The Creeping Kelp

by William Meikle

  He tried to trick his mind, thinking about beer, and the latest Test match cricket. But sleep wasn’t going to come. He kept seeing the same image in his mind, of the thing swallowing the Skipper, and the old man’s meat being stripped from the bone. He was almost grateful when Suzie nudged him hard in the ribs.

  “You need to read this,” she shouted.

  She still had more of the papers in her hand. She handed him a sheaf of maybe ten sheets. As he read, he was once more dragged back to wartime Scotland.

  Over the next few weeks I came to understand the detail and scope of what Rankin hoped to achieve… and my part in it. The tarry material did indeed prove adept at recombining existing biological materials into things rich and strange. And it did so at a prodigious rate. Rankin had me trying to force it into combination with various forms of plant-life. We had a spectacular disaster when we introduced the tarry material to pond algae, which left a thick green scum covering the whole interior of the lab that had to be removed with bleach and blowtorches. Still, Rankin refused to be depressed.

  “We are getting there,” he said, even though I had no real idea of the required destination—not yet.

  I began to get an idea what he was looking for when we set the substance to work on some seaweed. It took a particular liking to Ascophylum Nodosum, one of the bladderworts common along this coastline. It seemed like a marriage made in heaven. Although contained in a tall sealed jar, the weed-tar combination filled all the available space within minutes and was soon a seething mass of crawling vegetation, frantically trying to escape. Rankin clapped me heartily on the back, phoned the MOD and returned to break open the whisky. We sat on the harbour wall smoking and drinking and after a few drams, his tongue finally loosened.

  “They approached me last year,” he said. “They are frightened of the power of the German fleet and wanted some way of locking them in port and making them vulnerable to attack.” He took a long drag of smoke before continuing. “By coincidence, I had been talking that very day about the Shoggoth material. I put two and two together, the Brass came up with the cash, and here we are. We have done it, Ballantine. All we have to do is introduce a scrap of the new stuff to the waters around the Hun’s anchorages and they will be clogged up in no time. The perfect defensive weapon.”

  I could see several flaws in this plan, but kept my mouth shut… I did not want to cut off the only supply of whisky I’d had in weeks. So far, he had not noticed that I was managing to get twice as much of it inside me as he was… I wanted to keep it that way.

  I regretted it the next morning, of course… I always do. And, I regretted it twice as much when I walked into the lab to be confronted by two Admirals of the Fleet and a Secretary of State. Luckily, Rankin wanted to showboat, so I hung at the back and let him get on with it.

  He gave them the spiel about the Antarctic Expedition and the Shoggoth material, but even in my hung-over state I could see that they were seriously under-whelmed. They perked up slightly when he started the experiment proper. He used an even larger jar this time, one near six feet tall. The tar combined with the weed and surged, filling the space in seconds, fronds flapping and slapping against the glass in frenzy.

  The Brass sat in stony silence.

  “That’s it?” the Secretary finally said. “All this time and effort and you give us some bloody, energetic seaweed?”

  Rankin gave them the same line he’d given me the night before, about clogging up harbours and stifling the Jerry fleet. The Secretary sighed theatrically.

  “Look Rankin, the reason we got you for this job was because we expected something flamboyant, something that would show our people that we are ahead of the game compared to Hitler’s scientists. But this just won’t do. They throw the Doodlebug at us and what do we do in reply? Send them some fucking, lively seaweed? No. This just won’t do at all.”

  Rankin was a driven man after that. He would be found in the lab, alternately shouting at the Shoggoth material, and muttering under his breath.

  “Flamboyant? I’ll show them flamboyant.”

  I first guessed his intent when he had me procure some material from the Botanical Gardens in Glasgow. Venus fly trap, mostly, but also three different types of pitcher plant and a particularly sticky sundew that was both rare and expensive. I also heard from a colleague that he had requested several jellyfish be tracked down… the more poisonous the better. I tried to get a look at what he was working on, but by that time he had locked the lab down to all but himself. The rest of us were reduced to bit-players and spent most of our time in the mess hall drinking beer and playing cribbage… although in my case, I did not join in the card games.

  It was nearly two weeks before we were summonsed for a demonstration. There were no Brass present this time… Rankin wanted to be sure of his flamboyance first.

  He had made some drastic changes in the lab. A large glass tank took up full fifty per cent of the area. In the centre of the tank sat a metal box. A chain was attached to its lid and led, via a winch, to a pulley next to Rankin. On the far side of the glass tank, a small pony munched contentedly on a pile of hay. Suddenly, I wanted to be back in the mess, cradling a pint of lukewarm beer, or back in the postgraduate club at the university getting beat at chess.

  Anywhere but here.

  Several others shuffled nervously. Indeed, there might even have been a revolt… if Rankin had given us time to think about it. But before we could stop him, he yanked on his end of the chain.

  The metal box opened.

  The pony pricked its ears. That was all it had time for. Thrashing tentacles came out of the box. They waved in the air, as if tasting it, and sought out the pony, like snakes zeroing in on prey. They struck as one, wrapping themselves in long strands around the pony’s flanks. The beast started to whinny and tried to pull away. One of the tentacles tore off from the animal, taking a long strip of flesh with it. The other tentacles merely tightened and pulled harder.

  Something climbed out of the metal box; an amorphous mass of thrashing fronds that might once have been seaweed. It opened in two halves, spreading wide like bat-wings. The tentacles pulled the pony across the tank. Foam bubbled at the pony’s mouth, its tongue lolling, red and steaming. But it was still alive as the thing took it into its folds, still alive as the carpet of vegetation wrapped itself around the body and squeezed. We all heard the bones crack. As if from a far distance, there was a piteous whinny.

  Someone behind me threw up and I smelled beer and cigarettes.

  “For pity’s sake, Rankin. Do something,” I shouted.

  He turned and smiled.

  He yanked on another chain and a rain of what looked like water came from a series of pipes above the tank. The vegetation started to smoke and curl and once more I smelled the tang of vinegar as the hydrochloric acid turned everything to oily sludge.

  “How was that?” Rankin asked. “Flamboyant enough, do you think?”

  I spent that night getting roaring drunk in the mess. I wasn’t the only one.

  In the morning we started preparing for the field test.

  Noble looked up to see Suzie staring back at him.

  “It gets worse,” she shouted, waving the remaining papers at him. He moved to take them, but at that same moment, the Captain came through from the cockpit.

  “Five minutes,” he shouted above the din. “Saddle up.”

  They’d agreed as they were getting suited up that Noble would be the one to go down if there were any samples to be taken. Now he was starting to regret the burst of machismo that had led him to volunteer so readily. Suzie and the Captain strapped him into the harness.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go down instead?” he asked Suzie with a smile. “I’m sure you would find something fascinating.”

  She tightened the strap around his groin, making him wince, and bringing a laugh from her.

  “Up in London, you’d have to pay for this service. Now stop whining and be a good boy.”

&nbs
p; The Captain opened the chopper door. A blast of warm air came in at a rush. Noble sidled over to the door and hung out, looking down at the churning sea. At first, all he could see was water being thrown up by the downward blast from the rotors.

  Maybe it has gone.

  The first tendril that rose lazily out of the water put paid to that idea. Noble was glad he’d arranged to have a long knife secured in a sheath at his thigh—he had a feeling he might need it. Suzie attached a glass sample jar to a hook on his belt. She accompanied it with a kiss on the cheek.

  “Be careful,” she shouted.

  He didn’t have to be told twice. He swung out into space, blowing a kiss back at Suzie in the doorway even as the winch started taking him down. He swung slightly, buffeted by the downdraft, but this wasn’t his first time on the end of the tether. He maintained his body position and held it still until he was four feet above the water. He looked back at the chopper and gave an okay sign with thumb and forefinger, then opened the glass jar in readiness for a sample.

  He had just got the jar open when the first dark tendril came up out of the choppy water and made a reach for his ankle. It wasn’t a serious attempt—not like those he’d seen back on the research vessel.

  It’s almost as if it doesn’t know I’m here... as if it doesn’t expect me to be here.

  He kept a close eye on the water, waiting for a sign of movement. He didn’t have to wait long. A lazy, black tendril came slowly out of the water; thin as a pencil at the end that rose up towards him and flaring to almost the thickness of Noble’s thigh at the point where it broke the surface. He swung himself around in the harness so that he was nearly hanging upside down and tried to calm his rising panic as the snake-like appendage reached ever closer.

  Slowly, with no sudden movements, he released the knife from its sheath and just the weight of it in his hand eased his fright.

  He waited until it was inches from his nose then, with one smooth cut, lopped nearly a foot off the end of the tentacle and let it fall in a curl into the glass jar. He flipped the lid and closed the jar securely before turning in the harness, jerking his thumb upwards.

  Suzie was at the door, staring down at him. She had a smile on her face... one that quickly turned to horror as her gaze shifted to a point to his left. The winch started up, but he had taken too long... a tentacle, thicker and broader at the base than the last, came out of the water like a cobra on the attack, latching itself onto his ankle. The water surged and roiled. Something black and huge started to rise under the surface.

  Pull me up. For pity’s sake—pull me up!

  The winch squealed as the tentacle pulled and tugged, tightening every second. Noble once again turned and twisted, slashing out with the knife, raising wet welts across the surface of the tendril. That only made it grip all the tighter to his ankle.

  Pull me up! What’s the problem here? But he knew exactly what the problem was. The thing is too strong. It’ll take down the chopper.

  Above him, he heard the noise of the chopper get louder as the pilot pushed it to its limit. Slowly, but gaining speed, he started to rise up. The tentacle didn’t let go. The sea parted below and a dark mass rose up, coming along with the tendril to which it was attached. It looked like nothing more than a vast hairy carpet, a mass of snake-like tentacles thrashing and waving in frenzy as an area the size of a small house tried to drag itself up towards him.

  The pain in his leg was excruciating. He kept slashing with the knife, as frantic as the tentacles that reached for him. Finally, when the tendril was little more than a torn mess of tissue, it fell away from him, back into the foaming sea where the whole thing sank with barely a splash.

  The winch started to pull him back into the chopper, but he scarcely noticed. The pain was throwing him into shock and he was no longer sure if what he saw was real or a dream induced by the searing heat of pain.

  Right at the far point of the chopper’s turn he caught a glimpse of something glinting in the sun. Far away, almost on the horizon and shimmering in the heat, stood what looked like a city of glass… or plastic? Massive towers and turrets rose high above the sea, and gargantuan black shapes slumped through cavernous streets. He remembered something that Suzie had said earlier.

  The Shoggoths were made. Made as builders.

  He blinked and the image had gone, taken out of view by the completion of the chopper’s turn. The winch pulled him up to the chopper doorway. The last thing he saw before darkness took him away for a long time was Suzie, staring at his leg, tears pouring down her face.

  July 21st - Lyme Regis

  * * *

  Jim Black enjoyed these evening trips more than the afternoon ones. The sun was lower, the heat level was usually less severe, and the tourists tended to be older and more controllable than the post-lunchtime crowd. And tonight, there was just the right number, about a dozen elderly tourists. Any more than that and they became harder to manage, any fewer, and what little tips he made were hardly worth the effort.

  It was still very warm after a scorcher of a day on the beach, but he was hopeful of a nice tally of tips from this crowd. He’d already showed them the steps where Louisa Musgrove jumped off the Cobb to Captain Wentworth’s dismay, and the spot where the Duke of Monmouth landed at the start of his Rebellion. Now it was time for the highlight. The desired effect worked best when the wind howled and threw spume up over the Cobb, but then again, weather like that cut down on the number of tourists... and the tips. This was much more preferable. He led the small party out to the end of the stone pier.

  He hoped they had all seen the movie. Time was—a few years back, you could count on it, but the very same time was not kind to once-popular culture. The fact that the group was older helped; when they were younger, they tended to reply to his next question with blank, uncomprehending stares.

  “Okay,” he said. “Who wants to be Meryl Streep?”

  The sudden smiles told him all he needed to know. It turned out they all not only knew what he meant, but they all intended to get the appropriate pictures taken. Jim had to organise them into an orderly queue so that they could step up, right out on the edge of the Cobb, pretending to be pale and interesting.

  A pair of American pensioners went first. The lady took her place on the edge. She started out giggling skittishly, but as soon as she reached the edge of the Cobb she went quiet and pale, looking apprehensively down at the water below.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Jim said, stepping up beside her and steadying her with a hand on her arm. “I’ve been doing this for years and haven’t lost anybody yet.”

  Even as he said it, something came over the Cobb and snaked around the old woman’s ankle. Jim got an impression of a long snake, but far quicker than anything he’d ever seen. It tightened around her leg with an audible sucking and tugged, once.

  The elderly tourist squealed and made a grab for Jim. Instinctively, he backed away. Then, disgusted at his cowardice, he stepped forward again, reaching for her outstretched hand.

  He was too late. She fell forward, her chin cracking on the edge of the Cobb. Blood flew. Jim tasted copper as it splashed against his face. The fallen woman stretched out a hand towards him again. He bent to take it. Their fingers touched... but that was as close as he got. The tentacle tugged again and with a final, despairing wail, she was gone.

  Her husband rushed forward, shouting her name.

  “Ellen!”

  Jim didn’t have time to hold him back. The old man leaned over the edge. “Ellen!” he called again. There was no reply. He turned to Jim.

  “What have you done with her? Get her back, right now, or I’ll have you arrested.”

  Jim had no idea how to reply to that. His own mind was still full of the image of the black snake and he could still taste the woman’s blood in his mouth.

  I need to get them out of here right now.

  He reached over to the old man.

  “Come on sir. I need to call the authorities.”

/>   The old man turned, snarling. Once again, Jim stepped back, fearful of an impending punch. The blow never came. The old man’s look changed from anger to surprise as an inch-thick black tendril wrapped tight around his neck and pulled. The sound of the man’s neck breaking echoed along the pier. He still had the surprised look in his eyes as he was dragged away out of sight.

  That was the signal for Jim’s well-organised party to turn into a running rout along the Cobb.

  “Form an orderly line,” Jim shouted before realising just how stupid that sounded. He was at the end of the group as they started to run, but was soon overtaking the oldest without stopping to check on them. The group fled down an avenue of terror. High tentacles rose above them, swaying on either side like grass in the wind. One slapped on the Cobb and Jim was dismayed to see the old stone crumble beneath it. It didn’t stop there. The tentacle seemed to writhe and curl and as it moved, it dug a deep groove in the Cobb.

  It’s as if it’s eating the stone.

  Jim saw that he’d have to jump over the prone tentacle. He didn’t think twice and leapt, feeling his left-foot touch something soft and yielding. He heard a cry. An elderly lady had stopped on the other side of the tentacle, unwilling, or unable, to jump over.

  “Come on,” Jim shouted, barely slowing in his flight.

  She just stood, shaking her head from side to side. The tentacle started to slide across the Cobb towards her.

  Come on!

  He stopped in his run, but before he could even start to make his way to her rescue, the old lady was engulfed in black coils. Something squirted redly and Jim turned away, once again tasting blood in his mouth.

  As he turned, he saw that his group was now twenty yards ahead. One was faster than the rest. He sped yards ahead, but lost his footing on the uneven rock of the upper Cobb and fell to one side. Even before he hit the ground, two tentacles had him, one at the leg and the other at the arm. A tug of war ensued over the screaming man, until, almost mercifully, one of the tendrils proved stronger and tore the body from the other. It left an arm behind, which dangled above the tourists, dripping blood on them as they fled under it.