The Dunfield Terror

by William Meikle

  At least the depot was secure and warm—warmer still after George got me some fresh coffee. Pat and George looked near as bad as I felt—pale, almost ashen, and tired enough to sleep the day around. But all three of us knew that sleep was a luxury we couldn’t afford just then. I lit a smoke and watched the radio, willing it to squawk at me, desperate to hear that Jimmy had proved me wrong.

  All we got was dead air.

  My shoulder ached, I was cold down to my bones, and I’d seen more than enough horror to do me for one night. But I couldn’t settle, couldn’t live with the knowledge that I’d let all those people head off into the storm so ill-prepared. I let it slide for almost an hour—until around four in the morning—the dead hour, they call it—then I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood, too fast, the resultant dizziness threatening to put me straight back in the chair.

  “Where do you thing you’re going, young ‘un?” Pat asked.

  I waited until the room stopped spinning before answering.

  “Out to the campsite—if they’re still there, they’ll need some help—and if they’ve got through, then we all can. Either way—I need to know.”

  The old man looked me in the eye.

  “I can see that you do. But you said yourself—it’s not a night to be out gallivanting.”

  I buttoned up my coat and pulled the hood down over my eyes.

  “I’m going anyway—I need you two to stay here—stay sober and man the phone and radio. I’ll be back in twenty—either way.”

  George looked up from his seat by the stove.

  “And how are you going to get out to the site, lad? You already trashed the big plow, Jimmy’s in the other one, and the gritting truck won’t get through—not now.”

  I’d already thought of that—I didn’t like the idea, not one bit, but it was the only plan I had so it would have to do.

  “I’ll take the Skidoo.”

  George laughed.

  “Good luck with that. It’s not been out of the shed in two years. It probably won’t even start.”

  As it turned out, the snow sled did start. We had to dig out a three-foot drift at the shed door just to get to it though, and I was weary and sore even before I sat in the saddle. George had helped with the digging—he also helped me get the Skidoo out of the shed and into the parking lot. He passed me a pair of heavy-duty gloves and a set of goggles.

  “You’ll need these. Just do me a favor—don’t get dead.”

  I gave him a mock salute, kicked the beast into gear, and became one of those idiots who go out into snowstorms.

  * * *

  It wasn’t a far ride—only four hundred yards or so—but it felt like it took forever. I could barely follow the tracks made by the small convoy—an hour’s fresh snow had all but filled them in—but I knew the way well enough. The Skidoo bucked and rolled in the wind, like a small boat on a rough sea, and I was tossed around like a sack of potatoes, bringing fresh flares of pain to my shoulder with every bump. Visibility was down to ten yards or so, and I was afraid to push the sled to its top speed—if I hit a drift just wrong, I’d be in it for days before anyone found me.

  I passed two houses with lights shining in their porch, but most of the rest of the dwellings along the road had gone dark. I had no time to investigate, pressing on as fast as I dared, hoping against hope that Jimmy had pulled off a miracle and got them all out.

  That hope was dashed as soon as I turned the corner that led down into the hollow in the road by the campsite.

  They were all there—what was left of them.

  * * *

  They had found the fog—or it had found them. All that was left of the plow was a blob of fused and melted metal and glass down in a partially excavated drift at the deepest part of the hollow. The plow had been reduced to a rough three-foot cube in size; I hoped to hell that young Jimmy hadn’t been inside—although if he had, he’d have gone quickly. That might in itself have been a blessing, given what had happened to the others.

  Vehicles were strewn across the hollow—some in the road, others deep in snow on either side, having tried—and failed—to escape. All had been melted and fused—but to differing degrees. Some, thankfully, like the plow, had been squashed and deformed beyond all recognition. But others hadn’t taken the full brunt of what the fog was capable of.

  The school bus was worst—it was still recognizable as a bus—and there were obviously people inside, faces pressed against the windows where they too had melted and fused until it was hard to tell where skin began and glass ended. Heads and torsos were stretched and distorted into impossible lengths and shapes, all frozen now, icy statues, a testament to their folly. I recognized many of the faces though—even distorted as they were, they were still folks I’d talked to every day—folks I’d never see again.

  I forced myself to get off the Skidoo and check anyway—there was nobody alive in the hollow but me—in some ways that was a mercy. But many of them had died hard—as hard as Alistair Connors, with blood at their mouths and fingers, or with faces contorted in the agony of having their every fiber stretched beyond what was humanly possible. I’d seen a kid’s doll burned in a lighter flame once—this looked almost like that—limbs elongated and melting then hardening into something almost monstrous. I gagged, nearly lost what little food I had in my stomach, but kept it down—this time.

  I found Wayne Robertson—what was left of him, at the seat of the school bus, his lower torso sank deep into the vehicle’s floor, with the steering wheel embedded deep in his head. He hadn’t managed to escape the fate he had so dreaded.

  It took me twenty minutes to check the wreckage before I was completely sure no one had survived. By that time I was close to just lying down and giving up—the wind threw me around, my legs felt like two bags of cold concrete, and the snow spattered so loud against the goggles I couldn’t hear myself think. I knew I should get back on the Skidoo—hightail it out of there and back to where I could start to feel warm, feel human. It was as if I was transfixed—I could only stand and stare at the melted ruin of the convoy—my townspeople—in many cases my friends.

  It was a while before it occurred to me that I was the only one currently with any possibility of escape. I had the Skidoo—it would get over or around the drifts in the hollow, and get me at least as far as the highway. I could be off and away, out of here in minutes.

  I dismissed the thought as soon as I had it—I couldn’t live with myself if I did, and then discovered that those I’d left behind had suffered the same fate as these poor souls in the hollow. My dreams were going to be bad enough as it was without adding any more misery and horror.

  I did, however, have one thing I wanted to check out—Dick was still out here somewhere as far as I knew—we’d left him just past the hollow down at the Bonaventure turnoff—only a hundred yards away past the drifting. I got back on the Skidoo, pointedly ignoring the carnage all around, and gave the throttle a kick, enough juice to get me up and over the drift.

  I crested it a second later, the wind kicking me in the torso almost hard enough to dislodge me from my seat. The Skidoo skidded to the left, chugged twice and came to a halt.

  I peered down from the top of the drift toward the turnoff. There was light there for sure—but it wasn’t Dick’s headlights, or the lights from the gas stop. This was more diffuse, glowing as if moonlit from within. It didn’t take long for me to realize what I was looking at.

  The fog lay over an area the size of two football fields, clearly visible despite the blowing snow. It seemed to crawl—against the wind—heading slowly in my direction.

  That wasn’t what impelled me to throw the Skiddoo back into gear and hightail it back to town though. What caused me to flee in a funk was the sight of what happened to the three people I saw down there, trying to push themselves through the snow away from the fog.

  “Hey,” I shouted, but if they heard me, they paid me no heed, concentrating on their attempt to escape. I couldn’t recognize them, hea
vily swaddled as they were in winter clothes—two looked like adults, the other one maybe a small woman or a teenager—what was apparent was that they were all terrified.

  I kicked the Skidoo around and tried to get the engine going. It coughed twice, three times, then took. I pointed if towards the small group, intent on going down to their aid—but I was already too late.

  It got the smaller one first. A tendril of mist seemed to waft lazily out of the main body—little more than smoke. But when it curled around the fleeing figure’s torso, it was with enough strength to drag him or her off their feet. They were dragged back into the main body of the fog so quickly that if I’d blinked, I would have missed it—there was only the memory of a body disappearing into the glowing mist that seemed suddenly strangely thin and elongated.

  The second went three steps forward later, dragged by a tendril around the ankle to be pulled, arms waving frantically, snow being thrown in all directions, struggling to no avail.

  The larger figure lasted longest. He found a shallower area of snow, put his head down and headed at a run toward me.

  “Come on. Come on,” I shouted.

  He reached the side of the road, slipped, almost fell, and steadied himself by grabbing around the trunk of a hefty conifer that marked the entrance to one of the houses. Or rather—he tried to. His arms seemed to go through and into the wood itself, along with his right shoulder and half of his chest. He raised his head to yell in alarm, just as his head and the tree trunk merged into one.

  And it was only then I recognized him—Dick wasn’t going to be making his escape—he wasn’t going to be doing much of anything except dying hard. The fog shifted slightly, and the wood stopped melting, hardening again, leaving his head and upper body completely embedded in the thick trunk. His free arm beat hard against the wood, twice, and his legs kicked and thrashed.

  It was several seconds before he went still and limp.

  That was when I fled.

  12

  From the journal of Duncan Campbell, 23rd July 1955

  As it turns out, the locals have not had to make good on their threat to put the torch to Muir’s work—he has managed to bring about its ruin all on his own. It has been quite a day—I have a bottle of Scotch beside me as I write this, and most of it will be gone ere the conclusion, so forgive me if I show a tendency to ramble as this account goes on.

  As I said, it has been quite a day—and it started early. On this occasion, it wasn’t Muir who woke me up—it was our innkeeper. He was most apologetic at waking me at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, but he said he had something that I had to see—something impossible, or so he said.

  I was still rather bleary as I followed him downstairs and out onto the porch.

  “I saw this as soon as the sun came up,” he said. “I was standing in the kitchen getting the breakfasts going, I looked up—and there it was.”

  At first I didn’t see what he meant—until a cloud moved aside and let slanting morning sun flood the garden.

  A rainbow aurora, like oil shimmering in the sun on a hot day, hung over the stand of birch trees, swaying in time with the waft of branches in the breeze off the sea. It was all very pretty, but the sight of it filled me with deep dread and I felt a shiver of cold despite the summer sunshine.

  “It’s your man Muir’s doing, isn’t it?” the innkeeper asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” I replied.

  “Then you can tell him from me,” the man said. “If he doesn’t stop what he’s doing today, there won’t be a shed left by nightfall. You two are my guests here—it would do you well to remember that.”

  It seemed the fabled Newfoundland hospitality only stretched so far—although to be honest, I was surprised Muir had got away with it for this long.

  “Why don’t you tell him yourself,” I said.

  “I would if I could. Your friend left early—took a loan of my cleaner’s truck and headed out. He said he had supplies to gather. He’s headed for Catalina—about fifteen miles up the coast. He’ll be back by lunch at a guess. You can tell him then. And there’s something else you need to see.”

  He led me across the grass and up to the shed, stopping some eight feet away from the door as if afraid to approach any farther.

  “We all saw what you did yesterday,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “You went right through the bloody thing. So I went over earlier to see how the trick was done. That’s when I found it.” He wiped his fingers on his shirt, as if trying to remove some ingrained dirt. “Go on, touch the door. You’ll see what I mean.”

  He didn’t move to join me as I walked up to the door. Remembering the day before, I was somewhat more circumspect this time around. I stretched out my hand and let my fingertips touch the wood—gently, almost a caress. Even so, it was enough for a piece of the door to turn to dust under the pressure, as if it were no more than a structure of ash and splinters. Where the dust fell, a dancing rainbow accompanied its fall to the ground.

  “And that’s not all,” the innkeeper said from some way behind me. “He’s got some kind of animal in there—and I don’t think it’s too happy about it.”

  Inside the shed something scurried and slithered, and there was a loud clatter I could only imagine as claw against glass. I was in no mood right then to do any further investigation. I stepped back gingerly to once again join the innkeeper.

  “The whole shed is like that door,” he said. “One good gust of wind and it’ll be gone. What in hell has your man done in there?”

  I wished I knew the answer to that one, but we were both equally bemused as he invited me back inside for a spot of breakfast.

  * * *

  A mound of eggs, bacon and toast washed down with strong coffee did much to improve my mood. When I joined the innkeeper for a smoke on the front porch, the sun was already warming up the day nicely, although neither of us felt the need to broach the topic of what we’d seen out back at the shed.

  I was quite content to sit and watch the world go by—although in truth there was not a lot to watch. Trinity has become a sleepy, somewhat neglected town in this day and age, a sad comedown from its former glory as one of the largest whaling ports in North America. There were no whalers now—scarcely even any fishermen, and I smoked two cigarettes down to the butt before anyone passed the front of the inn. I said hello to a woman and her young son. The lad smiled back at me, but the woman gave me such a look—you’d have thought I was a mass murderer. It seemed that Muir’s reputation—and my own alongside it—was growing fast—and not for the better. My attempt at finding a good mood to enjoy had failed almost before it got started.

  I considered taking a stroll around town, not having anything else with which to occupy my time, but the call of the shed was alluring and enticing. It was not long before I was once again out in the back garden, standing on the porch and watching the light and play of shadows in the garden and on the shed.

  The rainbow aura above the trees was more pronounced than it had been earlier, and when the sun fell on a patch of grass to my left, a distinct dancing haze of color rose in the heat. The innkeeper was right to be concerned—there was no knowing what side effects might ensue—might already have ensued—from Muir’s headlong rush toward enlightenment.

  I walked around the shed, keeping a good six feet between it and myself, studying it from all angles. Now that I knew what I was looking for, I saw shifting rainbow color everywhere, roiling and dancing betwixt sun and shade, thick, almost like smoke, above the shed itself.

  Blue light flashed at the window—not as bright as the day before, but more than enough to be noticeable.

  Had Muir returned without me having noticed?

  I walked over to the window, having to stand on tiptoe to see inside, being careful not to touch any of the shed itself for fear of it crumbling under my fingers.

  The blue light came, as I expected, from Muir’s contraption on the shelf. The strange amalgamation of copper wire, valves, wood and
metal gave out a constant glow, and a resonant hum I could feel in my gut and at my jaw even here out in the garden.

  The rainbow aura was everywhere, flitting and dancing around the interior, touching on shelves, sample jars, walls—and it was especially thick near the long glass tank, where the crab-octopus hybrid seemed to bathe in the aura’s attentions.

  It had grown even bigger—the fish tank was not going to be able to contain it for long now—the tentacles were now near as thick, and longer—than my arm, and the single claw was thicker still, black as pitch and looking as sharp as any razor. Even as I watched, four stalks rose from the main body, and four beady little eyes turned toward my location outside the window.

  The bloody thing knew I was there.

  I stepped back involuntarily, and almost went down on my backside. I put my right hand down to steady myself. The grass was brittle to the touch, and when I rubbed it between my fingers, rainbow-hued dust spread in the breeze.

  * * *

  I was sitting on the porch smoking the last of a succession of cigarettes when Muir returned just after noon. The bed of the battered pickup truck was laden with his purchases.

  “Give me a hand, would you, old chap,” he said. “Some of this stuff is rather heavy.”

  He was right about that—there was a battery that must have weighed several stone on its own, more reels of copper wire, and several large sheets of corrugated iron alongside half a dozen lengths of two-by-four timber.

  “What in blazes do you intend to do with this lot?” I asked.

  “We need more power,” Muir replied. “I need to stabilize the field boundary—and for that, I need to make a larger containment chamber.”

  Larger was not a word I needed to hear right then—it got me thinking about the grotesque hybrid creature in the fish tank—that was certainly something that should not be allowed to get any larger than it had already become.