed down at him from behind the shadows of clouds.
He took a wary step forward, the vitrified surface of the soil beneath his feet snapping like sugar glass.
Wisps of smoke rose from his suit and, running a hand through his scorched hair, he realised that it was standing on end.
But other than that, and an inexplicable need to urinate, he felt fine.
He took a series of deep breaths, keen to clear the stink of burnt hair from his nostrils. Gradually he was able to make out other scents; the resinous aroma of pine needles, a dampness on the air and leaf mould.
And then the night lit up all around him as half a dozen torch-beams pierced the darkness. Somewhere nearby an engine roared and powerful headlights caught him in their searing sodium light.
“Halt!” a harsh voice shouted over the sudden revving and the clatter of rifles taking aim.
It took Ulysses a moment to realise that the voice was speaking German, but once his ear was tuned in there was no mistaking what the man was saying.
“Stop, in the name of the Führer! Raise your hands where I can see them and do not move if you value your life. You are now a prisoner of the Third Reich. Sieg heil!”
The End
PROTEUS UNBOUND
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
King Lear, Act 4, Scene 1
~
Mr. & Mrs. Acrisius Pennyroyal
request the pleasure of your company
at the marriage of their daughter
Constance Beatrice
to
Mr. John Benedict Schafer
at St. Mary’s Church, Knightsbridge,
on Saturday 23rd May 1998
at 2.30pm
and afterwards at
The Savoy Hotel
R. S. V. P.
~
I
Bad Dreams
IT HAS TO be a nightmare; there’s no other possible explanation, other than that he is awake and that his ordeal is genuine. But that is too terrible to even consider.
But even though he knows it’s a dream – is sure it is a dream – he runs on through the cloying London fog, unable to force himself to wake up and unable to bring himself to stop and look behind him, to see what it is that’s chasing him.
His lungs heave. Sweat beads his brow. His legs ache. He feels as though he has been running for an eternity but still he hears the beast behind him, panting and grunting. No matter how hard he runs, he cannot shake its pursuit, but neither does the thing ever get so close as to actually catch him in its grasping talons either.
The sounds it makes form a nightmarish image in his mind’s eye, the slap of flesh as it scampers through the black puddles that have collected within the alleyway through which he runs, the crack of hooves on the cobbles, the grating of its tail dragging along the ground behind it, the rustle of feathers and fur and the scrape of scales as monstrous slabs of muscle slide under its leathery hide, the clack of pincers, the snap of jaws, and the clicking of hungrily masticating mandibles.
The back-streets twist and turn, writhing through the city like the knotted coils of some gigantic serpent. He twists and turns with them, muscles burning, heart pounding, the dub-dub, dub-dub of the blood rush in his ears loud as an express train.
And all the time behind him, the scratching of claws on stone, the boar-snorts of its laboured breathing, and the wet rasp of its tongue tasting the air before it.
Suddenly he stumbles and falls. He is thrown forwards, arms flailing, and hits the ground hard. He gasps as the wind is knocked out of him and then gags as his mouth fills with the foul black water of a stagnant puddle.
He can feel the beast now, the pounding footfalls juddering through his body with every galloping thud. He can feel its beady black eyes on him, boring into his back with a malignant knowledge of him. He feels a disturbance in the air where it touches his bare skin, as the beast reaches for him with a reptilian claw.
And then he’s moving again.
Terror and desperation lend him the strength he needs, the fear-kick rush of adrenalin charging his aching muscles with the energy they need. He takes a gasping lungful of air – he knows not how – and springs to his feet, in danger of tripping over again, his legs stumbling, arms flailing, as he tries to regain his balance and escape his destiny.
A roar echoes through the fog, rebounding from the walls of the alleyway. It is a roar of rage and frustration and, as he runs on, one that is swallowed by the darkness behind him. But still he runs on.
But over the throbbing of his pulse in his ears, he can no longer hear the thing behind him. He can no longer hear the rasp of its breath, the scrape of scales or the snap of pincers.
He falters, ears straining, but, hearing nothing, stumbles to a halt.
He turns quickly but behind him all he can see is the cloying fog, enveloping the street behind him. The only light comes from a gibbous moon, filtered through the smog, giving the mist an unearthly glow.
Eyes straining, he peers into the darkness. Ears straining, he listens.
But there is still nothing. The beast is gone.
He turns again, facing the way ahead of him – looking to his future.
With a savage snarl-cum-howl, the impossible creature leaps out of the fog and the milky darkness, festooned with claws, spines, wings and a multitude of limbs, trailing dirty tendrils of persistent smog.
It lands in a crouch before him and raising its unreal head – part mammalian, part reptilian – it fixes him with its unsettlingly human eyes. Crouched like this, it is still taller than he, as broad across the shoulders as he is tall.
A maw opens, crammed with teeth and tusks and split by a beetle’s mandibles, and a voice more akin to beast than man declares, “You cannot run from your destiny!”
And jaws agape, the creature pounces.
Day 8
It is now a full week since the formula was first administered to the subject and so far the only symptoms observed are such as is associated with the influenza virus, in other words headaches, raised temperature and slight nausea.
However, the subject does appear to be suffering from a worsening sleep condition. My own supposition is that this is being caused by disturbing dreams from which the subject wakes in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.
I shall continue to administer the formula and observe its effects on the subject but I am beginning to have my doubts about the effectiveness of Proteus 12.
II
The Best Laid Plans
“THE TROUBLE IS,” Constance Pennyroyal said, perusing the hand-drawn plan spread out on the table in front of them, “we can’t have Aunt Grace sitting next to Aunt Agatha, not after what Agatha said about her pug at Little Verity’s christening last year. But then we can’t sit her next to old Uncle Albert either.”
“Would that be Uncle Albert of the wandering hands?” her fiancé, John Schafer asked, trying to sound as if he were actually interested in his fiancée’s ridiculous extended family.
“Yes, that would.”
“And you think he’d even try it on with your great Aunt Agatha?”
“He’d try it on with anything in a dress, no matter age – or even gender, for that matter.”
“The dirty bugger,” Schafer smiled.
“John!
”
“What? It’s not me who can’t keep his hands to himself!” He laughed, suddenly grabbing her around the waist and planting a wet kiss in the hollow of her neck.
“Oh is that so?”
“Except where you’re concerned, my love.”
“Look, you’re not helping,” Constance said, wrestling herself free of the amorous clinch he had her in. “You’re supposed to be helping me finalise the seating plan for our wedding, which I might add, is in only two weeks time now. And there’s still so much to sort out. I mean there are the flowers, the bridesmaids’ dresses, I have to go for another fitting for my dress...”
“I thought your mother was sorting all that stuff out.”
“She is, but it’s my wedding.”
Schafer’s eyebrows knitted in consternation. “I thought it was our wedding.”
“Of course it is, silly, which means as the blushing bride it’s my special day. And I want everything to be perfect.”
“And it will be.”
“Which is why we need to get this seating plan sorted.” Constance gave Schafer a look pregnant with meaning.
Schafer sighed. “I thought we were going for a simple ceremony, not too many guests, only close friends and family.”
“These people are my family.”
“They’re a ruddy nightmare, if you ask me,” he muttered, before having the wit to stop himself.
“Well they’re going to be your family too, come two weeks today, so you’d better get used to the idea,” Constance snapped.
“It’s just that I thought I was marrying you, my angel, not the whole Pennyroyal clan.”
“Fine. Be like that then. I’ll do it by myself, shall I? Seeing as how they’re my family!”
Schafer took a deep breath, knowing that he was going to have to bite the bullet and apologise. Taking her in his arms again, despite her feigned unwillingness he said, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve not been sleeping well.”
Constance’s expression of annoyance melted immediately into one of anxious concern. “You are looking a little peaky,” she said, putting her arms around him then. Just as irritation had become concern, concern quickly became suspicion. “You’re not having second thoughts are you?”
“What?”
“I mean you’re not getting cold feet – about the wedding?”
“Of course not!” Schafer laughed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s just that I’ve been having such vivid dreams.”
“What sort of dreams?”
“Well it’s more a recurring nightmare, really. I don’t remember the details, just that something’s after me.”
“What? What’s after you?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. Either that or I can’t remember, but it amounts to much the same thing. It’s like there’s something else in here with me,” he said, tapping his head with a crooked finger.
Constance met his tired gaze with her own eyes open wide. “It’s not malaria is it?”
“Malaria?”
“You said yourself that something had been biting you in your sleep – a mosquito or something.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t think for a second that it would be carrying malaria. Not in these climes.”
“But it’s best to get these things checked out,” she persisted. “Why don’t you pop upstairs and see Dr Rathbone later? Get him to take a look at the bites and, while you’re there, see if he can give you something to help you sleep.” A cheeky smile curled her lips as her cheeks flushed rose red. “After all, I want you fit and well for our wedding night.”
“Oh you do, do you?” her fiancé said, arching one eyebrow. “Well why don’t I give you a taster right here and now?”
“I thought we were going to abstain now, until after the wedding.”
“But I could be dead by then, the way you’re going on.”
“Don’t say that!” she chided.
Encircling her with his strong arms, he pulled her close.
“But either one of us could be knocked down by an omnibus tomorrow. We should live each day as if it’s our last. Carpe diem and all that!”
“Carpe diem?”
“Seize the day!” he pronounced, clearing the table of seating plans, guest lists and menu suggestions with one sweep of an arm.
“Oh, John!” she gasped, as he laid her on top of it, parting unresisting thighs with his own body, as she seized hold of something else entirely.
Day 10
In light of recent developments, regarding the subject’s disturbed sleep patterns, I have decided to double the dose being administered to see what effect this has on his metabolism. I have already administered the first of the newly increased doses and must now watch and wait, and continue to record my observations, no matter what may now befall.
I have to confess, I feel like a first year medical student all over again. I await further developments with giddy anticipation.
III
Promenade
“I CAN’T PRETEND anymore, John,” Constance suddenly announced the following Sunday evening, as the two lovers walked arm-in-arm along the riverbank at Battersea. “I’m worried about you.”
As they reached Albert Bridge, she stopped, forcing Schafer to come to a halt as well, and fixed him with that penetrating gaze of hers, that meant he could deny her nothing. The late spring sunset was reflected in the sparkling orbs of her eyes and gave her skin a lustrous orange glow. The call for curfew couldn’t be far off.
“I’m all right,” he tried to persuade her, “really I am.”
“You did go and see Dr Rathbone, didn’t you?”
“Yes, last Monday.”
“And did he prescribe you anything?”
“Yes; some sleeping tablets.”
“And did they make a difference?”
Schafer sighed. Was this constant nagging a sign of what was to come once they were married? “A little. But I’m fine, I promise you.”
“Are you eating properly? You’re looking gaunt.”
“My darling Constance, I promise you, I’m all right. In fact, to be honest with you, I’ve never felt fitter.”
“Well you don’t look it.”
“So you keep saying.”
“It’s only because I care,” Constance retorted.
“I know,” Schafer replied, taking her hands in his. “I understand that, and I love you for it. But I promise you I’m all right. What more can I do to prove it to you?”
“After you drop me home I want you to get yourself off to bed. I want you well rested for next Saturday.”
“All right,” he agreed, admitting defeat in the face of his fiancée’s doggedness.
“You think I’m nagging you, don’t you?” she said, suddenly looking shame-faced and casting her eyes at the ground.
“A little.”
“I’m sorry, it’s only because I love you.”
Raising her face to his with a gentle guiding hand, he kissed her. “I know,” he said.
Hand in hand, the couple climbed the steps beside the bridge and, once back on the Chelsea Embankment, Schafer hailed them a cab.
“You know something, Miss Pennyroyal?” he said as he helped her into the back of the chugging hansom.
“No, what?” she said, smiling.
“You may go on a bit at times, but I do love you. And there’s nothing I want more than to make you my wife come Saturday.”
“And do you know something, Mr Schafer?” she replied. “I want that more than anything else in the world.”
Day 16
Despite the increased dosage, the subject has not developed any new symptoms. In fact the subject’s health appears to be improving, as if his body has somehow become immune to the serum, or the formula has actually enhanced his physical fitness.
I will continue as I have been, however, and, as ever, will continue to observe the subject’s progress with interest.
IV
Thick As Thieves
BY THE TIME he had bid farewell to Constance at the door to her parents house in Knightsbridge, and feeling truly revitalised, he decided to take a brisk walk back to his flat in Pimlico, keeping to the back ways and the shadows, out of sight of the few patrols of robo-Bobbies he saw. Dusk had already fallen, the moaning cry of the curfew klaxons ringing out across the city, like the mournful wailing of widows.
A preternatural darkness smothered his route home. The prevailing wind was blowing from the east, casting the smoke from the cavorite works upstream over the city like the pall of a funeral shroud. The Smog smothered the street lamps, turning them into glowing will-o’-the-wisps and feeding the shadows that clung to the stanchions of the many pillars that supported the spider’s-web of railway lines suspended above the city.
The streets of London, especially those of Pimlico, were no place to be caught after dark. The curfew had been enacted in the aftermath of the Wormwood Catastrophe, when it was realised that those ‘changed’ by the lethal, transforming rain that had fallen on the city that Valentine’s Day, had congregated into great, insect hosts, such as the Locusts of St Paul’s and the Cockroaches of Clerkenwell. But many of those with a predilection for crime had turned the curfew to their advantage.
But Schafer wasn’t worried. He was only a few hundred yards from home now and he knew these alleyways and rat-runs like the back of his hand.
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