Slither (18 page)

‘They’re in every river all over the country. Every stream. And they’re spreading. Soon we’ll not be able to go near a drain, or even step over a gutter in the street, without being in danger. Even your own bathroom at home, or your kitchen. That cameraman, Matt Parker – I did him an injustice. He was right.’ Another crazy burst of laughter from indoors. ‘Let them celebrate while there’s still time.’

He was surprising himself. Up till that moment he’d thought only in terms of programmes. His job was to
report
. Put the facts before people. But now – perhaps it was the moonlight, or he’d had too much to drink – he saw it all differently.

‘Surely we can get rid of them somehow,’ she objected. They were sitting close together on the balustrade. Her voice was low.

‘I’m not so certain.’

‘We exterminate other – well, rodents.’

‘It’s a much bigger problem. People will have to change their habits, take a lot more care, no swimming, no strolling around. And the Government will need extra powers which it may not want to give up afterwards.’

‘What kind of powers?’

‘They’ve already evacuated one town. By tomorrow morning maybe there’ll be another.’

She didn’t answer. It was getting chilly but neither of them made a move to go inside again. They sat there, toying with their empty glasses, staring at the moonlit ruins through the trees. Suddenly she stood up.

‘Let’s offer them a sacrifice!’ Her face was mischievous; she held out her hand to him. ‘This is a Holy Place, isn’t it, where our ancestors came when they were in trouble? And it’s
full moon tonight.’ She deepened her voice mysteriously, teasing him. ‘Maybe there’s something down there in need of a prayer or two.’

He laughed and allowed her to pull him up. ‘D’you really believe that?’

She shook her head. ‘I believe in neutrons, electrons, and radio-carbon dating,’ she informed him; then wrinkled her eyes at him. ‘But it’s worth a try. Come on! I wanted to see the place anyway.’

Her car was parked on the drive just below the terrace and she stopped to get the torch out of the glove compartment. In her eagerness she half-ran down the sloping lawn towards the gaunt, broken walls of the priory. As they got closer he caught a glimpse of water.

‘The old fish pond,’ she explained when he pointed it out. ‘They went in for fish farming, those old monks.’

Enough remained of the main walls of the church to make them drop their voices. Part of the pointed gothic arch of the main window was still in place, sharply outlined against the sky. They stood quietly for a moment, staring up at it, then drew closer together, his arm slipped around her shoulders, and they kissed. At length she broke away from him and looked at his face almost seriously.

‘Now you’ve pledged yourself to me,’ she said, mockingly. ‘This is consecrated ground, and with that kiss—’

‘I thee cherish,’ he interrupted her lightly. ‘Let’s find the writing on the wall.’

She shivered. ‘What a way to put it!’

They walked over the grass down the main body of the church towards what must once have been the high altar. Now only a couple of fallen slabs marked the place. He sensed her mood changing; she was becoming more tense. In the corner was an arched doorway hidden in shadow. She played the torchlight over it. Worn stone steps led down into the darkness, broken and uneven.

‘It’s a section of the crypt which was excavated only ten or fifteen years ago,’ she whispered. ‘And that’s where they found the stone with the carvings. I’ll go down first. I hope you don’t mind spiders.’

There were more steps that he’d imagined and they began to curve, with one or two sharp corners. She moved very slowly ahead of him, aiming the torchlight so they could both see where they were putting their feet. Steadying himself against the side wall his hand became tangled in a cobweb which clung to his fingers; trying to get rid of it, he dislodged a pebble which bounced down the steps, echoing hollowly, till suddenly it stopped. His ears strained against the sudden silence. Was that a scratching he heard? Or merely his imagination?

Her hand groped over his body, feeling for his. ‘You all right?’ she breathed.

‘Yes. And you?’

The sound of their voices seemed to spread and dissolve in the emptiness.

They continued down the crumbling steps, one by one, till they ended in front of a low arch. She went through, then exclaimed in surprise; he followed, grazing his hand painfully against the stonework. The air smelled damp. Something scurried away in a far corner, he couldn’t see what.

It was a long, narrow chamber with a floor and walls made of great stone slabs. A broad shaft of moonlight flooded in from above, illuminating a ledge cut into the end wall; above it, also carved in the stone, was a cross set in a circle. The runic signs were beneath it, faint and time-worn.

For a long time she stood silently before it, holding his hand tightly. ‘Don’t you feel this is a Holy Place?’ she said at last. ‘Perhaps at first, thousands of years ago, it was just a grove, a fissure in the rocks. Early human beings came here, experienced that sense of awe and mystery… I thought we might make love down here, but it’s too sacred. Isn’t it?’

As she turned to look up at him, her face earnest in the moonlight, he stooped to kiss her but she twisted away. Then a gasp; she backed against him. Lying in a patch of moonlight on the stone floor, its head raised, watching them intently, was a large worm. Its deep green skin seemed to glow in the dim light. He reckoned it was about a yard long, its body elegantly curved and coiled.

‘That’s what you were talking about,’ she whispered, her voice trembling only slightly. She picked up the torch from the
ledge. ‘D’you think there are more?’

She swept the torch beam around the long, narrow room, into the darker corners not reached by the moonlight, and they counted six worms all staring in their direction.

‘Oh, Christ!’ The words burst from her lips; she was terrified. The torchlight wavered, then she switched it off. ‘Oh, Christ, what are we going to do?’

Aubrey tried to say something, but the spittle rasped in his throat and he couldn’t speak the words. Those twisting stone steps were the only entrance to this chamber – the other hadn’t been excavated – and to get there they’d have to pass two of the worms.

‘We…’ The words wouldn’t come. He shook his head as if to shake the fear out of his brain. His stomach cramped up and he found it hard to breathe.

The worm in the patch of moonlight moved. It slithered towards them across the stone slabs with an effortless grace, then stopped again. Its eyes were hard, betraying nothing. In spite of himself Aubrey stared at them. He was gulping the air, swallowing, gasping for breath.

He felt Cynthia tugging at his sleeve. ‘Lift me,’ she begged, ‘lift me on to the altar where they can’t reach.’

She meant the ledge cut into the wall. He tried to help her, despising himself for his own cowardice, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. His arms shook as he grasped her to take some of her weight; but she was halfway up already and she managed to scramble on to it.

‘There’s room for you too,’ she said.

‘No.’

The ledge was narrow and she sat on it with her legs drawn up, her knees touching her chin. In that skimpy dress she looked only too exposed. A sacrifice – that’s what she’d said, wasn’t it? He took the torch from her. It was the only weapon they had, that and his bare hands. When they’d attacked Mary Keating he’d plucked them off her and killed them with a mere flick of his fingers. But they’d been small, no longer than earth worms; these were the size of rattlesnakes. More of them now, too. In a circle around him. Watching.

‘Cy—’ His mouth was dry and he knew he was shaking. It
would be different if he could lash out at them with his fists, if they were something solid he could hit. But these long, ribbonlike things wriggling towards him, the movement passing like waves down their sinister green bodies, getting closer to his feet, his legs… It was a re-run of every nightmare he’d ever had.

One of them touched him. Reared up and lashed into him, its teeth missing his flesh but tearing his trouser leg at knee level. He recoiled. The edge of the altar hit the small of his back. The bile rose inside him and he spewed.

The nearest worm caught the full force of the vomit. It’s mouth opened as if it enjoyed the stuff. The sight of it caused Aubrey’s stomach to heave again. Once more he retched, and once more the worms advanced.

Somewhere, he thought distantly as they bit into the calves of his legs, he’d heard they didn’t attack through clothing. That was wrong. He wondered at the way his mind functioned with an apparently cool logicality while they gnawed at him. Certainly he was screaming, he could hear himself, and lashing out with the torch, trying to batter their brains out, but inside – in the very eye of his dying – was a calm centre.

The pain was intense at first as their teeth found his flesh, but then it began to slip away. He was lying on the hard stone floor and one of the worms was coiled over his eyes, feeding on his cheek. Somewhere he could hear Cynthia sobbing – or was it Carole? – and he wanted to say her name. If only he could have had her on that ledge-like altar beneath the Saxon cross. Fertility ritual by the light of the full spring moon … moon … moon…

A scream bounced around the excavated walls of that death chamber, coming closer, a shrill scream – not his – penetrating his ears like hot needles. Something struggling and heavy fell across him, writhing in agony, screeching as her flesh was torn and their blood mingled. As they’d wanted to mingle, he thought. As they’d wanted to.

18

On board the fast Royal Navy command craft, Matt scanned the Westport quayside through his binoculars but saw no sign of life. The evacuations had obviously been thorough. Normally on a day like this there would be a good scattering of people about. The fresh breeze put white crests on the waves and caused the neglected sailing dinghies to bob up and down at their moorings. The fishing nets on the harbour walls were equally unattended, the roads deserted.

‘Can’t see any worms,’ he reported, shouting against the breeze.

‘Let’s put in!’ Tegwyn Aneurin Rhys called back. His bald head was sun-tanned and his fringe of grey hair stuck out even more wildly than usual. ‘If we can’t get as far as your house we might at least reach the shop. You said you keep some of your pictures there.’

The bronzed, bearded lieutenant gave the order and the boat began to edge forward again. He’d shown no curiosity about his two civilian guests; in fact, he’d hardly spoken at all.

Matt and Fran had left Westport the previous Saturday afternoon before the police had decided on evacuation, so they’d missed the long traffic jams. On arrival at the Old Rectory they’d found an official black Rover 3500 parked in the drive. Rhys had bustled out to greet them with firm handshakes and the comment that he was tied up for the moment, so could they look after themselves for an hour or so?

He’d shown them upstairs to a large room containing a wide marital bed and a couple of thousand books. Fran declared Matt could read if he liked; she was going to soak in the bath. Then, only a few seconds later, she’d unexpectedly reappeared, a towel in her hand. She’d stood uncertainly in the doorway.

‘What’s wrong?’ he’d asked.

‘I’m scared to.’ All the colour had gone from her face. ‘I’ve remembered Helen. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to have a bath again.’

She’d contented herself with a wash while he kept guard, just in case. If Rhys agreed, he thought, he’d fit wire mesh over all the outlets.

Two hours later they’d heard voices in the hall as Rhys said goodbye to his guests. Car doors slammed discreetly. Wheels crunched gently over the gravel as the Rover 3500 pulled away.

Rhys had come bounding up the stairs, apologizing profusely. ‘Of course, I’ve known the Minister since we were both at Cambridge,’ he’d explained. His Alsatian had looked up at him with understanding eyes, then sat down to scratch itself. ‘The situation’s serious. Reports of worm attacks are coming in from all over the country, especially seaside places and rivers. The Prime Minister intends to seek powers from the House of Commons on Monday to declare an official State of Emergency. Several areas are being evacuated already. The army’s been using flame-throwers in an attempt to contain the menace but, as I told the Minister, we need to know a lot more about these worms if we’re not to be completely overrun. A scientific advisory committee has been established under Professor Jones.’

‘But he’s never seen one alive!’ Matt had exclaimed.

Rhys had grinned. ‘Wait for it, Matt. I’ve involved you two. You’re to give evidence. We’re going to need all the film you took, the still photographs, everything.’

As their craft moved alongside, a young rating – he couldn’t have been twenty years old – jumped smartly ashore and tied up. For a few seconds no one else moved. Westport seemed unnaturally empty and quiet. The masts of the yachts and fishing boats swayed in a strange, gaunt dance. Rows of gulls sat on the telephone wires.

‘Risk it?’ asked Matt uneasily.

‘It’s what we came for.’ Rhys turned to the lieutenant to explain they might be wanting to get away in a hurry, so…

‘We’ll watch out for you, sir.’ Laconic.

He’s probably wondering what the fuss is about, thought Matt.

They went ashore, Matt first. The moment he felt the firm stone of the quayside beneath his boots he could sense their presence. They were in the town somewhere, though they weren’t visible. He grasped his usual heavy walking-stick; in addition, he had two knives in his belt. Rhys had armed himself with a vicious-looking knobkerrie.

‘Ready?’

Matt nodded. He was as ready as he’d ever be. Under his thick clothing he also wore a rubber skin-diving suit, remembering how the worms were no longer deterred by clothes the way they had been when he’d first met them in the sewers.

‘Rhys, if we come face to face with them, we retreat.’

‘My dear fellow, it shall be as you say. You’re the man with the combat experience. So lead on.’

The cobbled shopping street was as quiet as death. So often he’d walked along here with Jenny running and chattering at his side, greeting the shopkeepers and others, but now there was only an eerie silence. They kept cautiously to the centre of the road. It was like entering a war zone after a neutron bomb attack, with all life exterminated though the buildings remained.

This sensation was reinforced by the sight of Fran’s craft shop with its broken window. He stooped to look inside. His mouth went dry.

Worms lay in loops across the counter, lazily explored the display shelves and squirmed over the floor. They were mostly about four feet long, though a few were shorter, and they moved sluggishly, ignoring the two men staring in at them.

‘Like an army of occupation,’ Rhys whispered ecstatically. ‘If only we could communicate with them.’

‘You can,’ Matt told him sourly. ‘One step inside that door, you’d get the message right away.’

The butcher’s next door had also been taken over. There was no meat in sight, only worms. Sleeping in the window; coiled up on the scales. And in the outfitter’s they’d draped themselves langorously over the mannequins, their colouring in vivid contrast with the sailing jackets and white sweaters. One worm eyed them lethargically from amidst a disarray of underwear.

‘They don’t see us as a danger any longer,’ Rhys was saying excitedly. ‘They feel they’ve won their battle. Here we are, strolling among them like tourists almost! Matt, I’m sure we could reach some understanding with them if…’

‘Try reaching some understanding with a cobra!’ Matt retorted contemptuously. ‘They’re not attacking us because they’ve gorged themselves silly already on all the livestock that used to live round here, the pigs, sheep, hens, cows, ducks, dogs, cats, rabbits… If you don’t believe me, you stick around till they’re hungry again.’

But maybe they
could
get to the cottage safely, he thought. Pack his films and stuff into a couple of rucksacks and get back before they changed their minds. It was risky, but…

He led the way through the narrow lane. The clear stream tumbled and gurgled as it had always done, littered by the same soggy cigarette packets and empty beer cans. The mongrel which had always barked at him from the end garden was no longer there, nor was the old woman he’d so often seen at the open window of the third cottage.

‘It’s uncanny,’ Rhys commented, his voice now a little unsteady. ‘Seagulls on the rooftops, and nothing else.’ He pushed open a rickety garden gate and crossed the tiny patch of grass to peer in through the front window. ‘St Christopher and all the saints!’ he murmured.

Matt joined him. Through the spotlessly-clean pane he saw the raw carcase of old Dave Trewin with several worms still feeding on it. The dead man’s stomach gaped open and a worm was emerging from it, streaked with red, gripping a large section of intestine. Part of his face was gone, though enough was left to recognize him; his crutches too lay on the floor beside him. Twenty years earlier he’d been injured helping to rescue the crew of a Dutch freighter driven on the rocks; he was well-known in Westport pubs, spinning yarns to holiday-makers in exchange for drinks.

Something moved.

A quick slither on the tiles above.

Matt dodged back instinctively even before his mind had registered the danger. The worm slipped over the guttering and fell with deadly accuracy on to Rhys’s shoulders.

It didn’t bite immediately. It first steadied itself, then pulled its head back as if wanting to examine its victim’s face before selecting which portion to feed on. Rhys’s eyes bulged with terror. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but there was no sound. Only a rattle in his throat.

The worm was on the point of striking when Matt’s hand gripped it just below the head. It whipped about furiously this way and that, trying to fix Matt with its eyes, then twisting its neck in a vain attempt to bite his wrist. He held it steadily and stared back, asserting his own superiority. Gradually the worm’s resistance slackened. Now he need only tighten his fingers slightly…

‘Don’t kill it!’ Rhys’s voice had returned. ‘We’ll take it back for Professor Jones. A present from Westport!’

‘It’s asking for trouble!’ Matt protested.

‘Why?’

‘The others…’

‘Half-asleep, most of them,’ Rhys scoffed. ‘The rest are too busy.’ He added triumphantly: ‘So you do admit there’s communication
between
them?’

Matt didn’t argue. Still holding the worm in front of him, he marched back into the cobbled street, abandoning all idea of visiting his own cottage. It had been a crazy notion anyway. If there was one place in the whole of Westport which would be crawling with worms, it would be his cottage.

In the shop windows he caught the occasional glimpse of eyes watching him. They were following his progress back to the quayside, yet not obviously moving. He thought at one point he heard something, swung around… Nothing.

‘You’re getting nervous,’ Rhys observed, his confidence now fully restored.

Matt stopped, irritated. He thrust the worm’s head towards Rhys’s face and felt the ripple of interest passing through its body as its jaws opened. ‘Would you like to carry it?’ he demanded.

‘My dear fellow, I didn’t mean to offend you!’ Rhys backed away. ‘Let’s just get it back to the boat.’

Rounding the corner at the foot of the cobbled street they came to the wide quayside where he’d often been with Jenny
to buy lobster or mackerel from the fishermen unloading their catch. It was crowded with worms, some lying with their heads flat on the cobbles, though others raised them in that interested, periscope-like manner which had become so familiar.

‘What d’you suggest now?’ asked Matt cynically. He felt weary and realized he no longer minded dying, though he’d prefer it to happen quickly.

‘They want their friend back, that’s obvious!’ Rhys squeaked with delight at this confirmation of his theories. ‘So if you place him carefully on the ground…’

‘And have it take a piece out of my nose?’ Matt refused scornfully. He was sickened by the whole expedition. Twenty yards off the boat was waiting for them, standing wisely a couple of feet away from the quayside. But to get there they’d have to pass the worms. ‘There’s only one way out of this mess, Rhys.’

‘What mess? Don’t you see…’

But Matt wasn’t listening. He tightened his fingers around the worm he was holding, squeezing it to death, and then threw the body into the centre of one of the thickest groups a few feet away. As usual, they fell hungrily on their dead brother.

‘Now make a dash for the boat!’ he shouted at Rhys as he transferred his stick to his right hand. ‘Keep over to the right by those boxes. Move!’

‘But’ Rhys started to argue. A large worm slid rapidly towards him at that moment and reared up to strike at his thigh.

‘Go!’ Matt pushed him, bringing his stick down on the worm’s head at the same time.

Rhys forgot all his theories and sprinted for the boat. Something was happening on board but Matt was too busy to watch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the ratings had jumped on to the quayside to help Rhys aboard. It seemed to take ages, but what was the difficulty?

The worms were coming at him from three sides now. Viciously he hit out at them, cursing and yelling. As he killed each one others began to devour it. Somehow he’d have to edge his way round towards the point where he could start running.

Then came a burst of automatic rifle fire from the rating on the quayside. Chips of stone flew up where the bullets hit.

‘That’s no use!’ Matt cried out to him, but his words were drowned by another burst of firing.

One bullet found its mark. One only. The rating would have done better with a stick in his hands. The other worms changed direction and sped over the stones towards him. Matt shouted a warning but he was too late. His shots went wide, breaking a window, as the worms fastened their teeth into his legs and hands.

By the time Matt reached him the rating had fallen to his knees. A four-foot worm was on the point of biting into his neck when Matt’s stick dashed its brains out. Another rating jumped ashore and together they got the wounded man on board. He was groaning incoherently. At least three worms were still feeding on him.

With his gloved hand Matt seized the nearest by the neck, forced its jaws apart and tossed it into the sea as the boat pulled away from the quayside, gathering speed. Rhys and the lieutenant helped with the other two. A fourth, which had been clinging to Matt’s own clothes, dropped to the deck. He stamped on it.

‘I’ll not feel safe on board this boat again,’ said the bearded lieutenant when they’d killed all they could find. He ordered a search in case they’d missed one.

‘They didn’t seem to bite you,’ observed Rhys wonderingly.

Matt looked down at his legs. His trousers had been torn to rags by their teeth but the composition rubber of the frogman suit beneath was still whole.

‘It worked this time,’ he agreed doubtfully, ‘but sooner or later they’ll chew through it. They learn from experience.’

The meeting next day took place in a high panelled room decorated with dark oil paintings in ornate frames. About twelve people were there, the civil servants both male and female dressed in nondescript suits, the academics ranging from sweaters and denim at one extreme to Professor Jones’s nineteen-fifties sports jacket with leather elbow-patches at the other.

Matt was left to cool his heels outside for the first hour and
when eventually they called him in he was given a place at the foot of the table. But they listened attentively enough as he described his various encounters with the worms and his observations on their living habits.