Kimberley said, “Well, don’t look now, but isn’t that another bunch of soldiers right in front of us?”
“Shit, she’s right!” cried Slocock, slowing down.
Wilson looked and saw a line of armed men appearing out of a row of trees ahead of them. He hadn’t spotted them earlier because they were wearing camouflage. Several of them were waving as they approached.
Slocock stopped the truck and sat there drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. “I don’t like this. There are over 30 of them and some are packing anti-tank weapons. They could take us out no trouble.”
“Why should they want to?” asked Wilson. “They’re army, and this is an army vehicle. They’re not to know we’re from outside.”
“Maybe,” said Slocock edgily.
The main body of men came to a stop some 50 feet from the Stalwart, but four of them kept coming.
As they came closer Wilson experienced a sudden frisson. What he had thought was camouflage paint on their uniforms, faces and hands was, in fact, fungus. They weren’t wearing any uniforms. Instead their bodies were coated in a tortoise-shell pattern of green, brown, black and yellow patches of mold.
“Good God,” said Kimberley softly.
The four men, waving as they came, were now less than 20 feet away. One of them was shouting something, but as the cabin was airtight they couldn’t make out what he was saying. When Slocock shook his head to show he didn’t understand the man then pantomined that they should come out of the truck. He appeared to be grinning but the coloring on his face made it hard to tell.
Slocock muttered, “Balls to that,” and shook his head again.
The four men promptly dropped to the ground and aimed their weapons. At the same moment the row of men behind them started firing. There were several sharp pinging noises as bullets struck the Stalwart’s armor plating and, to Wilson’s horror, two white smears appeared on the windshield. He ducked down on his seat, expecting the glass to shatter at any second.
Slocock quickly pulled down one of the gun controls and pressed the red firing button. On the cabin roof the GEC minigun began to make a sound like a sewing machine.
Spurts of soil were kicked up around the four nearest men. Suddenly all four of them were writhing on the ground as the minigun hosed them with high velocity bullets.
“Get the other gun firing, quickly!” yelled Slocock.
Unwillingly, Wilson reached up and pulled down the control unit for the big 7.62mm machine gun. The unit was like a smaller version of a submarine periscope. It had two handles on either side. Rotating them up or down controlled the gun’s elevation and turning the whole unit made the turret swivel correspondingly. There was even an eyepiece linked to a sight on the gun by flexible fiber optics.
Wilson looked through the eyepiece and got a close-up view of part of the ragged line of men shooting at them.
“Fire, you asshole, fire!” Slocock bellowed. “Before they start using their heavy stuff on us!”
Slocock was now directing the stream of fire from the highspeed minigun at the other men. Two of them immediately fell but bullets were still hitting the track at an alarming rate. They made a sound like a rain of large hailstones.
Wilson had his thumb on the red firing button but couldn’t bring himself to press it. Then he heard the minigun stop.
“Christ, I’m out of ammo! Shoot, damn you, Wilson!”
But he still couldn’t press the button.
The next thing Wilson knew he’d been shoved roughly aside as Slocock leaned over Kimberley and snatched the gun control away from him.
Then the big machine gun opened up.
In the distance Wilson saw the bodies of several of the mold-covered men jerk and twist as the bullets slammed into them. The others started to retreat back toward the row of trees.
Slocock kept firing, spraying bullets back and forth along the fleeing line of men. More of them fell. Soon none of them were on their feet. Several lay writhing with agony on the ground, while a few were trying to drag themselves toward the cover of the trees.
Slocock kept firing.
Wilson turned to tell him to stop but saw the expression on his face and said nothing.
Even when all the bodies were motionless Slocock kept shooting. He didn’t stop until the gun ran out of ammunition.
Wilson knew now why Slocock had volunteered for the mission.
13
“You stupid bastard! You almost got us all killed! The next time I tell you to shoot, you shoot, understand!” Slocock was shaking with anger and looked as if he could easily add Wilson to the pile of bodies in front of the truck.
Wilson was trembling himself, though whether from fear, shock, or simple disgust he didn’t know. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, “But I’m not used to machine-gunning people down. I haven’t had your practice at it.”
Slocock’s eyes narrowed. There was a pause and then he said, in a quieter voice, “Well, matey, you’d better learn pretty quick-smartish if you want to stay alive.”
Wilson glanced at Kimberley for support but she was staring straight ahead, her expression dazed.
“Are you okay?” he asked her.
She nodded, then turned to Slocock. “Why do you think they attacked us?”
“Guess they wanted the vehicle. Or maybe the food supplies we’re carrying. But whatever they wanted, it stopped them from using their anti-tank gear, until it was too late.” He shot Wilson another accusing look.
Wilson turned his attention to the windshield. He pointed to one of the starry smears. “You think that’s cracked all the way through?”
“Nah. Just the outer layer by the look of it. We were lucky.” He twisted round and began to unseal the hatch. “I’m going to suit up and go reload the ammunition boxes. I’ll do a damage check as well while I’m out there.”
When Slocock had shut the hatch behind him Wilson said to Kimberley, “What are we going to do about him?”
She didn’t answer for a time. Then she said, “He’s right, you know. You did almost get us killed.”
He looked at her in amazement. “Are you serious? You’re taking his side on this? Kimberley, the man is a psychopath! I told you what Buxton said about him and this proves it.”
“Whatever he is, he saved our lives just then. He’s our only chance of making it to London. We need him.”
“You’re condoning mass murder?”
“It was self-defense. Besides, too much is at stake for us to be overly sensitive about the lives of a few people who were doomed anyway.”
“That’s a fine way for a doctor to talk.”
She sighed. “Don’t be naive. We’re doing this for the greater good, remember?”
He was about to continue arguing when a red light began to flash on the radio. Wilson pressed the “receive” switch and heard Slocock saying, via his suit radio, “I’m outside now. Just about to climb onto the roof. Keep your eyes peeled for any sign of movement. Give me a yell if you see as much as a leaf fall.”
They both listened to the sounds of Slocock clambering over the roof. Ahead of the truck all was still. Wilson was relieved to see that none of the bodies scattered about showed any sign of life.
Slocock finished reloading the guns, then climbed back down and came around to the front of the vehicle. They watched as the bulky white anti-contamination suit disappeared from view as Slocock bent down to peer under the truck.
Then they heard him say over the radio, “One of you start the engine, will you.”
Wilson was going to crawl past Kimberley but she said, “I’ll do it,” and slid into the driver’s seat. She switched on the ignition. The engine made a wheezing sound but didn’t start. “What’s wrong?” she asked Slocock.
“Dunno,” came his reply over the radio. “We got three bloody holes here. Some bastard was firing armor piercing bullets. And there’s a great puddle of oil under the engine.”
“You mean we’re stuck here?” as
ked Wilson, alarmed.
“Don’t know until I look at the damage. We’ve got spare parts and tools—might be able to fix it. But this armor cowling is going to be hell to get off.”
“Shit,” said Wilson. The thought of having to walk all the way to London filled him with despair. It would take days. And they’d never be able to do it wearing the anti-contamination suits.
“You any good with cars, Wilson?” asked Slocock. “I’m going to need some help out here.”
“No. I’m useless at anything mechanical. Can’t even change a typewriter ribbon without . . .”
“I’ll help you,” Kimberley told Slocock. “Where I come from, if you can’t fix your own car when it breaks down, it stays where it is for keeps.”
“Good girl. Put a suit on and get out here pronto. And bring the tool box with you. As for you, Wilson, the guns are loaded again now. If you see anything coming our way you shoot, understand?”
“Yes. I understand,” said Wilson grudgingly.
As Kimberley opened the hatch and prepared to crawl through he said to her, “Be careful out there.”
She grimaced. “Oh, come on, Barry. Save the clichés for your books.”
Deeply stung, he was at a loss for words as she disappeared through the hatch and swung it shut behind her.
He sat there fuming with anger for about an hour while Kimberley donned one of the suits and joined Slocock at the front of the truck. For a time he listened in on their conversation, but he got bored with their talk about past experiences with the internal combustion engine as they struggled to remove the cowling, and he switched off the radio.
It was hot in the cab and getting hotter. There was no air-conditioning, only a vent leading from the rear compartment which could be instantly sealed in an emergency. Wilson decided to leave the hatch open for a while to let what air there was circulate better.
At 11.30 a.m. Slocock and Kimberley returned for something to eat and drink. Wilson joined them in the rear section and helped them out of their suits, which stank of disinfectant.
“How bad is the damage?” he asked.
Slocock collapsed on one of the bunks and wiped the sweat from his face, which was glowing red from the heat and the exertion.
“Pretty bad. We’re leaking oil like a sieve and the fuel pump’s out of commission. Radiator’s also got a hole in it, but that’s the least of our problems.”
“Can it be fixed?”
“We can do some temporary repairs. Fuel pump’s going to be a real pisser. Whether it’ll get us to London is anyone’s guess.”
“How long will it take you to fix things?”
Slocock shrugged and looked at Kimberley. She said, “At least another four hours. Possibly longer.”
“We’ll never reach London by tonight.”
“No,” agreed Slocock. “We’ll have to stop for the night somewhere along the way. I don’t feel like driving this around in the darkness with things the way they are out there.”
An atmosphere of gloom settled over them as they shared a thermos of coffee, provided by their Wolverhampton army hosts, and ate a can each of cold stew.
Then, after Kimberley had given them their shots of Megacrine, the two of them got into their suits again while Wilson returned to his vigil in the driver’s cab.
Before Slocock left, Wilson asked him whether they should report to Buxton and tell him what had happened. Slocock vetoed the idea. “Screw Buxton. Why waste time talking to him or anyone else on the outside? They can’t help us. When we’ve got some information for them we’ll send it, but until then they can sweat it out. Serves ’em right.”
It was even hotter in the cab now, and Wilson was quickly drenched in sweat.
Wearily he made periodic sweeps of the area with the binoculars, but all remained still.
Then, while making one of these sweeps, he noticed something odd. He happened to focus on one of the bodies lying in the distance and saw that it had undergone some kind of change.
The fungus covering it had grown thicker. It was now almost impossible to tell that there was a man’s corpse under it.
Puzzled, Wilson investigated the four bodies lying closer to the truck. They too had changed. They now looked as if they were covered by patchwork fur blankets.
He switched on the radio and drew his companions’ attention to the phenomenon. They’d been too busy to notice what was happening, but now one of the white-suited figures walked over to the nearest corpse and kneeled next to it.
He heard Kimberley’s voice say, “Fascinating. The fungus seems to have mutated. Now that the host is dead, it’s changed from being a parasite into a saprophyte.”
He winced as he saw her reach out and touch the growth.
“For God’s sake, be careful!” he called.
“Relax. It can’t hurt me. You should see this, Barry. The rate of tissue absorption is remarkable. There’s hardly anything left of this man apart from his bones.”
Slocock’s voice suddenly boomed out of the radio. “Kim, stop messing around and get back to work. You’ll have more than enough time to look at fungi when we reach London.”
Wilson was relieved when Kimberley’s white-suited form left the man-shaped mound and returned to the front of the truck.
The day wore on. Slocock and Kimberley took another break, then went back to work. Conditions in the suits were almost intolerable, they told Wilson. Apart from the heat, the visibility was frustratingly poor as the face-plates kept misting up. Equally frustrating was trying to do anything delicate with the thick gloves. And there was also the constant fear they would puncture or rip the suits.
By four in the afternoon Wilson was struggling to keep awake in the stuffy, overheated cab. He’d made two trips that afternoon to the rear compartment to bleed more oxygen into the air, but it didn’t seem to improve things.
He was just starting to nod off again when he spotted movement in the trees ahead of the truck. Jolted into full awareness he reached up for the controls of the big machine gun.
Through the sight he got a glimpse of something monstrous coming straight toward the truck. It was moving on four legs and was very large. Its head was massive and bulbous and it seemed to be covered in thick, green strands that hung from it like clumps of seaweed.
Wilson pressed the firing button. He was off-target to begin with but quickly compensated and proceeded to spray the monster with high-velocity bullets.
The thing shuddered and its front legs collapsed beneath it. It skidded forward for about three yards then lay there kicking. Wilson continued to pour bullets into it.
“Okay, Wilson, it’s dead!” came Slocock’s shout over the radio. “Stop wasting ammunition!”
Wilson took his finger off the button and took a deep breath. He was, he realized, shaking. “What the hell is that thing?”
Slocock and Kimberley walked over to the creature. After a long pause Slocock laughed and said, “Congratulations, Wilson. You’ve just killed a cow.”
“A cow?” Wilson couldn’t believe the ghastly apparition was nothing more than a cow.
“Poor bitch must have been driven crazy by the stuff growing on her. Next time, Eagle-eye, don’t waste so many bullets.”
Wilson’s brief feeling of satisfaction evaporated. For a moment he’d thought he’d saved both their lives. Now, he felt foolish. Slocock was laughing at him and so, he suspected, was Kimberley.
They didn’t finish working on the engine until after 7 p.m. When they came back inside and stripped off their suits they both looked exhausted.
“God, I stink,” said Kimberley, sniffing at her sweat-stained t-shirt. “I’d give anything for a shower. Or even a wash.”
Wilson couldn’t prevent himself from staring at the clear outline of her breasts through the damp material. The nipples were plainly visible. He felt a rush of desire for her and wished, yet again, that Slocock wasn’t around.
“Can’t spare the water,” grunted Slocock, “you�
��ll just have to keep stinking.”
“How’s the engine?” asked Wilson.
Slocock shrugged. “A 50/50 chance it’ll get us to London. But I’m not doing any driving tonight. I’m too tired. I’ll park the bus under those trees to give us some cover, and then I think we should turn in. We’ll make an early start in the morning.”
After Slocock had driven the truck into the shelter of the trees, they had an unexciting meal of more cold stew, fruit salad, and bars of chocolate. Then Kimberley gave them their shots and they prepared for bed.
“Kim and I will take the bunks,” said Slocock as he stretched out on one of them. “We did all the work. All you did was play Buffalo Bill.”
Surprised, Wilson was about to protest but there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make him appear ridiculous. He looked helplessly at Kimberley but she seemed completely unconcerned by Slocock’s declaration. She lay back on the other bunk and closed her eyes.
Forcing himself to sound casual, Wilson said, “Okay, I’ll sleep in the cab.”
“You don’t sleep, Eagle-eye, you keep watch,” Wilson told him. “You can sleep back here when we get moving in the morning.”
Anger flared up in Wilson but he held himself in check. The trouble was, Slocock was right. One of them should stay on guard and it was obvious that he was the most rested. So he simply muttered goodnight and made his way forward. Kimberley already appeared to be asleep.
“Don’t slam the door on your way out,” said Slocock, and sniggered.
Wilson sat alone in the cab feeling absurdly jealous. He was certain—almost certain—he had nothing to be jealous about, but the small amount of doubt was sufficient to make him acutely uncomfortable.
He told himself it was inconceivable that Kimberley would let herself be touched by Slocock. He had seen the antagonism between them.
And yet this evening the antagonism seemed to have vanished altogether. And he remembered how she’d defended Slocock after the shooting incident that morning.
And they’d been working together all afternoon . . .
And he called her “Kim” now . . .
The Fungus Page 13