The other one just continued to scream. It was then that Kimberley became aware that he was still inside her. She realized that his grotesque member was so diseased with fungus it had simply snapped off.
Her revulsion sent a hot stream of vomit rushing up her throat. She was noisily sick, getting rid of the chunks of her fungus gag. Then she reached between her legs, trying to extract . . .
A hand grabbed her hair, jerked her head around. She found herself staring into what was once a face. She’d seen such faces before. In Africa. On untreated leprosy victims.
“I’m gonna kill you for what you done to me!” the face screeched.
Then, somewhere nearby, there was a sound like an animal burping very loudly and the top half of the face ceased to exist. The thing slumped toward her, spattering her with its blood. She screamed and shoved it away from her.
Its companion obviously didn’t know what was going on. It was looking around wildly in all directions. The hidden animal made a much longer sound this time and the creature’s body jerked and shuddered as if it were trying to shake itself to pieces. Then it fell.
Silence.
A figure stepped into view out of the shadows of a building. And then she heard a familiar voice say, in a drunken slur, “It’s the British Army to the rescue, Doc. And not bad shooting if I do say so myself.”
It was Slocock. The feeling of relief was so acute, she almost passed out. “Thank God,” she gasped.
He came closer, and she was able to see his face.
She started to scream.
5
Slocock couldn’t understand what was wrong with Kimberley. Here he’d just saved her from those two stinking pox-bags and she was acting like he was Count Dracula out for a bite.
“Here, Kim, it’s me! Good ol’ Sergeant Slocock. The man with the magic fingers.” He bent over her, brushing the thick hair out of his eyes (it was amazing how quickly it had grown). But she just screamed again and pushed herself away from him, scuttling backwards on her hands and heels like a giant crab.
The hair! That’s why she didn’t recognize him. It probably made him look 10 years younger, at least.
He started after her, saying, “Kim, you silly bitch, it’s me. I’ve just got more hair, that’s all.”
She sprang to her feet, turned and ran—slipping and sliding over the fungus. He cursed to himself and started to follow her. No telling what other trouble the silly slut would get herself into if he didn’t catch up with her.
He yelled her name again but she put on speed and disappeared around a corner. He hurried after her—and ran straight into the gateway of hell.
All he saw was a brilliant red flash that rushed straight at him and consumed him. The next moment the fluid of his eyeballs had solidified like the boiled white of an egg. He felt his flesh crackling and shriveling, but so far his shocked nervous system hadn’t been able to register any pain. For a few terrible seconds Slocock was aware of what was happening to him and then, mercifully, the intense heat detonated the 9mm ammunition in the remaining clip stuck in his belt. One of the bullets penetrated his brain . . .
Wilson switched off the flame-thrower and warily approached the smoldering, blackened shape. He’d been surprised when he’d heard the ammunition going up. He hadn’t noticed that the creature was armed.
He sighed and he stared at the charred form. He didn’t like the way he was finding it easier to use this horrible weapon on the creatures. A bad sign . . .
He looked around for Kimberley. At first he couldn’t see her, but then spotted her squatting on the ground some distance away. “Kimberley, you okay?” he called as he approached her.
“Stay away from me!” she cried. “Don’t come near me!”
He stopped, frowning, then turned to Carter, who was following him, and shrugged.
Kimberley succeeded in extracting the fungus-phallus from herself. With a shudder of disgust she flung it as far away as she could, then threw up again. But this time there was nothing but bile. After dry retching for a time she managed to get to her feet and stagger towards Wilson and Carter.
“Are you all right?” Wilson asked her.
“I’m never ever going to be all right again,” she said. She remembered Slocock’s face—or what was left of it. The thick tendrils growing out of his skull like worms . . .
She had seen her own future in his face.
“Do you know who you just incinerated over there?” she asked Wilson, pointing at the smoking body.
“What do you mean? How could I know?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Not now.”
Carter shuffled up to them. “We really should get moving, if the lady is up to it. We have a long way to go.”
“Can you walk, Kimberley?” asked Wilson. “Or do you want to rest awhile?”
“I’m fine,” she said listlessly.
“I suggest we head on down toward the Bayswater Road,” said Carter. “The Paddington route is impassable. The Westway and Marylebone overpass have collapsed. One of the mutated fungi seems to be causing a chemical change in all concrete structures as a byproduct of its metabolism. In a few months I doubt there’ll be a building standing in all of London.”
They set off in their shuffling, shambling gait, Wilson straining under the weight of the flame-thrower. Behind them, already forgotten—even by Kimberley—Slocock’s burned remains began to cool.
By the time they reached the Bayswater Road it was beginning to get light—Wilson guessed it must be 5 a.m. at least—and the world of the fungus was revealed in all its horrible glory.
Hyde Park was an impenetrable forest of giant growths, some of the huge toadstools or mushrooms being almost as large as the one they’d seen in the cemetery. Many of them were brightly colored, and the overall effect was like that of a scene from some old Disney cartoon.
On the other side of the street the buildings were concealed under vast, moldering heaps of fungal growth. Only the tallest buildings revealed their man-made origins as the fungus thinned out near the top and sections of glass, brickwork, or metal showed through.
They encountered a fair number of creatures—people, Wilson had to remind himself—along the way, and on two occasions he was forced to demonstrate the power of the flame-thrower in order to disperse gathering mobs. The trouble was that his and Kimberley’s clearly untouched bodies attracted attention. His big fear was that the weapon would run out of fuel before they reached the Post Office Tower.
Wilson noticed that Kimberley’s continual inspection of her body was becoming even more obsessive. And her concern was catching—he found himself looking down at himself every minute or so and running tentative fingers across his face and back.
“You’re still fine as far as I can see,” Carter told him as he checked himself for the hundredth time.
Wilson glanced at him with embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t help it. It’s the waiting. I’ll probably feel relieved when I actually see something on me.”
“I doubt it,” said Carter.
“You’ve coped. You’re handling the whole thing very well.”
“No choice.”
Wilson lowered his voice. “There’s always death. I’m afraid that’s going to be her reaction when it finally hits her.” He indicated Kimberley, who was walking a little ahead of them. “Did you consider killing yourself when it happened to you?”
“It crossed my mind,” admitted Carter. “But I’m not a brave man. Death still scares me. I want to live as long as I can, even like this.”
They were passing through Marble Arch now. The arch itself was invisible under the fungus. Ahead stretched Oxford Street—a bizarre fungal canyon.
Wilson suggested taking a short cut through the back streets but Carter advised against it, explaining that many of the smaller streets were completely blocked. “Best if we head along Oxford Street and then go up Tottenham Court Road,” he said.
A few minutes later Wilson stopped and stared
hard at the Babylonian Gardens of hanging fungal rot and yeasty strands that obscured the front of what was obviously a large building. He experienced a shock of recognition. “Good Lord, that must be Selfridges! I’ve got to take a quick look, do you mind?”
Carter said hesitantly, “I don’t think we have the time—”
But Wilson was already pushing his way through the fibrous curtain and Carter, and Kimberley, had no choice but to follow him.
They entered Selfridges’ department store through a shattered window. Inside, the store was not filled with the homogeneous mass of fungus that Wilson expected but instead contained a mad variety of different growths everywhere, and on everything, in bright, mottled profusion. The atmosphere was heavy with damp and barely breathable with its moldering stench.
Wilson stared around in disbelief. “We used to shop in here—Jane and I—a lot. In the early days, when we were still . . .” His voice dried up. For some reason the ruined interior of the famous department store was having a greater impact on him than anything else he’d seen so far. He suddenly realized how much the fungus had destroyed. Even if it was finally overcome things would never be the same again. London definitely wouldn’t, and nor would he.
“Come on, let’s get going,” he said roughly.
They moved on along Oxford Street. At the end stood the Centrepoint high-rise, its highest three or four floors entirely clear of the fungus. It gave the impression of something bursting free of its shroud, but Wilson guessed that the fungus would continue to grow inexorably upward until it covered even this tall building’s roof.
They turned into Tottenham Court Road. As they did so there was a loud rumble from the direction of the City. Wilson asked Carter what it was.
“Building collapsing,” said Carter. “It’s happening all the time, but getting more frequent as the fungi eat through the concrete.”
Wilson looked back at Centrepoint and wondered what kind of crash it would make when it finally toppled over.
They approached the Post Office Tower. It resembled an enormous mushroom. Fungus, dark and malevolent, had accumulated around its bulbous summit.
Somewhere up there was Jane and, hopefully, his two children. But what did they look like now? Like one of the horrors he could see across the road, calmly munching on a piece of fungus?
The sight sickened him, yet at the same time made him aware of how hungry he was. A thought occurred to him.
“What do you do for food?” he asked Carter.
“I do the same as that poor unfortunate,” said Carter, gesturing at the creature opposite, who resembled an overripe Michelin Man. “I eat the fungus. Some of it actually tastes quite good. But then, I always liked mushrooms.” He made his wheezing laughing sound.
The fungus made the tower seem even bigger than it was, and as they approached it the tall structure loomed over them oppressively.
Wilson remembered the one occasion he’d gone to the top of it. It had been years ago, back in the days when there was a revolving restaurant and observatory open to the public. Before the IRA had blown out a chunk of the place with a bomb in ’73 . . .
They drew closer to the base of the tower. “Where’s your radio equipment located?” Wilson asked Carter.
“In the adjacent Telecom building, not in the tower itself. But there is probably stuff I could use up in the TV control room if I could get access to it. And I’m going to need to rig my antenna as high as possible. I can’t transmit from the first floor. The fungus appears to absorb radio waves.”
“Where will you get your power from?”
“There’s a diesel generator in the basement. It’s kept running by your wife’s people.”
Wilson was surprised. “Why?”
“She needs the power for whatever she’s doing up there.”
Carter led them to a doorway partially obscured by fungus. They entered a dank, foul-smelling stairwell. Wilson checked the flame-thrower. There was a reassuring slosh of fuel in its tank. He ignited the after-burner. “You show me the way up to the top,” he told Carter, “then wait until I come back. If I don’t come back you’ll know I’ve failed.” He turned to Kimberley. “Same goes for you.”
She shook her head. “I’m coming up with you. I haven’t come all this distance to stop now.”
“Look, you’ll be in my way if I have to use this thing.”
“I’ll stay well behind you,” she said firmly. “But I am coming with you.”
He sighed. He wasn’t going to waste time or energy arguing with her.
Carter led them to the first floor of the Telecom building and then along a passageway to the base of the tower. “It’s a long climb,” he warned. “The basement generator isn’t enough to power the elevators.”
“Do you know where these guards of Jane’s are located?”
“Anywhere between here and the top. And I don’t know exactly how many there are of them, either. They patrol in groups of two or three. Carry things like steel spikes as weapons. Vicious bitches, too. I’ve seen them in action, so don’t let the fact they’re all women inhibit you with that weapon.”
“It hasn’t yet,” said Wilson grimly, thinking that many of the creatures he’d torched so far had probably been female under their fungal crusts.
Carter pushed aside a curtain of hyphae to reveal the entrance to the spiral staircase leading to the top of the tower. The walls and stairs themselves were covered with damp-looking fungus. It looked like the cancerous orifice of some giant animal.
Wilson wanted to turn and run. Sweat began to pour out of him. He didn’t want to know what was awaiting him at the top of the stairs.
“What’s the matter?” asked Kimberley impatiently.
“Nothing.” He stepped forward.
6
Climbing the staircase was difficult. The layer of smooth fungus made everything slippery, and Wilson kept losing his footing. Nor did the weight of the flame-thrower help matters.
The only source of illumination was from the weapon’s after-burner, but Wilson was beginning to think that its red glow was more of a handicap than an advantage. It meant that whoever was guarding the staircase could see them coming, and he was sure it wasn’t his imagination that he could hear faint sounds up ahead. As if someone were backing away from him as he climbed . . .
He halted to rest his aching legs. And as he did so an idea occurred to him.
He heard Kimberley laboring up the stairs behind him. “Stay where you are,” he called softly to her. “I’m coming back down. There’s something back there I want to check out.”
“What are you talking about?” she called back irritably. “I can’t see anything to check.”
“Shush,” he warned, turning so that the nozzle of the weapon pointed down the stairs and its glow was shielded by his body. Straining his ears he was positive he heard a movement above. He also felt a slight stirring of air against his bare skin. Someone was creeping down the staircase toward him.
He moved as close to the outer wall as he could, then quickly turned and aimed the nozzle upward.
He let loose a long gush of fire that splashed off the opposite wall above and disappeared round the curve of the central pillar of the spiral. Over the roar of the flamethrower, which was deafening in the enclosed space, he was satisfied to hear a high-pitched scream.
Then he screamed himself as some of the liquid fire dribbled back down the stairs and brushed his left foot when he didn’t move out of the way fast enough.
At the same time a figure appeared around the curve of the stairs. It was burning fiercely and as it staggered blindly downward it kept slamming itself against the wall, trying to put out the flames.
“Watch out, Kimberley!” he cried as it stumbled past him, searing his skin with its heat.
The thing disappeared around the curve and then he heard Kimberley scream. There was a sound of something falling down the stairs and more screaming.
“Kim, are you okay?”
>
He was relieved to hear her say, shakily, “I think so. She grabbed my arm but then she tripped and fell. I’ve got a couple of burns but I don’t think they’re serious. Why the hell didn’t you warn me you were going to do that?”
“I would have warned it—her—at the same time. And whoever else is up ahead.”
He continued onward. The glow from the weapon revealed another burned body further up the stairs. This one, fortunately, was not moving.
While he was staring at the corpse there was a metallic clang and a metal rod with a sharpened end narrowly missed his head after ricochetting off the wall. He reacted quickly, sending a quick burst of flame upwards. There was a cry of pain and the sound of receding footsteps.
Wilson picked up speed. Keep them on the run, he told himself. Don’t give them a chance to plan something clever.
Nothing else happened for about five minutes, then he heard a series of loud crashes up ahead. He couldn’t understand their significance at first, then realized what was happening. A large metal object was rolling down the stairs.
He pressed himself against the central pillar and yelled to Kimberley to do the same. The noise was getting louder. It sounded huge, whatever it was, and moving fast. No chance of outrunning it.
It was right above him now—only yards away. He tensed himself.
Suddenly a large cylinder—like a big water heater—came hurtling round the curve. Wilson felt an agonizing stab of pain in his left thigh, and then the thing clattered past him.
“Kim . . . ?” he called when the tank had rolled past her position.
“I’m still here. It missed me.”
“You were lucky.” He felt his thigh. There was a large flap of skin hanging loose and a lot of blood. But he knew he’d got off lightly. His main hope was that they couldn’t find something even bigger to roll down. If the tank had been only a couple of feet wider it would have swept them both down the staircase. All the way to the bottom.
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg he started upward again. Then stopped almost immediately. He could hear footsteps padding down from above. They were coming to see the effects of their weapon.
The Fungus Page 19