Wilson suddenly saw what he had in mind. He stopped and swung the bar at the wall. The impact jarred his arms. He swung again.
Something like a cricket ball with a spring attached flew out of one of the nearest trumpet-shaped fungus and shot clear across the road.
He hit the wall several more times and was gratified to see a full-scale eruption of the things all along the row of fungi. One of their pursuers screamed. Wilson could imagine what was happening to him.
In conventional cyathus fungi there are a dozen or so little round objects called peridioles containing the badio-spores. The peridioles rest on spring-like hyphal coils. When the fungus is mature the impact of raindrops falling onto it is enough to activate the mechanism. The peridioles fly out of the trumpet and the trailing spring-like hyphae sticks to any leaf or twig it touches, coiling itself tightly.
With fungi this size the hyphae must be capable of exerting a tremendous amount of pressure.
And judging by the increasing number of screams in the darkness they were doing just that.
“Good idea,” cried Wilson as he caught up with Carter’s shambling form. He was about to clap him on the shoulder but held back his hand at the last moment, remembering what Carter’s shoulder consisted of.
“A delaying tactic only,” wheezed Carter. “Killed a few, no doubt, but it won’t stop the others for long. What do you have in mind when we reach the truck?”
“It all depends on what’s still there.” He didn’t continue.
Finally the bulk of the Stalwart, lying on its side amid the rubble of the partially demolished building, appeared out of the gloom. Wilson rushed forward and anxiously examined the locker containing the flame-throwers. It was still intact. There were signs that someone had tried to batter it open but had failed.
Wilson prayed he would be more successful. He could hear the mob approaching down the road.
In a frenzy he attacked the lock with the iron bar. He rained blows on it, ignoring the jarring pain of each impact. Something gave. He was able to wrench the door open.
Hurriedly he dragged out one of the weapons, trying to remember Slocock’s instructions for operating it.
“Oh God,” cried Kimberley in a small, terrified voice. A tall shape covered with what appeared to be tennis balls lurched out of the darkness. Wilson, still struggling to light the thing, thrust the end of the flame-thrower into the creature’s face. There was a crunch and it fell, mewling, to the ground. But there were several others close behind.
At last! He had found the switch that ignited the after-burner. And now all he had to do was turn a valve—there was a satisfying hiss of pressure—and . . .
The flame shot out with its terrible, ear-splitting roar, a great, dribbling tongue of fire that was so bright, after all the hours of being in near total darkness, it hurt Wilson’s eyes to look at it.
Its glare illuminated a scene out of a painting by Hieronymous Bosch. The road, already transformed by the fungus into a surreal landscape, was filled with a mass of creatures that could have only come straight from hell.
It even occurred to Wilson, as he stood there pouring fire into the midst of the screaming horde, that he was actually in hell. That he had perhaps died of a heart attack in his Irish cottage and all that had happened in the past few days had been his personal descent into eternal torment . . .
He cut the flow of fire, remembering Slocock’s instructions to use short bursts only.
Several of the creatures were burning. They ran about in circles, screeching and waving their arms as their fungus-riddled bodies sizzled and crackled. Wilson looked at them without emotion. He was numb.
He unleashed the fire again.
The crowd broke up, the creatures running in all directions. Some ran with flames streaming in the night air behind them . . .
He moved forward, letting loose another burst of fire—aiming the nozzle high as he would a garden hose and scribing a wide arc of burning liquid in front of him. Then he shut it off and surveyed his handiwork. There were numerous fires all around, and the air stank.
Apart from the things that lay still or feebly kicking in the flames there was no sign of the fungus creatures. The area was deserted.
He turned and headed back to the truck. Kimberley and Carter stood motionless beside it, vaguely illuminated by the flickering red glow from the various fires.
Wilson realized that Carter was indistinguishable from the creatures he’d just burned, and Kimberley scarcely appeared human either. Her hair matted to her skull, her body stained with fungi juices and tarnished red by the glow, she looked like a female demon.
He wondered what he looked like, naked and carrying a flame-thrower.
Something gave a low, wailing cry as it burned.
He didn’t look round. He suddenly felt very tired.
“What now?” he asked Carter helplessly.
“We go to see your wife,” said Carter.
“My wife?” repeated Wilson, astonished. “You know where Jane is?”
“I’ve known for several days now.”
“She’s still alive! Thank God for that!” cried Wilson. “But what about my kids? My son and daughter? Are they with her?”
“I’m sorry,” wheezed Carter. “I don’t know. I haven’t actually seen your wife. I know where she’s located but I can’t get to her. Her followers guard her too well.”
“What? Her followers? What are you talking about?”
“Your wife’s a very important woman now, Dr. Wilson,” said Carter, and made the dry, rustling sound which was his equivalent of laughter. “In fact you could say she’s gone up in the world. In more ways than one.”
4
Slocock was drunk. He’d finished the entire bottle of whiskey and was now opening a second one. A lesser man, he knew, would be unconscious on the floor by now and probably inhaling vomit, but he had the constitution of a Chieftain tank.
“There’s no two ways ’bout it,” he announced to the empty, fungus-ridden bar as he lurched around with the fresh bottle. “I can hold my fucking liquor.” He stopped as something crunched under his boot. Swaying, he peered down and saw he’d stepped on the remains of the fungus victim he’d shot earlier. His boot had crushed its fragile skull.
“Oh, ’scuse me, fella,” he said to it and weaved his way back to the bar stool. He climbed carefully onto it and took another long drink. Then he picked up the Sterling and fired a long burst in the air, raking the ceiling with bullets. Chunks of fungus and plaster fell everywhere.
“Time, gentlemen! Time!” he yelled. “Can I have your glasses please.” He started to laugh then stopped when he felt a stab of pain in his forehead. A hangover already? But he hadn’t finished drinking yet. He ran his head over his sweaty forehead. Then, surprised, he ran it over again. He couldn’t believe it. Hair! His receding hairline was growing back! Thick and luxuriant!
He grinned happily to himself. “This calls for another drink,” he told the empty bar as he raised the bottle. He was too drunk to wonder why his hair had started to grow back, he just took it for granted as some kind of strange miracle. After all, these were strange times . . .
He remembered how, when he was younger with a full head of hair, he’d never had any trouble picking up women. Now that he had all his hair back, he was confident it would be as easy for him again.
He placed the bottle lovingly down his shirt front, gathered up the ammunition clips, and slid off the stool. His mind was made up. He would go and find a woman. One that wasn’t covered in all that muck. There had to be at least one or two around.
He staggered out of the ruined pub and began to make his way down Ladbroke Grove. He felt very happy. He had three important things—a bottle of whiskey, a gun, and a hard-on. What more could a man want, apart from a woman?
As he progressed, unsteadily, down the street he became aware of others using the thoroughfare. They shuffled and scuttled furtively in the shadows as if they didn’t wa
nt to be seen, and who could blame them, thought Slocock. On one occasion he glimpsed a creature that appeared to be covered with fluid-bloated condoms. As drunk as he was, the sight nauseated him, and he immediately shot the creature with the .38.
He also shot four people—things—who were joined together by thick strands of fungus like a Siamese quartet. “Doing you a favor,” he told them as he opened fire while they tried to flee from him in four directions at once.
He lost track of the time as he wandered about on his quest for a woman. He also became confused as to where he was. Under their blankets of fungus all the streets looked the same.
Then, when he was getting low on both whiskey and ammunition—he’d shot a lot of creatures by that time—he saw what he’d been searching for. A woman. An untouched woman. A woman with clean, white skin. And she was all his.
All he had to do was get rid of the two fungus-ridden maggots who were in the process of raping her.
At least the truck’s lights were still working. Wilson blinked in the sudden brightness, then helped Carter clamber down into the wrecked rear compartment, forcing himself to overcome his aversion to touching the man. It was the first time he’d had a chance really to see Carter, and it took an effort to keep telling himself that there was a human being underneath all those huge, wart-like crusts.
Carter read his mind. Peering at him with his one visible eye he wheezed, “Not a pretty sight, eh? Think a hair-piece would help? A big one, maybe?” He made his odd laughing sound again.
Wilson, feeling embarrassed, looked away. Kimberley, he saw, was splashing herself with a trickle from the drinking water tank in an attempt to wash off the dried fungal juices. At the same time she was anxiously examining her body for signs of infection. He automatically glanced down at his own body, half-expecting to see the fungus somewhere on him. But as far as he could tell, through all the soot and fungus stains, he was still infection-free.
Observing this, Carter commented, “It’s remarkable you two have both escaped the fungus so far, even though you’ve been exposed for a considerable time.”
Wilson told him about the drugs they’d been using.
“But not any longer,” said Kimberley bitterly, gesturing at the smashed glass littering the overturned compartment. Their captors had done a thorough job of breaking everything that was breakable.
An unpleasant thought suddenly occurred to Wilson. He immediately checked the locker containing the spare radio, and saw at once the seals were broken. One look inside was enough to show him that the set was beyond repair.
“Well, that’s it then,” he said sourly. “Even if we get Jane to talk there’s no way we can transmit the information.”
“Yes, there is,” said Carter. “I’m a one-time radio ham. Cost my father a fortune when I was a teenager, and I had to give it up when I began my medical studies, but there still isn’t much I don’t know about radios. I’ve been cannibalizing equipment at British Telecom, building makeshift receivers. The fungus gets into them pretty quickly but I’ve been able to keep a step ahead of it. That’s how I picked up those messages meant for you. I’m sure I can rig up a transmitter. There are still plenty of spare parts sealed up at the Post Office Tower.”
“And you say that’s where Jane is? At the Tower?”
Carter nodded his bulbous head. “Right at the very top. Her followers guard the only way up there.”
Wilson frowned. He was still having trouble accepting the incredible story that Carter had told him about Jane. “You say these people actually worship her? But why?”
“They obviously believe her when she tells them she created the fungus and controls it. Her followers are all women, by the way, though what the significance is of that I don’t know yet.”
“But what’s she doing in the top of Post Office Tower?” asked Wilson.
“I’ve heard rumors she’s established some sort of laboratory up there.”
“You think she might be working on a way of stopping the fungus?”
“From what I hear about her I doubt it very much.”
Wilson sighed. “Well, at least she’s still alive and rational enough to organize a lab. That means she’s probably still capable of looking after the kids. I’m sure she wouldn’t let any harm come to them, no matter what the state of her mind.” He turned to Kimberley. “Stop wasting that water.” She was still splashing it over herself and frantically peering at her skin.
“I have to know if it’s on me yet,” she cried, then, as before, turned her back to him. “Can you see it anywhere? Tell me the truth.”
He gave her back a cursory look. “You’re fine,” he told her, then salvaged a cup from the debris. “Move aside, I’m thirsty.”
“You don’t seem to care!” she accused him as he gulped down a cupful of water. “We’re going to look like that thing over there, and you don’t give a damn!”
She was pointing at Carter.
Wilson said nothing. Instead he filled the cup again and handed it to Carter.
Kimberley muttered something under her breath and went to the rear door. “Where are you going?” Wilson asked her.
“I’m going outside for a pee. I can hardly have one in here.”
That was true. The cubicle housing the chemical toilet was now horizontal. “Don’t go too far from the truck,” he warned her. “And keep an eye out for anything moving.”
He watched her as she climbed out of the open airlock. She seemed completely oblivious to her nakedness and he felt a sluggish revival of his desire for her—a desire that had been dormant for some time.
“A very attractive woman,” commented Carter.
“Yes,” agreed Wilson, uncomfortably aware that his partial arousal was physically evident. “I wish she had something to wear. I wish I had something to wear.”
Carter made his wheezing laugh and said, “You don’t have any spare clothing with you?”
Wilson told him about the fungus attack that had cleaned them out of everything organic.
“Well,” said Carter, “You really don’t need clothes in London anymore, as far as the climate is concerned. The fungus seems to have raised the average temperature by at least five degrees. And the humidity has increased, too.”
“And after a while the fungus even clothes you as well,” said Wilson bitterly.
“Yes, there is that,” conceded Carter. “But you two have been lucky so far. Perhaps those drugs have given you permanent immunity.”
“Perhaps,” said Wilson though he didn’t believe it for a second.
After a pause, Carter said, “An odd choice for this expedition. Your traveling companion, I mean.”
“Kimberley? At first I didn’t think so. Seemed as hard as nails. But then when she found out the Megacrine drug wasn’t all it was cracked up to be she began to go to pieces. I guess she believed she was 100 percent safe from the fungus, otherwise she would never have come.”
“And why exactly has she come?”
“That, Dr. Carter, is a good question.”
Kimberley moved some distance away from the truck, taking care to avoid the still-smoldering remains of the creatures. The knot of terror in the pit of her stomach was like an unbearable physical pain. She felt so scared and helpless, but there was nowhere she could run, nowhere she could hide to avoid the inevitable infection. It was probably growing inside her already . . .
At the beginning the odds for pulling off her gamble had seemed in her favor, but now . . .
She squatted down amid the rubble of the building. At least her knee was feeling better. Something rustled behind her. She was just turning her head to see when a hand was clamped over her mouth and she was pulled roughly backward.
She tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. Then the hand withdrew. She opened her mouth to draw breath but as she did so something rubbery was thrust into it, gagging her. She recognized the foul taste of fungus.
The next thing she knew she was being pulled along by h
er feet like a human sled. She tried to resist, digging her fingers into the ground, but it was useless. The fungal matting covering the road was too smooth.
As she was pulled quickly along, her head was gently buffeted by undulations and small growths in the carpet of fungus. Soon she was feeling quite dazed.
It was some time before she was able to get a clear look at what had captured her. Eventually she was able to keep her head raised long enough to see. There were two of them—one holding each leg—both very thin and emaciated. In the dim moonlight she saw ulcerous craters all over their backs.
She had no idea how far they’d traveled from the truck when the creatures finally stopped and let go of her legs. The continual buffeting had left her semi-conscious and at first she was only half aware that she was hearing voices.
“Go on . . . you first.”
“No, no . . . I’ll wait . . . all that running . . . have to catch my breath.”
They sounded like two people suffering from very bad laryngitis. She wondered what they were talking about.
“You’re scared you can’t do it any more.”
“I can. I just need a bit of time. Go on. You warm her up for me. I can see you’re ready from here . . . it’s enormous.”
Christ, she thought, they’re going to rape me. I’ve come all this way to be gang-banged by two pathetic, dying zombies.
She tried to sit up but as she did so she was punched in the face. She fell back onto the fungus, bright lights flashing in her eyes . . .
Then her legs were being roughly parted. A heavy body, hot and sticky, was suddenly on top of her and at the same time she felt something being brutally thrust into her. It was unnaturally large and it hurt like hell.
Her horror and disgust gave her extra strength. She violently wrenched her body to one side, simultaneously giving the rapist a powerful shove with her arms . . .
There was a distinct crunch. Then a thin, wailing scream. She looked up and saw him kneeling there clutching at his crotch. Blood spurted out between his fingers.
His companion cried, “What’s wrong? What did she do to you?”
The Fungus Page 18