As Wilson and the others, with their armed escort, moved through the series of cordons, they were regarded with undisguised hostility when the soldiers discovered who they were. It puzzled Wilson at first—he wondered if it was because he was Jane Wilson’s husband—but then he presumed it was because the three of them had come from Ireland which the trapped masses in Holyhead and elsewhere along the coast looked upon as a tantalizingly close but unreachable haven of safety. They resented anyone who could be so crazy as to leave the place and actually come to the mainland.
Even the members of their escort—an MI5 official and two Special Branch men—were cold and unfriendly toward them. Wilson tried pumping them for information about the present situation inland but only received unhelpful monosyllabic answers.
Just by looking around as their vehicle pushed its way through the choked streets Wilson could tell how bad the situation had become. Refugees outnumbered the soldiers ten-to-one. They milled around helplessly, trapped between the approaching fungus and the military lines guarding the seafront.
“Don’t see why you don’t just turn the poor bastards loose and let them take their chances with the French,” said Slocock as they passed by a crowd of refugees trying to push their way through a barricade.
“Because the more people who try and escape by sea, the more likely the Frogs will start dropping neutron bombs on us,” said one of the Special Branch men.
There were groups of refugees all along the road to Bangor and Bangor itself was also packed with people.
At Bangor University they were met by Kimberley’s colleague, Dr. George Helman, a fat, feminine-looking man with a wispy blond mustache and delicate hands. He and Kimberley greeted each other like long-lost friends and Wilson experienced a slight twinge of jealousy as he watched them hug each other. Former lovers, he wondered? It was difficult to imagine Kimberley making love to this bizarre character but perhaps she was the sort of woman who found intelligent men a turn-on. If that was the case then Wilson decided he stood a better chance of getting somewhere with her than Slocock. He’d already noticed a certain antagonism between them.
After showing them their quarters and giving them a half hour to “freshen up,” as Helman put it, he took them into a laboratory where tests were being run on samples of the mutated fungi. Through two layers of thick glass they watched people encased in bulky white suits at work in the sealed-off area.
“Bit risky, isn’t it?” Wilson asked him. “All you need is for one mutated cell to get out and you’ll have brought the plague here as well.”
“Those people you see in there are all volunteers. They never come out. They have a separate living area sealed off from the lab but the whole complex is cut off from the outside world. Nothing comes out of there. Air is recycled, waste products are stored . . . not a single molecule of anything gets out of there.”
“Still risky, though. What if there’s an accident? A faulty seal? Or someone just makes a stupid human error?”
“We have to take that risk, Dr. Wilson,” said Helman. “The only labs where research is being carried out on actual samples of the fungus are all located in this country. No one yet wants to take the chance of importing samples into other countries, for the very reasons you’ve just listed.”
“You still haven’t isolated the cause of the plague?”
“No. But thanks to you we’re now following up a new line of attack.”
Wilson frowned. “Me?”
“Your information about the enzymes. It was passed on to us from Belfast. And to every other lab working on the problem. I’ve no doubt one of us will crack it sooner or later, but ‘later’ is something we just can’t afford. That’s why it’s vital you get your hands on the precise chemical breakdown of the agent.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” said Wilson brusquely. If one more person told him the fate of mankind rested on his shoulders he’d go berserk.
“Has any progress been made in finding ways of killing the stuff?” he asked.
“Oh, killing the fungi is easy,” said Helman. “It’s stopping it from spreading that’s the problem. The army and air force have been dumping all kinds of things on the infected areas—everything from napalm to Agent Orange—and have had a lot of success, but only temporarily.
“When it was clear that London was a write-off they created a mile-wide barrier right around the city. Everything in that zone was razed, burned and sprayed with poison. Planes and helicopters continually sprayed more poison over the area but still the fungi got out.”
“How far has it spread now?” asked Slocock.
“It’s covering most of southern England. It’s reached the coast from Southend all the way round to Torquay . . . Cornwall and parts of Devon are still uninfected but probably not for much longer. Northward it’s as far as Warwick. It’s moving on a curved front that stretches from southern Wales through Hereford and Worcester, Warwick, Northampton, Cambridgeshire and Suffolk.
“But there are other, smaller, areas of infection further north. In Derby, Yorkshire . . . there’s even one in Scotland.”
They were all silent for a time. Then Kimberley said, “What success have you had in treating victims of the fungus?”
“Practically none,” admitted Helman. “Come, I’ll show you.”
He led them into a different room. There the observation panel looked in on a section of the laboratory that contained a number of cages. Things were moving in the cages but Wilson couldn’t tell what they were. They appeared to be shapeless, fuzzy blobs. One of them was simply a cluster of spherical white toadstools that staggered blindly about the cage.
“What are they?” he asked.
“Cats.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“Each one is infected with a different species of fungi. We’ve tried everything but we can’t kill the fungus without killing the host.”
“What about radiation?” asked Kimberley.
“Yes.” Helman nodded his chubby face. “We have had some good results with that, but the level of radiation needed to kill all of the deep-rooted hyphal strands is inevitably fatal for the host. And even if you could find a safe way of killing the fungi, the infestation leaves the host in a pretty ravaged state. Large sections of skin eaten away, serious damage to the internal organs from the penetrating hyphae, and so on.
“It’s only really in the area of prevention that we’ve had any real success. Megacrine is our star performer.”
He took them into another section. Through the thick glass they saw a middle-aged man wearing jeans and t-shirt, lying on a bed reading. “He’s been exposed to fungi infection for several days but so far there’s been no sign of it in his body,” said Helman.
“He doesn’t look too hot,” observed Slocock sourly.
“Apart from the side effects of the drug he’s also dying of a tumor in the brain. That’s why he volunteered for this.”
“I understand you lost two of your four volunteers who took the drug,” said Wilson.
“Uhhh, yes, but that was before we realized that individual tolerances to it varied greatly. I’m confident we can treat each of you without endangering your lives. However, the side-effects . . .” he paused and looked inquiringly at Kimberley.
“I’ve told them it won’t be pleasant,” said Kimberley.
“Well, I suppose we’d better get on with it then,” said Helman apologetically.
“How about a bite to eat first?” asked Slocock. “I’m bloody starving.”
Helman looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think food would be a good idea,” he said.
That had been the understatement of the decade, thought Wilson as he got off the bed and staggered toward the toilet. His guts were on fire again and he could hardly stand. He got his pants down and collapsed onto the seat just in time. The little control he had over his bowels went and with a searing pain his rectum released what felt like sulphuric acid.
After
wards he sat there trembling, too weak to move. His head throbbed appallingly and his limbs ached. I’m dying, he told himself. I hope.
When he’d finally managed to get himself back to the bed the door opened and Helman entered to make one of his periodic checks on Wilson’s condition.
“How are we feeling now?” he asked cheerfully as he put the cold end of a stethoscope onto Wilson’s sweaty chest.
“We are feeling fucking terrible. We are feeling even more fucking terrible than the last time you asked me.”
Helman made a clucking sound. “Now, now, Dr. Wilson, you should think yourself fortunate. Your reaction to Megacrine has been relatively mild.”
“Mild? Why, you great, fat, crazy . . .”
“Yes, mild. We almost lost poor Kim.”
“Kim?” Wilson’s mind had gone blank. “Who the hell’s Kim?”
“Kimberley. Her heart stopped. Luckily we got it going again within less than a minute. No serious damage, thank God. She should recover all right.”
“Her heart stopped?” gasped Wilson as the meaning of the words sunk in.
Helman nodded. “It was a close thing.”
“Jesus,” whispered Wilson.
“The Sergeant seems to be pulling through okay though. His reaction has been even less severe than yours.”
“That’s marvelous,” muttered Wilson. He didn’t give a damn about Slocock. But Kimberley . . . the extent of the shock he felt on hearing she’d almost died surprised him. With her along the journey ahead had seemed almost bearable, but to have to make it alone with Slocock was unthinkable. Especially feeling like this.
He shook his head wearily. “How the hell are we going to travel any distance in this condition? I feel so weak I can hardly stand and from what you say Kimberley must be a lot worse.”
“This is just the initial reaction. You’ll feel better as your body adjusts. You won’t feel well, of course, and if there’s a mistake in your dosage these acute symptoms could recur, but I should say you’ll be fit enough to travel by tomorrow night.”
He took out a syringe and asked Wilson to roll up his sleeve. “I’m going to take another blood sample. If the test results are good I’ll give you something that will knock you out for a while. By the time you wake up you should feel much better.”
Wilson woke up feeling terrible. True, he didn’t feel as sick as before, but he still felt pretty bad. It was like a combination of the worst hangover of his life with an influenza attack. The thought of walking a few yards, much less flying to Wolverhampton, definitely did not appeal to him.
He pressed the buzzer beside the bed. Shortly Helman came bouncing into the room, looking as cherubic as ever. Wilson remembered the fungus-covered cats in the laboratory.
“Ah, good! You look lots better.” He gave Wilson a quick examination and then said, “Come and see the others. They’re awake too.”
Feeling dizzy, Wilson followed Helman unsteadily down the corridor and into Kimberley’s room. She was propped up in bed and talking to Slocock, who was sitting on the end of the bed.
Wilson’s irritation at seeing them on obviously better terms was overshadowed by the shock of Kimberley’s appearance. He could barely recognize her. She looked shattered. Her face was pasty and haggard and her eyes were sunken and surrounded by black rings.
She gave him a weak smile. “Hello Barry, how are you feeling?” Her voice was like an old woman’s.
Ignoring her, Wilson turned angrily on Helman. “This is ridiculous!” he cried. “She can’t travel in that condition!”
Helman spread his hands helplessly. “I’m afraid she has to.”
“No, I won’t permit it! The Sergeant and I will have to go by ourselves!”
“You’d never reach London without me,” said Kimberley. “Without me to regulate the dosages of Megacrine you’d quickly become incapacitated.”
“I don’t care,” said Wilson. “It’s out of the question. I refuse to let you come with us.”
Helman pursed his cupid’s bow lips. “I’m afraid, Dr. Wilson, that you have no choice in the matter.”
Five hours later, after they’d rested and managed to keep down some soup, they climbed into the army Lynx helicopter that was to take them to Wolverhampton. This time they were accompanied by only the dour MI5 official.
Kimberley had improved a little but still looked terribly ill. She sat in the helicopter with her eyes tightly closed as if using all her willpower not to throw up.
Helman stood there waving as the helicopter lifted off.
Wilson didn’t wave back.
11
“What is it?” asked Wilson.
“It was a ‘Stalwart’,” said Slocock. “An Alvis PV2 ‘Stalwart’ Mark 3.” He was impressed. Someone had done a hell of a lot of work on it in a very short time.
They were standing in a shed at a make-shift army camp on the outskirts of Wolverhampton. The center of attention was a large, six-wheeled army truck. It stood very high off the ground on its huge balloon tires, its angular front similar to that of a landing craft. It was amphibious and its built-in propulsion units could, Slocock knew, push it through still water at four to five knots. Slocock had driven one before—there were not many vehicles in the British army he hadn’t driven—but he’d never seen a Stalwart quite like this one.
Its rear freight section had been completely encased in what appeared to be half-inch armor and supported a gun mount. There was a smaller gun mount on the roof of the driver’s cabin. But the internal modifications were even more surprising, as Slocock saw when their temporary host at the camp, Major Buxton, showed them inside the back compartment.
To get in you had to go through a small airlock, just big enough for one person at a time. “When this is operating your anti-contamination suit will be sprayed with a powerful disinfectant as you come through,” he explained. “Make sure you wash all the stuff off before you proceed into the living section. I’m told it’s highly toxic.
“Sorry it’s a bit cramped in here but we had to cram a lot of extra gear into a limited space. Those bulges running under the two bunks are the spare fuel tanks. Fifty gallons in each.”
“Only two bunks,” said Wilson, “but there are three of us.”
“The third person will have to sleep in the driver’s cabin. But I doubt if it would be wise for all three of you to sleep at the same time.”
Slocock automatically swung his kit onto one of the bunks. There was a clink of bottles as the bag landed. Buxton raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Slocock had been breathing whiskey fumes on everyone since his arrival. During the chopper ride he’d got through a third of a bottle. It didn’t do much for his stomach or his throbbing head but at least it dulled the nagging pains in his arms and legs.
Most of the space was taken up by oxygen cylinders. “Your air here and in the driver’s cabin will be recycled, just as it is in a small submarine. There are two chemical carbon dioxide scrubbers that will extract CO2 from the air. You’ll need to bleed oxygen from the cylinders at regular intervals to maintain the air pressure.” Buxton indicated a pressure gauge on one of the walls.
None of them mentioned what would happen when the oxygen finally ran out. Then they’d have to breathe the outside air, and the only thing between them and fungal infection would be the unproven Megacrine drug.
The compartment also contained a barely concealed chemical toilet. There were no cooking facilities, but plenty of concentrated and canned foods. And a large tank of drinking water.
Next to three bulky anti-contamination suits that hung from the roof was a row of weapons. Four 7.62mm FNL1 rifles, two Sterling L2A3 submachine guns, and two Smith & Wesson .38 revolvers.
“We’re packing a lot of firepower,” Slocock observed. “All these and those two guns on the roof.”
“A 7.62mm machine gun on this roof and a 7.62mm GEC minigun mount on the roof of the driver’s cabin. Both are remote-controlled from inside the cabin. The only drawba
ck with them is that you’ll have to go outside to refill their ammunition boxes. And I’m afraid you’ll also have to go outside if you have a need to use this.”
Buxton bent down and opened up a long metal box that was lying across several cases of 7.62mm ammunition. Slocock whistled. Inside the case was a Breda NATO-issue antitank gun. “You’re familiar with the weapon, I trust, Sergeant?”
Slocock nodded. “How many rockets?”
“Six.” Buxton touched an ammunition case with the toe of his boot. “In there. They each contain a pin-stabilized hollow charge round which can penetrate 320mm of armor plating at 0 degree incidence, and 120mm at 65 degrees incidence. Effective range is approximately 600 meters.”
Wilson said, in astonishment, “Why on earth do we need something like that? I thought our only danger, apart from the fungus itself, was from angry mobs of infected people.”
“Dr. Wilson, an awful lot of people have been cut off inside the quarantine area, including a number of military units. We know for certain that some members of these units have mutinied. On several occasions to date soldiers have attempted to break out through the quarantine barrier using their equipment. The result has been pitched battles between them and units outside the quarantine area. So far, we’ve kept them in.”
Wilson looked grim. “You’re saying we may have to fight our way through fully armed groups of soldiers? This whole thing gets more and more hopeless with each passing moment.”
“Hopefully you’ll be able to avoid any such confrontations. The beauty of the Stalwart here is that it can go practically anywhere, including through rivers and canals. If you should spot any army vehicles ahead of you, just try to detour around them,” said Buxton.
“Yeah, easy,” muttered Slocock.
The Fungus Page 11