Fungoid

by William Meikle

  But for how long?

  And now that he was close to the doorway, Rohit heard the humming drone again, felt it tug at his mind, even stronger now than before. He backed away, his head spinning and dizzy. He had to take five long steps backward before it cleared.

  We’re trapped. We can’t go out—not into that.

  * * *

  Irene looked up as he returned to the kitchen, and without being asked, handed him a mug of coffee. As she did so, she put a finger to her lips. He knew what she was saying.

  The kids can’t handle any more bad news at the moment.

  As he sat down next to Irene, Rohit also realized that he was dog-tired. He’d slept barely three hours in the last forty, and it was starting to catch up on him fast. The coffee was strong enough to give him a temporary jolt, but he’d need sleep—soon—otherwise things would start to get fuzzy. Mistakes might happen, and in their current situation, nothing good would come of it.

  The other two girls were whipped, dozing fitfully, heads down.

  Lost. They’ve lost their anchors and are drifting.

  Rohit understood the feeling intimately—he’d felt that way a lot since coming to North America, and it was his work that rooted him in place. And now even his science was going to be taken from him—the infection was clearly winning, adapting far faster to circumstances than any defense mankind could put up. Once again he wondered exactly what the Chinese had been up to—for he was sure now that this was no foodstuff experiment gone wrong. This seemed deliberately induced. The only question was moot—was it a planned attack on the world, or was it a lab error gone catastrophically wrong? It didn’t matter which—it was out, and it had a whole world to conquer.

  Look on my works ye mighty and despair.

  He was surprised to be shaken awake at some point later—the coffee obviously hadn’t been quite strong enough and he’d fallen into a doze. He came up out of a dream of Blue Hills and purple sky to see Irene, wide-eyed and afraid, saying something it took him a while to process.

  “There’s several trucks and bright lights outside. The other two have gone to check. They’ve gone outside. The kids have gone out.”

  As he stood—groggily at first, and needing Irene’s help to get his balance—he heard an amplified voice calling.

  “Come on out and show us your face and hands. We’re here to help.”

  The cavalry has arrived.

  * * *

  The main thing Rohit remembered later of the next half-hour was the overwhelming smell of industrial alcohol—he hadn’t been the only one to make the connection with nerve agents. They were stripped and hosed down in the back of a long truck, given earplugs to combat the drone, and overalls to wear that also reeked of alcohol. Their rescuers—all masked and all wearing earplugs, making conversation impossible—checked them over once again for infection, then they were transported slowly, still inside the truck, for about twenty minutes.

  Nobody spoke, and Irene held tight to Rohit’s hand all the way.

  They were let out onto a floodlit dock at the harbor, and then up a gangway into the hold of a boat, where around twenty other overall-clad people wandered aimlessly. None of them wore earplugs, so Rohit took his out, and put them away in a pocket.

  “So what’s the idea here?” Irene asked as she took out her own plugs. “Are we prisoners?”

  One of the suited figures walked over to them.

  “There’s coffee and pizza over at the sharp end,” he said. “You’re safe here—for now at least.”

  “Where are we?” Irene asked.

  “The Tealady—sorry, the Sea Princess—usually a supply boat for the oil rigs. It’s been press-ganged into service.”

  “Supply boat? We have lots of food and water available then?”

  “Yes, ma’am—no worries on that score. Now make yourselves at home. You’re the last aboard and we’ll be underway any minute now.”

  “Where are we heading?”

  “North,” the suited man replied.

  Rohit had too many other questions—so many that he couldn’t formulate a single one of them, and the man had moved on before he could speak. He let Irene lead him forward to where a queue snaked back from a makeshift food counter. As they waited, he looked up; the closed doors of the cargo bay were fifteen feet or so above them.

  Sealed in a metal container. That’s probably the best outcome we could have hoped for.

  He saw the surviving students from the cafeteria run across the hold and embrace an elderly couple.

  “You got us through it,” Irene said.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Rohit replied, which earned him a firm squeeze on his hand.

  “In that case, keep on doing nothing,” she replied. “I feel safe being with you—if you don’t mind?”

  Rohit found that he didn’t mind at all.

  29

  It was almost time.

  Noble and Kerry had boarded the Sea Princess with the last of the folks brought down from the university. Kerry had been prepared to take the truck back out again, but they were ordered to stay on board, and head north with everyone else—the town—the whole island—was being abandoned to the fungus.

  As Noble passed the radio room he heard a broadcast going out, for stragglers to head up the coast to Carbonear, Bonavista and Twillingate, where attempts would be made to pick them up if possible.

  More partners for the dance.

  He’d also overheard the conversation between the two they’d brought in from the university, and Kerry.

  “We have lots of food and water available then?”

  “Yes, ma’am—no worries on that score.”

  Noble stood silently in a corner of the hold, watching the snaking line that waited for food, waiting for the boat to move under him, waiting for the sign that would tell him it was time for him to move.

  Time for him to dance.

  30

  Rebecca finally got the kids to sleep around ten—there was still no sign of power returning, and neither of the boys would go to the back room, so she bedded them down on the sofa with whatever cushions and duvets that came to hand.

  As for herself, Rebecca felt bone-tired, but her brain refused to shut down. The last thirty-six hours had taken on the feeling of a nightmare, something that had happened slightly remote from reality.

  Surely the real world isn’t so breakable, so easily unwound?

  Sitting in the candlelit cabin, with all technology stripped away, Rebecca felt as close to her childhood—to her mother—as she had for many years—as close, and as far away as ever. She missed Shaun with an ache deep down inside her, a fluttering in her stomach and tightness in her chest that was almost unbearable. If it hadn’t been for the boys, she would have gone in search of a bottle long ago.

  When she got up and went to make more coffee to try to stave off the urge for booze, she caught another glimpse of the view out of the kitchen window, and was glad there was no liquor in the house, for she might have dived straight in.

  The colors still flowed and surged in the darkness—a swirling phantasmagoria that was strangely hypnotic and compelling, calling her outside where there would be peace, and rest, and never anything else to worry about again. She left a mug of coffee on the counter and was headed for the door before she caught herself.

  Her mind cleared when she dragged herself away from the window—it appeared the light show was almost as compelling as the droning song had been earlier. Keeping her head turned to one side, she drew the thin curtain over the scene—it didn’t blot out all of the dancing lights, but at least it did enough to keep her from answering its call.

  It also darkened the room considerably, so much so that when she turned back to the main living area she was able to see that they were no longer alone in the cabin. Adam still lay curled up, swaddled in blankets in the corner of the sofa. But Mark had adopted his usual position—half in, half out, with his right hand dangling, almost touching the floor.

 
Rainbow color, faint but unmistakable, danced beneath his drooping fingers. As Rebecca walked over, slowly, not quite believing what she was seeing, she was able to make out the fine, almost hair-thin tendrils, stretching up from the floorboard, tasting the air as if in anticipation of the flesh now only millimeters above.

  * * *

  She scared the boys again—she had to do it to get them awake and moving, but that didn’t mean she was happy about doing it. She hurried them out to the car, and turned the music system up high before locking them in—the dancing lights were even brighter now, more active and more fluid. Once again she felt the call of the dance.

  It was easier to ignore this time—her panic and concern for the boys overrode everything else as she repacked the trunk of the SUV with most of the stuff she’d taken out earlier, and added the camping stove and propane, which she remembered just as she was heading out.

  She turned for one last look at the cabin before leaving. She’d put out the candles, and now it was obvious that the building was lost to the infection—the aurora danced everywhere she looked, green and blue and yellow and gold, wafting like silk in a breeze. At the same time the drone started up again, a low hum at first but rising in volume quickly until it echoed and rang in her head.

  “You want it? You’re welcome to it,” she muttered, and closed the door for the last time on her childhood.

  31

  Shaun’s much anticipated big reunion with his family didn’t go as he’d planned. He was driving through Melrose, thankful that he’d survived almost three hours of hell on the road, when he was almost blinded by headlights coming in the other direction—full beam, not dipped.

  He did what he always did in the situation, flicked the high beams of his vehicle off and on and pressed hard on the horn. The other car pulled up beside him.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” he shouted as he wound his window down.

  Becky stared back at him, openmouthed, her eyes wide.

  “Never mind that. If you don’t get rid of that cigarette right now, I’ll ram it up your ass.”

  * * *

  The boys wanted to get out of the car to greet him, and it broke Shaun’s heart to have to order them to stay where they were.

  He spoke to Becky through the rolled-down windows.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks, and managed a smile.

  “The cabin’s gone though.”

  She didn’t have to say any more—he’d seen more than enough of the infection by now to know how voracious it could be.

  “Don’t get out—I’ll turn around. Follow me up the road.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Bonavista, eventually—there’s going to be a rescue boat up there tomorrow—I heard it on the radio. But for now I’d like to get inside somewhere and keep our heads down. I’m beat.”

  “Catalina? We should be able to find a shed or garage?”

  “Okay—give me a minute to turn round.”

  The feeling of relief he felt at finding them was almost overwhelming, but it was accompanied by a wash of tiredness, as if his mind and body were giving up, having accomplished their goal. He tried to concentrate on the road as he led them up and out of the village and along the short stretch of highway to the larger communities up the coast.

  Judging by the lack of lights in the windows of the houses lining the highway, he didn’t hold out much hope of finding anyone to help them. He’d heard many things on the radio on his drive up the peninsula—none of it good.

  There had been more nukes deployed in the Korean crisis—many more nukes. The situation was, as with everything else, hazy at best, but Shaun didn’t think there’d be much left in the Far East worth fighting over when all was said and done. Another war was raging in Iraq, most of Africa had gone quiet, as had South America, and the great cities of the West were being submerged under a tsunami tide of the fungus. Bypassing Toronto and Montreal on his way east had proved to be a smart move, as both cities were aflame, and attempts on the U.S. Eastern seaboard to deploy pesticides had only succeeded in poisoning much of the remaining population. The estimated death toll worldwide was now in the hundreds of millions, and still rising fast. One of the few talking heads remaining on air voiced a short phrase that now seemed to be on everyone’s lips.

  It’s not a planet killer—it’s a people killer.

  * * *

  He wasn’t about to tell Becky any of this anytime soon—just as he’d never speak of the drive up from Gander and the carnage he’d seen. There had been tall funeral pyres on the outskirts of Clarenville; an infected moose that was three-quarters gone but still trying feebly to stay upright and a head-on collision that had killed three teenagers, a couple and their baby. Then there had been the weeping drip of greasy rot on the windshield all the way along the overhanging avenues.

  Thankfully he could now put all that behind him, although he was starting to feel the urge for a smoke. He fought it down—Becky probably meant what she’d said at their meeting on the road. Besides, the boat in Bonavista in the morning was now taking precedence as the big thing to worry about—and first he needed rest—and safety.

  On entering Catalina past the fish processing plant, they finally had a bit of luck. The forecourt of the auto repair shop on the corner was empty—and the twin doors that led into the building were partially open. Shaun pulled in, with Becky’s SUV coming up alongside. He wound the window down again to speak.

  “They’ve got concrete walls and floors, and a tin roof—we’ll be safe in there. I just need to get the doors open.”

  Becky nodded, and Shaun drove up as close as he could to the partially open garage. He opened his door and rolled out, going under the roll-up door and only standing when he was sure he was fully inside. The only light was coming from the headlights of their two vehicles, but the work area inside the shop was empty and silent. He wasted no time in getting the doors open and the two cars under the safety of the roof before closing them in.

  He got into the SUV with Becky and finally they had their family reunion—tearful and almost hysterical such as it was. Becky buried her head in his shoulder and sobbed, and the boys leaned over from the back, arms wrapped around his neck almost tight enough to strangle him.

  He didn’t mind one bit.

  32

  The Sea Princess left St. John’s harbor just after midnight. Rohit and Irene sat with their backs to the bulkhead. They felt the slight jolt as the lines were cast off outside, then came the roll and swell that told them they were no longer tethered to the dock. The noise in the hold swelled to a roar as the main engines kicked in—there wasn’t going to be much in the way of conversation for a while.

  But at least we won’t have to worry about the drone.

  The last few days were already taking on the texture of a dream in his mind, as if he could not quite process the fact that everything he knew, everything he had worked for, had been taken, gone without even much of a fight. Ahead there was only uncertainty—but that was something he knew how to deal with—it was little different from the leap he’d taken as a nineteen-year-old to land in London to undertake his degree.

  And this time, I have a companion.

  Irene hadn’t left his side since they boarded, hadn’t taken her hand from his, and he realized something else—things would be a lot worse if she weren’t there. He was even starting to drift into an almost comfortable sleep when he was nudged back awake. One of the suited figures stood over them.

  “Mr. Patel?” the newcomer shouted over the noise of the engines. “The captain would like a word.”

  Rohit and Irene got to their feet.

  “Just you, sir,” the man said.

  Rohit shook his head.

  “Where I go, she goes.”

  The man didn’t argue, and Irene gave Rohit’s hand an extra squeeze as they followed the suited figure up the steep flight of metal stairs that led up and out of the hold.

&nbs
p; * * *

  The first thing Rohit noticed on the bridge was the relative quiet after the engine's boom in the hold. The second was the dark shape of the island off to the port side—and the swirling aurora of dancing rainbow lights that hung over the whole length of it.

  “Don’t look at it,” someone said. “It tries to drag you in—it whispers in your brain.”

  “Another adaptation,” Rohit said, almost to himself. “And just like the others, designed to trap prey.”

  “So they were right,” someone else said, and Rohit turned to see a man—the captain at a guess—seated in a chair behind a bank of controls. “You are an expert?”

  Rohit shrugged.

  “As much as anyone is. I’m a mycologist—a fungi specialist if you like.”

  “Oh, I like,” the captain replied. “Come on through. I’ve got coffee on the brew.”

  Still with Irene’s hand in his, they went though to a tidy cabin at the rear of the bridge that served as a tea room of sorts, although there were more than a few liquor bottles on the high shelf above the stove. A music system that looked to be older than Rohit sat in the corner beneath a shelf of vinyl records.

  The coffee was strong and piping hot, and did much to bring Rohit fully awake. And the captain seemed only too eager to bring them up-to-date.

  “We’re heading for Labrador—eventually,” he said. “We’ll pick up as many survivors as we can—but I suspect it won’t be many at all. Things are bad all over.”