by Simon Clark
Right, I told myself dizzily. Examine your environment, Masen. Walls? Timber. Windows? Count 'em. None. Beams run below an angled roof… corrugated iron. Yes, sir… corrugated iron that's rusted and patched. Floor consists of compressed earth. Light provided by one wee electric bulb, hanging from a beam. And you're sitting on a camp bed… no blankets.
So far, so good. Unsteadily, I reached a door that looked as if it had once belonged to a fashionable house but had now been pressed into service in a building of far more modest aspirations.
A locked door. Not so good.
My dope-addled mind cleared sufficiently to understand that I was a prisoner. I returned shakily to sit on the bed where I dozed, sitting upright. At last the door opened. In stepped a lithe black woman of twenty-five or so, wearing a yellow headband. In her hands was a sub-machine gun that she casually pointed at my face. I did not move. I just watched with a dreamy detachment.
A young man with dark Latin looks filled my water jug from a larger container, then placed a tray bearing fruit and bread on the bed beside me.
My captors spoke not one word. Neither did I. With the solemn and silent ceremony over, they withdrew. My stomach feeling more than a little twitchy, I didn't trust myself to eat. Instead, I downed the jug of water in long, thirsty gulps.
The water ceremony repeated itself at four-hourly intervals. The same couple entered: the woman with the sub-machine gun, the man carrying the large jug to replenish my small one. Again, no one spoke. Moments later I was left to conclude the ceremony by once more drinking the water in one go.
After a while I grew a little more sensitive to my surroundings. A spider the size of a saucer prowled along one of the roof beams, no doubt regarding the interloper below through his multiple eyes. For a few moments a drumming roar rose outside. Rain, I figured, rain beating on my corrugated-iron roof. The downpour was a short one, stopping as suddenly as it had begun. Almost immediately I could smell the cloying aroma of wet earth. Above my head the spider lost interest in me, choosing instead to suck the vital juices from a large fly.
Food…
I looked down at the tray beside me. The bread looked a mite too dry for me, but the slice of pink watermelon looked appealing. I bit into it. Sweet juice filled my mouth along with a good many pips, but my appetite came roaring back. With my eight-legged dining companion enjoying his own meal above my head I ate everything on the tray.
Once more I heard the rhythmic rattling sound. I cocked my head to one side, listening. Little sticks beating steadily against a larger body of wood. I frowned, trying to place the once familiar sound.
Then my drug-soaked brain at last lurched into gear. The word I had been grubbing for reached my lips. 'Triffids.'
With no windows and a watch stopped at half-past three I had no notion of the time. Presently, however, I saw the strip of light beneath the door growing increasingly dull until it vanished. For a while the clicking of triffids grew louder with the coming of night. Crickets, too, chirped more loudly. Also, I fancied that I could hear the croak of frogs somewhere nearby. When I pressed an ear to the door I caught voices, only they were far too muffled for me to make out individual words.
I returned to the bed. By this time my eyes had stopped their constant streaming; they felt, however, unpleasantly gritty, so I used a little of my drinking water to rinse them. After that I examined my right forearm. Six needle pricks clustered around a vein. I touched the side of my neck. A sore patch beneath my left ear made me wince. Outside the blues club I'd clearly been held in a neck-lock while someone had driven a hypodermic into an artery. At least my kidnappers had been at pains to deliver me in one piece.
And yet I recalled only too vividly Gabriel Deeds falling onto the back seat of the taxi as the gunman fired. Kerris had been screaming. For God's sake, what had happened to her? Was she hurt? Was she here? Captive in some neighbouring hut? If so, what were they doing to her? A sense of foreboding oozed through me.
Presently the sound of triffids beating their sticks against their woody boles subsided. Silence weighed down on the hut where at last I lay down on the bed.
With thoughts of Kerris Baedekker running through my head I closed my eyes.
***
I was woken by the bang of the door opening. Sunlight streamed in. For a moment I thought there'd be a reprise of the water ceremony. Instead the girl in the yellow headband motioned with the sub-machine gun.
'Come on. Don't do anything silly like trying to run away. I won't shoot you but you'll only get yourself stung to death.' The voice had a surprising Irish lilt.
'Where are you taking me?'
'Someone will speak to you.'
'Who?'
She must have been rationing her words because she didn't reply. Instead, she stepped back through the doorway with the gun muzzle pointing at my face.
This wasn't the moment for any sudden or unpredictable movements. I simply raised both hands to shoulder height, while trying my darnedest to appear relaxed in the hope that my posture would convey to her that I had no intention of making a run for it. Even so, a vivid mental image wouldn't leave me. I saw myself being marched out to a bloodstained post. There, a line of figures carrying rifles would be waiting for me. I blinked the grim notion away, took a deep breath, then stepped out through the door.
The sunlight blazing down had to be the strongest I'd seen for weeks. The heat, a humid sort of heat that clung to the skin, struck me immediately. For a moment my eyes struggled to cope with the glare. I had to shield them before I could make out my surroundings. Then I saw that I was standing on a gentle slope that ran down to a broad river of muddy brown water. Away to my left and right were a series of huts that made the place look like a military camp. My companion seemed impatient to take me to my destination. She gestured with the sub-machine gun for me to get a move on.
Well, she had the gun. I obeyed without hesitation.
Nevertheless, I still had a chance to take in my surroundings as we walked towards a modest timber house. I saw men and women in uniform. They were either working on vehicles or carrying boxes towards a timber jetty. Moored there I saw the dark, sleek forms of two submarines side by side. One of those, I reckoned, had brought me here.
Moored slightly further upriver was a handsome collection of flying boats, ranging from single-seater float-planes to big passenger seaplanes that could carry fifty people or more. With a full tank of decent fuel one of those beauties could carry me across the Atlantic and home.
I had to take a few paces more before I reached the house. I glanced up the hillside, searching for the source of the sound of those sticks on woody boles. And, yes, sure enough, there they were. Triffids. Thousands of them. Fortunately a stout wire fence, perhaps ten feet high, separated them from the camp. There were signs of burning, too. No doubt these people discouraged the plants from cuddling up against the fence too tightly with a burst or two from a flame-thrower. I had the distinct if irrational impression that those sinister plants were watching me pass by. An impression that was reinforced when the dark green leaves began to quiver, the cones on top of the trunks began to rock and there came a sudden rattling of sticks against bristle-covered boles. Triffid Morse code?
Triffids beware… the son of ace triffid-exterminator Bill Masen has been sighted… pass the message on… prepare to attack… kill on sight…
I wiped a trickle of perspiration from my forehead. Yes, an irrational fancy. Maybe a slight hallucinogenic after-effect of the drug that had been pumped into me. Yet the impression was compelling. Unnerving, too.
But as it was, I didn't have time to dwell on it.
The girl with the gun motioned me round the corner of the house. I stopped, surprised. For there sat the most idiosyncratic vehicle I'd ever seen.
'Sam.' The girl addressed a figure leaning forward into the machine through a hatch. 'Sam. This is Masen. What do you want me to do with him?'
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
EXCURSION
> THE man slithered backward from the hatchway of the strange-looking vehicle. With a swing of his long arms he shut the hatch - it clanged noisily - then stood back, wiping his oily hands on a rag.
I can only describe the machine as looking like an iron elephant. Painted a pale shade of grey, it had two large rounded cabins side by side that gave the impression of an elephant's extended ears. From the front of the vehicle something very much like an elephant's trunk but made of metal, protruded. The whole bizarre arrangement, complete with air intakes, exhaust pipes and an iron-grey body, sat on a pair of caterpillar tracks. In size, it was perhaps a shade larger than a battle tank.
The machine's resemblance to the animal hadn't escaped its owners. One of the long grey flanks carried the word JUMBO in large letters. While just behind one of the glass-panelled cabins I noticed a colourful painting of a Red Indian warrior in fierce profile, his chin high, gazing towards some far horizon. Beside that, in what can only be described as a sassy script, were the words Give 'Em Hell!
There were more notices stencilled on the lower part of the machine, although these were more prosaic instructions like Compressed-Air Inlet and Service This Vehicle With 100 Octane Fuel Only.
'Good morning, Mr Masen.' The man who'd been working on the motor offered me his hand. He was tall, gangling, with blond hair and bright blue eyes. I put his age at around thirty-five. His accent had the courteous drawl of the Southern States. He noticed more oil streaked on the back of his hand, wiped it on the seat of his combat trousers, then offered it to me again.
I didn't respond.
He smiled. 'Can't say I blame you, feller. I'd be a mite too sore to shake hands as well.' The voice was as bright and as friendly as his blue eyes. 'You're feeling all right? No cramps or nausea?'
I shook my head. 'I feel well enough… considering.' I spoke a trifle stiffly.
'Good, good! Say, Jazmay.' He gave the girl a relaxed grin. 'I don't know what Mr Masen here thinks about you pointing the gun like that but I'm getting a tad nervous…' He turned to me. 'Say. You're not going to slug me or run away, are you? No. No, of course you won't. Jazmay, stow the gun away and fire up old Jumbo, will you?'
The girl opened one of the cabin doors of the vehicle, slotted the gun into a rack, then climbed down into a sort of well that contained the driver's cockpit beneath the cabin. With a preliminary whirring the motor fired into life. Twin plumes of blue smoke spurted from behind the elephantine 'ears'.
'Sounds great, doesn't she?' The man spoke enthusiastically, patting the machine. 'I fitted new plugs on the old gal in your honour…' He started off to the vehicle. But almost immediately turned back to me. 'The name's Sam Dymes, by the way. Different spelling but pronounced the same as that old coin from way back when.' He held out his hand again to shake mine, then gave a bashful smile. 'Oh, you don't shake, do you? Sorry about that. And sorry about the…' He mimed injecting himself in the arm. 'We figured it'd be the best way of bringing you here without damaging you.'
I stared, a hundred angry questions jostling to be vocalized. But I was too downright astonished to spit them out.
'Sam Dymes,' he repeated, touching his chest, as he backed towards the vehicle. 'Now, if you can jump aboard, please. I need to show you something.'
***
As the vehicle rumbled on its caterpillar tracks along a roadway, it passed more of its kind. Big, grey elephantine machines with JUMBO painted on the side. Each one bore a different signature painting behind the driver's cab. There were renditions of champing shark teeth, cartoon characters, svelte girls. Each vehicle had its own personalized name: Lucky Lady, Wild Thing, Fire-Eater - while one right at the end of the line rejoiced in the name Munchin' Martha, its painting depicting a formidable woman eating whole triffid plants like they were celery shoots.
I sat in one of the front two bucket seats alongside Sam Dymes. Jazmay, who drove the great metal beast, sat below me, her head level with my feet.
The jolting had one positive effect. The questions that had been choked back were suddenly free.
'Why the hell have you brought me here?'
Sam Dymes shot me a look of wide-eyed innocence. 'For one, I need to show you something. Hang on tight, we'll be through the gates in a moment. It gets a little bumpy down here.'
'No… hell… damn it! Why have you brought me to this place? Why did you have to shoot my friend? And what in God's name have you done with Kerris?'
'Kerris?' He rubbed his jaw reflectively. 'She's fine.'
'How do you know that?'
'You're going to have to trust me on that one.'
'She's here?'
'No. She's back in New York City, Mr Masen. Safe.'
'But your thugs had no qualms about killing my friend.'
'I'm sorry. I didn't know about any fatalities. Believe me, that wasn't our intention.'
'What was your intention?'
'To bring you safely here?'
'Whereabouts is here… exactly?'
'South of the Mason-Dixon Line,' he said guardedly. 'You don't need to know precisely where.'
'OK, Mr Dime. Why am I here?'
'The name's Dymes. Why are you here? I hope that's going to be as plain as the nose on your face.' He awarded me that shy smile again. 'Excuse me. Time for a little pest control.'
Through the front windows I saw that the truck had reached a hefty gate that took four men to swing open. We were through it in a second. Behind me I saw the gate being shut, then firmly secured with chains.
'Jazmay, can you switch on the flow for me? Thank you.'
Ahead triffids crossed our path, moving in their jerking way, the cones on top of their trunks whipping backwards and forwards.
Despite my anger, I craned my neck forward for a better view. At that moment Sam Dymes gripped a joystick in his hand, then depressed a red button on top of it with his thumb.
A ball of orange flame shot from the end of the metal 'trunk'. A second later three triffids were caught in that rolling fire ball. Green leaves blackened, wilted, cones shrivelled. One plant flopped down to the trackway.
Sam Dymes smiled back at me. 'This is one thing we've got that those darn' weeds don't have. Fire. Glorious fire!' He gave them another blast for good measure. A lot of triffids began to resemble Old Testament burning bushes. Sam called out: 'These guys are getting smart. As soon as you burn a couple up the others get out of your way.'
The lumbering vehicle crunched over the smoking remains of triffids that had been hit by the flame-thrower. The rest of the plants, even though there were thousands of them, no longer tried to get in front of the vehicle. A few, though, popped away with their stings at the cabin's glass panels as we passed, leaving the characteristic smear of poison.
'Safe as houses.' Sam gave the panel a good rap with his knuckles. 'Toughened glass.'
The triffid pattern around the base had all the old characteristics. Close in near the fence the triffids had packed tight, testing it with their strength, no doubt hoping deep in their botanical brains - if, indeed, that was what they had - that their combined pressure would break the wire. The further you moved away from the picket fence, however, the sparser the plants became. Perhaps in the triffid armies these outliers had the role of reserves or sentries. Of course, these days you would rarely be free of the plant entirely. As the vehicle rumbled across an open plain I could see solitary triffids dotted here and there. Mostly they remained unmoving. However, as the truck approached and they 'heard' the roar of its engine, they shuffled their stumpy legs so that they could turn to the source of the sound. They certainly looked like predators watching their prey go by.
Sam Dymes sat back in his seat now, his hand only lightly on the joystick that controlled the metal 'trunk' of the flamethrower. All in all, this was an impressive machine. I knew how valuable an all-terrain triffid-destroyer like this would be to my people back home.
Meanwhile, though, I hadn't solved the mystery of why I'd been brought here.
'Thank
s for the ride,' I said coolly. 'But you're still being niggardly with the answers.'
'I'm sorry, Mr Masen, truly I am.'
'Who are you exactly… your community, that is?'
'Your former hosts refer to us as the Quintling faction.'
'Yes, I've heard of you.'
'Nothing good, I'd wager?'
'That you're a bunch of outlaws,' I told him. 'That you steal and murder.'
'Joshua Quintling was one of the original founders of the New York community, but General Fielding came along to introduce some more…' He shrugged. 'More vigorous methods, shall we say. So, twenty years ago, Quintling left with his family and other families who wished to live in a more humane way.'
'So the Quintling faction wound up here?'
'Not exactly. General Fielding ordered one of his warships to go after Quintling's unarmed steamer. The warship shot Quintling's boat to hell. Quintling's wife and baby son were killed, along with a dozen others. Quintling only avoided losing everyone else on board by running the steamer aground in an estuary that was too shallow for the warship to sail up. Otherwise…' He gave an expressive shrug. Then he looked at me, the blue eyes serious. 'But you don't believe me, do you, Mr Masen?'
'I suppose I'll have to take your word for it.' But my coolness towards him must have conveyed my scepticism.
'Have it your own way, Mr Masen. I'm hardly likely to instil belief with the butt of a rifle, am I?'
'As far as I can see I'm very much at your mercy.' Though I didn't voice it I began to wonder if at some point the vehicle would stop and I'd be simply turfed out onto the ground and left to fend for myself in this triffid-haunted waste.
He regarded me for a moment. 'Do you really think we've invested so much time and fuel - valuable fuel - to bring you here just so we can harm you?'
