by John Creasey
Matt said gruffly: “Sure, I’m fine. Thanks for your trouble officer.” He turned and went swiftly towards his own car, his hands clenched tightly and his teeth set. The road was empty in each direction. He sat at the wheel, but didn’t start the engine for a moment; he wiped his forehead. He felt cold sweat at his neck and back and shoulders, too, and he shivered suddenly. A wasp hovered at the window and then flew off. A fly was crawling on the windscreen. If that were a mosquito –
Well, it wasn’t.
He started off, driving towards the cottages. He did not know whether anyone had yet found the burned wreckage of the little Austin, or the bodies; but he knew that few cars ever went that way, and they might stay there for hours, unless someone working at the market garden had seen the smoke. He lit another cigarette, then drove very slowly. Soon he passed the end of the road along which he had driven with Yvonne. The iceberg, the girl with the classic profile.
He pictured her trying desperately to speak to him.
He reached the outskirts of the Forest of Conne, and the gloom beneath the trees. Here and there sunbeams shone through and turned the foliage to a miracle of light and the grass to beauty, but for the most part it was very shadowy. He didn’t go fast. He came upon the tunnel, where thick branches, heavy with foliage, intertwined overhead, but he was not thinking so much of that as of the mosquitoes which might breed here. He saw a little patch of soggy, boggy ground, and there was a pool no more than a yard across at one spot quite near the road. The sun was shining near by, and in the reflection of its light he could see a myriad of tiny insects breaking the surface of the pool; as mosquitoes might. Looking more closely, he saw that they were much tinier than mosquitoes, like tiny moving specks of dust, with a few mosquitoes among them.
He didn’t give either of those a second thought, but looked back at the pool.
“I’m crazy,” he told himself.
But he wasn’t: it was like a dust cloud over the pool.
It frightened him.
He felt easier when he was through the tunnel of trees and in that part of the forest where the foliage was thick enough to let the sun give it brightness, but his spirits didn’t really rise. He saw a cottage on the outskirts of Conne village, then came upon the thirty miles an hour sign. He slowed down. Outside a row of cottages several children were playing, one of them was waving a hand in front of his face as if to keep mosquitoes or flies away.
And he saw a tiny cloud, rather like a spiral of dark smoke.
Matt’s jaw hurt, he was clenching his teeth so hard.
Then he saw a child scratching its cheek, and could see a red blotch like the one which had appeared on Yvonne’s forehead.
Should he send the child into Lauriston, with an urgent message for the young doctor?
Was he justified in raising any kind of alarm?
Was there any reason to believe that, even if the mosquitoes and the “dust” were causing this paralysis, there was any known way of minimizing the effect?
He stopped the car at a telephone kiosk, went to it, put in his pennies and then dialled the number of the hospital. When the operator answered, he said very clearly:
“A special patient has just been taken into an isolation ward. I want the doctor in charge informed that a child showing the same early symptoms was seen playing at Merville Cottages, Conne village. Will you make sure that he gets the message quickly?”
“Yes, sir, at once,” the operator said promptly. “May I tell him who is calling?”
“That’ll be all,” Matt said.
He got out of the kiosk. He told himself that it was crazy, that he couldn’t be at all sure of the cause of the infection. The shock of what had happened since lunch, from the attack in the car to the seizure which had stricken Yvonne, was preying on his mind. He needed a stiff whisky, would be much more himself then. He went back to the car and started the engine— and a mosquito settled on the inside of the windscreen.
“Brute!” He slapped his hand on the windscreen and killed the thing; this time there was no red smear on glass or window. He looked about the car almost furtively, for fear of seeing more, but saw none: and saw none of that flying dust. That didn’t mean a thing.
He drove towards the cottages, for he had studied a map of the neighbourhood and knew exactly which turnings to take. He went slowly, making sure that he missed nothing, and then came in sight of the tiled cottage, with the massed beds of flowers looking much more vivid from here. He could see how well kept it was on the outside, and much labour was put into the garden. He looked beyond it but saw no sign of smoke, no other house, and a clump of trees, oak and beech, where he thought that the little Austin had been burned. He drove past Hill’s cottage, glancing at the closed mullioned windows, the closed front door. It was imagination of course, but he had a feeling that it was deserted. He quickened his pace and in five minutes reached the trees.
There was the burned-out wreck of the car.
There were the burned bodies.
And here, beneath the trees, the insects of the countryside darted and hovered and hummed and swooped; and were silent. He saw no spiral of dust nearby.
If it was true that these people had died because the one had seen and the other heard about Jane Hill’s symptoms, then it seemed certain that Larry Hill was in equal danger.
It was nearly five o’clock.
He would soon be back to an empty cottage, for his sister had taken his son away.
Matt drove just past the cottage, got out of the car and stood looking at the tiny home, looking soft and beautiful in the late afternoon sunlight. Only the insects and the birds moved, and the air seemed alive with insects and their humming, so that he felt a fear as great as any he had known. Then he saw that one of the windows was open an inch or two. He pushed the small gate back end went along the stone path, where tiny weeds were showing, past the lawns which had looked so trim and neat but which needed mowing; there was a touch of neglect upon this cottage. Matt drew closer to the front door. He heard only those soft, soothing sounds. He neared the window and saw half a dozen little specks on the inside of one of the small panes.
Specks?
They were mosquitoes, inside the cottage.
And there were tiny patches of dark dust which looked as if it was smeared on the panes. But one moved suddenly, as if a breath of wind had stirred it, and a “dust” cloud vanished into the room.
Chapter Ten
THE COTTAGE
Matt stood motionless, staring at the specks; and none of these moved. Slowly, he looked at other panes of glass, and saw that there were mosquitoes and the round smears on them, too; the rays of the sun struck the window in such a way that he could see everything clearly.
On that one window alone there must be hundreds of mosquitoes and countless of those flying specks.
Thousands. Millions?
Something buzzed past his eyes. He flinched and struck at the air, and touched something which flew away. He put his hand to his forehead swiftly but felt nothing there; but he shivered. He backed away slowly, as if he dared not turn his back, in case the insects and the specks swarmed after him. He studied the flowers and the bees which hummed about them, and the countless insects there, and he could not make out any mosquitoes or dust, but there were bound to be some. He put his hand on the post of the gate, to open it, and at the side saw a mosquito, as if it were ready to take off. He snatched his hand away, and the wind of the movement sent the insect flying, so that he lost sight of it.
He went round to the back of the car and opened the boot, as he had for the antiseptic. Possibly the application of something very strong might prove an antidote if it were put on quickly enough. He wasn’t after that, then. He travelled widely in the car, often staying in small villages overnight, and often finding mosquitoes or flies worrying him; and he kept a small tin of Quick
Kill, with a spray top. He took this out of a small case. The tin was painted bright red, and the name was in black. He had seen insects drop by the dozen when sprayed with this; would these drop, too? He peered along the road but saw no sign of a van or a car or bicycles. No one had come to see the burned bodies yet—and burned bodies seemed unimportant now. He went back along the path, making himself move more quickly, and trying to ignore the fact that there were so many tiny creatures humming and buzzing and swarming. There were those tiny dust spirals, too. He went close to the window, and did not think that any of the insects had moved. He went close enough to be able to spray through the two-inch gap at the side of the window. The side of the frame hid the menace, but did not stop him from spraying.
He pressed the plastic top of the Quick Kill tin, very slowly. The spray hissed gently out. If he was too close, it would set the insects flying, and there would be a hopeless task.
Gently.
The spray was a faint grey colour, rather like smoke. None of the mosquitoes seemed to move, nor did the specks. He kept close to the window for at least three minutes and then backed away and stared at the outside of the window.
Quick Kill should do its job in five minutes; the makers boasted two. It must be five minutes since he had covered that window and yet none had fallen.
A mosquito fell.
A tiny smear of dust disappeared, falling in a tiny shower.
Matt caught his breath and waited tensely; he saw others fall one after the other. He felt a fierce surge of excitement, and hugged the tin as if it were precious beyond words. He waited several more minutes, and by that time all of the insects close to the open section of the window had gone, but several were on panes further away and out of reach of the spray; and little clusters were on sections of the window that were closed. It seemed as if each mosquito had a swarm of tiny satellites, invisible one at a time, but usually in clusters.
“But we can kill them off,” he said in a whisper.
He heard the sound of a car engine, not far off. It couldn’t be Palfrey yet, of course, but it might be Peters, or it might be Hill and his mate, coming by car. Palfrey had laid a great deal on, but hadn’t thought it necessary—or else had not thought it wise—to confide in him, Matthew Stone, about the Z5 men at the food plant.
Remember, Palfrey always knew what he was doing, but—
He set the doubt aside and peered towards the village. On the narrow road through fields of crops he saw a small car. He believed that it was the Sunbeam Rapier he had seen here before: the killer car. It was coming slowly, and he couldn’t understand why. Then he saw it swerve towards the right, and a crash seemed inevitable. The Carters’ car had gone like this too. This one straightened out, but soon veered towards the other side.
It swung off the road and into a ditch. The front wheels and the radiator disappeared, the back wheels were spinning in the air. There was no sound, and no other sign of movement except these ceaselessly spinning wheels.
The car was at least half a mile away.
He ran to the Chrysler, took the wheel, and swung towards the other car. It took him only a minute or two to reach it. It was an older car than he’d thought. No one had climbed out. The wheels were spinning more slowly now, as if they were tired of the senseless whirl. As he drew up, he jumped out and ran towards the ditch.
A man he had never seen before was trying to crawl out of the car, but could not move. Another, whom he recognized from photographs as Larry Hill, was leaning sideways in his seat, eyes wide open and terror in them.
These two had also been struck down.
It was impossible to straighten the car, a wrecker’s van was needed, first to lift and then to drag it out of the ditch. There were the helpless men and the wheels now still, and a faint splashing sound, and earth fell from the side of the ditch into the water at the bottom. Matt was going down. He could stand ankle deep in water, and with luck be able to ease first one man and then the other out of the car, on to the side of the road. They had to be taken to hospital quickly; if they weren’t they wouldn’t have a chance.
Had they one now?
Matt stepped cautiously because the ditch was steep, and it would not help if he fell in, and he called: “Okay, I’m coming.” At least they knew that he was going to try to help. He dislodged a little more earth, and then looked down into the water at the bottom of the ditch, hoping to find a firm spot on which to stand.
He did not.
But he saw several dozen mosquitoes rising off the surface of the dark, brackish-looking water, some of them skimming the surface itself, some rising a foot or more in the air. And hovering close to them were those little satellites.
If he stepped among them, if he stayed here, he would be bitten; and if he were, he would probably die.
He couldn’t hope to cope here with the Quick Kill, the mosquitoes and the clouds were in a dozen different places.
He stared, petrified, and tried to make his mind work clearly. He had long been used to the idea of death, and to the idea of dying for Z5 and the half-obscure, half-uttered ideals and hopes which lay in the minds of men whom Palfrey had welded into the world-wide organisation. He had to accept death once it became inevitable; but should he stay here? Should he take this risk of dying, even the risk of losing his power of movement and of speech?
He was first and last a member of Z5, and working for it. It was essential to report everything he had found out to Palfrey, who might find in it all that was needed to kill the horror. He had to keep himself alive at least until he was able to warn the villagers at Conne not to come here. The whole village, the whole area, had to be isolated.
All these things went through his mind in a fragment of time, and while he saw the hovering insects and the foot of Larry Hill’s companion. The man was staring at him, pleading.
Matt said in a strangled voice:
“I’ll get help.”
He saw two mosquitoes settle on the man’s forehead, then dust, in tiny dark circles. There was nothing the other man could do about it, not even brush them off. Then a mosquito settled on Matt’s own right hand. He slapped and squashed it, blew at it desperately, then turned and leapt up the bank.
The awful reproach in the other’s eyes was there to haunt him.
He reached the wheel of his own car. There was room to pass. He got in and took the wheel; and there was a mosquito on the inside of the windscreen; he should have kept the windows closed. Where there was one there might be dozens. He squashed the one and no blood showed, and no dust either. He looked round at the cream-coloured upholstery and the windows, the uprights, everywhere, and saw nothing to fear and heard no buzzing. As he started off he could not stop himself from glancing towards the wrecked car. The men were nearly hidden from him, but he saw that Larry Hill had slumped further away.
He began to put on speed. A wasp bumped against one of the ventilation windows and fell inside the car close to his foot. He snatched his foot off the accelerator. Tight-lipped, he closed the ventilation windows. The sun shone hot upon the glass and he began to sweat, but he kept the windows closed.
Then, suddenly, tiny black specks dotted the windscreen; then came dark dust, covering it as if he’d driven over a dirt road.
Understanding came swiftly.
He had flown through a cloud of the mosquitoes and their satellites.
He could just make out spirals of them, clear against the sky. Dozens more mosquitoes appeared on the glass, tiny, dead insects, which might carry death and coma with them. He gritted his teeth so hard that his jaws hurt, but soon he had passed through this cloud, and no additional specks came onto the glass. But the dust remained. At any other time he would have stopped, got out and cleaned the windscreen, but he could not bring himself to do that now.
He approached the village.
He was aware of a stillne
ss which had not been there when he had come through; an absolute lack of movement. He had seen two people working in their gardens here; seen others in the street, inside the village shops, but no one was about, it was like a village which had gone to sleep. He slowed down. A cycle lay on its side, on the pavement, and he saw that the front wheel was buckled where it had crashed against the wall of a cottage. The door of the cottage was wide open and he could see the furniture inside, the polished linoleum, some china hanging on the wall. He passed another shop and saw a man sitting back against the shelves filled with cans of food; a man whose eyes were open but who seemed to be sitting motionless.
Matt passed the post office.
One of the small red vans of the postal service had crashed into a scarlet pillar box outside the little sub-office. Inside, the driver was leaning against the counter, with his right hand stretched out, as if he was trying to get something; and his lips were working but no sound came from them.
Matt saw the row of cottages and the playing children, but they were no longer playing. The most awful thing was of the child who sat against the closed doorway of a cottage, eyes wide open in mute appeal, body limp and helpless.
“Oh, God,” Matt said in a fierce voice. “Oh, God, how can I stop it, how can I stop it?”
He must go on.
He must make sure that no one came to the village unprepared, but now there was an awful fear in his mind; a fear that this plague had spread already, that it had reached Lauriston. Why not? Which way was the wind? He stared at the trees and the hedges on the far side of the village, and he shouted aloud:
“Which way is the wind?”
He couldn’t tell from the moving car; one never could. Did it matter whether he knew or not? He had to get a warning through. He was twelve miles or more from Lauriston, he had to drive through the forest, and the forest might be alive with these plague carriers. Remember, he had to see Palfrey and had to get a warning through, for other people would be driving along this road, as the post office driver had.
