Gorgo

by Carson Bingham

  “It is now regarded as certain that the creature is approaching the Thames Estuary.” the announcer said blandly. “Following the disaster early this morning—the loss of a destroyer with all hands—the admiralty has deployed major forces of the North Seas Fleet off the mouth of the estuary in an attempt to locate and destroy the monster before it reaches the coastal defenses.”

  I glanced at Moira. Her eyes were wide and she was gazing hypnotically at the newscaster. Her lips moved slightly. I could imagine her whispered words: an unvoiced prayer of some kind. For Gorgo? Or for mankind.

  “As a special feature of the BBC, we now take you to the inside of the Submarine Net Control Room where naval officers are even now closing the underwater nets guarding the Thames approach.”

  The scene on the television screen shifted to the Net Control Room. We could see a sailor turning a large wheel mounted on a wall into “LOCK” position. Lights flashed on a panel nearby.

  “All secure, sir,” said the sailor.

  A lieutenant nodded and spoke into a phone. “We’re just closing the last of the submarine nets now.” He listened a moment, and then spoke. “Yes, sir.”

  The screen went blank and the BBC announcer’s face appeared again. “We have established contact with one of our mobile television units aboard a submarine patrol operating outside the estuary. We now take you to the submarine patrol, sector two-eight.”

  The screen went blank and cleared again. We now saw the inside of a submarine. The captain, a radio operator, and a sonic technician were standing in front of a sonic recorder. I could see a squiggle, like an electrocardiograph, which emitted a noisy “beep-beep.”

  The captain of the submarine was standing at the periscope, slowly rotating it.

  “Anything there, sir?”

  The captain shook his head and continued his scanning.

  The radio operator, on a phone, turned to the captain. “Captain, it’s Admiral Brooks. He wants to speak to you.”

  The captain took the phone. “Yes, sir.” He listened a moment, and then said: “No, sir, Nothing here.”

  The captain, carrying the phone, moved to the sonic recorder. At a signal from the captain, the sonic technician increased the volume. The “beeps” became more insistent, but still they continued in a regular, almost soothing, rhythm.

  “The same, sir,” said the captain into the phone. “No change.” He handed the phone back to the radio operator.

  The screen went black again and then we saw the BBC announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “you have just seen a live on-the-spot report of the situation at the Thames Estuary. It is apparently obvious now that the monster—”

  The announcer halted and turned, receiving a note handed to him from someone. The announcer raised his eyes quickly to the camera, signaling.

  “We take you back to the Submarine Net Control Room—”

  Instantly we saw the Submarine Net Control Room again. An ensign was speaking into a phone, his face intent and alert. “Yes, yes! Just one moment, please.”

  A loud gonging sound cut him off short. The lieutenant turned quickly to the ensign, startled.

  “The nets!” he cried. “The signal for the nets!”

  The ensign spoke into the phone. “Hello! Hello!” He put the phone aside and turned to the lieutenant. “The connection is gone. I had him there a moment and—”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He said the nets have been torn. And then the connection was broken.”

  The lieutenant turned and grabbed up another phone. “Admiral, sir! Admiral Brooks. The creature’s got through. She’s smashed the nets! There’s nothing we can do now. Standing by for instructions, sir!”

  The screen went blank. I could feel the tension about me in the pub. Everyone who had been eating and chatting and drinking a moment before now sat stunned and silent, looking about furtively and fearfully. There was an air of horror and disbelief in everyone’s face.

  Then the face of the BBC announcer flashed on, tense and strained. He read a slip of paper in his hand, now and then glancing up at the camera.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have received a communication from Army Headquarters in London, from the Commander-in-Chief of Operations. It states that the creature is believed to be following the course of the River Thames. The decision to use atomic weapons on the creature would be out of the question because of the densely populated area involved. Tanks and missiles will be used to stop the beast’s progress. The population is warned to remain indoors, however, to keep away from the river, and to remain calm.”

  Instantly the pub was filled with the sound of nervous chatter and the babble of hysterical voices.

  I gripped Moira’s hand. We stared at each other. “ ’Tis what I have guessed, Somhairle,” She whispered, “ ’Tis the end of the world.”

  I shook my head. “No Moira. We’ll be able to take care of it. You watch.”

  Now the screen of the television set showed a column of huge military tanks racing along the bank of the Thames River. At the head of the column a jeep, with a mounted siren screeching deafeningly, cleared the way. The streets seemed not overcrowded. Apparently the instructions of the government on the television had been followed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” another announcer said, “we are stationed here with our mobile unit just outside the Tower Bridge. It is this spot that the army has decided to mount its final assault on the monster.”

  As we watched, spellbound, the Tower Bridge flashed on the screen: two big fat Gothic columns of rock and masonry astride the Thames River, joined together at the top by footwalks, and at the bottom by movable twin bascules capable of swinging up and down to accommodate shipping.

  We could see a naval ship of some kind passing through under the raised bascules, and then as the ship came clear, the two sections immediately lowered into place. The column of tanks, which had been waiting at the Tower Bridge approach, moved onto the stabilized span. Soldiers with bazookas and walkie-talkies leaped out of personnel trucks and took up positions on the bridge. Others ran into the two towers, and began the ascent to take up their places on the footwalks above.

  The tanks moved in, facing downstream. Soldiers pushed huge searchlights into place on the bridge.

  “There she is!” cried the announcer.

  We all strained our eyes. Yes! We could see her! In the water past the bridge, a huge head, dimly visible, emerged from the murk. A murmur of tense excitement shot through the people in the pub about us.

  We saw a soldier shoot off a flare-gun. The flare’s parachutes opened directly above the shape in the river. The flare-lights fell slowly, illuminating the darkened river with bright burning red light. The huge, red-eyed head of the monster became clearly visible. A volley of shots rang out. Long trains of tracer bullets beat down into the water at the beast.

  The beast vanished. One instant she was there, the next she had gone.

  More flares zoomed into the air. Then, with unbelievable speed, the monster rose to her full height just beyond the bridge, roaring and waving her talons about. She reached up and grasped the steel girders of the bridge, ripping at the cables, smashing at the massive towers.

  A moan of something quite like pain squeezed from the throats of all of us in that pub. No one moved. It was incredible, the strength and the ferocity of the beast! And we could see it clearly and vividly on that television screen.

  The television camera kept on. Flares fell about the beast, lighting her grotesque form with a greenish light, showing clearly her fiendish grin, her pointed teeth, and her massive, destructive talons. She reared up, and swiped with her tail at the north tower of the bridge. Stones and rubble pelted down in a huge swirling cloud of dust. We heard screams and shrieks, and we saw soldiers struggle in the Thames, thrown there by the lashing force of the beast’s attack.

  Then, with terrifying suddenness, the monster backed up, raised her claws, and crushed them down on the bridge span. The footwalk
s split apart. Men went plunging into the water, screaming. Tracer bullets wove a crazy pattern in the air and then ceased. Flares fell into the Thames, burning brightly. The monster reached up and pulled apart the cables linking the towers to the banks. Then she grasped the two wide steel bascules and ripped them from their moorings at the tower bases. She flung them backwards under her into the water. Tanks and men tumbled out helplessly.

  Standing there in the middle of the devastation, she then swung her two arms out wide like a man doing calisthenics, striking and buckling the two heavily-built Gothic towers, breaking them in the middle. They collapsed into two piles of rubble at each side of the river.

  The immense obscenity turned and viewed the pile of masonry and steel which had once been the proud Tower Bridge. Then she turned toward us. She raised her hideous head in the air and let loose a shriek of triumph and warning. Then she dove into the water heading up the river, pushing aside wrecked tanks, twisted steel, and broken human bodies like so many match sticks.

  The television screen went blank.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a man’s shaking voice croaked weakly, “due to technical difficulties, the program previously scheduled has been temporarily disrupted. We will now hear the London Marching Band in a special selection.”

  Nobody was listening to the music. Panic had erupted in the pub. Like a wild thing unleashed, the crowd rushed for the doorway. Patrons clawed at one another savagely.

  I kept Moira clutched to me. We were sucked into a vortex of milling people and abruptly spewed out into the street.

  Dazed and stunned, we stood there, watching the panic-stricken Londoners fleeing in all directions. To the east we could see a strange, ominous brightness lighting the sky. Something was burning.

  “Has Ogra set the city on fire?” cried Moira, looking at the glowing sky.

  “I don’t know,” I said, struggling to keep my own panic under control. I turned and looked around. I had no idea what to do now. Set the beast free? Possibly . . .

  Before I could act, I heard a screech of brakes, and there was Joe in his cream-colored Frazer-Nash. He leaned out and yelled at us. I was never so damned happy to see that lean, yellow-eyed face in my life before.

  “Sam! Moira! The kid’s gone! Sean! We’ve got to get him!”

  I gripped Moira’s arm. “Sean?”

  She screamed. “You let him go? You—”

  “I didn’t let him go! He was there, packing, and a woman came and got him! I just got there and heard.”

  “A woman?” I couldn’t follow that.

  “She claimed she was his mother. Said she’d seen the write-ups in the paper, and knew he was Sean McCartin. She had blonde hair. Blue eyes. A mole on her left cheek, they tell me.”

  I stared at Moira.

  “It was!” she cried, “She’s my stepmother! Maighréad. Oh God! Where did she take him?”

  “To the Berkeley Hotel to find you. They want to meet you there.”

  I stared at the reddening sky. “The Berkeley! That’s near the monster! We’ve got to get Sean! Come on! Push that pedal to the floor, Joe! See if she can do that one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour you’ve been shouting about.”

  We piled into the car and Joe took off like a bat out of hell.

  Chapter 14

  The little Frazer-Nash roared along Grosvenor Road, on the north bank of the Thames, on to Westminster Bridge Road, and we could see the orange glow blossoming out into the sky ahead of us. Moira tugged at my arm suddenly, pointing out toward the river from Westminster Square.

  I turned. It was a navy gasoline barge. On its side I could read the big red letters: DANGER—HIGH OCTANE.

  “Joe!” I shouted. “They’re going to try to burn the monster out of the river.”

  We turned and headed out into Westminster Bridge where we stopped. We saw the oncoming monster. We saw the officer on deck shouting to his men, waving his arms. Gasoline poured out of the opening on the side of the ship into the water.

  “Oh my God in heaven!” cried Moira, pointing out into the murk of the river. “ ’Tis she! ’Tis Ogra!”

  It was she. The monster had reared out of the water and was now slapping along, glancing about unhurriedly, watching the tiny ants of people running about helter-skelter. She kept right on coming. More barges joined the first one, emptying more gasoline into the water. Then on signal, the sailors and officers jumped into launches and sped for the sides of The River.

  The monster kept coming forward slowly, sniffing the air as if she were curious about the strange gasoline smell. The men from the barges hid down behind sandbags erected at the edge of the River. We could see an officer raising his hand.

  A sailor on the embankment fired a flame-thrower into the water. The flames leapt from the thrower to the gasoline. Instantly the entire width of the Thames was a mass of flames. The wall of fire moved swiftly toward the advancing creature. Now, for the first time, the monster came to a halt, and looked apprehensively in front of her. She stared down at the fire, now rapidly enveloping her, and then reared back.

  With her tremendous tail she slapped the curtain of fire away from her. Flaming water enveloped the barges. The monster struck again, washing the barges with burning gasoline. The barges were now a mass of swirling flames. The crackling sound of the holocaust filled the air. Smoke billowed down over us like a blanket.

  As we sat there in the Frazer-Nash, stunned by the sight before us of the burning Thames, I heard a strange far-off sound, coming from in back of us, coming from Battersea Park.

  It was the anguished, lonesome cry of Gorgo, in his enclosure. Gorgo!

  Now the huge monster in front of us, towering two hundred feet into the air, cocked her greenish head in the direction of Gorgo’s sound, and emitted a howling screaming answer. With one more flick of her tail at the flaming barges, she turned, wading through the sheets of flaming gasoline, and started to come ashore on the north side of the river, a half block ahead of us.

  All around sirens screamed. Fire trucks appeared from nowhere, playing jets of water on the blazing Thames. A wind had come up. It was carrying the flames onto rooftops nearby. The reddish glow in the heavens spread out like a nasty, noxious stain. The wreckage of the Tower Bridge had apparently caught fire, along with the countless broken electric power lines.

  Joe gunned the Frazer-Nash and we backed up, heading for St. James Park and Piccadilly. We had to get to the Berkeley on St. James Street before the monster did. The general plan of the monster’s progress was not quite evident. In wading ashore, she had definitely turned in a direction away from Gorgo’s pen. She must have some reason. I couldn’t figure it.

  A sound truck approached us from the rear, blasting out with a deep roaring voice:

  “The street must be kept clear for military and defense personnel! Repeat, the street must be kept clear for military and defense personnel. The Ministry of Civil Defense has declared a state of Emergency for all areas of London within three miles of the Thames River.”

  In the pandemonium of crying voices and running people, I’m sure no one even heard it.

  “If you are without shelter, go to the nearest underground and stay there! Repeat. If you are without shelter go to the nearest underground! Please keep off the streets! I repeat. Military authorities request all persons to keep off the streets!”

  We turned and headed up St. James. I could see the shape of the Berkeley at Piccadilly corner. “There it is, Joe!” I cried. “Not much further! Keep going!”

  It was becoming increasingly difficult to drive. The street was a crawling mass of panic-stricken humanity. Cabs jockeyed about for position. Cars were abandoned. Policemen were rushing about trying to bring some semblance of order to the milling crowds. Out of upper story windows pop-eyed civilians peered down, staring frenziedly at the mass of close-packed humanity below.

  The tide of humanity engulfed the Frazer-Nash. We were literally lifted off the ground, and turned half about. Joe pulled the keys
out of the ignition.

  “Come on! We’ve got to run for it!”

  I grabbed Moira, and held tightly to her. We pushed through the screaming mass of people in the direction of Piccadilly. Around us sweating, hysterically screaming people were pummeling one another, crying out, shouting, and going nowhere. It was the end of the world.

  And then, as we shoved and beat our way desperately against each other, trying to keep from being crushed, there was an instant’s silence, and a terrifying scream of horror and fear.

  I looked up.

  The monster had turned aside from the Thames, and was now pushing its way into Piccadilly Circus, half obscured in the night by a cloud of dust and debris kicked up by her own destructive movements. Air raid sirens squealed about us. A man with a huge white beard stood on top of an automobile in the center of the ocean of panicked people shouting:

  “It’s Armageddon! Your sins have found you out! It’s the prophecy fulfilled!”

  As he stood there, screaming, the crowd surged and ebbed. A hand reached up out of somewhere. He went down. He did not appear again.

  “Quick!” Joe yelled. “Into the underground!”

  He pointed toward a sign. We pulled along after him, fighting our way each step. I saw the big monster’s form lumbering along Piccadilly. With enraged howls, the big beast would throw her talons into a building and tear the walls to pieces as she touched them. Bricks cascaded into the pavements, bloodying screaming pedestrians below. Bodies hurled through the air, literally torn out of the falling buildings.

  Fire broke out. Electric wires crackled with a sinister sibilant sound. Smoke and dirt boiled out of the destruction toward us. The crowd became a huge, coiling reptilian beast itself, whirling about like cattle in a mill.