It was then that I felt something cold and slimy touch my ankle. I yelped in panic and saw that worms were dropping down from beneath the dashboard and through the circular ventilation openings. They must be getting into the engine through the radiator grille. I felt worms crawling up my legs and stamped down viciously as I started the engine. The starter whined twice and the engine roared to life. Immediately there was a sickening smell that made me want to retch. I had smelt it before but never so intensely – in the enclosed atmosphere of the car it was insupportable. The stream of worms abated for a few seconds and then a fresh batch appeared from the ventilator opening; it was like watching tubes of meat emerge from a mincing machine. I pulled my legs up on the seat and tried to tuck my trousers into my socks. Any worms that I could feel between trouser and flesh, I crushed to pieces. All the time I knew that I was fighting a losing battle: the worms were coming in faster and I could not block every gap and opening beneath the dashboard. If the engine did not seize up under their weight I would have to cut it or be asphyxiated by their stench.
At this moment I saw two lights ahead. A vehicle was approaching, slowly by the look of it. I switched on the headlights and dipped them. The patterns of light writhed and shimmered with the weight of worms that were crawling on the glass. I could see through their opaque bodies on the windscreen as if through a thick blind. I knew this must be my only chance to escape; I sounded my horn and heard an answering blare. My hand moved to the door handle and I temporarily forgot the worms that were clustering round my ankles. The lights came nearer and I waited until they glared large through the windscreen, then I threw my shoulder against the door and sprang out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The moment that I left the car it was as if I had stepped into a living mulch; the worms came above my ankles. I took a step forward, slipped and fell. My hands slid through a mass of slimy bodies and I immediately felt them fasten themselves to every inch of flesh that was presented. Desperately I pulled myself to my knees and staggered towards the vehicle that was nearly on top of me. Once I had got beyond the blinding headlights I recognized Colonel Fraser’s Range Rover, its roof piled with coils of barbed wire. A door opened and hands reached out to pull me inside.
‘Douse him!’ Colonel Fraser was at the wheel wearing military uniform. He began to ease the vehicle forward the minute that I was inside it. There were two men in the back also in army uniform; one of them I recognized from the village. Barely able to conceal their repugnance they began to sponge the exposed parts of my body with a liquid that smelt like petrol. The worms dropped away and in some places I saw that they had left weals which spouted a thin line of blood. The liquid stung but I was grateful to be alive.
‘What in God’s name is happening?’ I asked.
‘I think God’s name has little to do with it,’ said the Colonel grimly. ‘We’re sealing off the area. Something’s gone wrong with the turbine cooling system at the reactors. Meddling scientific morons trying to be too damned clever!’ His spittle showed against the windscreen as he craned forward. ‘Now they can see what they’ve done – those of them that are left.’
‘I was trying to get to the cottage hospital at Boston Market,’ I said. ‘Mrs Valentine’s cleaning woman has been taken desperately ill. She needs a doctor.’
‘You won’t find one at Boston Market, or anywhere else for that matter. All the doctors in the area have been called in to the reactor.’ He shook his head vengefully. ‘I wish I had that glib swine Brownly in front of me now.’
The man beside me shuddered. ‘God knows what they’ve done.’ He plucked a worm from my collar and swore as he smeared it against the seat back. ‘This could be only the beginning.’
I looked ahead. The silver tide was still slithering across the road but in reduced numbers. I thought of the Controller’s words when he had been smugly telling me how a nuclear reactor had served the needs of the Colchester oyster industry: ‘waxed fat and juicy’. At the time the expression had caused me qualms, and now I felt like a man watching a nightmare come to life. By some strange quirk of nature and man’s incompetence and hubris all at the same time, one of the lowest forms of life had been reprogrammed into an instrument of mass destruction. ‘The worm turns’ – what irony could be found in that expression, one of man’s simplest servants now becoming his destroyer, not scavenging the meat from his dead bones but eating it live.
‘What am I going to do?’ I said.
Colonel Fraser began to accelerate as the worms were left behind. Marsh House loomed up in front.
‘You’d better get back to Mrs Valentine. Lock yourself in, of course, and seal every opening. As soon as we’ve established a road barrier and closed off the area I’ll try and get somebody to you. Some form of pesticide is on the way – in principle it should see them off.’ He slowed down and stopped in front of the drive.
‘But Mrs Mullins—?’
Colonel Fraser reached behind him and threw open the door. ‘There’s six dead men at the reactor and another ten probably going to join them. A doctor will arrive when there’s one available.’ He gunned the motor impatiently.
‘Good look,’ said the man beside me. It was the local equivalent of ‘goodbye’.
I stepped out onto the wet, glistening road and almost immediately the Range Rover accelerated away, the coils of barbed wire on its roof swaying and creaking. I was terrified and alone. At any moment a flood of worms might come slithering out of the darkness towards me. I listened to the receding sound of the Range Rover engine and started up the drive. I had taken three steps when I heard the screech of brakes and the sound of an impact; as I turned there was another loud noise and then a crack. Then the sound of men shouting in pain and panic. I ran to the road and looked in the direction the Range Rover had taken. A hundred yards away there was what looked like an oil slick in the road and a bicycle sticking out of a ditch, one wheel silhouetted against the night sky. The Range Rover was further down the road; it had crashed into a telegraph pole which was pinning it down like the leg of a crab.
I had run about twenty yards when there was a violent explosion and a jet of flame that shot into the air as from a giant roman candle. The Range Rover had burst into flames and was burning from end to end – whatever Colonel Fraser’s men had used to get the worms off me must have been petrol or petrol-based. The flames revealed what had caused the crash. Like a line of marching ants, a dense swathe of worms traversed the road. Shrinking from the heat they fell back on each other in waves like the furled petals of a flower. The flames roared and crackled and drowned the screams of the burning men. I could feel my eyelashes scorching. There was no chance of getting within thirty feet of the blazing wreckage. Even the telegraph pole was alight. I could see a human shape trying to escape through a window and then it was engulfed by flames and disappeared from sight. It was a spectacle so ghastly that I started to cry out aloud, calling God’s name repeatedly. What was horrifying was the way that the worms maintained their position round the blaze as if waiting for any human being that emerged from it.
I turned and ran towards the bicycle. Now that I was nearer I could see the front wheel was buckled; the Range Rover must have hit it before skidding into the telegraph pole. Something about the heavy, old fashioned outline of the bicycle was familiar. I looked along the ditch, horrified of what I might see. Sure enough a column of worms had infiltrated from an adjoining channel. They were clustered thickly about something, something from which a human hand projected. At first I could not recognize the face and then I saw a band of white around the neck. It was the vicar. His head moved slightly and my stomach heaved as I saw that his face was covered in worms; they were entering his mouth and nostrils, probing beneath his eyelids. A darker, jelloid mass hung from his temple and was almost indistinguishable from the worms.
I began to retch and turned to run back towards the house. As I did so I felt a familiar slimy touch against the bare flesh of my ankle. Two files of worms had climbed
from the ditch and were surrounding me; their soft bodies crushed beneath my shoes and I almost slipped before leaving them behind and hearing my footsteps echo on the glistening macadam. The light from the still burning Range Rover projected my shadow down the road and I looked like a figure dancing in the flames of hell. In my present situation the comparison hardly seemed an exaggeration of the reality. Marsh House was cut off with the worms on each side of it. Colonel Fraser and his men were dead and there was no contact with the outside world. I remembered what the soldier had said: ‘This could be only the beginning.’
I entered the drive and cried out as something dropped onto my neck; it was water dripping from an overhanging branch. I paused to regain my breath and looked about me warily. The glow from the lamp above the porch threw enough light to show that the drive was empty save for Mrs Valentine’s car. There was no sign of movement from the adjacent lawn. I controlled my breathing and listened. The silence was ominous: not a rustle, not a breath of wind. I looked behind me nervously and continued to the house. I was about to bang the knocker when I thought of Mrs Mullins; I had left the house to try and find a doctor. Now, four men were dead and I had achieved nothing except the precarious salvation of my own life. Mrs Mullins was no better off for my return. An idea occurred to me: her medicine had been left in the cottage, I could get that – that would be a positive act. I listened again; still the eerie quiet. I imagined the worms slithering through the grass . . . I would have to move fast.
Almost immediately regretting my decision I started off along the gleaming box hedge. Something caught my eye on the path and I sucked in breath. It was a snail. Perhaps sensing an enemy presence in the vibration of my footsteps, it withdrew into its shell. I stamped on it. Ahead, the lights were still on in the cottage; it stood out against the night like a miniature lighthouse. I approached it warily and peered through the window. Everything seemed exactly as it had been left; I could even see the wet slimy stain of spittle that Mrs Mullins had left on the chair back. I went inside and looked around again before crossing to the sink. The tray of bottles had gone. I glanced beside the armchair and then came to the conclusion that Mrs Valentine must have come back to collect the medicine whilst I was away.
I was about to leave when I heard a muffled squeaking noise, like the sound of two balloons being rubbed together. Terrified by what I might see, I looked towards the door that led down to the boathouse. The escutcheon that I had nailed in place was trembling as if something on the other side of the door was trying to work it free. There was a cracking noise and a fissure ran down the top panel of the door, then the whole door flinched. I stood motionless, rooted to the spot. I could scarcely believe what I knew must exist on the other side of that door: the pressure of millions of worms packing every inch of those dark, narrow stairs, worms that had crawled out of the mud from the ditches and the dense reed beds where they had been massing, worms programmed by some avenging force that could surely never reside in heaven.
Then the lights went out. My heart pulsed as if an electric current had been passed through it. There was only the glow of the dying fire behind me; in the faint light the door gleamed and the panels seemed to expand as if they were breathing. There was an explosive cracking noise and the door burst open. A wall of worms poured into the room as if a vast container had split open. I was buried up to my knees and nearly knocked backwards into the fire. There was a hissing sound and the embers were extinguished by a mass of worms that slapped against the base of the chimney. What little light there had been was snuffed out and the room filled with a foul-smelling pungent smoke. I was now struggling in the pitch black amidst a spreading army of writhing worms.
The noise of their slithering bodies filled my ears as I tried to wade towards the door; I could feel them against my bare flesh as they penetrated every opening in my clothing and squirmed towards my face. Once I fell and my face pressed against the obscene slimy carpet, I felt something penetrating my nostril and plucked it out. I wanted to scream but I decided not to open my mouth. I pulled myself up against the armchair and continued to drag my feet towards the door; it was like trying to make progress in a swamp. I seized the door knob and tried to turn it. My hands were slipping too much to get a grip. The level of the worms seemed to be rising; I could feel them round my crutch. I struck out with my fists in a futile gesture born of mounting hysteria; my blows sank into the soft mass as if into jelly. I was achieving nothing save the exhaustion of my fast-fading reserves of strength. I abandoned the door and tore at the window catch. It came free but the frame of the window was jammed; I pressed hard but it would not open. Desperately I threw my fist at it and felt broken glass scarring my knuckles; the window opened half an inch and cold air blew against my cheek. I lashed out again and the window burst open. Immediately I propelled myself forward and felt the metal tooth digging into my belly as I sprawled across the sill. The worms were like suction pads securing my feet but I dragged myself free and toppled into a flowerbed minus a shoe. The damp earth pressed against my face and I clawed myself to my feet, not knowing whether I would find the garden over-run with worms.
Still panic-stricken I staggered away from the cottage and started to run towards the house. It was pitch black and a branch stung me across the face. I blundered into the box hedge and ripped my hands on a rose bower. Now I could see the house before me and the deep rectangles of curtained light. I arrived at the front door and banged savagely on the knocker. Behind me the shadows lapped against the pool of light cast by the lamp above the porch; with every second that passed I expected to see the worms pursuing me from the darkness. I banged again and the door opened unexpectedly, almost projecting me into the house. I staggered into the warm hall feeling a momentary pang of relief.
Little did I know it then but the worst part of my ordeal was just beginning.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I stood in the hall gasping for breath and winced as I saw my reflection in the mirror. I looked about twenty years older than my true age; my flesh was grey and sagged in dark pouches under my fear-crazed eyes; my hair was bedraggled and my nose bleeding. My hands and face were scratched and covered with a film of mucous-like slime which also festooned my clothing. My body was literally crawling with worms, some of which materialized from my clothing to drop to the floor and wriggle away towards new hiding places.
Beside me, Mrs Valentine shrank back, her face registering shock and disgust. For several seconds neither of us spoke. ‘What happened?’ she asked at length.
As quickly as I could, I described what had taken place since I left the house: the disaster at the nuclear reactor and its effect on the worms. ‘At any moment they’re going to come here,’ I told her. ‘Somehow we’ve got to try and keep them out. How’s Mrs Mullins?’
‘Very ill – I don’t think she’s got much longer.’ Mrs Valentine looked round the hall as if wondering what to do next. I think she was as bemused as I was: what we were experiencing defied comprehension.
‘We must try and close up every hole they might get through,’ I said. ‘Do you have shutters?’
As I spoke I tore off my coat and jacket. The squirming of the worms was driving me mad. Mrs Valentine looked down at the writhing shapes with an expression of fascinated horror. ‘Poor Colonel Fraser. Are you certain he’s dead?’
‘We’ll all be dead if we don’t do something,’ I said. I went into the dining room and found Mrs Mullins lying where I had left her; her skin was dark grey but she was still breathing fitfully. Mrs Valentine appeared beside me. ‘You collected the medicine?’ I asked her.
She hesitated slightly. ‘Er . . . yes – but I think she may be past medicines though.’ I detected a certain acceptance in the voice that was only a shade away from satisfaction. I glanced at her; she was looking down at Mrs Mullins’s inert body with an expression that showed no trace of compassion. A fresh feeling of unease and uncertainty began to cloud my mind.
A noise from outside brought me back to a rea
lization of the immediate danger. I told Mrs Valentine to lay her hands on any candles that were in the house and went round checking that all the windows were closed and locked. After my experience at the cottage I had little confidence that this measure would keep the worms at bay, but it was necessary to go through the motions of taking every basic precaution. In each room that I entered I pressed the tip of my nose against the cold window panes and peered out into the garden. There was no sign of movement. The grass glistened and there was an occasional patch of melting snow. The only shapes were large familiar ones: bushes, rose beds, a garden seat.
I went back to the drawing room. Mrs Valentine rose from Mrs Mullins’s side. ‘How is she?’ I asked.
‘The same.’
‘There’s nothing we can do?’ Mrs Valentine shook her head resignedly. ‘The telephone’s still not working?’
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