The saw was cutting through another tendril now. Thomas looked around worriedly, unhooking the machete from his belt with his free hand.
He saw one of the men knocked off his feet by a wildly threshing tendril but it didn’t seem to be a deliberate attack. The tendrils, or rather the thing that was controlling them, obviously didn’t know what was happening and Thomas drew comfort from this. It showed that the creature wasn’t all-powerful.
Fox had almost cut his way through all the tendrils blocking the escalator. As each was cut in two the living section would withdraw rapidly down the escalator, leaving a dead and unmoving section behind.
Then Thomas glanced up and saw that something had detached itself from the station ceiling and was slowly descending. It was like a very long elephant’s trunk . . . then he saw the eye in the end of it.
‘Lieutenant!’ he cried. ‘Above you! That thing . . . you must . . .’
He was interrupted by a shrill scream over the radio. He looked and saw that Fox was being lifted into the air by a tendril. The chain saw fell from his hands. Then came sounds like bones snapping. At the same time Thomas felt a pressure round his right thigh. He glanced down and saw that one of the small tendrils had grabbed him. Automatically he swung the machete and chopped through it.
The tendrils were converging from all directions in a purposeful manner, and Thomas knew why. ‘Lieutenant!’ he cried again, ‘You’ve got to destroy that thing up there! It can see us!’ He pointed towards the eye. Cox-Hayward looked up then swiftly unstrapped a sub-machine-gun from his shoulder. There was a muffled rattle of automatic gunfire and Thomas saw the trunk-like thing shudder under the impact of the bullets, then fall limply to the floor.
Instantly the tendrils resumed their uncoordinated behaviour and the attack ceased.
‘Fox?’ asked the lieutenant. ‘You okay?’
Fox lay unmoving at the top of the escalator. Thomas saw the lieutenant go to him and turn him over on his back. ‘Dead. Anyone else hurt?’
In subdued voices the rest of them said no.
‘Come on then, let’s get moving while the way is still clear. Parker, pick up the chain saw. And all of you keep a look-out for any more of those eye things . . .’ The lieutenant then stepped over Fox’s body and started down the escalator.
As Thomas followed he glanced down at Fox and saw that his helmet was full of blood.
‘Watch your step!’ ordered the lieutenant. ‘There’s muck everywhere!’
Thomas quickly saw what he meant. The escalator steps were covered with thick black slime that the mutilated tendrils had left behind. Several times Thomas almost lost his footing on the way down.
When they reached the bottom they were faced with further obstacles. The shorter escalators that led from that level to the Bakerloo platforms were again choked with tendrils.
They were forced to use the chain saw again but this time they succeeded in clearing the way without mishap. There was no sign of any of the eye-bearing tendrils.
Finally they reached the northbound platform, where they received yet another shock. The beams of their lamps revealed a tendril almost as thick as a tube train stretched along the rails. Further investigation showed that it emerged from the mouth of one tunnel and disappeared into the opposite one. And it was moving . . .
They stared at it in awe. ‘Christ,’ muttered one of the men, ‘that thing must stretch for bloody miles!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Thomas, ‘and getting bigger all the time.’ The tendril was sliding by them at a slow but steady rate, making a wet, wheezing sound as it went. He presumed that it divided into a cluster of thinner tendrils at its tip. He shuddered. If all the tube and sewer tunnels had things this size growing in them all of the Greater London area was going to be at risk tonight.
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Cox-Hayward. ‘How are we going to get past that?’
There was a gap between the side of the thing and the tunnel wall but it would be a tight squeeze moving along it in the bulky suits. And all the tendril would have to do to crush them to death would be to roll a couple of feet. It was simply too risky to try.
Thomas put the metal case down on the platform, knelt down beside it and - trying to avoid looking at the dessicated human debris lying all around - opened it. ‘What are you doing?’ asked Cox-Hayward. i’m going to fire one of the boxine darts into it,’ said Thomas, removing the compressed-air gun.
is that wise? Won’t we need it all for the thing itself?’ ‘One dose more or less won’t make any difference. Besides, have you got any other ideas?’
‘No,’ Cox-Hayward admitted.
Thomas loaded the gun, walked to the edge of the platform, aimed it at the moving bulk and pulled the trigger. He saw the red tuft of the dart’s tail appear in the side of the tendril. He waited expectantly but nothing happened. The tendril continued to slide on by.
‘Hey, doc, I thought that stuff was supposed to work in seconds?’
‘It is,’ he answered, disappointed.
Then, suddenly, the tendril arched upwards convulsively, hitting the station ceiling with a violent impact. Thomas stepped hurriedly backwards as a large section of insulation tiling came crashing down. With the others he pressed his back against the platform wall as the tendril continued to buckle and writhe.
Finally it was still. The outer skin had ruptured in several places and the viscuous black fluid oozed out slowly.
Thomas’s earphones were filled with the sounds of cheers. Cox-Hayward’s voice cut through with, ‘Okay, that’s enough! Doc, is it dead?’
‘Certainly looks like it. This part of it, anyway.’
‘Maybe the whole creature is dead.’
‘No, look.' He pointed down the platform to where a smaller tendril was slithering out of a hole.
Cox-Hayward sighed. ‘Nothing for it but to go on then.’ He peered at the mouth of the tunnel. ‘Going to be a hard slog. Let’s just hope that thing doesn’t have any death twitches . . .’
One by one they climbed down from the platform and made their way along the tracks beside the unmoving tendril. As Thomas feared, it was a tight squeeze inside the tunnel and he had to fight to keep control of a rising sense of panic. He concentrated on keeping his eyes on Cox-Hayward ahead of him and tried to breathe regularly, though the stink was appalling.
Worst of all was the feel of the tendril itself as he pushed past it. Even through the thick insulation suit its soft, rubbery surface felt repulsive.
As the nightmare journey went on and on, and the stink in his helmet grew ever more suffocating, Thomas began to suffer hallucinations. He saw Cox-Hayward’s white suit change its shape until it resembled the outline of a naked woman. Then the woman looked back over her shoulder at him. It was Anne.
He couldn’t prevent a choked scream from escaping.
‘Doc! What’s wrong?’
Thomas blinked. Cox-Hayward had stopped in front of him, his Expression anxious through his face-plate. Anne had gone.
‘I’m alright . . .’ gasped Thomas. ‘Just a hallucination. The air is getting to me. I want to switch over to the tank supply. Just for a short time.’
‘Well, okay,’ said Cox-Hayward doubtfully. ‘But make sure you don’t use much of it. We might still encounter flooded areas.’
Thomas manipulated the switch that sealed off the exterior air intake and opened the bottled air valve. There was a hiss and suddenly he was breathing fresh air again. The relief was enormous.
A short time later Cox-Hayward cried, ‘Hey, doc! It just stops!’
A few steps further on and Thomas saw what he was talking about. The tendril came to an abrupt end. The stump was covered with a white, fibrous mass like a thick spider’s web.
‘What do you make of it?’ asked Cox-Hayward, touching it tentatively with his gloved hand.
‘When the creature sensed the toxin spreading through the tendril it abandoned it, like a starfish getting rid of one of its arms if it’s caught by something. This whit
e material must be some kind of natural sealant to stop the boxine.’
‘You make it sound intelligent.’
‘No,’ said Thomas firmly. ‘It’s too primitive to be intelligent.’
i hope you’re right.’
With the tunnel now clear ahead of them the going was much easier. Nor was there any sign of other, smaller, tendrils. Thomas switched back to breathing through his helmet and found the stink had lessened in its intensity.
Then, about thirty yards further on, they encountered a section in the tunnel floor that was covered in the same white material as the end of the tendril. It stretched from one wall to the other and on either side the tube rails were bent upwards and buckled back.
‘This is where the tendril thrust its way up into the tunnel,’ said Thomas. ‘When it retreated, after shedding its infected length, it sealed this hole as an added precaution.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Cox-Hayward slowly. ‘But maybe this is the actual stump of the other part of the tendril . . .’
That had already occurred to Thomas but he sincerely hoped it wasn’t the case. Somehow they had to cross over the ten or so feet of the stuff and the thought they might be walking over the very end of a tendril that could suddenly rise up and smash them against the tunnel ceiling was not a comforting one.
‘Okay, men, let’s rope up,’ said Cox-Hayward briskly.
They attached a length of nylon rope to clips on their harnesses, leaving a space of twelve feet between each man. Then, as the others braced themselves, Cox-Hayward stepped out onto the patch of fibrous material. . .
It gave beneath his feet, like a trampoline, but held firm. He continued on across it and safely reached the other side. Thomas let his breath out with a sigh and heard others doing the same over the earphones.
The next man in line stepped forward. Thomas was fourth, as Cox-Hayward wanted two of his strongest men to be behind him in case he had fallen through the fibres.
The third man crossed successfully. It was now Thomas’s turn. He stepped onto the material and his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch as the stuff sunk beneath him. It was like walking over a waterbed. He wondered what was beneath it. The end of the tendril or a drop of several hundred feet . . .
Finally his feet were on firm ground again. He joined the others and braced himself again to take any sudden tension on the rope.
The fifth man crossed ... the sixth ... the seventh . . . Thomas began to relax . . .
But as the last man stepped off the white material several tendrils erupted through it behind him. There was no time to even shout a warning. The things whipped around him and he was plucked off his feet and dragged down into the opening.
Then came a violent tug on the rope and Thomas and the others were jerked off balance. The next thing Thomas knew he was being dragged over the ground on his stomach towards the hole.
23
Robin got a shock when she looked at her watch and saw it was nearly 9 p.m. Where the hell was her relief, she wondered angrily? When one of the nurses had come down at 5 p.m. with cans of fruit juice and biscuits for the children she’d promised Robin that they’d find someone to replace her by 8 p.m. But here it was an hour later and still no one had shown up . . .
She was going out of her mind. Apart from the aggravation caused by trying to look after thirty or so young children she also felt very frustrated. On the very night that the story of the century was taking place she was trapped in a hospital basement with a horde of demanding little brats.
And she was worried too. About Thomas. She hadn’t told him the whole truth in his office that afternoon. She didn’t just like him a lot - she was pretty certain she was falling in love with him.
She looked at her watch again. Where was he now, she wondered. In the tunnel? Maybe it was all over now and he was on his way back. Christ! she thought angrily, I’ve got to get out of here!
‘Miss, I want to use the potty.’ A small boy, aged about three, was tugging at the leg of her jeans. Robin regarded him balefully. If the little buggers weren’t whining, crying or screeching they were pissing and shitting; some managing to perform two, or even three, of those activities simultaneously. ‘Didn’t you just use it a little while ago?’ she asked suspiciously. The potty situation was getting serious. It was a long way to the nearest toilets and she couldn’t leave them on their own for the time it would take to go and empty some of the brimming containers.
The child assured her gravely that it had been a very long time since he’d last used the potty and she had no choice but to locate one that still had some room in it and get him seated on it. She was uncomfortably aware of an increasing pressure in her own bladder, which wasn’t surprising seeing as it was nearly four hours since she’d had an opportunity to visit the toilet. If her relief didn’t show up soon she’d be forced to resort to a potty herself.
She wished she could at least get the children to go to sleep. A few of the younger ones dozed off from time to time but most of them were too frightened and upset by the events of the day to calm down. Not that she blamed them - she felt very sorry for the poor little sods - but that didn’t make her task of trying to look after them any less of an ordeal for her. She had now exhausted her repertoire of stories and vaguely remembered children’s games from her childhood, and hadn’t a clue about what to do next . . .
There was a loud banging on the door. At last! she thought happily, the relief is here!
She hurried over and opened the door. Standing there was the yob who’d been such an annoyance in the blood room. Kevin.
He grinned at her. ‘Hi ya. Been lookin’ high and low for you, darlin’. Then someone told me you was down here. And here you are . . .’ He looked over her shoulder at the roomful of kids. ‘And all on your lonesome too.’
‘Yeah, if you don’t count thirty children,’ she said calmly. She was beginning to feel afraid but she forced herself to smile at him. ‘If you know any good party games feel free to try them out on the kids. I’ve run out of ideas.’
His smirk grew more pronounced. ‘Oh, I know lots of party games, but I don’t play them with kids, know what
I mean?’ Then he shoved her backwards, stepped into the room and quickly shut the door. He leaned against it, his posture exuding arrogance and total confidence. ‘Strip,’ he told her.
Her mind racing, Robin said, ‘You’re being ridiculous. You’ll never get away with it. There are people all around . . .’ She decided on a plan of action; she would move closer to him, knee him in the balls and then go for his eyes . . .
‘With a hospital full of dying people who’s going to give a shit about you? Now strip.' He reached behind his back and produced a stiletto.
She froze. Her plan collapsed. Her stomach began to flutter with waves of icy panic. She tried to think of an alternative plan, of some way of stalling him, distracting him . . .
‘I said, stripV He stepped towards her, the point of the knife aimed at her throat.
She looked round desperately. All the children had gone absolutely quiet and were watching the two adults with wide eyes. Robin said, ‘You can’t do it here . . . not with all these kids here.’
He shrugged. ‘You said you’d run out of ideas to entertain them. Be an education for them, it will.’
‘No!’ she said firmly, i’ll cooperate with you - I’ll do anything you want - but only if we go somewhere else. Somewhere private.’
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Where?’ he demanded.
She thought fast. ‘The toilets. They’re not far from here.’
He considered this and, to her relief, nodded. She was sure she’d have some opportunity to get away from him outside. ‘Let’s go then,’ she said.
He opened the door for her, slipping the stiletto into his pants pocket at the same time. ‘You try and make a run for it, honey, and I’ll stick this through your kidney before you can take one step. Know what I mean?’
'Yes. I know what you mean.’ She turned in the doorway
and said to the children, ‘I won’t be long. Behave yourselves and don’t leave this room.’
Some of them giggled. A few of them waved goodbye.
He shut the door and took a firm grip on her upper arm. ‘Lead on, darling,’ he told her.
They walked down the short corridor that led into the large boiler room. She scanned the place anxiously but it was obvious that none of the badly injured casualties lying around were in any condition to help her.
But just as they were halfway across a door opened and a young nurse entered carrying a tray. Robin was about to call out to her but she felt Kevin tighten his grip around her arm. ‘Not a word,’ he whispered. ‘Smile.’
She did as she was told. She smiled stiffly at the girl as they walked past her. The nurse glanced at them curiously but it was apparent she had too many other things on her mind to ask what they were doing down there.
As they left the boiler room Robin’s hopes began to fade. She wanted to throw up.
The last time she’d visited the toilets they’d seemed a long way away but on this occasion she reached them all too soon.
As they entered he pushed her roughly to one side and took out the stiletto again. After making sure the place was deserted he turned to her with a leer and said, ‘Yeah, this’ll do nicely. Now strip, darling, and do it nice and slow.’
She looked at the knife and said, ‘Promise me you won’t hurt me.’
For an answer he hit her hard in the mouth.
Above the screams filling the earphones Thomas heard Cox-Hayward yelling something but he couldn’t make
out what it was. He was sliding faster over the rough tunnel floor now, his head being buffeted about inside the helmet. Ahead of him he saw another white suit disappear into the gaping hole. He would be next . . . ‘Cut the rope, doc! For fuck’s sake, cut the rope!’
He suddenly realized what Cox-Hayward was yelling. But if he cut the rope the men in the hole would be doomed . . . No, he told himself quickly, they were doomed anyway. They were all doomed unless . . .
He fumbled for the machete, unhooked it from his belt, swung blindly . . . and missed.
Simon Ian Childer Page 17