Fungoid

by William Meikle

  * * *

  The girl woke as Rebecca carried her inside and laid her on the sofa, covering her with a woolen throw.

  “Where’s your mum, sweetheart?” Rebecca asked, trying to keep her voice calm and free of the growing nervous worry that was threatening to eat her up from the stomach outward. At first she didn’t think the girl would answer, then Annie nodded toward the patio door.

  “She got too heavy for me.”

  “She’s out there? Close?”

  Annie nodded, and her eyes fluttered, as if she might lapse into unconsciousness again at any moment. Rebecca patted her on the cheek.

  “You rest, dear,” she said. “I’ll see to your mum.”

  A small hand grabbed Rebecca tight at the wrist.

  “It’s too late,” the girl whispered, then let go.

  Rebecca’s worry grew even larger, and she had to force her legs to move, to stand and head for the porch. Even then she had enough presence of mind to stop at the doorway and look out, checking for any sign of rain. She saw a crescent moon, and the evening star. The breeze that blew in the door felt crisp—late springtime clear. It seemed safe, for now. She took a last look at the girl on the sofa—she looked asleep—then stepped out into the backyard.

  In no more than four steps she was beyond the range of the porch light and it took her eyes several seconds to adjust to the gloom beyond. The ground underfoot felt soft, almost soggy, but she couldn’t feel any damp rising into her house shoes—if she had she’d have fled back inside in a shot.

  “Patty?” she called out softly. She heard traffic in the distance, and a plane flew over high up but the houses on either side of theirs sat dark and quiet. She hoped that meant her neighbors had been smart enough to stay at work.

  “Patty?” she called again, and stepped farther from the safety of the porch light. She was getting used to the gloom now, and saw familiar features—the juniper bush Shaun had planted the day after they moved in, the azalea that came from a cutting at her mum’s place and the row of conifers that would one day act as a boundary fence.

  If we live long enough to see it.

  She pushed that thought from her head.

  “Patty?” Despite her obvious seclusion she still couldn’t bring herself to raise her voice above a stage whisper. “Are you out here?”

  She stopped, still, listening for a reply, or a groan, anything that would tell her the woman was indeed here in the yard, but there was only a silence, one that seemed to deepen and thicken as Rebecca walked farther into the gloom.

  She was about to give up and turn for the house when she saw something that shouldn’t be there—a low mound on the grass that looked all too familiar from the news reports. And she knew immediately who it must be—the mop of blonde hair was clearly visible despite the dim light.

  “Aw, Jesus, Patty—what’s happened here?”

  She stepped forward, then stopped as she got a close look at what had become of the woman. Patty Payne lay facedown in the grass, unmoving—but something else was, writhing and coiling like a nest of tiny worms as it grew in and around the prone woman’s flesh.

  “Patty?”

  But Rebecca could see—far too clearly—that the woman was gone. Her arm was the worst—Rebecca remembered seeing the red spot, burned into Patty’s hand by the rain as she got into the car in the schoolyard.

  Was that all it took?

  Brown filaments had ravaged the flesh, and what had been skin, bone and muscle was now a dried mass of dark tissue seemingly composed of fine threads. Those same threads ran across what Rebecca could see of the woman’s face—thankfully her eyes were closed—Rebecca didn’t want to see what had become of them. Farther down the body Patty’s skirt was pulled up, exposing her thighs, the pale flesh almost completely subsumed under more of the writhing brown fibers. Her feet were bare, bloody. There was something else, something Rebecca had to move even closer to see—the brown fibroid tissue covered the soles of the feet in a thick mat, almost carpet-like—and they had already started to creep into—and mesh with—the grass of the lawn. For six inches around either foot the vegetation writhed and wafted despite the lack of a wind—swaying as if alive and dancing to the beat of an inaudible drum.

  It’s spreading. The damned stuff is spreading in the dark.

  That single thought, even more than the sight of the slightly deflated body of the woman that had been a friend, was what sent her, scurrying and suddenly breathless, back to the safety of her well-lit house.

  * * *

  She had to stop on the porch outside the window to compose herself.

  The kids will need me calm. They can’t see me like this.

  All of her instincts were now telling her to run—gather up the kids, as much food as she could, and head for somewhere quiet out of town—somewhere there wouldn’t be the dead body of a friend lying in the yard. She went back into the house determined to start packing—just as the phone beeped at her again.

  I forgot the text message.

  She called up the message. It was three words—but they were enough to put paid to any idea of leaving—for the time being at least.

  The text was from Shaun.

  I’m coming home.

  7

  It was mid-afternoon in Banff before Shaun pulled out of the Mineral Springs Hospital car park, went up the ramp to the highway and pointed his pickup due east.

  Joe had died ten minutes earlier—a minute before Shaun sent the text message to Becky. The infection—that’s what the doc called it—killed the big man fast. His hand had been mostly taken before they got out of the mountains—it was a mass of crawling chaos by the time they ditched the plow in the logging company warehouse and switched to Shaun’s pickup.

  But it was the things that crawled across Joe’s scalp that Shaun could not get out of his mind. Worms. That’s what it looked most like—brown worms—a nest of them, slowly creeping across Joe’s head and across his face. By the time Shaun reached the hospital, got Joe moving in a stumbling, rolling run, and screamed to an orderly for help, the brown fibers were reaching into his eyes and ears. Even then Joe had enough strength left in him to take Shaun’s hand and squeeze it hard.

  “Don’t leave me, pal. Please? Don’t leave me—not like those poor souls up at the cabins.”

  So Shaun had stayed, while the docs tried to stop the spread of the infection. Within half an hour of their arrival, it started to rain outside, and that’s when things got really hectic. Shaun stayed close to Joe’s side but it was obvious from the ruckus in the corridors and public spaces of the small hospital that something major was going down.

  Joe lay—almost covered in brown fiber now, only nostrils and mouth showing through a death mask of matted tissue. Shaun left the dying man long enough to go to the door of the recovery room and look out.

  Medical staff rushed everywhere, voices were raised, people screamed—and overhead, rain kept drumming on the roof. Doctors and nurses led patients through the corridors, their exposed skin was dotted in bloody sores and rutted with scratches and weals. Shaun kept thinking about Joe, the red weal on his hand and the itchy scalp he’d worried about for mere minutes until the infection made itself visible.

  If it’s in the rain, we’re in trouble.

  And judging by the frantic activity all around the hospital, the trouble was getting worse by the second.

  * * *

  Joe died minutes after that without saying another word—and the docs could do nothing to save him. His nostrils and mouth closed up in a tangled mess of fibrous tissue, his chest heaved, just once, and that was it—all trace of the big man had gone.

  Shaun didn’t wait for the docs to confirm it. He left the room, took out his phone and tried to reach home—but all he got was a not available tone. He tried a text—and this time had better luck. He thought of all the things he could tell Becky, and of all the things he wanted to say. Then he thought of her there, with the boys, watching the news and seeing that there was
trouble out in Banff.

  He had sent the message and headed for the pickup. The rain shower had stopped by the time he reached the car park, and although the sky was gray and lowering he took the chance, sprinting for the truck and almost throwing himself inside. He thought of heading for the motel to get his luggage, but he had his wallet and phone—anything else wasn’t worth wasting the extra time.

  Now he was on the highway, heading east for Calgary.

  I’m coming home, baby.

  * * *

  If he’d thought there was chaos in the hospital, it was nothing compared to the scenes at Calgary airport. Shaun had hoped to ditch the pickup and catch a flight most, if not all, of the way home to Newfoundland. But the sight of the list of delayed flights on the main concourse and the shouting matches at the check-in counters were more than enough to tell him that nothing was getting out—at least not by air—for a while yet.

  He collared the only airport employee who didn’t look flustered.

  “What’s the story?” he asked.

  The short woman looked Shaun up and down first, as if sizing up his potential to turn into a screaming banshee, then answered calmly.

  “It’s country wide. No flights until further notice. Borders are closed too. Best thing to do is find somewhere safe and sit it out.”

  “Sit what out?” Shaun asked, afraid that he already knew the answer. The woman waved him toward where a crowd had formed beneath a bank of televisions.

  “Don’t quote me,” she said. “But it looks like everything is going to shit fast. I’m out of here and heading for home as soon as this shift ends—sooner if I get a chance.”

  That was all she said, but by that time all of Shaun’s attention was focused on the news on the screens. His first thought made him even more determined to get home as quickly as he could manage.

  It’s not just happening around here.

  As could be expected, the news reports focussed on the big cities—the mounds of bodies, the devastated vegetation being much to the fore. Shaun saw London, falling into riots and mayhem that were mirrored in cities all across the planet. He watched the tracking camera shot across the Great Plains that showed the growing circles of brown, and saw the scenes of death in Central Park, New York. It was that scene that got him moving—not towards the check-ins, but back out toward the car park and his pickup, slowing just long enough to buy a carrier bag full of sandwiches, several water bottles and—Becky forgive me—a couple packs of smokes.

  As he pulled out of Calgary and back onto the highway—he had to skirt three different accidents to do so—darkness fell.

  * * *

  The first hour went so easily that he almost relaxed. He kept near—or just over—the speed limit, ignoring the faster traffic that sped past him as if they were on their way to a fire. There was no sign of any accidents here on the main Trans-Canada highway—a road that would take him most of the way home if he could stay on it—and it was dry, with a clearing sky. He was starting to hope.

  Slow and steady does it—it’s a long way home.

  Now that he was on the open road he had time to think about logistics. Given the chaos he’d seen on the television screens he was unsure how long his credit cards would be accepted as valid tender—but he had a couple hundred in cash in his wallet that should see him well enough for gas and provisions. Then there was the problem of getting across to the Rock—but he’d deal with that when he had to.

  He’d felt guilty when he’d lit up the first smoke just before leaving Calgary, but after a few he slipped back into the habit as if the last ten years had never happened.

  Sorry, Becky. But at least I know I can quit again—if I’m given the time.

  He ran the air conditioner rather than wind down a window. Okay, it seemed dry out there, but he knew all too well that weather was a changeable concept at the best of times here in Canada—and it seemed to be far from the best of times.

  He watched the gas meter closely—he’d have to stop soon, but he wanted to put a bit more distance between him and Calgary before then. He smoked, and tried to find something on the radio that wouldn’t make him worry. That was harder than he’d have hoped, for most of the FM stations were running wall-to-wall news, none of it good. More worrying still, some of the stations that he knew should be there were broadcasting dead air. He selected an old favorite CD instead, and motored east to the pound of ZZ Top for a while until the gas meter was finally low enough that he had to do something about it.

  He saw a sign, then lights in the distance a few minutes later. He pulled onto the service station off-ramp—only to find himself at the rear of a line of thirty or more vehicles, sitting still on the forecourt and stretched back to the off-ramp itself, all waiting for a turn at the pumps.

  He checked his fuel gauge again—fifty miles left. Maybe. It would be a risk, but the line didn’t seem to be moving.

  But when he glanced in his mirror to check it was safe to reverse back off the ramp, he found he had left it too late—two large trucks had pulled up, tight behind him, leaving him no room to back up or even to wiggle his way out.

  Seems I’m here for the duration.

  He switched off his engine—no sense in wasting more fuel than he had to—lit up a fresh smoke, and tried to find some calm from the worry that threatened to consume him.

  The line moved at a snail’s pace—one vehicle length every five minutes or so, and Shaun was getting close to screaming in frustration. The radio news told of increasing troubles all across the planet; a storm ran through France, Belgium and Germany and left tens of thousands infected, killing all vegetation in its path. The aftermath brought rioting in the streets of the major cities—and out-of-control fires raged as the populace tried to burn out the contagion before it spread.

  It was all happening too fast for anyone to process, but one talking head’s sound bite stayed in Shaun’s mind, long after he’d turned the radio off and looked to more ZZ Top for comfort.

  This is the way the world ends.

  * * *

  It took more than two hours to reach the head of the line. Shaun was starting to fret about the tanks being emptied before he even got there—the truck that got to the pump straight ahead of him sucked gas for an age before the driver was satisfied.

  Once it was Shaun’s turn, he did the same—over-filling the tank as much as he dared before heading inside to stand in another line to pay. The gas station had a convenience store—normally it would be full of snacks, coffee, more sandwiches and even some liquor alongside automobile supplies—but there was precious little of anything left on the shelves, and the two girls behind the counter looked frazzled and worn.

  “I didn’t realize it had got this bad,” the guy in front of Shaun said.

  “Mister,” the girl replied. “This is the worst fucking day of my life—and I don’t see it getting any better.”

  After that Shaun paid, gave the same girl a thin smile that didn’t get a reply, and headed at speed back out to his pickup. It was only as he drove out of the forecourt and out from under the huge carport that he noticed it.

  Heavy, greasy raindrops spattered against his windshield, leaving smears behind when he tried to wash them away. He was so intent on the wipers that he took his eyes off the road ahead and was only aware there was a problem when he saw the flare of orange and the sudden flash then dim as someone spun across the road less than a hundred yards ahead. He had no time to even think about braking—he was going too fast. He slowed, and swerved as far to the shoulder of the road as he dared—and passed a three-car pileup with less than a foot to spare, coming to a stop some twenty feet farther up the road. His hand was clutching the car door before he remembered—it was raining.

  Someone dragged their body out of the wreckage of one of the cars behind—and immediately started to claw and scratch at their face, their hands, their arms—a horrible parody of a dance. Behind the accident, farther back along the road, Shaun saw more headlights approach, mo
re traffic arriving on the scene.

  The screaming, dancing figure—a young lad, no more than twenty, staggered forward, up to the back of Shaun’s pickup, and slammed his hands, hard, on the rear window, leaving bloody smears all down the glass. Shaun heard the boy shout—distant, but clear enough.

  “Help me. Please, help me.”

  Once again Shaun’s hand went to the door, then pulled back.

  I can’t go out there. I can’t.

  And neither could he stay, for to do so would be to admit that the fear had him paralyzed. He slammed his foot on the pedal and sped off—accelerating until the dancing figure was lost in the darkness behind him.

  His hands shook badly as he lit up another smoke, and the back wipers smeared blood along with the greasy raindrops, but after a couple of minutes the rain eased again, and the cigarette—illicit pleasure that it was—did much to calm him.

  There was now nothing but darkness behind and in front, only the pickup headlights and the strip of road that kept vanishing below him, every meter of it bringing him closer to a place where he could—maybe—manage to forget the dancing man.

  He muttered his new mantra to himself as he sped into the black.

  I’m coming home, Becky. I’m coming home.

  8

  The loss of amphibian species across the world from chytridiomycosis—an infectious disease caused by the fungal pathogen Batrachochytrium dendrobatidis (Bd)—has been described as “the most spectacular loss of vertebrate biodiversity due to disease in recorded history.”

  Rohit was surprised to look up at the clock and see it was past midnight. He’d spent the evening in study of the mycelia on the slide under his microscope, and what with that, and monitoring the progress of samples he’d embedded on agar on a row of Petri dishes, time had slipped away from him. It wasn’t for the first time—he found the sights of the world under his scope endlessly fascinating—a microcosm that, for that particular slide under that particular scope, existed for him and him alone. It was all too easy to get lost in its wonders, especially when he got a chance to look at something completely new. New—and worrying.