The Hamelin Plague

by A Bertram Chandler

  "Harry," snapped Barrett to one of the men. "Get that torch. Keep it shining on the ceiling."

  He tried to make his way toward Jane and then he felt them around him, clinging to his legs, trying to climb up his body. He felt something sharp penetrate the heavy drill of his trousers. He kicked out violently. And he could hear their chitterings, and the acrid stench of them was offensive in his nose. But Harry had the torch now, and its beam was directed upward, and was steady, reflected from the white of the ceiling. There was light—enough to see by, to fight by. But for how long? Already a half dozen of the pale, kangaroo-like mutants were hopping towards the yachtsman, and metal gleamed in the hands of four of them.

  Jane fired again, and one of the mutants disintegrated into bloody rags of flesh as the heavy slug hit it. But it was like trying to sweep back the waters of the Pacific with a kitchen broom; the others kept on and then Joe, still flailing madly with his broken chair, staggered into the line of fire. Barrett tried to make his way to the A.B., but they had immobilized him, clutching his legs so that he could not move. He realized dimly that something was sawing away at the heel of his boot, knew that it was only a matter of time before the blade penetrated the tough rubber and then slashed the Achilles tendon. He caught confused glimpses of the other men, of their improvised clubs rising and falling, swinging wildly.

  The light was beginning to waver. Barrett couldn't see what was happening to Harry, but he could guess. He heard the yachtsman scream, "Give me a hand, somebody! I can't—"

  Barrett knew he could make no headway, so suddenly, in desperation, he lunged sideways. He was not prepared for the ease with which he broke free of his attackers and staggered out of control, reeling and stumbling. His outstretched hand caught something, a cord of some kind, and he clutched at it for support. It twitched out of his grasp. And then, with a rattle, the roller blind went up and the silver radiance of the moon was pouring through the window.

  The torch dropped with an almost unnoticed crash and tinkle, but it didn't matter now. Harry had his hands free to deal with his attackers and Joe, silent and desperate now, was able to wield his chair with some effect, and Mrs. Welcome had fought her way to where the children were and, waving her blood-stained knife, was trying to hustle them toward the door.

  But the fight was by no means over. Their numbers were limited, and they had suffered heavy losses, but there were still their storm troopers, their brainless (by comparison) cannon fodder. Called somehow—telepathically, perhaps, or perhaps attracted only by the noise and the smell of blood—they came streaming in through the open door, a filthy, gray, squeaking tide. Mrs. Welcome screamed as they overran her; she stood there for long seconds, like a stout tree overgrown with shaggy moss.

  Then she was down, and Joe, who had tried to run to her assistance, was shouting and stamping, had dropped his chair and was tearing at his body with his hands. Back to back, kicking and striking out with their sticks, the four men from the boat were edging toward the group of children so as to afford them some protection.

  And Jane was screaming at last, and somehow Barrett had got to her side, and with both hands had snatched the hairy monster from her throat, had crushed it and flung it to one side and then, covering the girl's body with his own, was fighting what he knew was a losing fight. There were so many of them, and their insensate fury was more terrifying than the vicious but intelligent fighting of their masters—

  Something dropped with a clang onto the roof.

  It was ignored by humans, mutants and rats.

  Something was making a peculiar hissing, crackling noise.

  Something dropped through a charred hole in the ceiling, falling to the wooden floor, something that glared blindingly, that threw off a great wave of heat and the acrid fumes of burning wood, the sweet stench of roasting flesh.

  They were running then, all of them, fighting in the doorway of the house that suddenly had become a crematorium—humans and mutants, the terrified rats. The mutants had used fire as a weapon, but this was not a fire of their making, was under the control neither of themselves nor of their enemies.

  Joe and the other four men had the screaming children assembled in their midst, a compact body, and were trampling purposively towards safety, crunching bodies underfoot with a vicious satisfaction. Barrett pulled Jane away from the wall, followed them. He glanced hastily at the body of Mrs. Welcome—and looked away even more hastily. To attempt to drag a mutilated corpse out of the flames would be suicidal folly.

  Then they were outside and stumbling down the path, made more treacherous by the flickering, ruddy light of the fire. They heard the squealings and chitterings of the rats, knew that the mutants were marshaling their disorganized forces for the last attack. And one of the small girls was sobbing loudly, "I've hurt my leg. I can't walk. I can't walk."

  "Carry her, somebody," cried Barrett, and knew that the order was unnecessary.

  There was a crack overhead and the hard illumination of another parachute flare shone down on them. The going was better now. They could see the path, every detail— and Barrett, stopping and turning, could see the gray flood that was beginning to pour down it after them. He pulled the revolver from Jane's limp hand, put his arm around her and kissed her briefly. That was his intention, but the embrace was not brief. His emotions were an odd compound of bitterness and elation. At last, he thought. But too late.

  He disengaged himself, pushed her down the hillside. "Tim," she called. "Tim!"

  "Go on!" he ordered. "Go on! I'll try to hold them!"

  He swore as he saw her stumble to her knees and then stagger erect, turning to climb back up the slope. But there was no time now for arguments, no time to persuade her to make her way to safety with the others.

  And how many rounds were there in the revolver?

  One?

  Two?

  In any case, it was a useless weapon, although the weight of it in his hand lent him a certain confidence, and its loud report might have a deterrent effect.

  A rocket hissed overhead, trailing a shower of sparks. It hit the path a few yards ahead of him and burst in a sputter of blinding, blue-white flame. And the dry brush caught, the undergrowth that somehow had escaped incineration during the dreadful period of widespread fires. The dry brush caught and the high-leaping flames obscured the yellow glare of the burning house, and something in the conflagration was screaming in a dreadful, high-pitched voice.

  Their backs to the blaze, Jane and Barrett stumbled down to the waiting boats.

  On their return to the ship there had been no recriminations, no apportioning of blame. "They disobeyed orders," said the admiral to Barrett, privately. "But they paid for it—especially Mrs. Welcome and Mrs. Lane. And those kids were saved—and the devil alone knows what fate was in store for them." He smiled grimly. "And you're learning. For a civilian, you're doing well."

  "And you are doing well," Barrett told him. "You're always pining for your sixteen-inch guns, but those two shots of yours with the distress rockets were brilliant."

  The admiral coughed with embarrassment. "One shot, my boy. The barrage that I laid down to cover your retreat."

  "But the one on the roof of the house."

  "If these were normal times," the admiral said, "I would urge strongly that you write a stiff letter of complaint to whoever manufactures your fireworks. That rocket went up all right, and it released the flare, but the parachute failed to open."

  "Oh."

  "You're a very lucky young man, Barrett."

  In more ways than one, Barrett thought. Apart from anything else, I've got Jane back. He said, "I hope the luck holds. For all of us."

  "I think it will," said the admiral. "Piper's quite confident about his weapon and Clarendon swears that it's the answer to a ratcatcher's prayer. And your Mr. Ferris finished his repairs while you were away with the landing party."

  "Then, sir, I suggest we get under way."

  "Do you feel fit enough?"

  "
Yes. I was lucky enough not to get any more than a few scratches, and Pamela's patched me up quite well."

  The admiral coughed again. "My niece seems to have lost interest in you quite suddenly. So I gathered."

  "I wonder why," murmured Barrett.

  The two men left the captain's day room and went up to the bridge. The fire was still raging on the north shore of the inlet, but the growing light in the eastern sky had stolen the brilliance from the flames, had turned them dull, smoky and ugly. From the fo'c's'le head came the rattle of the chain cable over the windlass, the measured strokes of the bell. Barrett went to the telegraphs, rang Stand By, And then the anchor was aweigh and the ship was steaming to seaward, heading into the golden radiance of the rising sun.

  Barrett asked himself, How corny can you get?

  But he could not shake off the feeling that this was an auspicious omen.

  South they steamed with a fair wind, their funnel smoke rising vertically. South they steamed, and they had not far to go. And Piper came up to the bridge to report that all was ready aft, and stayed there with them, and then Jane appeared with a tray on which were coffee and freshly made scones, and the admiral remembered that there was a tin of cigarettes in Captain Hall's bedroom and brought them up and passed them around.

  There was no need to hoard any more. There would be coffee again, and fresh bread, and tobacco. There was a holiday feeling, spreading through the little ship. From below there drifted the sound of Joe's voice singing an Italian song to the accompaniment of his guitar, the light tinkling of children's laughter.

  Then Pamela reported from the wheelhouse, where she had gone to look into the radar screen, "We have company. There seems to be a couple of ships off the Heads. One big, one smaller."

  "Bearing?" asked Barrett. "Range?"

  "Red one five. Twelve miles."

  Barrett and the admiral picked up binoculars, walked to the port wing of the bridge. The day was fine, but the northerly breeze had brought its haze. And then, at last, Barrett saw something. He thought at first that it was a giant tanker—the bridge amidships, the funnel aft. And there was the smaller ship—gray, wicked-looking.

  "A tanker and a destroyer," muttered Keane.

  Barrett still looked. "No..." he said doubtfully. Then, positively, "No. That's one of Shaw Savill's big ships. Northern Star or Southern Cross."

  And for a moment he began to doubt his sanity. The scene was so familiar, too familiar: the big, overseas passenger liner waiting off the Heads for the pilot.

  "Yes," the admiral was saying. "I know them. Engines aft."

  And the admiral's words broke the spell. Things were not normal, would never be normal again, whatever happened. There were all these outsiders on the bridge: Jane, and the admiral, and Pamela, and Piper. And there was that contraption mounted on the poop, the somehow frightening assembly of antennas and reflectors and banked vacuum tubes.

  "But what are they doing there?" the admiral was asking, then, in a voice that held disappointment. "Are we too late?"

  From the destroyer's bridge a light was blinking. Barrett put down his glasses, picked up the Aldis lamp, sent a long flash in reply.

  "What ship?" he read.

  "Katana," he replied.

  "Heave to at once," he read. "Entry into the port is forbidden."

  "Tell him that we have no intention of entering," snapped the admiral. "Tell him—oh, hell! Tell the bloody fool to use the V.H.F."

  "V.H.F.," sent Barrett. "Channel Twelve."

  He put down the Aldis, went into the wheelhouse to switch on the Pilotphone.

  A voice crackled from the speaker. "H.M.A.S. Quagga calling Katana, H.M.A.S. Quagga calling Katana. Stop at once. What are your intentions?"

  Keane snatched the microphone. "This is Admiral Keane speaking. I have on board a weapon effective against the rats, and I intend to use it."

  "Heave to," came the reply from the warship. "Heave to."

  Barrett knew he should go to the telegraphs, ring Stand By and then Stop. But the logical portion of his mind was no longer in control. He knew that a delay of a few minutes—or a few hours—would not matter. He knew that, but the weapon was assembled and ready on the poop, and there, on the starboard bow, were the steep cliffs of the Heads, and beyond them the filthy hordes that had destroyed the city. Emotion was ruling rather than reason and he was not alone in allowing himself to be ruled by his emotions.

  The admiral was trying to argue. "Damn it, who's your commanding officer? I want to speak to him. At once. Tell him it's Keane. Admiral Keane."

  A fresh voice issued from the speaker, a voice that was a little too unemotional. "Lieutenant Commander Wilkins, officer commanding, here. I demand that you heave to."

  "Come off your high horse, Wilkins. Many's the time I had to kick your backside when you were a snotty. Get out of my hair and let me get on with the job!"

  "Heave to!" snapped the destroyer captain. And then, barely audible in an aside to one of his officers, "Nutty as a fruit cake."

  Keane slammed the microphone to the deck, demanded of Barrett, "Did you hear that?"

  "I did," said Barrett, but his attention was taken up with the conning of his ship. It had been decided to put the weapon into operation at a range of half a mile from the South Head, and Barrett was determined to carry this out. He looked up from the radar screen, said to Piper, "Better get aft, Doc."

  There was a stab of orange flame, a billowing of white smoke, from the destroyer's forward turret. The projectile whined across Katana's line of advance from port to starboard, sent a brief, foaming geyser climbing off her starboard bow.

  "Heave to," ordered the irritating voice again.

  Barrett stood on. There was only a mile to go to the predetermined position, only five minutes' steaming. He watched the slowly expanding, slowly shifting picture of the coastline on his screen, concentrated his attention on the half-mile-range circle.

  He heard the destroyer's gun again, and almost at once there was a deafening crash from somewhere forward. He heard the admiral say calmly, "You'll have to indent for a new windlass, Barrett. The old one's had it."

  "Heave to," said the voice.

  "Switch that bloody thing off," ordered Barrett absently.

  Again there was the thud of the gun and again the crash of an explosion aboard the ship—but this time oddly muffled, felt as much as heard. The admiral swore. "The bastards! They got us below the water line!"

  But on the screen the irregular outline of the promontory had kissed the luminous circle that was the range ring. "Hard a port!" ordered Barrett. "Slow both!"

  "Mister," complained Karl, "der ship steer not well."

  "Stop port." His attention was fixed on the screen. "Slow ahead port. Steady as she goes, Karl."

  "She's settling by the head, Barrett," the admiral said.

  "As long as her arse end keeps out of the water," muttered Barrett. "Has the Pied Piper started up yet?"

  And then the whole ship, it seemed, was vibrating to Piper's inaudible sound waves, and every metal fitting on the bridge was singing its own note. Something twanged inside the radar console, and something crackled, and the screen blazed up and then went dead. Barrett left it, went outside. With the others he stared aft, to the sheer cliff of the North Head, to the broken face of the South Head.

  At first there was nothing—and then it was like a flood of dirty water spilling over the cliff edge, separating into individual drops as it cascaded to the sea, a spray of bodies. And the gray scum thickened and floated and spread and surged out purposively toward the crippled ship. Barrett knew he could not maintain way much longer, that his screws and rudder would soon be out of the water.

  And then...

  And then Katana would founder in a sea of her own victims—still living victims who would avenge themselves before they, themselves, drowned.

  His arm tightened about Jane.

  "Oh, well," he said. "It was a good try."

  She said, "The boats."r />
  "In a sea of rats," he asked, "what good is a boat?"

  The admiral was laughing. "Oh, clever, clever! It's attracted the sharks and they're finishing the job!"

  And then the destroyer was nosing gingerly into the living scum, and there was a great rattling of machine guns, and from her sides spurted the jets of blazing oil from improvised flame-throwers.

  Barrett went to the telegraphs and rang Stop, and then Finished With Engines. It was time to think about abandoning ship.

  CHAPTER 13

  They sat in a corner of the spacious public room, unnoticed now, forgotten. But they did not mind. They could rest, and they were together. Sooner or later they would be called upon to play their part in the rebuilding, but the time was not yet.

  Barrett smiled as he watched Pamela turning her charm on a young naval lieutenant who was a member of the prime minister's staff. This ship, by some freak of chance and circumstance the floating headquarters of the government, was top-heavy with important people. There was no possibility now that Barrett would ever become crown prince with Pamela as his crown princess. His hand tightened on Jane's. And neither, he thought, would Keane ever become king; already he had been cut down to size by the real admirals, the flag officers still on the active list, resplendent in gleaming gold and starched white.

  Only Piper was undiminished in stature. He had, in fact, grown. He had lost the invisibility that had been his main attribute when Barrett had first met him. He was addressing a group of politicians and service chiefs like a schoolmaster talking to a class of backward children. He was saying, "You have all the details now. Please see that they are sent at once to whatever authorities exist in the U.S.A., and England and Russia. And broadcast the information on all frequencies to every, I repeat every, nation."

  "Yes, Dr. Piper," the prime minister was saying. "Of course, Dr. Piper," an admiral was assuring him. "Meanwhile, the technician aboard this ship and the destroyer can start to make duplicates of my weapon."

  "That's already in hand, Dr. Piper." Barrett grinned a little sourly and quoted, " 'So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men—especially pipers: And whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let's keep our promise...' "