by John Halkin
He snatched at another worm but his arm became entangled in its writhing body. Holding it as far away from his face as possible, he tried to shake it off. Unsuccessfully. Its head was pulled back ready to strike, its eyes watching him. Hard. Knowing. Almost as though it recognized him.
This was it, he thought. Above him, he realized the leading seaman was being winched down again to fetch Fran whose high-pitched yells were still audible above the engine. He felt uneasy. Something was wrong – voices, shouts, a couple of shots…
The sound cleared his mind. He’d been so taken up with the danger of his own position, so convinced there was no hope of getting off these rocks alive, that he’d been acting like an idiot.
With his free hand he tugged the knife from his belt and slashed at the worm just as it was shooting its head towards him, impaling it on the sharp blade.
He shook it off and peered upwards to see what was happening to Fran. A drop of blood splashed on to his face.
‘Fran!’ he yelled out. ‘Fran!’
The leading seaman swung free on the end of his cable with Fran’s body strapped to him. She was unconscious. One leg of her overalls was in shreds and she was bleeding profusely. On the other leg was what appeared to be a long ribbon of luminescent green.
The remaining worm on his own leg shifted. Viciously he jabbed down at it with his knife, risking the blade going into his knee but just avoiding it. The worm, injured but not dead, dropped away. Another immediately took its place, slipping rapidly over the rocks towards him and trying to bite into his boots. A third raised itself to investigate his leg and took a mouthful of overall, which it let go again. A fourth swung down from the ledge of rock above and fell across his shoulder.
He heard a bellow of horror, quite involuntary, escape from his own lips as he attempted to shake it off, brushing it away with his hand. Miraculously, he almost succeeded. It slipped sufficiently to make it feel insecure. It squirmed and wriggled to regain its balance. Those few seconds were enough for him to get hold of it and sling it away.
A shot whined close to him. Fragments of rock showered against him. Then another shot. And another.
Glancing up he saw Lieutenant Smythe kneeling in the open doorway of the helicopter, calmly picking off the worms around him one by one. Stupid bugger, he thought. How many does he think he can kill that way? If he had any compassion he’d put a bullet through me, finish me off before the worms do it.
Another tear at his leg, and this time they drew blood – not deep, but enough to whet their appetites. He caught one in his hand and hammered its skull against the rock.
More shots. ‘Christ, that was close!’ he shouted up resentfully. ‘If you want to kill me, do it properly!’
The leading seaman was only a couple of yards above him. As he came closer the firing ceased. Matt killed another worm by the same method, dashing its head against the granite. Then he turned to find his rescuer face to face with him.
He took two worms with him up to the helicopter, but Lieutenant Smythe was ready to deal with them the moment he was hauled on board. He plucked them expertly off the tattered overalls and threw them out.
In several places the worms had bitten through the composition rubber of the frogman suit Matt wore under his overalls. Blood oozed out and began to drip down his legs.
Jenny lay on a stretcher, whimpering and hardly aware of where she was. Her eyes were open but she stared straight in front of her without seeing anything.
If possible, Fran was in an even worse state. She was unconscious and her right leg was soaked in blood. The lieutenant had applied a tourniquet.
‘Right! Let’s go!’ he ordered brusquely.
‘Wait!’ Matt still had one job to do. They were hovering directly above the tor next to the bright green of the ‘featherbed’, its surface now broken by the giant coils of the queen worm. He crawled to the box of grenades, then back to the door. Gripping the metal ring of the pin between his teeth, he pulled it out and tossed the grenade down to her. It exploded in a shower of moss and mud. ‘An Easter egg for the bitch.’
‘Suppose you find your seat and get strapped in!’ the lieutenant snapped, asserting his authority. ‘Keep your vendetta for another time. We must get these people to hospital.’
21
Jenny was asleep under heavy sedation but at least he’d spoken to her. She’d smiled up at him, her face almost as white as the hospital pillow case, and held out her arms. ‘Sorry, Daddy,’ she’d murmured drowsily in his ear, ‘but it’s all right now, isn’t it?’
Was it?
Fran wasn’t expected to live, that much was obvious. When they’d taken her into the operating chamber there’d been a flurry of people around, doctors and others, consulting in hushed voices. A heavy, deep-jowled, pasty-looking man had arrived after about half an hour. ‘Mr Griffiths,’ they’d whispered. Everyone gave way in deference as he strode through the hospital and Matt understood that this was the surgeon on whose skill Fran’s life depended.
Matt himself had shrugged off all attempts to persuade him to remain in hospital as a patient. Once his minor injuries had been cleaned and dressed he sat about in the waiting room, hoping for news of Fran and coldly thinking about the worms. The Ministry had been informed. He’d spoken to Rhys personally and no doubt the committee was meeting at that very moment, deciding on a course of action. But they would do nothing till the next day, Matt was convinced, so he still had a few hours left in which to settle his own account with them.
A friendly nurse came to ask if he’d like something to eat. He shook his head impatiently. ‘When… when she comes out of there,’ he wanted to know, ‘assuming she’s … all right…’
‘Of course we hope she’s going to be all right,’ the nurse reassured him hurriedly. She was auburn-haired and had freckles, like Fran’s, across the bridge of her nose. ‘I think you should eat something. Do you good.’
Mr Griffiths, the surgeon, came into the waiting room in his shirtsleeves, carrying his jacket which he put on as he spoke. ‘You’re Mr Parker, are you? Rhys phoned me about you. We’re old friends. Hear you’ve found the worms’ nursery. Congratulations. First positive news we’ve had about this affair.’
‘How…?’ Matt began.
‘She’s as well as can be expected. I’ll be blunt. You know what these worms can do, perhaps better than anybody: Loss of blood – considerable. They severed an artery. Shock – a key factor. As well as the leg, they’d also started work on the lower abdomen. Now you have it, straight.’
‘But will she live?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mr Griffiths sat down next to him and put a hand on his arm. ‘I’ve told you all this because Rhys said you like to know the facts, unadorned. That makes two of us. Now the best thing you can do is let them give you a bed and something to help you sleep.’
‘I’d rather get some fresh air.’
‘That’s your decision.’ He stood up and buttoned up his jacket. ‘But don’t do anything silly, will you? You’ve something to live for. Your daughter’s going to need you whatever happens. Don’t forget that.’
Matt left the hospital and walked down the hill into the town. The remains of the overalls flapped about his legs in the breeze and the uppers of his boots were lacerated in several places. He’d need fresh clothing, that would be the first step, something strong enough to keep the worms at bay till he’d done all he intended. Another frogman suit too; they’d cut through the first at the hospital to get at his wounds more quickly. If only Fran had been wearing one.
It was already late afternoon but there were still several hours of daylight left. Long enough, anyway. He passed a butcher getting ready to close up, clearing the meat out of his window. In front of an outfitters he paused for a moment in two minds, then went on. That wasn’t the sort of thing he needed. A woman came along the street towards him and he tried to ask her advice; she gave him one look and walked away, probably frightened by his odd appearance – his unusual height, his c
lothes in rags, his missing fingers, his scars and beard.
But turning a comer he found what he wanted in a large, double-fronted shop whose windows were filled with motorcycle accessories and camping gear. He went in.
A lean, hard-bitten man – ex-Navy by the look of him – looked up from his newspaper. ‘Been in the wars, skipper?’
‘Accident,’ Matt said briefly. ‘Need some new clothes.’
‘You can say that again,’ the man commented. ‘What takes your fancy?’
Matt hunted around among the motorcycling gear, selecting the thickest he could find in his size, black imitation leather lined with sheepskin. The man let him change in the storeroom at the back.
‘You look more human now. What about a helmet?’
He produced a cycling helmet with a visor on the front and a row of studs around the bottom edge for a cape which could be tucked into the top of a jacket. ‘Keep the wind out.’
And the worms, thought Matt approvingly. He told the man to add it to the bill, as well as a new sheath-knife.
‘Skin-diving stuff?’ he enquired.
‘Snorkels, masks…’ The man pointed to the other side of the shop.
‘A rubber suit?’
‘Sorry, not your size. Don’t know where you’d get that. Nowhere round here.’
While he was making out the credit card slip, Matt asked him where he could hire a car. ‘Or a bike,’ he added.
‘If it’s a bike you want I might be able to help. Where are you camping?’
‘Not far. About five miles.’ No point in disillusioning him. ‘I could bring it back tomorrow.’
‘That’s up to you.’ The man handed back his credit card and led him through the shop to a side door. It opened into a lane leading to a garage and workshop. ‘He may be able to fix you up. Tell him I sent you. He’s my brother, and just about the biggest motorcycle dealer you’ll find in these parts. But don’t get into any more accidents, or you won’t be too popular with him.’
Twenty minutes later Matt rode back down the lane on a shining 500CC bike. At first the garage owner had been suspicious, wanting to check his licence and demanding a deposit, but when Matt pointed out that the scars on his face had been inflicted by worms, he’d suddenly snapped his fingers and said, ‘You’re that cameraman! Saw your picture in the papers!’ It was the old routine, and it never failed. ‘Ask me, it’s all these nuclear power stations are to blame. They’re the cause of changes in nature – the weather, the worms… Well, if you’re trying to do something about those worms, you can have a bike with pleasure.’
Matt had one more stop to make as he headed back in the direction of the moor. As they’d come in by helicopter he’d spotted a quarry just off the main road and by now, he reckoned, the workmen would all have gone home.
He found it without too much difficulty. As he’d hoped, it was deserted. A squat, stone building stood isolated from the rest; he guessed this was what he was looking for. He rode up to investigate. The door was strong and firm, securely locked.
Over on the other side were three wooden huts, one obviously an office and the others possibly toolsheds. He chose the smallest and tore away the padlock with a wrench from his saddlebag. The tools were stacked neatly inside.
Taking one of the picks, he rode back to the stone building. It needed quite a few blows before the woodwork around the lock splintered and gave way.
The explosives were in boxes neatly ranged along the shelves inside. Here, he felt uncertain. Some years ago while he was still a camera assistant he’d spent three days filming at a quarry. He could still remember some of the details – how to prepare the primer, connect up the exploder… But he knew only too well he might blow himself up before he got anywhere near the worms.
He took one or two boxes down and looked inside. Detonators, cartridges of dynamite… But the sight of them began to bring it all back.
Still hesitating, he looked in several other boxes before making up his mind. Then he selected some No. 6 electric detonators, a carton of dynamite and a small exploder which he could hold in his hand, packing it all as carefully as possible into the side-bags of his bike. He was about to leave the quarry when, as an afterthought, he went back for a length of connecting wire.
His mouth tasted sour as he kicked the starter. It needed only one tiny thing to go wrong and his bike would blow up underneath him with all that explosive packed in its saddlebags. But the engine growled gently and he eased the bike over the rough ground towards the road. Then he opened her up and sped along the smooth tarmac, eating up the miles towards his appointment with the worms. ‘Don’t do anything silly,’ the surgeon had said to him, but there was nothing silly about fighting for survival – and that’s what this battle was all about.
The worms knew this instinctively, just as any wild animal knows it. That was where Rhys was so wrong-headed, assuming the worms could reason when in fact they were merely behaving in accordance with their genetic programming. Matt had shot enough educational film to understand that much. But if some other life-form tries to overpower you and take over your territory – whether it’s tigers, alligators, driver ants, cockroaches or anopheles mosquitoes – you hit back and kill them.
As the road crossed the moor the wind buffeted him and in response the bike seemed to buck beneath him. He felt exhilarated, almost happy, but then he took control of himself again. The hatred hardened within him. He stopped, consulted a map, and then swung off the road on to the moor. The ground was uneven, rising and dipping unexpectedly. Once more he slowed down almost to a crawl, conscious of the cartridges of dynamite he was carrying.
The entire moor was a nursery – that’s the word the surgeon had used – and with one blow in the right place he could destroy a whole generation of worms. And die while doing it, perhaps.
From time to time he caught glimpses of the pipeline cutting across the moor, dead straight, a scar on the face of nature. At least it meant he was heading in the right direction. Over to the west the fleeting clouds were tinged with pink as the sun sank lower in the sky; how much more daylight he had it was hard to guess. Half an hour perhaps. An hour at the most.
Then, when he least expected it, his front wheel gave way and sank almost to the axle in mud. His rear wheel slewed around violently.
But he didn’t come off. He managed to keep the bike upright and kill the engine. After a struggle he succeeded in coaxing the front wheel out of the mire and on to firmer ground. This was as far as he could get; now he’d have to continue on foot. He left the bike where it was and made for the nearest hillock to look around.
The oil pipeline was not too far away now and he could actually see the point where they’d taken it underground ‘to preserve the beauty of the environment’; that was before money ran short. To get to it he would have to cross a wide expanse of treacherous ground, part mire, part rivulets and streams, where each tussock of grass or rushes might collapse beneath him. Or might conceal a whole posse of soldier-hunter worms.
But he had no choice; he had to do it.
He returned to the motorcycle and prepared the dynamite, trying to remember all he’d learned during those three days of filming years earlier. One thing he hadn’t collected from that squat building was a pricker, but he made do with a pencil instead, pushing it into the end of the dynamite cartridge. Drawing it out carefully, he inserted one of the electric detonators, cap first, then half-hitched the leg wires around the cartridge.
Underneath his heavy motorcycling gear he was sweating like a pig. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, desperately trying to work out what to do next. Checking that the shunts were still in place on the wire ends, he placed the primed cartridge back into the saddlebag and began to pack the rest of the dynamite around it. It made quite a tidy little bomb. When it was ready he unstrapped it from the bike. Then he pulled on his gloves and adjusted his helmet.
If the worms chose to attack too early, he thought, he’d be helpless, with the spool of conne
cting wire and exploder in one hand and the dynamite-filled bag in the other. He longed for the comforting feel of a good firm stick.
He walked slowly, taking great care over where he placed his feet. Whether he made it back to the bike afterwards or not didn’t seem to matter. His mind was intent on that one satisfaction: the big bang. It worried him that he knew nothing about the oil inside the pipeline. What was its flashpoint? Would it ignite, or merely spread over the swampy ground in one vast dark slick?
His foot slid forward into mud which sucked hungrily at his boot. He almost panicked, almost dropped the bag, but then he righted himself and pulled his foot slowly out again. The mud was reluctant to let him go.
Still no worms, though. Somewhere over that dark moor he was convinced they were gathering. Or was that merely his terror of them painting devils in his mind? He stopped and stared around, trying to pick out the tell-tale green. No. Nothing.
Unexpectedly, he reached a stretch of firm ground with solid soil and rock underfoot. He was almost there. The pipeline was only a few yards away. They were the most difficult yards so far, with luscious grass concealing hollows filled with thick black mire, then sudden streams. He floundered across, slipping and skidding, his feet unable to find any firm foothold, till he stumbled into gently running water. That was the answer, of course. The stream bed offered a much better footing than the soggy land.
A worm darted at him but he ignored it. A second, then a third appeared, all three worrying at his boots and leggings. When he left the stream they accompanied him. A few more joined them, wriggling swiftly over the ground, their shining green bodies tinged with red from the setting sun.
‘Glory be to God!’ he exclaimed fervently, not for the first time that day, as he reached the pipeline.
At that point it passed over several rounded boulders of rock protruding above the surface like islands in the midst of the swamp. It couldn’t have been better. He laid the bag of dynamite carefully on the ground, then eased it into the gap between the pipe and the exposed granite.