Slithers

by Mortensen, WW

  “Don’t tell me,” Rachel said, “killer fungus from outer space?”

  The comment, Tobe suspected, was meant to be light-hearted. It came out a little seriously, and sat uneasily.

  “Not quite,” Scottie said. “It was an article for work, actually, and this organism… I don’t think it’s a fungus, after all.”

  “You said before it wasn’t a plant?”

  “It’s not a plant, either. I think this may be a kind of ‘slime’ mold, which, unlike most types of mold, isn’t a fungus. It’s an amoeba.”

  Rachel looked perplexed. “I’m still thinking outer space.”

  Scottie ignored her, deep in thought. “I don’t recall the scientific name, but I can tell you those individual veins, those branching filaments… they’re hyphae. When they grow, it’s called ‘streaming’.”

  Streaming? When Scottie’s flashlight had hit the organism, the flesh had rippled, and there had been a wormlike swelling—and subsequent contraction—of the veins. Was that how the things propelled themselves?

  In the background, Scottie continued to speak. “And slime mold,” he said, “is sensitive to light.”

  “Sensitive enough to stop the streaming,” Rachel deduced.

  “Light repels it, yes.”

  Christ. Whatever the hell this thing was—fast-growing mold, or something else, some weird kind of animal—Tobe was certain now of one thing: they could no longer ignore it. As yet, the mold had presented no physical threat, and maybe never would—hell, it could be a simple fungus or amoeba, after all—but his gut feeling hadn’t changed.

  It wasn’t to be messed with.

  He considered what Scottie had just said, about light being a repellent. Maybe they could trap the thing in this room; close the window and the door and seal the door gap at ground level so the thing couldn’t stream under.

  And of course, leave the light on.

  Easy.

  Too easy.

  “I’m guessing,” Tobe said, “that it’s not as simple as keeping the light on.”

  “Keeping the light on would slow the streaming,” Scottie said.

  “But…”

  “But when the organism isn’t streaming, it’s reproducing.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Is that necessarily a problem?” she said.

  “Maybe not, but during this reproductive phase, the organism is likely releasing spores.”

  “So—lights on, and the thing starts firing spores into the air…”

  “…the lights are on now,” Tobe said.

  “…and these spores may be hazardous, if inhaled?” Rachel said. She clamped her hand even harder across her mouth.

  “Perhaps,” Scottie said. “But I can’t be certain. They might be harmless. Every day we inhale millions of spores with no ill-effect.”

  “But some mold is dangerous.”

  “Correct.”

  Rachel looked past them, at the organism. “So, if we want to stop the spores—in case they’re hazardous—we turn off the lights. And if we do that, the organism streams again.”

  “The question is,” Tobe said, “why is it streaming in the first place?”

  “Streaming is what it does when it’s searching for food,” Scottie said. “When there’s no food, it falls dormant, and reproduces, in the hope of creating more streams, to search a wider area.”

  “What the hell does it eat?” Rachel said.

  “Bacteria. Microbes.”

  “Small stuff,” Tobe said. “Let it grow then—leave the lights off, and let it search as much as it wants. But block the door, keep it trapped in here.”

  Rachel shook her head. “I think Scottie is suggesting something else, Tobe. At the risk of stating the obvious, this mold isn’t your garden variety.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything sinister,” Scottie said. “I have no idea what this thing really is, and can only theorise as to what it might eat. The only thing I can say for certain is that streaming behaviour accelerates when food is near. And this thing is streaming fast.”

  9

  Rachel grew pale. “This is too much,” she said slowly.

  “That’s an understatement,” Tobe said.

  Glancing again at the organism, looking anxious now, Rachel stepped back, towards the door. “We need to get out of here,” she said. “And I don’t just mean this room.”

  “Rach…” Scottie said, and moved towards her.

  She ignored him and backed further away. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Babe…”

  Rachel shook her head. “We’ve got this thing in here, Scottie, whatever the hell it is, hunting for food, and Ganson outside, sick with something, and Ressler… and Ethan…” She looked up. “He nearly killed him, Scottie. He didn’t think twice.”

  Tobe glanced from Rachel to Scottie and then back again. Rachel was starting to crack. Scottie closed the gap and drew her in, held her in a close hug.

  “We don’t know these people, Scottie,” Rachel said, her head against his chest, “and here they are, making decisions on our behalf, decisions I don’t agree with. I want to go—now. I want to leave this place.”

  Scottie caressed her hair. “Of course, babe, we’ll be out of here soon. Tobe is going for help.”

  “I want to go. Can’t I go? Can’t we go? They offered us the car, and you gave it back to them, for God’s sake. But I don’t care about that. We can take it back. We can take the car and get out of here. Can’t we?”

  Holding Rachel tight, Scottie glanced up at Tobe, as though seeking his opinion.

  They were at a crossroads. Morally and legally, they remained obligated to Ressler and Ganson, and their plan to deal with those men was a good one. But Tobe again felt the situation spinning from his grasp—not that he’d had a firm grip on it to begin with. He sensed that if Rachel lost it now, the others would quickly follow. They couldn’t afford that. He needed to regain control. Tobe looked at his friends and an image of Lisa rose in his mind. Before the crash, he’d sensed she was in trouble. The feeling returned.

  He had to get to her, had to get to Teesh’s.

  He had to act.

  “I’ll take the car,” he whispered to Scottie. “I know the area. Rachel can come with me.”

  “Yes,” Rachel said. She kept her voice low, too. “That’s what we’ll do. Forget the other plan. We’ll get the keys, and Tobe and I will go for help. But we need to be quick.”

  Scottie was firm. “No.”

  “Scottie…” Rachel began.

  “We stick with the plan,” Scottie said. “Tobe goes with Ethan and Tory. Trust me on this. Both of you.”

  With Scottie, trust had never been an issue.

  Tobe nodded. Eventually, Rachel did, too, and quieted.

  They moved to leave and Scottie said to Tobe, “Close the door behind us. And leave the light on.”

  • • •

  Scottie and Rachel exited. Tobe hesitated at the door before walking back into the room. At the kitchen sink, he whipped two dish towels from the drying rack and retreated once more. At the door, he appraised the organism a final time.

  He waited.

  It didn’t move.

  He left the light on, closed the door… and backed straight into Tory.

  Tobe jumped. “Tory… sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said.

  Scottie and Rachel had disappeared. Had they passed Tory, or had she just arrived?

  “I was looking for you,” Tory said.

  “Really?”

  How long had she been there, outside the door, listening?

  She stood close. He could smell her perfume, sweet yet subtle, almost fruity, but it was hot tonight and she had been hiking, and underneath it all was the oddly-alluring scent of sweat. Tobe swallowed. Her eyes were strangely vacant. He saw neither the predatory lustre he’d noticed a couple of times previously, or the odd, indefinable look he’d seen a moment ago. He wasn’t convinced of the absence of either, but her emotions were unreadable. Was she a
ngry? Had she overheard their conversation? Some of it had been spoken in secret, and Rachel had expressed her distrust of the two hikers. Had Tory been offended, or taken it the wrong way? Taken anything they’d said the wrong way?

  Tory’s gaze slid from his and landed at Tobe’s hands. “Thinking of washing some dishes?”

  Tobe lifted the towels and snuffed a laugh. It sounded weak. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Tory smiled, faintly at first, but then enough to reveal her teeth, those perfect teeth that seemed a little longer than they should be.

  Don’t be stupid.

  Still smiling, she held him in that entrancing gaze, that same way she had held him earlier in the evening, and in fact, almost every time she looked at him. Then she spun and headed back to the store. Tobe watched her go, the sway of her jean-clad hips and the slink of her gait as spellbinding as her stare.

  Tory stopped and turned. One of the dish towels slipped from Tobe’s grasp.

  “I’m glad you decided to come with us, Tobe,” Tory said. Again, she smiled, though this time it was different; too thin to expose those teeth, too thin, perhaps, to be a smile at all. “There’s really no other option, is there?”

  Before he could splutter a reply, Tory rounded the corner and vanished.

  Tobe exhaled. He was grateful she hadn’t waited for a response; even now, he could think of no appropriate comeback. Had her comment been a threat, or simply a statement of fact, a resignation to their circumstances?

  He stooped, retrieved the dish towel, and then knelt at the door. At its base, into the narrow gap where the door cleared the floor, he jammed the towels, length-wise. They formed a tight seal, airtight and surprisingly effective. Even so, he shook his head; at best, it was a temporary fix, at worst, futile. He supposed he’d plugged the gap more to thwart the outflow of invisible spores than to prevent the organism from streaming. He doubted its spread could be stopped so easily.

  Maybe it couldn’t be stopped at all.

  He stood. Futile or not, it was something. Shortly, they’d be out of here anyway.

  He joined the others in the store.

  10

  Rounding the corner, Tobe’s gaze fell on Ressler: a solitary, sad figure bound to the chair in the middle of the convenience store. Dried blood stained Ressler’s clothes and tarnished the floor beneath his feet, its coppery scent intense, overpowering. Ressler remained out of it, but the colour had returned to his face and somehow, amidst the gore, his bandaged head lolling to one side, he looked better. Tobe needed no medical expertise to conclude that Ressler was currently stable.

  To Tobe’s left, towards the rear and in front of the display fridges, Tory and Ethan quietly conversed, Ethan kneeling, zipping up his pack. At the CaffMax, Sarah stood with Scottie and Rachel. She was drinking from a disposable cup. Scottie had earlier promised Tobe a double espresso. Tobe wondered what had happened to it.

  Brad stepped to Tobe’s side. “Ready to head out to the workshop?” he said.

  Tobe didn’t immediately respond. He glanced over at Tory and Ethan. Even at this short distance, their words were inaudible. Most likely, Tory was bringing Ethan up to speed, relaying the conversation she’d overheard in the staffroom. He shifted his gaze to Scottie, Rachel and Sarah. The body language, the positioning of the two parties, spoke volumes about the current state of affairs, the existing group dynamic. That had to change. Now wasn’t the time to segregate or split into factions; more than ever, they had to work together. Scottie would know that. That’s why he’d insisted on sticking to the plan. Really, the plan was more of a truce, wasn’t it? Tobe was sure Scottie would have spoken with Ethan when Tobe and Tory were at the staffroom door, would have ensured Ethan was still onside.

  Maybe Ethan was bringing Tory up to speed.

  It was unlikely she needed it.

  “Wakey-wakey, Tobe,” Brad said.

  “I’m good,” Tobe said.

  “You reckon the car keys are in the office?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Have you thought about how we’re going to get past lard-boy?”

  “Will you stop calling him that?”

  “He’ll fall inside when we open the door,” Brad said.

  “I know.”

  “And even if we prevent that, somehow keep him outside, what about the two of us? There’s a lot of blood to avoid.”

  They crossed the floor, skirting Ressler and the pool of blood at his feet, still bright and glossy and reflecting the banks of fluorescents overhead. At the door, Ethan joined them and blurted, “We use the gun.”

  Tobe baulked and glanced at the counter, to the spot where Brad had earlier placed the revolver.

  The gun was gone.

  Ethan grinned, his eyes glistening with that odd mix of blue-green. He raised his right hand. The weapon was clutched within it. “Let’s shoot our way in,” he said, and tapped the cashier’s window with the weapon’s butt.

  The weight that had earlier settled in Tobe’s stomach seemed heavier now. Tobe transferred his gaze to the weapon and across again to Ethan.

  “It’s a little Wild West, sure,” Ethan said, “but it works all the time in the movies.” At that, he laughed. It was a peculiar, cough-like sound, almost a bark.

  “Ethan…” Tobe said.

  Ethan held up a hand. “Seriously, it’ll be faster than going to the workshop for tools. And hell, once we have the keys, and make for the car, maybe we’ll shoot out the main window, too. We could avoid lard-boy entirely.”

  For the second time in minutes, Tobe could find no appropriate response, and it seemed more pragmatic to say nothing. But discharging a firearm for such a purpose, for any purpose, didn’t sit right. Ethan had mentioned the movies, and indeed, this was a ruse more suited to Hollywood than real life.

  Ethan walked to the cashier’s window. “You think the glass is bulletproof?” he said. “Maybe it is, to protect the attendant in case of robberies.”

  The window appeared to be reinforced with thin wire mesh. Probably not bulletproof, but resistant, at least.

  “Change of mind. Forget the glass. I reckon we can shoot the lock off the door,” Ethan said.

  “Dude, I don’t know…” Brad said.

  Ethan made that peculiar cough-like laugh again and slapped Brad on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, man,” he said, “I’m just kidding. Who’d shoot shit in a service station? Too many fumes.” Into the back of his jeans he tucked the gun. His hand re-emerged with the Maglite. “Here, take my flashlight. You guys get out to the workshop.”

  What the hell?

  “Stop fucking around,” Tory said. Reason suggested Ethan was the comment’s target, but Tobe doubted that. Tory was looking at him, not her boyfriend.

  What had just transpired?

  “Guys, can you please get moving?” Rachel said.

  Agreed. Fuck this. Tobe snatched the proffered Maglite and turned to the door.

  Ganson hadn’t moved. As before, he sat against the glass in a pool of his own gore, inky and beetle-blood dark in the failing, fluorescent light, unlike Ressler’s which, in the full glare of the internal lights, was glossy and reflective. Ganson’s broad chest heaved and deflated.

  Ethan had turned serious again. “Like you said, when you open the door, he’s gonna fall inside.”

  “Flat on his back, he’ll be easier to step over,” Brad deadpanned. He sounded pissed off—Brad was a joker, sure, but Ethan had toyed with him a moment ago.

  Tory shook her head. “I’m not having that thing inside. Fuck being exposed to that.” With those words she made a beeline for the restroom, and a moment later returned wheeling a long-handled mop and bucket.

  “You gonna clean up the blood?” Brad said.

  “As if,” Tory replied. “I noticed this before, with one of those ‘Cleaning in Progress’ signs.”

  Ethan understood, and nodded. He said to Tobe, “When you open the door, we’ll brace lard-boy with the mop.”

  “His n
ame is Ganson,” Tobe said. “Show him some respect.”

  “Tobe’s right,” Sarah said. “The man’s still alive. For Christ’s sake, he deserves some dignity.”

  “Fuck dignity,” Tory said. “He’s sick, he’s basically dead. This is about us, now.”

  Ethan pulled the mop from the bucket. “Like I was saying, when you open the door, I’ll push him back the other way with this, keep him from falling inside, keep myself at a safe distance.”

  “Good for you, but what about me and Tobe?” Brad said.

  From the First-Aid kit, Sarah produced two face masks, and two pairs of latex gloves. “Here, wear these,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t like this much, it doesn’t seem right, treating a dying man this way, but we need to do something, and we’re wasting time. Where there’s life, there’s hope. Ganson is still alive.”

  A voice rasped from behind them.

  “You don’t want him in here,” it said.

  11

  Tobe spun as the voice spoke again.

  “You don’t want him in here.”

  Ressler, bolt upright in the chair, was awake. Although revived, he was not fully alert; his eyes had not opened, and he spoke as if from a deep sleep, his voice low and gravelled and sounding as though it came from a great distance. His head, facing forward, no longer lolled to the side. He’d lifted it, although it swayed gently on a rubbery neck. From beneath his bandage a fresh line of plum-dark blood trailed a path to his cheek. The scent of metal—iron or copper—bloomed again.

  Sarah was the first to break the shocked silence. “How do you feel?” she asked, moving to Ressler’s side.

  Brad’s grasping fingers hauled her back. “No! Let him speak!”

  “You don’t want him in here,” Ressler restated, more by rote than in response to Brad’s urging. With each word, the vocalisations grew stronger, rising incrementally in pitch and force. Ressler, it seemed, was literally finding his voice.

  “Why?” Rachel said to him. “Why don’t we want him in here? What’s wrong with him?”

  Silence. Ressler’s eyes remained closed.