The Overnight

by Ramsey Campbell

  Greg has to restrain himself from stamping back to retrieve the books from the counter. He isn't one of the women or Jake. As he makes his measured but speedy way across the sales floor he discovers how tired he is: sufficiently to glimpse squat shapes withdrawing into the aisles or collapsing into themselves like grey jelly. Surely he didn't take his attention off the entrance long enough for anyone to have sneaked in, and besides, no intruder could look like that. He shelves the books and the rest of the regal heap so that he can return to the end of the aisle by the window.

  The illumination lacks the strength he thought he remembered, but that's no excuse for him to slow down; there are no excuses, as his father often used to say and still does. Greg crouches and straightens his back and does his utmost to have found the right place for each book as soon as he's at attention. Here's a Lamb, but it's not for him to sacrifice: only God should do that, because it was part of God turned into flesh. Here's one by Law and three by Lawless, which just about sums up the state of the world. Here's Lone, which is what Greg is at the moment, with no reason to complain—his father has to deal with greater difficulties every day he's at the barracks. Greg would be there too or patrolling somewhere in the world if his mother didn't upset herself at such length whenever she thinks of his coming to harm. He thought his father might appreciate his helping people improve themselves by reading, but the shop contains few books Greg would be happy to recommend. He'll have to take a stand if Texts intends to promote the likes of Brodie Oates, men so ashamed of being their sex that they want to be women. His father and the other real men are forced to have them in the forces now. Greg knows what kind of force they deserve, but is his expression as grim as his thoughts? When he trains a smile on the ceiling, that earns him no response from Woody. He busies himself with more volumes—Mann, which looks like a man determined to prove he's one; Marks, not Marx, Greg is glad to see; May, which you might assume has sunk out of the language. He thinks of a joke he would like to tell ("These days May ought to be filed under Can") just to show he has a sense of humour. He gazes upwards, but Woody doesn't ask what's on his mind. Greg could share it with Angus if he ever bothers to arrive at the door by the lift; how long does Angus mean to let it take him? The dark would be no excuse for a soldier, and it shouldn't be for anyone. It isn't Angus who makes Greg replace May on the stack at his feet, however. He's sure he glimpsed movement outside, almost concealed by the fog.

  He flattens his hands against the window and peers through his breath on the icy glass. Before the fog obscures it he sees a blurred light prowling the car park. He has been so intent on shelving that he forgot to look out for the emergency services; perhaps he doubted any of the renegades would call them. He swings around to raise his face and shout "Here at last."

  Woody doesn't respond. He must have fallen asleep. As the manager he deserves more rest than anybody else, and Greg feels left in charge. Ray and Angus must have heard him, and seem to be throwing themselves about with glee, leaping up and landing with soft thuds and bumping against the doors, Angus having reached the other one at last. Greg can do without their antics, not least because it has distracted him from events outside the window. When he stares through it he realises the lights are lost in the fog.

  He sprints to the entrance so fast he jars pain from his shoulders into his head. He shoves the trolleys aside and is on the pavement when he falters. What sounds like huge breaths in the glaring murk—like the moist snuffling of some gigantic beast in search of prey? As it trails off into an expectant silence he understands that it can only have been the noise of a vehicle that has halted out of sight. "Over here," he shouts. "We called you here."

  Apart from the frolics of Ray and Angus, which have started to annoy him even more than they bewilder him, there's silence. He can only assume that the driver of the vehicle is contacting a control room, inaudibly to Greg, but that may not help. He cups his hands around his mouth to yell "Can't you hear me? We're here. The bookshop."

  The engine gives a snuffle that he takes at first for a response. When it subsides he's afraid that the driver can indeed not hear him. "Woody, I'm just going to get them," he shouts, pointing with his hands into the fog. "They don't seem to know where to find us."

  Woody stays asleep. Greg considers using the phone but doesn't want to waken him abruptly. Besides, he might be allowing the driver time to move off. He can't help resenting how Angus and, yes, Ray have left him to do so much, but it shows that he's equal to any number of tasks. He blocks the entrance with the trolleys and hurries away from the shop, calling at the top of his voice "Hold on. I'm coming to you."

  He hears an exhalation that must be air brakes, however large and eager it sounds. "That's the drill, wait there for me," he bellows, sprinting across the tarmac. The fog trails over it like a mass of sodden rotting cloth, from which the nearest trees unpick themselves, two saplings and the stump left by Madeleine's car. He dodges around the strip of lush grass in which the trees are rooted. The noise of brakes was beyond them—beyond the saplings that the fog momentarily unveils a couple of hundred yards behind them too, apparently, or could the vehicle have crept away unheard? "Where are you?" Greg demands so vehemently his throat feels raw with fog. "We're the ones who called you. You've found us."

  This appears to have some effect, thank the Lord—Greg was beginning to wonder how much of an invitation the fellow expects. The noise like an excited breath is repeated not too far ahead. It has acquired a slobbering quality that Greg could live without, and sounds as though it's emerging from somewhere lower than makes sense, which must be a trick of the increasingly dim fog. It sinks into silence, but not before he locates it in the middle of the car park. He makes for it so fast he nearly loses his footing on the muddy tarmac. There are the lights of a vehicle about a hundred yards ahead, so blurred they seem less to penetrate the murk than to be part of it. Are they retreating? Half a dozen strides fail to clarify his view of them, and he can't distinguish the vehicle at all. He's opening his mouth to call out, though it fills instantly with fog, when the lights swerve and rush at him.

  Has he come to the same end as Lorraine? He doesn't deserve it; even Lorraine didn't. Then the lights fly apart and merge with the fog on either side of him. Too late he realises he was in no danger. He started to run from the lights instead of facing them down, and now he has no idea which direction he came from.

  At least it's clear that he was right to be suspicious. None of the deserters has bothered to put in a call, or help would have arrived by now. So much for their pretence of solidarity with their colleague in the lift, never mind setting Woody free. Greg has no doubt they would be delighted to know they've caused him to lose his way in the fog. Of course that's an exaggeration; the retail park is too small for anyone to stay lost for any significant length of time. What would his father do? Remain on the spot, he thinks, and turn slowly until a landmark shows itself. He's beginning the manoeuvre when he hears a voice as blurred as the fog.

  "Goshwow, gee and whee, keen-o-peachy …" It has left many of its consonants behind, and almost anything that could be described as a tune. He isn't even certain who it is until he realises Woody is singing, if it can be called that, in his sleep. Greg could never have dreamed how welcome this would be; it tells him that the shop is about a hundred degrees to his left. In a moment the mumbled song trails off, but he doesn't need it any more. He starts in its direction, only to jerk to a halt. What has crept up to surround him?

  Until he takes a guarded pace he's able to believe he's seeing merely fog and darkness. As he shifts his weight, however, the tarmac under the hem of the marquee of fog blackens and grows visibly wetter. When he retreats he hears a muffled sucking sound behind him. He swivels in time to see moisture welling up to meet the edge of the fog, and then he has to fling his arms wide to maintain his balance as he feels the tarmac underfoot dip towards the jagged watery perimeter. He stands his ground, but that's no solution. All around him, lazily but relentlessly, the t
armac has begun to sink.

  He twists around wildly, perhaps enough to disturb the fog, which withdraws far enough to let him glimpse a tree to his right He can see nothing else as solid. The tarmac beneath his feet is inclining itself like the deck of a ship towards a surge of black moisture as long and as uneven as the edge of the fog, which may be hiding more of it. Water oozes up outside the concrete rim that boxes in the strip of grass where the tree and its companions are planted. He flings out a hand as if he's clutching for a lifeline and makes a dash that fills his mouth with the stale taste of fog. He staggers coughing onto the grass and closes both hands around the trunk.

  It's no thicker than a small child's arm. Beneath the ragged grass scattered with rotting leaves the ground is bony, obviously with roots. Are there insects or spiders in the branches? He hasn't finished spluttering out fog when his skin starts to crawl. It feels as if something akin to electricity is swarming over him. There's no discernible reason, yet he seems to hear a faint but piercing whine or buzz that reminds him of mosquitoes. As soon as he has caught his breath he stumbles to the middle tree and leans against the discouragingly slender trunk.

  He won't loiter any longer than is necessary. The last few minutes have exhausted him so much that he has no idea what happened. His confusion is letting unwelcome thoughts into his head; the image of being supported by a tree between two others threatens to become unforgivably blasphemous. He makes himself stand unaided, as a man should. He's turning his head minutely in search of the bookshop, and willing Woody to help by uttering any kind of sound, when an object drops on his left wrist.

  The object is black and glistening and unappealingly shapeless. It must be the remains of a leaf, Greg tells himself, glancing upwards as he shakes it off. His gaze snags on the first tree, however. A few leaves still cling to it, and the undersides of all of them are turned towards him. They're pallid as the fog; at least, the little that's visible is. Most of the foliage is covered if not encrusted with insects. The same, he sees, is true of the branches above him, on which a dripping blackened swarm of crawlers of no species he would like to name has started to demonstrate how flimsily attached portions of some of them are. For a moment he imagines that the trunk is shivering with the activity overhead, and then he realises that a mass of insects is squeezing out of cracks in the bark and flooding down the tree towards him.

  He hurls himself away from the infested trunk, but his skin persists in crawling and prickling. Even if he can't see what's there, he's sure that insects are biting him—draining his strength. At first he thinks that's why his legs give way before he has taken a proper step: he's poisoned, he's weakened. But the soaked ground has yielded, not him. He's stronger than it is, and he almost shouts a challenge as it drags his ankles down. Before he can draw breath, he's up to his shins, his calves, his knees in icy glutinous mud.

  He won't let the sensation cow him. While he's alive he can fight. His fingers scrabble at the earth where the tree's roots ought to be, but they must be clustered on the far side of the trunk. Mud grates under his nails as his feet plunge deeper, burying his chest and dragging his hands out of reach of the concrete rim of the stretch of grass. The fog stoops hugely to press him down. There are handholds to his left—two domed greyish rocks. By throwing all his weight in their direction he manages to grasp both.

  His right hand can't sustain its hold. It slithers down the rock and uncovers its furrowed brow before his fingertips catch on the lower lids of both eyes full of mud. As he struggles to let go, his other hand claws all the way down the face of the second man he last saw reluctantly quitting his chair in the shop. Greg's fingers land on the bottom lip, tugging the slack mouth into a wide idiotic grin. He recoils, nauseated by the spectacle, and the corpses submerge into the morass as his shoulders follow them. He makes one last desperate grab for anything that may help, but the grass is as slippery as a slug. He thinks he can feel his body merging with the ground, which is worse than a marsh. The hungry gelid substance is digesting him. This is pointless, he wants to scream. It's stupid beyond words. He even opens his mouth, but mud drives his protest back inside him and fills his ears with a liquid hiss like a gigantic eager Yes.

  Woody

  Is he watching a religious channel or a scientific one? Perhaps the latter, since it seems to be dealing with a form of life so primitive it has little consciousness of anything except itself. It splits off portions of itself for companionship, but is so hostile to any other creatures and in particular the threat their intelligence represents that it reduces them to its own state in order to consume them. Yet the origin of life and of religion appears to be involved as well—the lives the shapeless entity creates out of itself, and the savage worship it attracts, simply to reward any sacrifice by engulfing the worshippers too. Only one, Woody keeps thinking or hearing, only one. How can the screen be conveying all this to him when he's unable to see any image on it beyond a blurred restlessness? It occurs to him that this is the merest fraction of the entity under consideration, so small a part and so close to the screen that he's incapable of focusing, or his mind is. The idea is enough to startle him awake.

  He is indeed sitting in his chair below the screen, but it shows nothing like his dream. He rubs his eyes and wonders how long he has been asleep: long enough to have dreamed all manner of disasters—power failures, Agnes trapped in the elevator, mutineers abandoning the store. Every quadrant of the screen shows people diligently shelving, though for the moment he can't see who is who. A glance at his watch tells him that the sun will soon be up. He feels abandoned for having slept, but at least nobody has taken that as an excuse to slack. He reaches for the phone and thumbs the button for the speakers. "You're doing good, guys. Keep this up and—"

  All the figures crouched in front of the shelves raise their blurred heads, trailing veils of grey. He has the impression that they're about to rise to their feet to celebrate his awakening, but the quiver that passes through them all sends them crowding through the aisles without having gained the least stature. He's unable to discern anything else about them, not least because the images on the screen are wavering like water that's about to yield up a secret. He can't be seeing the figures squeeze one after another under the door that leads up to the staffroom. The images stabilise, revealing that the store is far less brightly lit than he thought he just saw. Nevertheless the light through the windows is enough to show that the shelves have been ransacked, strewing books the length of every aisle.

  Rage and dismay are all he feels or thinks. He stands up so fast that his chair slams into a filing cabinet with a clang like a rusty bell. He's stalking to the door when he realises that if the power failure is real, everything else must have happened too. He's still shut in, except that when he wrenches at the handle the door swings open at once.

  Every computer in the outer office is switched on. Each screen displays a muddy blur rather too reminiscent of his dream. When he glances back he sees that's true of the security monitor as well. Their illumination is what matters, and he lets it urge him across the office into the staffroom, which is darker. "Are you there, Ray?" he shouts. "What's the latest with the fuses?"

  He hears movement down the unlit stairs. It sounds like a herd of soft bodies shuffling about in the darkness, or a mass as large as the lobby slithering over the floor. Just now he isn't anxious to discover any more about it. He hurries past the table and the stagnant brimming sink into the stockroom.

  The entrance to the aisle is defined by outlines of racks the colour of dim fog, but beyond them is little besides darkness. That needn't faze him if he walks straight surely he's sufficiently awake—but he has taken only enough steps to lose count when he cracks his elbow on the corner of a metal shelf. This simply enrages him further. He swings around and walks backwards, guiding himself by the silhouettes of shelves against the glow from the office. He has no idea why the light is shifting, nor does he care. All that matters for the moment is to set Agnes free.

  He pil
ots himself backwards by grabbing the edges of shelves until he arrives at the doors to the top of the elevator shaft. He gropes past them and finds the banister above the stairs. Has the soft shuffling mounted the other staircase? In a fury he clings to the banister and tramps downwards, faster once he has gauged the depth of the treads. The banister ends, and he holds onto it while he plants his feet on the floor of the lobby and turns to face the elevator. "Agnes?" he shouts, and when there's no response "Anyes."

  Even this brings no answer. He hopes that's because she has fallen asleep. He's about to knock on the doors as a preamble to trying to part them when he notices a thread of dimness on the far side of the lobby. It's beneath the delivery doors, which should provide all the light he needs.

  He hurries through the empty blackness and shoves at the bar. It feels rusty, but after a second's resistance it gives with a clank, flooding the lobby with illumination not unlike clouded moonlight. He leans on the right-hand door until it jams too wide for its metal arm to haul it shut, and then he runs back to the elevator. He takes a deep breath that tastes of fog and braces himself to exert all his strength. Digging his fingertips between the door and the frame, he strains to increase the gap. In a moment the door slides all the way open.

  Why couldn't Nigel have done that? Admittedly he still has to deal with the door of the elevator. It's just as accommodating, however. He almost wishes it were not, given what it reveals. Agnes is standing upright only because she's trapped against the elevator wall by a trolley in front of a pallet truck. Most of the books from the trolley are scattered across the floor. They resemble lumps of the mud that covers Agnes, not least her blindly gaping face, and fills her nose and mouth.

  It's too much. His feelings are exhausted. All that's in his head is the knowledge that anyone who sees Agnes will know more happened here overnight than simple failure and walkouts and vandalism. He drags the trolley out of the elevator and catches her as she topples forward. Did her eyelids flicker? No, the light changed because its source moved. As he swings around, cradling Agnes by her shoulders, it recedes further and he hears a choked snuffle of brakes.