The Fungus

by Harry Adam Knight

  15

  Wilson was still unaware he’d been consumed by the fungus.

  He had remained asleep as the growth had filled the rear compartment and he continued to sleep even now.

  The growth completely covered him, but as its structure was highly porous, his breathing was unimpeded. He slept on as the fungus ate his clothes and the blanket under him, along with every other organic substance that was accessible to it in the compartment.

  When his clothes had been consumed the hyphae proceeded to absorb all his body hair and then entered his various orifices. In his mouth the probing, thread-­like hyphae picked his teeth clean of every particle of food; they entered his anus and extended themselves along his rectum, absorbing waste material as they went; in his ears they ate the wax and in his nostrils they consumed the dried mucus.

  At the same time the fungus began to dissolve his dead outer-­layer of skin. This was what woke him up.

  He regained consciousness aware of an intolerable itchiness all over his body.

  Then he opened his eyes and saw nothing but total blackness. Then he realized he was covered in something. It was all over him. In his mouth, his nose . . .

  He panicked. He kicked and tried to lash out with his arms but it was like trying to swim in syrup. He became frenzied in his efforts to free himself, writhing and twisting against the soft but tenacious substance imprisoning him.

  Then suddenly he saw light and heard a voice say incredulously, “Christ, he’s still alive!”

  Slocock was standing over him, a shovel in his hands. Then Kimberley appeared beside him and helped Wilson pull the strands of yellow fungus from his face and body.

  Slocock started to laugh. “Look at him! Like a new-­born baby! Bright pink and not a hair on him anywhere!” Wilson was trying to spit something foul out of his mouth. He wanted to throw up. The yellow fungus seemed to be everywhere in the compartment. What had happened? How had it got in?

  “The fungus has consumed his entire epidermis, by the look of it,” Kimberley told Slocock. “The question is, why didn’t it eat the rest of him? It seems to have eaten everything else in here.” Then to Wilson she said, “How do you feel? Can you talk?”

  “Get me out of this,” he gasped.

  Together they pulled him free of the mass and the next thing he knew he was sitting on the road and blinking in bright sunlight. He stared down at himself. Slocock was right. His flesh looked very soft and pink, as if it had just been scrubbed very hard, and his pubic hair, and the hair on his legs, was completely gone. He reached up and touched his head. His scalp was smooth. He was totally bald. “Oh Christ,” he said.

  Slocock was dragging one of the anti-­contamination suits out of the yellow chaos that now filled the rear of the truck. He started to put it on.

  “Rather late for that, isn’t it?” said Kimberley.

  “It’s to protect me against the solvents I’m going to spray in there,” he told her. “We’ve got to clear that stuff out completely unless you fancy giving it a ride all the way to London. ”

  He unlocked the metal trunk on the back of the truck where the flame-­throwers were stored and took out a hand-­operated pump. Then he began to spray a white liquid over the fungus. Where the liquid fell the yellow growth began to darken and curl with a sizzling sound.

  Kimberley watched for a while, then turned her attention back to Wilson, eyeing him critically. He suddenly became aware of his nakedness, which felt even more acute without any hair, but her interest was obviously a professional one only. She squatted down next to him and gave him a cursory medical examination, feeling his pulse and then peering into his ears and mouth.

  “Fascinating,” she murmured as she looked into the latter. “Your teeth have probably never been so clean. The fungus has scoured them to the enamel.”

  “None of it’s growing on me anywhere, is it?” he asked anxiously.

  “Not that I can see.” She examined the rest of him and pronounced him fungus-­free. “Hopefully that means the Megacrine is giving us full protection; or maybe you’re one of the rare, lucky types who has natural immunity. For my sake I hope it’s the former.” She looked at her own arms worriedly.

  It took Slocock over an hour to clear all the fungus out of the compartment. After that they surveyed the mess that remained. The fungus had stripped the compartment of everything that wasn’t made of some inorganic substance. The bunks had been reduced to the metal frames, Slocock’s kitbag and the clothes it had contained were gone, and even the labels on the cans of food had vanished.

  Slocock picked up a full bottle of whiskey from the debris. It too had lost its label. He wiped the strong-­smelling solvent from it and opened it. “Thank God for small mercies,” he said and promptly swallowed a quarter of the contents.

  Kimberley was salvaging her various medical supplies and instruments from the mess on the floor, her leather medical bag having been consumed too. She held up a small bottle, devoid of a label like all the others, and frowned as she tried to identify the colorless liquid it contained. Then she looked around and sighed. “To hell with this,” she muttered. “All I’ve got to wear now are these stinking things I’ve got on. No change of underwear. All the Kleenex has been eaten and . . .” She went over to the small cubicle that housed the chemical toilet . . . it’s eaten the toilet paper too. This is getting past a joke.”

  Slocock burst out laughing. Kimberley looked at him in surprise, then joined in.

  Wilson regarded them sourly. When their bout of near-­hysteria died down he said, “I’m glad you both find this so amusing. Not only did I almost get killed but now we’re all exposed to infection. And it’s all due to your stupid carelessness, Slocock.”

  Slocock blinked at him, his eyes already bleary from the alcohol. “Huh? Me? What is this shit?”

  “You brought the fungus in with you. With one of these.” Wilson went over to the gun rack and took down one of the rifles, noticing as he did so that the butt, whatever it was made of, hadn’t been eaten away. He displayed the gun to Slocock. “All that crazy beating about in the fungus you were doing last night. A particle of the fungus must have got lodged in the weapon somewhere. In a place where the disinfectant couldn’t reach it. So your macho-­man, Captain Action act has totally screwed us up.”

  Slocock’s eyes narrowed and his expression grew ugly. “Fuck you, you pathetic-­looking piece of crap. You keep your accusations to yourself unless you want me to rip off that little pink imitation of a dick hanging between your legs and stuff it down your throat.”

  Wilson took a quick step forward and slammed the butt of the rifle into Slocock’s face. Slocock grunted and fell backwards. There was a crash as the bottle of whiskey shattered on the floor.

  It had been a powerful blow, but Slocock was tough. He came back up from the floor as if on a giant spring, holding the jagged end of the broken whiskey bottle like a dagger.

  Then he froze.

  Wilson was now pointing the barrel of the rifle at him. “Drop it, Sergeant, or I’ll drop you.”

  Slocock, with blood pouring from his nose and mouth, sneered at him. “You haven’t the balls.”

  “I’ll count to five. If you haven’t dropped the bottle by then I’ll kill you. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .” The broken bottle fell from Slocock’s hand. “You’re a dead man, Wilson.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  Kimberley, who was watching the confrontation with a shocked expression, said, “You’re both being ridiculous. We can’t afford to fight amongst ourselves.”

  “We finished fighting. Now we’re talking,” said Wilson. “Or rather, I’m doing the talking, you two will do the listening. From now on I’m in charge. You two will do as I say.”

  “And if we don’t?” sneered Slocock.

  Wilson rammed the barrel into the pit of his stomach. Slocock made a sound like a deflating tire and doubled over. “That was my last warning,” said Wilson. “Next time I pull the trigger.” H
e turned to Kimberley. “Start hunting through this mess and see if you can find me something to wear, otherwise I’ll take lover-­boy’s clothes, blood and all.” Kimberley looked worriedly at Slocock, who was on his knees on the floor clutching at himself. He was struggling to draw in a breath but his diaphragm obviously wasn’t working. “I think you’ve hurt him,” she said.

  “That was the general idea. You can look after him later. First find me something to wear.”

  While she searched the lockers and metal trunks Wilson exchanged the rifle for one of the Smith & Wesson .38s. He checked that it was loaded, cocked it and covered Slocock with it.

  Kimberley found a pair of oil-­stained overalls in the tool box. Wilson climbed into them, keeping the gun on Slocock the whole time. Then he said, “Check that the spare radio is still sealed up.”

  There was a second VRC353 sealed in a metal container which was to be used if their other radio equipment was rendered useless by the fungus. Kimberley confirmed it was still safe.

  “Okay, you can see to him now.” He indicated Slocock, who was sitting up now but didn’t look capable of any trouble. His face was the color of someone who had recently died, and blood continued to stream from his nose. Kimberley knelt beside him and tried to stanch the flow of blood with his shirt. “I think you’ve broken his nose,” she told Wilson.

  “It looked broken before.”

  He waited impatiently until the bleeding had stopped and Slocock had recovered to the point of being able to get to his feet again. The fight appeared to have gone out of his eyes but Wilson wasn’t taking that for granted. He knew Slocock was an old hand at fighting hard and dirty, and he didn’t intend letting his guard down.

  “Okay, Sergeant, you think you can drive now?”

  Slocock was still holding his lower stomach. “It feels like my guts are ruptured.”

  Wilson fired the revolver. Kimberley screamed as the bullet, which narrowly missed the side of Slocock’s head, ricochetted off the forward hatch and zinged past her.

  “Jesus! You’re going to kill us all!” shouted Slocock fearfully, his eyes wide with shock.

  Wilson nodded and said calmly, “I’m not very good with guns. Haven’t touched one since my ROTC days at college.” He cocked the revolver again and pointed it at Slocock’s forehead. “You think you can drive now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s get going.” He turned to Kimberley. “You’re going to stay back here. Be an uncomfortable ride, I know, but I can’t afford to have you up front. You might get in the way if there’s any trouble with your friend. Basically I just can’t trust you not to side with him.” He glanced at the gun rack and came to a decision. With the exception of one of the Sterling L2A3 submachine guns he threw the contents of the rack out through the open, and now useless, airlock.

  “That’s crazy! We’re going to need those!” cried Slocock.

  “Get up front and start the engine,” ordered Wilson. He picked up the remaining Sterling and hung it over his shoulder, then followed Slocock towards the hatchway. On the way he noticed something on the floor. He bent down and scooped it up. Then he tossed it over to Kimberley. “I don’t think you’ll have a need for this again this trip.”

  She stared speechlessly at the half-­empty jar of vaseline.

  In the driver’s cab Wilson sat as far away as possible from Slocock, jamming the Sterling between himself and the door. The revolver he kept in his hand.

  Slocock was revving up the powerful eight cylinder Rolls-­Royce engine prior to moving off. Wilson had a thought. He told him to cut it.

  “Well, make up your bloody mind,” he growled as he obeyed. “Now what?”

  “Get Buxton on the radio. I want to talk to him.”

  When Slocock had made contact with the Wolverhampton base it took a couple of minutes before Buxton could be located and summoned to the radio. While he waited Wilson thought he could hear shooting in the background.

  When Buxton did come on the channel his voice sounded high-­pitched and ragged. “Wilson? That you? Why on earth haven’t you kept in contact? What are conditions like in London? Have you located your wife yet?”

  “I’m afraid we’re still west of Oxford,” said Wilson, wondering what was wrong with Buxton. “Had a few problems that delayed us. Also we’ve lost our sterile environment. But we’re okay and pushing on now. We’ll be in London by late afternoon for sure.”

  Buxton just said, “Oh Christ.” The shooting in the background was getting louder.

  “What’s happening where you are? What’s all that gunfire?”

  “We’ve been cut off. The infected area outflanked us before we could pull out. And now some of my men have mutinied. They want to join forces with the other rebel units and make a push to the coast. They’ll probably succeed, too. The rebels are well armed and numerous. They’ve got several Chieftain and Challenger tanks. But if they reach the coast in any number, the French are almost certain to execute their plan to drop nuclear bombs on the country ahead of schedule.”

  “Look, we still have a chance of achieving our mission,” Wilson told him. “Our vehicle is still mobile and we’re still all healthy. Even though we’re exposed now, the Megacrine is obviously giving us adequate protection against infection.”

  There was silence at the other end. Then Buxton said, “We got a message from Bangor. The surviving two volunteers on Mega­crine have both succumbed to fungal infection since you left.”

  Unexpectedly, Kimberley took the news worst of all.

  When Wilson told her over the intercom what Buxton had said she cried, “Oh Christ, it’s all over then! We’re finished! We have no protection at all! We’re going to end up looking like those people in the street. We’ve got to turn back!”

  “Take it easy. The drug must be giving us some protection, even if it’s only for a limited period. We may still have enough time to get to London and find Jane.”

  “To hell with London and Jane! Let’s go back! Now, before that horrible stuff starts growing on us!”

  “Kimberley, I suggest you take a long drink from one of the Sergeant’s remaining bottles of scotch and calm down. You’re getting hysterical. If it makes you feel better, get into one of the suits.”

  “What good would that do? It’s too late! We’re . . .”

  Wilson switched off the intercom. “She’s starting to crack up.”

  “But she’s right,” said Slocock. “I agree with her. We turn back. Those rebel army units will punch a hole through the barriers all the way to the coast. We could follow in their tracks.”

  Wilson waved the .38 at him. “You don’t have a vote in this anymore, Sergeant, and neither does she. Get moving or I’ll put a bullet in your brain and drive this thing to London myself. You showed me how, remember?”

  Slocock restarted the engine.

  PART THREE

  1

  They did a wide detour to the south of Oxford, almost as far south as Abingdon, and then sped across country until they encountered the M40 north of High Wycombe. They had only made one stop along the way. They’d both grown used to seeing the increasingly bizarre growths as they penetrated deeper into the infected area—such as the red candyfloss-­like fungus that hung from the branches of most of the trees, and the colonies of huge mushrooms and toadstools, some of which were over 20 feet tall—but as they were driving across a field Slocock suddenly swore and braked the truck.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing to a growth a few yards away. It looked like the erect penis of a sleeping giant. It was about six feet high and its head or cap was covered with a thick black slime. Several birds were stuck fast in the stuff, their feathers plastered to their bodies. A few of them were still struggling, but the rest were still.

  “Looks like an oversized version of phallus impudicus,” said Wilson, “Also known more commonly as the stinkhorn. Usually they only grow up to between six and nine inches in length.”

  Slocock stared at the t
hing. “I need a drink. I feel sick. Go fetch me a bottle of scotch, would you? I promise you no tricks.”

  “Sure. As soon as I happen to look the other way I get the bottle on my head.” He gestured with the .38. “Get going.”

  When they reached the M40 Wilson decided to check on Kimberley. He switched on the intercom and asked her if she was okay. Her reply alarmed him.

  “Get back here right away, please, Barry!” she cried, sounding on the edge of panic. “Quickly!”

  Deciding it would be safe to leave Slocock alone, as there was nothing he could use as a weapon in the cab, Wilson opened the hatch and crawled through.

  He was startled to see her standing there naked, a small mirror in her hand. She looked distressed.

  “Barry, you’ve got to help me! I’ve tried to look everywhere but I’m sure there are places I can’t see, even with the mirror.” She turned her back to him. “Is there any of it growing there? Please check carefully . . .”

  He’d realized by then what she was talking about. He was shocked at the state she was in. He’d pegged her as someone who would never lose their self-­control and it was disturbing to see her going to pieces like this.

  He examined her back and pronounced her clear of any fungal growth.

  She bent over, practically shoving her bottom in his face. “What about down there?” She parted her buttocks. He looked, reflecting that in other circumstances his feelings about what she was doing would be very different. Instead her panic was beginning to infect him too. He became aware of several itchy patches on his body. He told her he couldn’t see any fungus on her.

  She still wasn’t satisfied and made him examine the back of her neck and head.

  “Look,” he said as he probed through her hair, “this is all a waste of time. If we find any sign of infection on us it’s already too late. Why not just calm down? There’s nothing you can do.”

  She spun round, eyes flashing angrily. “I’m not going to let myself turn into one of those things. Look at me! I’m beautiful, aren’t I? Do you think I could stand to have that horrible stuff growing on me? Spreading through me?”