The Fungus

by Harry Adam Knight

  “Me. No way. You go. You’re the man.”

  “That’s a pretty reactionary, not to mention sexist, thing to say!”

  She simply shrugged.

  The screams changed pitch. It no longer sounded like Horace, but some animal being burnt alive.

  “Look, how about we both go?” cried Geoff, his eyes bulging with alarm.

  She thought it over and nodded. “But only if you take the lead,” she said firmly.

  The screaming had ceased by the time they started to move. They progressed warily through the series of caves, Geoff stopping several times when his flickering candle produced menacing, shadowy shapes ahead of them. He was holding the nearest thing to a weapon they had—a small axe. Sheena stayed well behind him despite his requests for her to close the gap between them.

  Finally they reached Horace.

  He dangled from the ceiling of the cave where it was split by the fissure. He was held in a network of glistening white strands that reminded Sheena of thick spaghetti or macaroni. Several of them had formed tight loops around his body. Others appeared to be growing into it.

  He was almost unrecognizable. He was grotesquely bloated as if he’d been pumped up with air. His thin face had gone perfectly round and his fingers were like bunches of white carrots.

  “Jesus, what are those things?” gasped Geoff, moving closer. “What happened to him?”

  Sheena looked up and saw that the “spaghetti” extended down from the ends of the beech tree roots. “Don’t go near him,” she warned Geoff.

  “Shit, we can’t leave him hanging there like that. I’m going to cut him down.” He walked up to Horace’s suspended body and raised the axe.

  “Geoff!” she yelled.

  But it was too late. The white strands, which had been perfectly motionless, suddenly sprang into life as Geoff neared them. Before he could react a white loop had appeared round his hand holding the axe. He tried to jerk free but other loops snared his left arm.

  “Sheena, help me!”

  But she could only stand there and watch as the white strands wrapped themselves around him in increasing numbers, their loops constricting his limbs.

  She didn’t know it but she was watching a mutated form of arthrobotrys oligospora in action. One of the carnivorous fungi, it had been previously restricted to microscopic size in the soil where it fed on small worms called nematodes. It trapped the worms within the ringed snares strung along its adhesive network of hyphae and then used a penetration knob to enter their bodies, pump toxin into them, and spread out a cluster of special feeding hyphae that grew out along the length of the worms’ bodies. These hyphae would liquefy the worms’ tissues and absorb the digested food until only the skins remained.

  This is what had happened to Horace Snell, and was in the process of happening to Geoffrey Henderson . . .

  The mutated arthrobotrys oligospora penetrated his writhing body in several places with the sharp pegs on the ends of its hyphae and then began to inject a toxin to incapacitate him. As the toxin was pure ammonia Geoff’s discomfort was acute.

  Sheena waited until Geoff was silent and his body had begun to swell. Then she turned and headed back toward the end cave.

  Once there she stretched out on her sleeping bag and put her hands behind her head. “Peace at last,” she murmured.

  9

  The Belfast dock area was crawling with soldiers.

  As they halted at yet another roadblock Wilson was struck by the futility of all this military activity. What did the Army hope to achieve by the show of force? What use were guns against microscopic particles of fungi being wafted ashore in the wind? Or perhaps a seabird landing on some remote stretch of coast would bring the fungus to Ireland. He guessed this display of military muscle was more for the benefit of the officers and soldiers themselves than anyone else. By strutting around and being obtuse in the way typical of all British authority they were fooling themselves into thinking they still had some control over the situation.

  The discussion between the officer in charge of the roadblock and O’Connell went on and on. Finally the officer disappeared into a small hut by the side of the road. The pole remained lowered in front of their vehicle.

  “What’s all this for?” Wilson asked O’Connell. “Couldn’t you have phoned ahead or something? It would be nice to go to our deaths without being held up by army red tape.”

  “It’s regulations,” said O’Connell curtly. “They’re only doing their job.”

  “Their job?” Wilson laughed. “I suppose they’ll still be checking each other’s passes when they’re nothing but toadstools on legs.”

  “That’s not funny,” said O’Connell.

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  It was the last of the roadblocks. Once through, the army staff car turned onto a wharf and pulled up alongside a strange-­looking boat. It was about 90 feet long and had a square, chunky shape to it apart from the bow and forward cabin which were streamlined. It also seemed to sit very low in the water.

  “Christ, what kind of tub is that?” exclaimed Slocock as they got out of the car. “It’ll take us forever to get to England in that thing.”

  “On the contrary,” said a man in naval uniform who was coming along the gangway leading from the top deck of the vessel. “This is HMS Speedy, the Royal Navy’s first hydrofoil in nearly 40 years. As we can’t fly you to the mainland this is the next best thing.” He held out his hand. “I’m Captain Barclay. Welcome aboard.”

  They all shook hands with him except for Slocock who said, “No offense, Captain, but it’s a habit I’ve picked up recently. Avoid all physical contact with someone until you know where they’ve been.”

  Captain Barclay regarded him with amusement. “Probably a wise precaution where you’re going. Rather you than me, I must admit. I admire your courage. All of you.”

  “Courage has nothing to do with it,” muttered Wilson. Then he added, “But won’t you be stuck on the mainland too, after you’ve delivered us?”

  “No. I’m dropping you a half a mile outside of Holyhead. You’ll go the rest of the way in that.” He pointed to one of two rubber boats lashed to the roof of the cabin. Both of them had powerful-­looking outboard motors.

  “Time you were leaving,” said O’Connell, glancing at his watch.

  “Not coming with us?” asked Slocock, an edge to his voice. “I thought you’d want to make sure we reach our destination.”

  “Captain Barclay is more than capable of doing that,” he said stiffly. “Goodbye, and good luck. I don’t have to tell you how much depends on the success of your mission.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Wilson. He muttered farewell to O’Connell and followed the others up the gangway and onto the deck of the hydrofoil. The gangway was immediately pushed ashore by crewmen who then began to cast off.

  Barclay led them into the spacious bridge. Two other naval officers were there. One of them sat facing controls that were more like those of an aircraft than a boat. Barclay nodded to him.

  “Okay Jim, take her away,” he said casually. He obviously ran an informal ship.

  An engine rumbled into life and the vessel started to move. Wilson looked back at O’Connell’s stiff, unmoving figure on the wharf. He’s a dead man already, thought Wilson, and we soon will be.

  The hydrofoil moved slowly out of the harbor and into Belfast Lough. Then it began to pick up speed.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be a noisy and bumpy ride once we’re up on our foils,” warned Captain Barclay. “I think you’ll be more comfortable down below. We can’t offer much in the way of passenger amenities but I can at least give you a drink or three.”

  Slocock’s face brightened. “Thank God for the Navy,” he said.

  Barclay waited until HMS Speedy had lifted herself out of the water and was riding on her three foils, propelled by her two gas-­turbine water jets at a speed of over 45 knots, before he led them below.

  “She’s a great lit
tle boat,” he said proudly as he ushered them into a small cabin fitted with comfortable chairs, a couch and a card table. “She was supposed to be the first of a fleet of five but the budget cuts put an end to that.”

  He told them to sit down and then produced a bottle of Johnny Walker and four glasses.

  As Wilson sipped his scotch and listened to Barclay make small-­talk about Defense Budgets he experienced a sudden feeling of unreality. Not many hours ago he’d been working as usual in his County Wicklow cottage and now he was plunged into a nightmare world where London had been practically destroyed and all human life was under threat. And he, Barry Wilson, failed scientist and struggling writer, was expected somehow to save the day. All he had to do was make a long journey into an unimaginably poisonous environment with two complete strangers and find his wife, who, if she was still alive, could be anywhere in what remained of London.

  I’ll wake up, he told himself. I’ll wake up and be back in my own safe world where my biggest problem is thinking up ways to stall my bank manager.

  But he didn’t wake up. He remained stuck in the small cabin in the hydrofoil that was juddering like a bus being driven at speed over very rough ground.

  For the first time he looked closely at his two traveling companions. Slocock didn’t impress him. He looked like a thug. A tough thug. Someone who’d be dangerous in a fight, despite his small stature. Wilson didn’t relish the thought of being trapped in close proximity with him for any length of time.

  On the other hand Kimberley Fairchild looked very attractive. He hadn’t realized until then just how attractive she was. Beautiful skin, good, strong features and an interesting body. He wondered what it would look like out of those baggy clothes.

  He glanced up to find she was looking straight at him. “I met your wife once, Dr. Wilson,” she said.

  “Really? When?” he asked. He was sure she knew what he’d been thinking.

  “Two years ago. At a mycology conference in London. At London University. She impressed me a great deal. I could easily believe what people said about her—that she was a genius in her field.”

  “Some genius,” said Slocock with a bitter laugh.

  Wilson didn’t know what to say. He felt an instinctive urge to defend Jane, but how could he? The enormity of what she’d done hung over them like a giant cloud. A mushroom cloud, he thought bleakly. What was worse was that he felt a certain guilt-­by-­association. He knew it was irrational but he couldn’t help it.

  “It must have been terrible for her,” said Kimberley.

  Wilson frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “When she realized what she’d done. After years of effort trying to create something that would benefit all mankind she discovers her work has produced the very opposite effect. The knowledge must have devastated her.”

  “Look, I know she’s your wife and all, mate,” said Slocock, “But as far as I’m concerned,” he turned to Kimberley, “I’m not wasting any sympathy on her. She’s a typical bloody scientist, pissing about with things she didn’t understand and dropping us all in the shit as a result.”

  “Uh, anyone like another drink?” Captain Barclay broke in diplomatically. Slocock of course said yes.

  Wilson asked Barclay when they’d reach Holyhead.

  “Should take us about two and a half hours, barring delays along the way.”

  “What sort of delays?”

  “Well, I expect we’ll run into our prickly French friends. The top brass has informed them of our mission and theoretically we’ve got clearance both ways. But you know what the French are like. I may be doing them a disservice but I have the strong feeling that the French have been waiting for a chance like this ever since the Battle of Trafalgar.”

  They had their first encounter with the French an hour into their journey. An intercom that Wilson hadn’t noticed gave a shrill squawk and a voice said urgently, “Captain, you’re needed on the bridge.”

  Barclay hurried out. After a hesitant pause Wilson decided to follow him. Slocock and Kimberley got up too.

  The hydrofoil was already slowing down when they reached the bridge. As Wilson looked out he was alarmed to see a large geyser of water explode out of the sea about 50 yards directly ahead of them. He realized it was a shell.

  Then he saw the other vessel. It lay a quarter of a mile on their port side. A destroyer, he decided, or a corvette.

  One of the officers handed Barclay a pair of binoculars. “It’s the Montcalm, sir. That’s the second time they’ve lobbed a 100mm at us. I’ve raised them on the blower but all they’re speaking is French.”

  Barclay took a quick look through the glasses then snatched up the headset sitting on top of the radio. He spoke rapidly in French. Wilson saw a puff of smoke appear at the front of the French ship. Shortly afterwards another plume of water shot out of the sea ahead of the hydrofoil, but this time much closer. There was a dull boom.

  The hydrofoil was now settling into the water and coming to a stop.

  The next shell, Wilson realized, would blow them apart.

  Barclay’s torrent of French grew louder in volume. Then he dropped the headset back on the radio and heaved a sigh of relief. “A close one,” he said. “But I think I’ve convinced them of our identity. Very reluctant to believe me, though.”

  “Couldn’t they tell we were heading toward England instead of away from it?” Wilson asked.

  “No. We’re traveling due south at the moment so we could have come from anywhere. Like Scotland perhaps. The French are obviously not taking chances anymore.”

  HMS Speedy started moving again and was soon back on its foils. Wilson watched the French ship anxiously but there were no more puffs of smoke.

  They didn’t encounter another French vessel until they were approaching the three-­mile limit, though they had been buzzed on several occasions by both jet fighters and helicopters. This one was a much smaller craft but moved almost as fast as the hydrofoil.

  “It’s a Combattante,” explained Barclay. “One of their new fast strike craft. Can do 35 knots and it’s armed with four MM.38 Exocets. It’s going to follow us in and make sure we don’t go any closer to the mainland than we said we would.”

  As the hydrofoil continued on toward the coast Barclay pointed out wreckage floating in the water. “They’ve been busy around here recently.”

  They passed more wreckage. And bodies. Burnt bodies floating face-­down.

  Then they passed someone who was still alive. It was a man, his face black from either burns or oil. He waved feebly. Barclay glanced at him and then stared grimly ahead.

  “You’re just going to leave him there?” asked Wilson.

  “I have to. I stop and pick him up those Frenchmen behind us will blow us out of the water.”

  Wilson looked back at the man who was still waving, then he turned and stared ahead too. He tried to rationalize his guilt by telling himself there was worse to come.

  It was just after 6 p.m. when they halted at the half-­mile point. The July sun was still hot on Wilson’s face as he went out on deck. The rubber boat was being made ready by four of the Speedy’s crew. In the distance he could see that the French patrol boat had also come to a halt. It looked ominous.

  “Sea’s like a millpond so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting ashore,” said Barclay with forced brightness. “Anyway I understand they’ll be sending a launch out to meet you. We’ll radio that you’re on your way.”

  When the rubber boat was in the water the three of them said goodbye to Barclay and climbed down into it. Slocock started the outboard motor.

  Wilson watched the hydrofoil recede into the distance with a tremendous feeling of regret. Despite the French gunboats and aircraft he had felt secure in the company of Barclay and his men. Now he was on his own. Well, almost.

  He glanced at Kimberley. “What have you got in store for us tonight, Doctor? When we reach Bangor, I mean.”

  “I told you. We start you on a course of the M
egacrine drug,” she said guardedly.

  “Yes, but will we have time for a few hours’ relaxation? A restaurant meal, perhaps? Or a visit to a pub? My treat.”

  “I don’t think you’ll feel like either eating or boozing.”

  “Why? Are the side effects of the drug that bad?”

  “They’re not good.”

  “So tell me, what are they?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “I’ll have to know sooner or later.”

  “Yeah, tell us, Doc,” called Slocock from the stern of the boat. “Do we turn purple or what?”

  Kimberley sighed. “Megacrine produces the following side-­effects: nausea, vomiting, abdominal cramps, headache, diarrhea, vertigo, excessive sweating, fever, itching, insomnia, and pains in all the muscles and joints. And if the dosage is too strong for your individual metabolism it can seriously damage your skin, your gastro-­intestinal tract and central nervous system with potentially fatal results. Satisfied?”

  “Christ,” muttered Wilson.

  “I think I’d prefer to turn into a mushroom,” said Slocock.

  10

  Wilson screwed his eyes shut and tensed his muscles as the now familiar spasms started again. But he couldn’t prevent the stream of vomit bursting from his mouth. Most of it missed the bucket and spattered on the floor. He couldn’t have cared less. He felt close to death.

  He was lying on a bed in a hall of residence at Bangor University. It was nearly 4 a.m. and Kimberley’s medical colleagues had been injecting the damned anti-­fungus drug into him for over six hours now. He had no idea whether he was having a good or bad reaction to the stuff, nor did he know how either Kimberley or Slocock were faring. All he knew was that he’d never felt so bad in all his life.

  They’d arrived in Holyhead just before 7 p.m. and Wilson had been immediately struck by how different it was from Belfast. Like Belfast the place was crawling with soldiers, but whereas the atmosphere in Belfast had been tense and anxious, here it was much worse. There was an air of despair in Holyhead and, more disturbing, an underlying sense of panic. The soldiers were all acting very nervously, glancing about continually with suspicious eyes. They clutched their guns as if they were magic talismans that could somehow protect them against the fungus. Wilson felt that it wouldn’t take much of a spark to set them off. They’d run amok, shooting at everything.