by Trevor Hoyle
He switched off the flashlight and stood at the shattered window and looked out at the yellow rain spattering the black surface of the highway, lit spasmodically by flickers of lightning moving toward the west.
Something rose up inside, choking him, and he had to stifle a sob. Tomorrow he would see Cheryl and Dan. The memory of those wasted years was far more painful than the bruise in his side. He was fifty years old. Had it really taken half a century for him to learn what mattered, what was important? He had quite deliberately chosen to sacrifice their happiness in pursuit of an ideal. And that word sacrifice was loaded with an ambiguity of meaning. Had he, Gavin Chase, made the sacrifice, playing out the role of noble martyr and savior of mankind, or were they the sacrificial victims in his grand scheme? They had been the ones to suffer while he remained pious and impregnable inside his cast-iron conscience. Good for you, Gav. Always in the right, even if you were wrong, to the bitter end.
The rain had slackened, though the storm rumbled on distantly. Outside it was almost too dark to see anything. He and Ruth should be safe for the night here. From the road the building would appear deserted, with the jeep out of sight and the only light in a back room.
Chase stood absolutely still, holding his breath, the hairs on the nape of his neck springing erect. There was somebody, or something, up here with him.
Mouth suddenly dry and heart thumping, he turned slowly and switched on the flashlight. Its beam traveled along the floor, over the crumpled boxes and brown paper, and up to the empty metal shelves. Could he hear breathing or was it the beat of blood in his ears?
The distorted circle of light moved along the shelves, bending and folding itself around the metal uprights. A triangular fragment of beam struck the far wall and he thought he saw movement there, but when he shone the light there was nothing. It had been an exhausting trip and they hadn’t had much sleep the night before—were his nerves shot and his mind playing tricks?
Chase squatted down on one knee and aimed the beam under the lowest shelf. Scraps of paper, dust, some round dark shapes that looked like mouse-droppings, but nothing else. Yet he still felt, sensed, another presence ... something with the stealth and cunning of a jungle beast, observing him from the darkness, waiting for the right moment to leap out with fangs bared and claws unsheathed —
“Gavin!”
A convulsive spasm shook his body like an electric shock and the flashlight fell, making a dull thud and rolling away, its beam diffuse and dim through crumpled brown paper. Good God, what kind of state were his nerves in? His stomach felt like a cold hollow pit and his face and neck were bathed in icy perspiration. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and reached shakily for the flashlight —
“Gavin, where are you?”
—and heard a movement above his head. No doubt that time. His head snapped up and his eyes stretched as wide as they would go, straining to see through the brownish gloom, which was the only illumination provided by the buried light. Something up there near the ceiling. Watching. Waiting. Ready to spring.
In his hasty grab for the flashlight he managed to bury it deeper among the cardboard and paper. His scalp seemed to contract and pull the skin tight on his skull as if in anticipation of the thing hurling itself down upon him from above. He was on his knees, both hands thrusting frantically into the litter and throwing it aside, steeling himself for the crushing impact, and as his hand found and closed around the grooved metal casing, he heard footsteps on the stairs and Ruth’s voice calling his name, uneasy at the lack of response.
“Stay there, don’t come up!”
“What’s wrong? What is it?” She was already in the doorway, one hand gripping the jamb, staring into the room with the myopic reluctance of someone who wants to look and yet not to see.
“Don’t move, Ruth. Stay right there.” Chase got a firm grip and directed the beam upward. It moved across the crude plaster and lath ceiling, changing shape from a circle to an ellipse as the angle became steeper, and then the two of them heard the sound—a slow raking scratching.
At once Chase swung the beam toward it, and caught full in the cone of light were ten elongated and unblinking yellow eyes.
Ruth gasped as if she’d been punched in the stomach.
“Keep still! For God’s sake don’t move,” Chase muttered, his voice thick and low. “The light usually mesmerizes them.”
“Them?” Ruth sounded puzzled and far away. “What are they?”
“A rat pack.”
“What?” Her whisper was aghast, incredulous.
Her reaction was understandable. The rats were giants. As big as Alsatian dogs, they crouched tightly together, pointed black noses between their paws, watching from the ragged hole where the ceiling had fallen through, or been gnawed away perhaps. Behind their narrow heads with the slitted eyes and flattened leathery ears, their backs rose fat and smooth under a light covering of gray dust.
This pack must have scavenged on anything and everything they could sink their razor-sharp teeth into, living or dead, to have achieved such monstrous size. But feeding alone wouldn’t have done it. Genetic changes over several generations had developed this superior breed, each generation getting bigger and fatter and more voracious as their chief enemy, man, deserted his habitation and had to fight a rearguard action against the natural world he had perverted and destroyed. The rats were among the first to take advantage, but other species would soon follow.
As somebody had once said: Nature bats last.
One of them was pawing the broken edge of the plaster, sending a fine trickle of dust onto the top shelf of the metal racks. They hadn’t altered position since the moment Chase put the light on them. Their yellow lidless eyes simply stared, snouts wrinkling as they scented the air (something moving meant food), mouths salivating as their appetites sharpened.
Chase didn’t have the spit to swallow. If they came together, in a rush, neither he nor Ruth stood the remotest chance. A normal-size rat could leap yards, so these outsize bastards could clear the length of the room and take the pair of them without trouble.
Snap. Crunch. Finished.
So why were they waiting? A thought occurred to him that turned the marrow in his bones to water—these weren’t the only rats in the building. The walls might be full of them. Even now there might be others sneaking from the bedroom next door and the rear stock room, creeping up the stairs, coming through the ceilings, slyly cutting off their retreat. Did rats think that way? Weren’t they just greedy rodents who wanted everything for themselves and didn’t like sharing with their fellows? They were cunning, yes, but he’d never heard of an altruistic rat before.
Chase carefully transferred the flashlight to his left hand, keeping the beam steady. Then with his right he took out the Browning automatic. When they came he might get one, or two, possibly three if he was lucky, but not all five. The odds were heavily in their favor.
But first get Ruth out of the way. Practically mouthing the words, he said, “Step back slowly. Don’t make the slightest noise. When you’re out of sight go downstairs, get the rifle, and wait there.”
From the corner of his eye he saw the pale blur that was Ruth’s face drift out of sight. There was the lightest of footfalls on the stairs. Holding both flashlight and gun at arm’s length, Chase began to edge sideways toward the door, not for an instant letting his attention waver from the crouching rodents. Their evil yellow eyes swiveled in their sockets, following the light. And careful and painstaking as he was, Chase couldn’t prevent his feet making a rustling noise on the rubbish-strewn floorboards. The rats heard. Their eyes detected the movement of the light. They knew that their prey was seeking to elude them. Acting as if on command they bunched for attack, haunches flattening as they prepared to hurl themselves in a sleek black fury of gouging teeth and tearing claws and whipping tails into the beam of light.
Chase was nearly at the door, four or five shuffling steps away, the adrenaline priming his system for the leap
through onto the landing and down the stairs—another step, and one more, almost there ...
They came en masse.
The fastest and greediest shrieked as it took the slug in its snarling mouth. Bits of pink tongue and bloody splinters of teeth exploded as it twisted in midair and crashed onto the metal shelving. Chase continued to jerk the trigger mechanically in a reflex action of sheer terror, pumping shot after shot into the squealing mass of furry bodies, seeing lumps of flesh fly off, seeing an eyeball transformed into a ragged red hole, seeing a shredded stump of paw whirl away and strike the ceiling, leaving a spattered bloody star. Seeing every detail with perfect precision and clarity before he emptied the gun and flung himself sideways through the door.
At the bottom of the stairs Ruth stood holding the rifle at her shoulder, squinting through the sight. Ducking low to avoid her line of fire, Chase scrambled on hands and knees to their spread-out belongings and rummaged in a canvas carryall and snapped a fresh clip into the Browning.
Together they waited, side by side, for the rats to emerge from the black rectangle at the top of the stairs. Almost certainly he’d killed two and severely wounded another one. That left two of the bastards, always supposing there weren’t more of them in the roof. Reinforcements. A whole fucking battalion of them. He felt light-headed, euphoric almost, his body charged up like a generator running at peak power. He knew that later he’d probably collapse in a quivering whitefaced heap.
Minutes passed and the darkness at the top of the stairs remained empty, and when Chase probed it with the flashlight there were no slitted yellow eyes watching them.
Ruth cocked her head. “Can you hear that?”
They both listened as from above came the muted sounds of tearing, chewing, and snuffling: the slack salivatory sounds of animals feeding.
Knees drawn up, arms laced across his bloated belly, the man in the bunk moaned continuously and monotonously. His mouth was pulled back in an awful grimace of pain. His face was the color of moldy cheese.
“Come on, man, you must have some idea!”
Frank Hanamura swung around and glared at the medical orderly, his tolerant good nature sorely tried. This was the third case in the past fourteen hours. Stomach cramps, vomiting, fever, swollen abdomen. And would you believe it, not even a qualified doctor on board! He calmed down a little; it wasn’t fair taking it out on the kid, and besides it wouldn’t do much good. The young orderly was frightened and way out of his depth.
“Are you sure it isn’t food poisoning?”
“I don’t know. It could be. But they’ve eaten the same food as the rest of us, haven’t they? How come we’re not affected?”
Hanamura turned back impatiently and leaned over the bunk, his glossy blue-black hair reflecting a sheen of light from the frosted globe on the bulkhead. “Gorsuch, can you hear me? Gorsuch!”
The man moaned, eyes creased shut, rocking himself.
“Gorsuch, what did you have for your last meal before the pains started? Can you remember? Can you tell me?”
A froth of some dark viscous substance had formed on the sick man’s lips, like an oily scum. Hanamura drew back sharply at the smell. It stank of putrefaction, as if the man’s intestines were rotting.
Without a word Hanamura left the cabin, his dark eyes clouded, and went up to the bridge. According to the chart the Nierenberg was 233 miles off the coast of California. At top speed that translated into eleven sailing hours from the Scripps Institution in San Diego. In that time the three men could be dead. Worse, the disease—virus, or whatever it was—might spread and affect other members of the scientific team and the ship’s crew.
Even so, he was reluctant to abandon the trials, especially as the results up to now had been extremely promising. Installed in the lowest hold near the stern, the pilot plant was operating at maximum capacity, producing a yield of twenty tons an hour at 95 percent purity. From the bridge window Hanamura could see the huge flexible silver tube snaking over the side, sucking up seawater. After filtration to remove fish, marine plants, and all but microscopic sea life, the brine was heated and pumped below, where it passed through a series of electrolysis cells. The constituent gases given off, oxygen and hydrogen, were then analyzed and measured before being released into the atmosphere via ducts on the afterdeck.
Hanamura had discussed the men’s sickness with Carter Reid, his chief assistant, who held a doctorate in marine physics. Their first assumption was that hydrogen film forming on the anodes was the culprit, which if allowed to build up gave off corrosive and poisonous fumes. But Reid’s tests so far had all been negative: The anodes were clean, no film had formed, and the confined space in the hold adjacent to the pilot plant was free of noxious gases.
Additionally, as Reid had pointed out, two of the three men affected weren’t on duty anywhere near the plant. They were out on the open deck, supervising the intake tube and venting ducts. So what else did that leave? Food poisoning? A mystery virus? A transmittable disease? What else? He couldn’t think; it was pure blind guesswork.
“I’m going to radio for a chopper,” the captain said as they stood together on the port side of the bridge. The vessel rolled gently on the dark green swell. Thin layers of haze lay close to the water, like vaporous ribbons. “We can have one here within an hour. Winch the men off and get them to hospital.”
Hanamura nodded absently, not really listening.
“What’s on your mind?” asked the captain, following the scientist’s gaze to the jumble of equipment in the stern.
“Three down ... how many more?”
“Will there be any more?” the captain said, tight-lipped.
Hanamura shook his head thoughtfully. “There has to be a common factor, but I can’t see it. Two of my team, Gorsuch and Davies, and one of your deckhands. We’ve checked the plant thoroughly and can’t find anything wrong. They’ve eaten the same food as the rest of us, so what else can it be?”
He nearly went on to mention the dark froth on Gorsuch’s lips, the breath that smelled of rotting flesh, but he didn’t. Possibly it might make the captain decide to return to port, and Hanamura didn’t want the trials jeopardized on account of three men—or fifty, for that matter.
The bridge telephone beeped and the first officer stuck his head out of the door. “Dr. Reid asks if you’ll go down to the stern hold right away, sir,” he said to Hanamura.
Carter Reid was waiting for him at the bottom of the companionway, his bifocals winking dully in the dim light from the overhead caged globes. Beyond, in the darker recesses of the hold, the pounding rush and swirl of seawater could be heard as it was pumped through the banks of cells. The air was heavy and cloying, with a tang of acridity.
“In here, Frank.”
Reid bustled across the steel-plated deck and into a windowless cubicle, its steel walls running with condensation. His agitation was plain, which caused Hanamura to feel a sickly foreboding; usually Carter was bland to the point of fading into the woodwork.
“Well?”
Reid stepped around him and pulled the door shut. His round, pink-cheeked face shone with sweat. He gave Hanamura a grim look and nodded to the gas analyzer with its row of tracing pens performing squiggles on the broad band of graph paper. “Take a look.”
The three main curves were the readings for oxygen, hydrogen, and chlorine. Several other tracings, registering smaller peaks and troughs, indicated other products being given off in minute quantities.
“What are they?” Hanamura asked stonily.
“These are trace elements, hydrogen salts, the usual stuff.” Reid sucked in a shaky breath and pointed. “This one is tetrachlorodibenzo-para-dioxin. I’ve taken four samples and checked them independently. There’s no mistake. It’s TCDD.”
Hanamura looked at the tiny squiggle. His face had drained of color and yet his eyes felt hot.
“It’s very small, only a fraction of a percent,” Reid told him, “but it’s definitely there, mixed in with the oxygen prod
uct.” He looked bleakly into Hanamura’s eyes. “That’s the cause, Frank—Gorsuch and the others. They were on deck and must have got a whiff from the 02 duct. Only it’s oxygen spiked with a lethal dose of dioxin.”
“But where? Where’s it coming from?”
“The ocean, where else?”
. Hanamura stared at the one offending line. He couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t accept it. Dioxin? Not possible. How? Where? Why?
“We have to shut the plant down right away, Frank.”
Hanamura shook his head woodenly.
“Frank, we have to! We can’t go on pumping dioxin into the atmosphere!” Carter Reid clutched his arm. “We’re supposed to be saving the human race, not killing it off!”
Hanamura shook him off roughly, reached out, took hold of the broad band of paper, and wrenched it from the machine and started tearing it to shreds.
The pens jittered on, aimlessly tracing peaks and troughs, recording the same message onto nothing.
Of course they knew the name. His book was their bible. It was Gavin Chase who had started Earth Foundation—but the photograph on the dust jacket and the face on TV bore scant resemblance to the disheveled middle-aged man with dark circles under his eyes who sat haggard from lack of sleep behind the wheel of the jeep.
The tall broad-shouldered young man with fair hair and thick white eyebrows had a kind of leering smile on his face, as if secretly amused by something. “You really Dan’s father? No shit?”
It wasn’t the most welcoming of arrivals, to be waved down by four young men with rifles as they approached the settlement along the western shore of Goose Lake. About a mile away was a cluster of wooden buildings, set among fir trees. Chase held his irritation in check. They were young and excitable, fingering their weapons as if itching to use them, and there was a feverishness in their eyes that disturbed him.