The Fungus

by Harry Adam Knight

  “But how can you stop it?”

  She indicated a nearby can of powerful solvent. “I’d burn it off. And if that didn’t work I’d kill myself. At least I’d die clean.”

  He knew she meant what she said. Brutally he said, “You should have thought of all this before you volunteered to come here.”

  “But I was sure the Megacrine would protect us! I can’t understand why it failed.”

  In an attempt to calm her down he said, not really believing it himself, “Perhaps that other stuff you’ve been pumping into us is the important factor. The . . .” He couldn’t remember the drug’s name.

  “Inosine pranobex?” She shook her head. “The two human guinea pigs back at Bangor were on that too, but it didn’t help them.”

  “But they were already dying. They both had cancer. Their immune systems were no longer functioning properly. But we three are all healthy. The drug may be giving us an edge those two poor bastards didn’t have.”

  He was satisfied to see a faint touch of hope appear in her eyes. “I suppose that is possible,” she said slowly. “Their T-­lymphocyte cells, even with their number increased, would have been concentrated around the tumors. They wouldn’t have been able to cope with an invasion of fungal cells as well.”

  “Right,” he said with more confidence then he felt. “Now calm down and get dressed.” He found one of Slocock’s bottles and opened it. He took several long swallows and then offered the whiskey to her. “Drink some of this. Doctor’s orders.”

  She even managed a brief flicker of a smile as she took the bottle.

  When he left, she was getting dressed. She seemed to have recovered most of her composure, but he suspected the crisis had only temporarily been averted.

  Back in the driver’s cab he handed Slocock the cup of whiskey he’d decided to bring back with him. Might as well try to keep everyone happy.

  Slocock took it without thanks and drained it in one gulp. He expelled a satisfied burp and said, “So what’s the trouble back there?”

  “Nothing. She was having a panic attack for no reason.” Yet, he added to himself.

  “You reassured her, eh?”

  “Yeah, sort of.” He scratched at an itchy patch on his chest.

  “You give her a quick poke as well?”

  “What?” He looked at Slocock in surprise. “No, of course I didn’t.”

  “You should have. You’re the one with the power now. She’ll be ripe for you. Just come on a bit strong with her. She likes that. But I guess you know that already. I figure you were eavesdropping last night on the intercom.”

  “As my old friend Flannery once said, ‘Life is nothing but a giant cess-­pool, which is why it’s advisable to swim with your mouth shut’.”

  He opened the front of his overalls and examined the itchy patch on his chest. The skin still looked bright pink but there was no sign of anything else. He wondered how’d he’d react when he did find something.

  As they came nearer to London the fungus got worse. The built-­up areas they were passing through were totally unrecognizable beneath their surreal fungal coverings and it was only when they saw a barely visible sign for Denham that they knew where they were.

  Houses were soft mounds, all traces of man-­made sharpness gone. Between the buildings grew the giant mushrooms and toadstools, and occasionally giant white puff-­balls the size of radar domes. The fungi were clearly the victors in this brief war between them and mankind. Very soon there would be no trace left of humanity’s handiwork. Or of man himself.

  But for the moment the former dominant species was still in evidence. Wilson kept glimpsing people in the street or standing in fungus-­draped doorways. Not that they still looked like people. Every one he saw had been blighted by the fungus in some way. If there was a small percentage of people who possessed some miraculous immunity to infection, he saw no sign of them. If they existed at all, perhaps they were in hiding.

  Past Denham they began to encounter difficulties on the highway. A continuous thick carpet of hyphae grew on all the road surfaces. This presented no real problem to the Stalwart’s tires; however in places great ropy strands stretched across the road like jungle suspension bridges.

  Most of the time the truck was capable of breaking through them, but eventually they came to a section where the strands grew so thickly, the vehicle was forced to come to a halt.

  “We’re stuck!” exclaimed Wilson, staring around. “It’s like being in the middle of a giant spider’s web!”

  “We could burn our way through the rest of the stuff. There’s not much more ahead,” said Slocock. “But . . .” He didn’t go on.

  “But what?”

  “But you’ll have to do it. I don’t like . . .” He swallowed and went on. “I don’t like handling flame-­throwers. But I’ll show you how to operate the damn thing.”

  Wilson hesitated. Was this a trick? A scheme to get the upper hand somehow? He sounded genuine, though. He seemed actually embarrassed at having to admit this weakness.

  Wilson decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Okay. Let’s get outside.”

  On the way through the rear compartment Wilson explained the reason for the stop to Kimberley. She insisted on putting on one of the anti-­contamination suits before they opened the back doors. He was impatient at the delay, knowing that the suit’s protection was probably only an illusory one now, but thought it best to humor her.

  When they stepped outside they entered a bizarre, fairyland world of bright colors and soft, furry surfaces. Even speech sounded alien in this strange new environment with the omnipresent fungus absorbing all vibrations. The result was an awful, muffled stillness in the air.

  Wilson stood unsteadily on the springy substance covering the road while Slocock extracted one of the flame-­throwers from its locker. Not only was he keeping a suspicious eye on Slocock, he was also trying to watch the numerous figures he glimpsed lurking in the buildings on either side of the street.

  Slocock handed him the flame-­thrower and from then on all his attention had to be on it while Slocock explained how it worked. Slocock showed him how to light the burner and then how to operate the valve that would send the gas-­ejected fuel spurting out some 15 to 20 feet. “Remember, short bursts only,” warned Slocock, his distaste for the weapon all too evident on his face.

  As Wilson struggled into the harness Slocock dryly offered to hold the Sterling for him. Wilson just smiled without saying anything. He stuck the .38 in the front pocket of the overalls where it was within easy reach and took hold of the business end of the flame-­thrower, which needed both hands.

  Slocock had backed the truck several yards from the fungus strands that had blocked them, giving Wilson plenty of room to use the flame-­thrower. As he unleashed the terrible stream of liquid fire with its deafening roar he quite understood Slocock’s phobic dislike of the weapon. It was indeed an infernal device.

  The fungus offered no resistance to the fire. The thick strands blackened, bubbled, then melted away, leaving only an awful stink in the air. Wilson had soon burned his way through most of them.

  A warning shout from Slocock between bursts made him look round. He saw four misshapen figures rushing toward them. All were carrying clubs. One had an axe. Behind them, further back, a larger group was massing on the side of the road.

  He acted without thinking. He spun round and sprayed the four nearest figures with the liquid fire.

  One of them went down as if hit by a high-­pressure hose. He, or she, went rolling across the fungus-­covered road scattering burning fragments like a Catherine wheel. The other three, who hadn’t taken the full brunt of the jet of fire, staggered about flailing their arms as their fungal crusts burned fiercely. They made hideous, high-­pitched wailing sounds that cut like a knife into Wilson.

  Shocked at what he’d done, he stood there staring at them helplessly, the lowered snout of the flame-­thrower still dribbling fire onto the fungus matting. He was only d
imly aware of the bigger group fleeing in all directions.

  “Quickly, damn it!” he heard Slocock shout. “Before they make another try.”

  He snapped back into life and followed Slocock to the rear of the Stalwart. Slocock switched the weapon off, then helped Wilson out of its harness. They flung it into the locker and then hurried inside, slamming the door. Kimberley, still encased in her suit, made urgent gestures at them as they pushed by her towards the front cab but Wilson was in no mood to explain the situation to her.

  When he reached the cab he saw that two of his victims were, horrifyingly, still writhing as they burned. The other two were unmoving, blackened shapes.

  While Slocock started the engine Wilson pulled down the mini-­gun control and starting firing blindly. Eventually he managed to hit his targets. They shuddered and stopped moving.

  “Don’t waste any more bullets,” cautioned Slocock as he sent the truck surging forward. The Stalwart cut through the remaining strands of the fungus and sped down the road.

  “Why did they attack us?” cried Wilson, the image of the four fungus-­covered figures enveloped in flames still searing his retinas. “I didn’t mean to do that to them.”

  “A good thing you did. Otherwise, we’d be dead by now.”

  “But why did they attack? We weren’t threatening them at all.”

  “But we were threatening their beloved fungus. Killing it.”

  “Their beloved fungus. What do you mean?”

  “Who knows what those poor bastards think anymore in all that stuff? I reckon it’s a case of ‘if you can’t beat it, join it.’ The ones the fungus doesn’t kill probably feel grateful to it, despite being turned into walking mushrooms.”

  Their progress towards the center of London got slower and slower. Often the roads were blocked completely and they had to make numerous detours until they could find an alternate route. On one occasion, as they were traveling through what they guessed to be Wembley, they were stopped dead by a huge toadstool that completely filled the road. Its trunk—it was too big to be called a stem—was at least 15 feet in diameter and its cap dwarfed the houses on either side of the street.

  Then later, as they were crawling along the Harrow Road past Kensal Green, they were attacked by another mob—a big one numbering several hundred. They emerged from the surrounding, suffocating dreamscape like creatures from the worst nightmare imaginable. Large creatures, slow and bulbous, with stubby appendages, bearing iron bars, bricks and bottles. They formed a solid line across the road in front of the truck. Slocock didn’t slow down.

  Missiles began to hit the windshield, some bouncing off, some shattering.

  The Stalwart plowed into the mass of obscenely soft bodies. Wilson’s stomach turned over as he heard the thud, thud of the impacts and felt the big wheels going over things . . .

  There were muffled cries. A spurt of greenish liquid suddenly obscured part of the windshield.

  Wilson threw up.

  Then the truck started to slow down, its wheels spinning as it fought a losing struggle with the mass of bodies around and in front of it.

  “Shoot, for Christ’s sake, shoot!” yelled Slocock as he fought to push the truck onward.

  Wilson hesitated for only a few moments. He told himself the creatures out there were no longer people. The fungus had turned them into something else.

  He opened fire with the minigun and then the big machine gun. The things that were still capable of movement began, at last, to scatter.

  The engine strained as the truck attempted to climb the soft, slippery mound in front of it.

  A lurch as the cab tilted back . . . and then they were over it and free.

  Slocock sent the truck hurtling down the Harrow Road, smash­­ing through anything that got in his way, no matter what it or who it was.

  They were just passing what Wilson barely recognized as the turning into Ladbroke Grove when in front of them stepped yet another missile-­wielding creature. But this one was holding a bottle with a rag stuffed into the top. And the rag was burning.

  The creature flung the gasoline bomb too soon. Instead of hitting the truck, it shattered on the road ahead of them. But at the sight of the spreading pool of fire Slocock screamed and tugged violently on the wheel.

  The Stalwart went into an uncontrollable skid. It shot across the road and straight into the corner of a fungus-­covered building.

  Wilson felt himself flung forward into the windshield, and then there was nothing but blackness.

  2

  Chaos. Pain. Confusion.

  Wilson was battered by all three as he floated up from unconsciousness. His head throbbed and there was a taste of blood in his mouth. What had happened? And what was making that terrible noise?

  He opened his eyes, trying to orientate himself. It took him several seconds to realize that the Stalwart was now lying on its side. It had tipped over onto the passenger side and he was wedged up against the door.

  There was no sign of Slocock. The emergency hatch was still sealed, so that meant he must have gone through to the rear compartment.

  Clang. The cab vibrated from yet another violent impact. It sounded as if someone was using a sledge-­hammer. He could also hear hoarse cries and yells. Lots of them.

  He couldn’t see anything through the windshield—it had frosted over from the crash—and all he could see through the window on the driver’s side, now above him, was the evening sky.

  Wilson struggled to extricate himself from his awkward position. At the same time he groped for the Sterling submachine gun. He couldn’t find it. It was gone. So was the .38.

  Something filled the window above him. He looked up and saw a head that resembled a Halloween pumpkin. It hissed at him. At that moment the windshield caved inward and Wilson was showered with powdered glass. He shut his eyes and raised an arm to protect himself.

  He felt a rush of warm, moist air and then there were hands pulling at his body. Hands that seemed to be encased in thick, soft mittens.

  He tried to fend them off, his flesh crawling at their touch and at the thought of the infection they carried, but there were too many of them. Despite his struggles he was inexorably dragged out of the cab through the shattered windshield. Like a turtle being ripped out of its shell, he thought. I’m totally defenseless now. They’ve got me.

  They were everywhere he looked. Caricatures of human beings. The pure stuff of nightmare. Some were doubled over from the weight of fungal growth they carried on their bodies, some were thin and partially eaten away, covered in only a sheen of mold. And others were so deformed by the fungus it was hard to believe they were of human origin at all.

  Making nerve-­jangling cries they hustled him over the rubble to the rear of the truck. He glimpsed a white suit in the midst of another throng of the creatures ahead, then saw the familiar short black hair and pale face. He shouted Kimberley’s name and heard her cry his in return. But then she was swallowed up in the mass of obscenely soft, fungus-­coated bodies.

  At least she was still alive, he thought as he was half-shoved, half-­carried along the Harrow Road, back along the way they’d come, but what had happened to Slocock?

  Slocock fought to control his panic. His biggest fear was that the truck would be hit by another petrol bomb. He wanted to get out through the emergency hatch and get as far away from this death trap as he could, but his soldier’s conditioning warned him to resist the urge. It would be, he knew, suicide to venture out there unarmed.

  So he forced himself to take a deep breath, and then began to hunt around under Wilson’s crumpled body for the Sterling. As he did this, to his surprise, Wilson groaned. He’d presumed he was dead. Well, thought Slocock, he soon would be, and good riddance. He located the Sterling and also the revolver. For a moment he was tempted to put a bullet through Wilson’s head, but decided not to bother. Why waste ammunition?

  Ammunition. Again he stopped himself from using the emergency hatch. Instead he maneuvered open, w
ith difficulty, the hatch leading into the back of the truck and crawled through.

  The rear compartment was a shambles. Kimberley, still in her anti-­contamination suit, was moving feebly under an oxygen cylinder that had come loose from its wall bracket.

  He pulled the cylinder off her, then ignored her as he set about collecting several full clips of 9mm ammunition for the Sterling. He shoved them into his belt and was about to open the rear door when he thought of something else.

  His prayers were answered. One bottle of whiskey had survived the crash. He picked it up and smiled at it as if greeting his dearest friend.

  By then Kimberley had taken her helmet off and was struggling to stand up. “What happened?” she gasped.

  “Bit of an accident. Drove into the side of a house,” he said as he got the door to the airlock open. “Better get moving if you’re coming with me.”

  Kimberley gave a groan of pain as her left leg buckled beneath her and she fell. “My leg!” she cried. “You’re going to have to help me!”

  “Sorry. It’s every man for himself. Beside, you’d only slow me down.” He hauled himself up into the airlock, which now lay horizontal at chest height, taking care not to break the bottle of whiskey.

  “You can’t just leave me!”

  “Watch me.” He pushed the outer door open, slid through the airlock, then jumped down to the ground. He almost slipped on the fungal matting but managed to keep his balance. It was fortunate that he did. Three lumbering figures were coming straight toward him, clubs in their hands. They were less than five yards away.

  Operating the Sterling with just one hand—he was holding the scotch in the other—he sprayed them with bullets. All three of them dropped but in the grey twilight he could see more of them coming down the Harrow Road towards the crashed Stalwart.

  He hurried across the intersection and into Ladbroke Grove. It was difficult running on the slippery, yielding surface but by adopting a kind of sliding shuffle he found he could keep up a fair pace.