The Fungus

by Harry Adam Knight

  He crossed over the bridge that spanned the Grand Union Canal. The canal itself couldn’t be seen. It was concealed beneath a thick profusion of different fungi, some of them quite huge. The plentiful supply of water had obviously allowed the fungi to grow even larger than usual along the canal’s route. The giant, brightly colored toadstools marched in both directions in straight columns as if someone had deliberately arranged them in formation.

  Slocock hurried on and then took cover beside a fungus draped building that he felt instinctively had once been a pub. He set his bottle down carefully between his feet and waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

  They came hurrying along the road, using the same sort of shuffle he had. There were only about a dozen of them. He guessed the rest of the mob he’d seen were concentrating on the truck. He felt a momentary pang of regret at having had to leave Kimberley behind, but quickly suppressed it.

  When the shuffling group had passed his hiding place he stepped out and opened fire. He got most of them with the long burst but two were still standing when he’d emptied the clip.

  Unhurriedly he pulled the empty clip out, threw it away and replaced it with a fresh one. The two creatures hesitated, then started toward him. He felt strangely calm and detached as they approached. Even when one of them spoke, unexpectedly, in a clear, educated woman’s voice he experienced no real surprise. He was beyond surprise.

  “Don’t shoot,” she said. “We just want to talk to you.”

  He let them get closer. One of them was holding a crowbar. When they were about six feet away and he could plainly see the loathsome details of the crusts that covered them he opened fire.

  As the bullets smashed into them they were both sent sprawling backward, but the one with the crow-­bar flung it at Slocock as he, or she, fell. He dodged to one side and the bar missed him. But then it bounced off the fibrous wall behind and landed right on the whiskey bottle.

  Slocock stared down in distress at the shattered remains. He felt like crying.

  He walked over to the two fallen fungus victims and kicked the nearest one in the side. His boot penetrated the crust and body beneath it by several inches, making a dry snap sound. When he pulled the boot free he saw a greenish liquid begin to trickle out of the cavity he’d made.

  Incuriously he examined the other corpse. This one was lying in a pool of ordinary red blood. He wondered if this was the woman. He also wondered, if he ripped off all the fungal crusts, whether he’d find the body of a perfectly ordinary woman underneath.

  He doubted it, but the idea made him think of his wife Marge. They’d had some good times together, at first. But then he’d realized their sexual needs were out of sync. He’d never thought of himself as undersexed, but she had made him feel that way after a while. She wanted it every night, no matter what. And when he couldn’t manage it every night, or at least without being able to conceal the effort it took, she began to nag and taunt him about it, which only made the situation worse. And after that things just went to pieces.

  Where was she now? he wondered idly. He knew she’d moved to London after leaving Aldershot, but she’d never sent him her new address. Was she still alive, and if so, did she look like one of these things lying on the ground in front of him?

  His thoughts turned to Kimberley and their love-­making of the night before. Again he felt regret at having to leave her behind and briefly considered returning to the truck, but he dismissed it as a suicidal idea. There had been too many of the things coming down the road and, hell, it was probably too late now.

  But the thought that he might never see again a plague-­free, naked woman in whatever time he had left depressed him profoundly. “Christ, I need a drink,” he muttered and stared wistfully at the broken bottle.

  Then he walked back to the building and peered in through the strands of fungus that clung to the window. It was a pub, he realized.

  He picked up the crowbar and started to prise the door open. The wood, riddled with fungus, disintegrated immediately and he was able to step into the gloomy interior. The stink in there was bad and he held his nose while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  Despite the spongy growths that looked like giant green egg yolks covering the walls, ceiling and floor, Slocock saw that he was in a bar. A shapeless mound by one wall had to be the bar itself.

  He made his way to it, stepping warily around the circular growths on the floor. He was about to step behind the bar when a hand grabbed his ankle.

  He glanced down and saw what appeared to be an emaciated human arm protruding from an oblong mound of fungus on the floor. He pulled his leg free and stepped back, the Sterling ready to fire.

  A reedy, whispery voice said to him, “Help me . . . please help me.”

  Slocock began to make out what the shape on the floor was. It was a man, or rather the remains of a man. His body seemed to be part of the fungus growing out of the floor, though apart from his head, his torso, and one arm there wasn’t much left of him.

  “Help me,” the thing whispered.

  “Sure thing,” said Slocock with a smile and pulled the trigger. “Closing time, pal.”

  He then went behind the bar and began wiping aside the moss-­like growths covering the bottles and glasses. The labels had been eaten away but he was soon able to identify a full bottle of scotch. He opened it and took a long drink. “Canadian Club,” he told himself happily.

  He went to the front of the bar and perched himself on top of a fungus-­draped bar stool. Its upholstery was gone but its tubular steel frame was still solid. The fungus squelched under his buttocks.

  He placed the Sterling on the pulpy surface of the bar and then laid out the spare clips of ammunition beside it. There were four of them left. Thirty-­two rounds in each. One hundred and twenty-­eight bullets, plus what was left in the clip on the gun. Oh, and the four bullets left in the .38. He smiled and took another long drink from the bottle. He’d be able to kill a hell of a lot of things with all that, provided he used the ammunition sparingly.

  It was going to be a good night.

  Wilson had given up trying to resist. Now he just let himself be carried away by the tide of shoving and pulling creatures. He was dimly aware that he and Kimberley—he got brief glimpses of her up ahead—had been dragged back up along the Harrow Road to the spot where they’d first encountered the big mob.

  And now he was being hustled through some gateway and down a lane. In the fading light he saw that they were inside a large, sprawling cemetery, the tombstones still visible among the fungi. He was mildly surprised; he’d driven along the Harrow Road many times but had never really noticed the existence of this large place before.

  The horde of creatures surrounding them seemed to be increasing in size as they were carried along a lane bounded on both sides by a profusion of fungal growths amid tall obelisks and blockhouse-­like mausoleums. Wilson guessed that the ceme­tery was a more than ideal source of nourishment for the fungi.

  The lane widened and Wilson saw that they were approaching a strange building that seemed to be a Victorian reproduction of a Greek or Roman temple. In spite of the fungus growing on it he could see the rows of columns extending out on either side from a tall central structure, forming a square with one side open.

  Dominating this curious scene was the biggest fungus Wilson had ever seen. It grew in the center of the square beside the main building which it easily dwarfed. It was either a mushroom or a toadstool and it stood at least 40 to 50 feet high.

  He saw several of the fungus victims fall on their knees as they approached it and he realized, with a shock, that they were praying to it.

  Then the mob formed a circle in front of the giant fungus, or rather beneath it as its huge cap was about 100 feet in diameter.

  Wilson saw Kimberley thrust into the center of the circle. She staggered a few feet and fell. She was obviously having trouble walking. He struggled against the ones who held him, but couldn’t break free. He w
as forced to watch helplessly as several of the creatures converged on Kimberley.

  They pulled the contamination suit off her, then stripped her of her clothes. After that they pinned her on her back on the ground, her body spread-­eagled.

  What were they going to do to her, he wondered frantically. Rape her?

  No; he soon saw that the violation of her body they intended was not a sexual one.

  One of the creatures came forward carrying an armful of colored fungus. He kneeled beside Kimberley and began to rub chunks of the material over her body.

  Kimberley screamed and struggled but soon her body was soaked with juices from the fungus.

  And then they forced pieces of the stuff down her throat.

  After that they backed away from her, watching her as she writhed on the ground, choking and retching.

  Wilson was suddenly propelled forward into the circle.

  It was his turn now.

  3

  Wilson’s arms ached. He’d been tied to one of the columns for several hours, his arms pulled back behind him and secured by thick strands of woven fungus.

  The night was pitch-­black apart from the faint illumination provided by the moon. He could just make out the pale shape of Kimberley’s body similarly tied a few columns away. He had tried speaking to her, but she wouldn’t answer. She seemed to be well and truly sunk in her personal pit of despair.

  He shifted his position in yet another vain attempt to ease the strain on his arms. And he was also dying for a drink of water. It was a hot night and the air was thick with humidity and the fecal odor of the fungus.

  He stank of it himself. His whole body was smeared with it, it was in his hair, and he could still taste it from the time they had forced him to eat the stuff and swallow its juices.

  After the “ceremony” he and Kimberley had been tied naked to the columns, and their captors had settled down to wait. Wilson had quickly realized what they were waiting for, and so had Kimberley, to judge by her frightened sobbing.

  Every so often one of the creatures would come and examine them, looking for signs that the fungus was growing on them. So far the examinations had proved negative, to his intense relief, but he knew it could only be a matter of time before one of them, or both, displayed the inevitable stigmata. What would happen then he had no idea. Presumably they’d be released to be full-­fledged members of this fungus-­loving crowd.

  What a total fiasco, he told himself bitterly. Instead of even beginning to search for Jane and her papers he’d ended up in this situation. No transportation, no weapons, not even any clothes . . . and certainly not even the remotest hope of achieving what he’d come here to do. He had begun to realize that the whole mission had been a wild long-­shot from the very start.

  He heard a sound, turned and saw a shadowy outline shuffling towards him. Most of their captors seemed to be sleeping now but one or two had obviously stayed awake to carry out the inspections.

  Then, as the bulbous figure drew nearer, Wilson saw the moonlight being reflected off something in his hand. Something metallic.

  He had a knife.

  What was this? Had they got tired of waiting? Or was this some kind of ritual sacrifice? Wilson tried to edge his way around the column, but he was bound too tightly.

  He tensed himself as the creature halted beside him, waiting for the awful pain of the knife blow.

  “Dr. Wilson, I presume?” wheezed a soft voice.

  Wilson was so startled he was unable to reply.

  “Dr. Wilson?” repeated the voice. “Dr. Barry Wilson?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking. “Who are you?”

  “A great fan of your Flannery books, Dr. Wilson. I thought your last one, The Meaning of Liffey, was marvelous.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Wilson couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. Was it some fungus-­induced hallucination?

  The creature made an odd, rustling sound that Wilson realized he’d heard before. Then, “Sorry, Dr. Wilson. Couldn’t resist my little joke. I still have a sense of humor if not much else. My name is Dr. Bruce Carter. I’ve been waiting for you.” He began slicing through the strands with his knife.

  Wilson remembered the Public Health investigator on the video. He felt a surge of renewed hope as he was cut free. “God!” he cried. “How on earth did you find us?”

  “Shush, not so loud or you’ll wake our friends. I’ll explain everything later. First let’s get your companion free.”

  Kimberley raised her head as they approached her and said in a dull, apathetic voice, “What are you doing?”

  “Escaping,” said Wilson, and told her who Carter was.

  Her reaction was to mutter, “What’s the use? We might as well stay here. We’re finished. I can feel it growing on me.”

  As Carter cut her free of the bindings Wilson quickly ran his hands over her face, torso and limbs. Her skin felt smooth to his touch. “You’re fine,” he told her. “Come on, get up. We’re getting out of here.”

  He pulled her to her feet. She leaned against him and groaned. “My leg. I hurt my knee when the truck crashed. I don’t think I can walk.”

  “You’d better,” he said roughly. “I certainly can’t carry you.”

  With Carter in the lead, and Kimberley hobbling painfully, they picked their way quietly through the mass of sleeping creatures. Even though Wilson knew they were human beings under their fungal shells he was unable to regard them as people any longer. And he was thankful the darkness prevented him from getting a good look at Carter.

  They made it to the lane that led through the cemetery to the entrance. As they hurried along it as fast as they could, which wasn’t very fast due to Kimberley’s leg and the fact that Carter couldn’t manage much more than a shuffle, Wilson began to relax a little. He again asked Carter how he’d found them.

  “Knew you . . . were coming,” he wheezed with difficulty. “Intercepted radio messages meant for you. Posted lookouts on the main western approaches still open into London . . . there are still a few of us who can call our brains our own, though for how much longer I don’t know. My own thoughts are getting stranger all the time . . . a sign the fungus is affecting my mind.”

  He paused to suck in air, making a sound like water going down a drain.

  He continued, “The physiological changes the fungi are imposing on their unwilling hosts are quite interesting from the scientific point of view. The effects are many and varied, but there does seem to be a major trend toward the mutating fungi somehow harnessing human intelligence for their own survival purposes.

  “But I’m digressing—another indication of mental deterioration, I fear—I was telling you how I came to be here. The look-­out I’d posted south of here heard all the shooting and guessed it might be you. He fired a flare to alert me and I came as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast, I’m afraid. I found your abandoned vehicle and knew it was you.”

  “But how did you know we’d be in that weird temple place back there?”

  “That’s where they take all their victims. They hunt for people who don’t show any signs of infection. There are a few such around—natural immunity, I gather—but they are very rare. If they still don’t get infected in spite of everything our friends at the temple do to them, they are then killed as heretics. Like one of those old witchcraft trials—you can’t win either way.”

  Kimberley gave a piercing shriek. Wilson turned and got a fleeting impression of something rushing at them out of the darkness. He pushed Kimberley to one side and struck blindly at the shape.

  He felt his fist make contact with something brittle. There was a sound like a stalk of celery being snapped in two. At the same moment something hard caught him a glancing blow on his left shoulder.

  Dazed, he swung his fist again but met nothing but empty air. Then he discovered that his attacker was stretched out on the ground in front of him.

  Wilson knelt down and gingerly examined the thing with his fingertip
s. He said wonderingly, “Damn, its neck’s broken. I didn’t hit it that hard.”

  “Many of them are so riddled with the fungus, their bodies are becoming extremely fragile,” said Carter. “They are probably more fungus than human now. I suspect the same thing is happening to me . . . uh oh, listen!”

  In the distance, from the direction they’d come, there was a murmur of voices—a kind of angry buzzing as if a bee hive was slowly coming to life.

  “I’m afraid the lady’s cry carried too far,” wheezed Carter. “They’ll be coming after us.”

  Wilson stood up. He was now holding the iron bar that the creature had attacked him with. He took Kimberley by the arm.

  They weren’t far from the entrance. As they emerged into Harrow Road Wilson hesitated. “How far are we from the truck?” he asked Carter urgently. “I was confused on the way here.”

  “About half a mile.”

  The murmur of angry voices was getting closer now.

  “We’ll have to try and make it. Come on, as fast as you can!”

  It was downhill, but as the three of them slipped and staggered along the fungus-­covered roadway Wilson realized their pursuers would catch them before they reached the truck.

  He voiced his fear to Carter, who was wheezing painfully as he shuffled along. His reply was hard to hear. “Might . . . be . . . able . . . to slow . . . them down,” he gasped. “Noticed . . . some bird’s nest fungi . . . on the way here.”

  About 50 yards further on he veered toward the high wall that bounded the cemetery. As Wilson followed him he saw a large number of white, trumpet-­shaped growths protruding from the wall.

  “Giant cyathus,” said Wilson as they hurried past the growths. He glanced over his shoulder. The first few pursuers were closing in, though the bulk of the mob was still a fair ­way back. Wilson guessed that the ones leading the pack were less fungus-­riddled than the others and had more control of their limbs.

  As they passed the end of the long row of cyathus fungi Carter said, “Strike the wall as hard as you can. With the bar.”