by John Creasey
He turned a corner.
A motor-cyclist was lying on the road close to the hedge, and his machine was propped up against the hedge; he had had time to do that. There was a red smear on his forehead, no doubt he had squashed a mosquito. He still had the strength to wave an appeal for help. Ignoring it was like ignoring the cry of a child in pain.
Matt turned another corner, and the road stretched straight for half a mile. He made himself slow down and tried to think dispassionately. He would have to telephone the warning, could not allow more people to come to the village and be struck down. He must contact the police, Palfrey and Z5. He must turn back to the village and telephone, there was not likely to be a phone between here and the forest.
Turn back.
He saw a gateway, stopped, reversed into it, and started back. Then he said: “You lunatic,” and drove more swiftly, past the motor-cyclist again; the man was no longer able to wave. He pulled up outside the post office in this village of silence, and then turned round and stretched out for the tin of Quick Kill, which was in the pocket of one of the rear doors. Next he opened his door swiftly and stepped out, then slammed the door to make sure that nothing could get in. He was only a step from the kiosk. He saw the mosquitoes, with their terrifying attendants, at the window. They were both inside and out; and at the window of the shop also. None seemed to be flying near him. He pulled open the heavy door of the kiosk, kept it open with his foot and sprayed the Quick Kill in. Two or three mosquitoes flew about in front of him, disturbed by his movements, and he kept waving his arms about to try to make sure that they didn’t settle. He couldn’t see anything else, but the flying dust wouldn’t always show up.
He saw the mosquitoes beginning to fall inside the kiosk, waited for another minute, and then stepped in himself. There were a dozen or more insects on the black prepayment box, apparently dead; and dozens on the floor and on the frames of the little windows. He dialled 999 for the emergency, and wondered whether there was a village exchange and whether the operator would be at her switchboard.
No one answered.
Why don’t they answer?
A girl asked for his number in a detached voice: he gave 999. Then she asked: “Do you want Police, Fire or Ambulance.”
“Police, in a hurry,” Matt stared at the inside of the post office. Two women were in there, eyes open, bodies helpless, one on the floor, one on a chair. Their faces seemed dirty: smeared as with dust.
“This is Lauriston Police Station, can I help you?”
Matt said. “Superintendent on duty, please. Reference Z5.”
“Who wants—” there was a pause, then an almost startled: “Did you say Z5?”
“Yes. Hurry.”
“One moment please, sir.”
It was a long moment, even though the code had worked; the code to use only in desperate emergency. No one would ever question the wisdom of this.
A man spoke.
“Superintendent Collis speaking. Who is that, please?”1
“Superintendent,” Matt said, very slowly and deliberately, “I am speaking from Conne village. There is a plague of mosquitoes here, and their bite seems to be fatal. They are accompanied by a kind of dust. That’s the only way I can describe it, but it’s deadly. It is absolutely essential to isolate the village, making sure no one comes in unless they are fully protected.”
“One moment sir,” the superintendent said, and Matt could have cursed him. But probably he thought he was talking to a madman; anyhow, the next thing would be a polite “I’ll see to it, sir,” and then silence.
Another man said: “Is that you, Matt?”
It was Palfrey.
“All right, take it easy,” Palfrey said two minutes afterwards, and the calmness of his manner was like a benediction. “The police will take emergency action and cordon the area off. Civil Defence units will come into it, wearing protective clothing, and we’ll assume it’s a form of gas or bacteriological assault. We can cope, anyhow. Do you know how far beyond Conne they’ve spread?”
“No. I came about a mile and a half out of the village on the Lauriston side, and they were at least two miles on the Hills’ cottage side. Hill and a man with him were ditched, and badly bitten.”
“All right, Matt,” Palfrey said. “I’ll fix it. The police are already putting up road blocks on the outskirts of Lauriston, just beyond the factory, to keep traffic out of the area. It’s a fairly easy place to isolate, with the hills all round it. Where are you speaking from?”
“The telephone booth outside the post office.”
“Free of the things?”
“I had some Quick Kill handy. It seems to work, but when the dust really swarms—” Matt broke off.
“Can you get to your car safely?”
“I think so.”
“Drive to the Forest Hotel and stop about half a mile away,” Palfrey said. “I’ll have someone there to decontaminate your car. Then go on to the hotel. If it’s free from the swarms we’ll be able to meet there. If it’s not, stay with a decontamination squad until you get further orders. There’s one positioned near the hotel.”
“Listen, Sap, the people here need help.”
“You can’t help them any more, but we might be able to. Don’t try being a hero.”
“All right,” Matt muttered.
“And, Matt,” said Palfrey quickly, “you’ve done quite a job.”
He rang off.
Matt stood inside the tiny kiosk. He was sticky and hot, and those last words of Palfrey’s hadn’t really made much difference. He could see the mosquitoes and the dust on the outside of the window, and his car seemed to be yards away, not just a foot or two. He made to make a dash for it. He took the handle and got ready to push; pushed the door back and streaked across the pavement to his car, jerked that door open, and slid inside his seat. The door slammed. He looked round, almost desperately, fearfully; had any got in? He took the Quick Kill from his pocket and sprayed the car. The smell was unpleasant, but at least it gave him a feeling of security.
He drove on steadily.
Security?
If it was gas or bacteria, what good would Quick Kill do? He’d seen it work, but the effect might only be temporary.
Two miles out on the Lauriston Road he saw a signpost reading: To Forest Hotel. That way, he could reach it more quickly. A narrow paved road ran through open country at first, but soon he was on the edge of the forest, and could see the massed trees a mile or two ahead. The sun shining on them, from this position, made them seem more golden than green, and he had seldom seen greater beauty. There was peacefulness too; the green of the trees and grass, the soft blue of the sky, here and there a fleck of white clouds, everything that went to make England’s pleasance, which he had heard so much about and had only now learned to love. This was so different from the Arizona desert that it was hard to believe that such a place as Phoenix existed in the same world as this.
Soon he was among the trees.
He had not yet seen any dark spirals of dust or the mosquitoes, and no more had come on to his windscreen. He felt more relaxed, and knew that it was partly due to the fact that Palfrey had reassured him; at least the authorities were trying to cope. He tried to strengthen his reassurance. This part of England could easily be isolated, as Palfrey had said, and once the authorities were warned of the danger, surely they could cope. If there was an outbreak of this horror in one of the Arab States, say, or South America, or even parts of North America, it would be hell. He remembered a plague of mosquitoes in New Orleans, driven by an unusual wind off the Mississippi swamps. That plague had lasted for nearly a month.
But the satellite dust was something new.
Bacteriological warfare? Was this how it would start?
This wasn’t New Orleans, there were no swamps nearby.
&nbs
p; Dust began to leap on to his windscreen.
His nerves grew taut in a moment. His teeth clenched again. He was close to the edge of the forest and it was darker beyond, but he could see the little black marks of mosquitoes, not so many as before, but more than enough; and he saw a big spiral of dust, like a small desert whirlwind of black sand. The sun glinted on water. He knew that he had made at least one mistake. It was swampy land.
A hundred yards further on there was a clearing, and drawn off the road, a small car. On the grass, one in a chair, the others lying in a heap, was a man and two women. He felt quite sure that they had been bitten and struck down.
He drove on.
He would for ever hate himself, after this day.
Then, perhaps a mile away at the end of a long, straight road through the forest, he saw a cyclist; and as he drew nearer he saw that it was a girl.
Chapter Eleven
DEFIANCE
She came cycling along briskly, and seemed to be completely oblivious of dust, of mosquitoes and of danger. Matt could have shrieked at her. She crossed the path of a beam of sunlight coming through a gap in the branches, and her hair seemed to catch alight; a light auburn, like the girl at the hotel who had served them at luncheon—and like Rondivallo’s Maureen O’Shea. Then she came into the shadow again, and all he could see was a young girl wearing a pale green dress, sandals, with nice legs, nice, sunbrowned arms. The waitress. She was pretty, as Matt already knew. He had slowed down, and there was near terror in him, for he saw mosquitoes flying close to the car, and if they were there, then they must be close to the girl who was now no more than fifty yards away from him. She was looking at him, and went towards one side of the road, and Matt realized that he was heading towards her, enough to cause alarm.
He stopped.
He had to open the window.
He opened the ventilation window, leaving little room for any insect to come through, and shouted at the girl:
“Stop, there. Stop!”
She heard and obeyed, but looked puzzled. He sat at the wheel, conscious of the death which lurked in the very air, of the fact that he was due to stay in his car until reaching Palfrey’s decontamination squad. The girl was now a little wary, and he could see that she was looking at the closed windows, as if realizing how absurd it was to keep them closed on a day as hot as this. She looked quite lovely, with the softness which the sheen of her hair gave her.
Matt opened the door; he could not let her stay out here, could not let another human being be attacked. He got out swiftly, and saw the way her hands tightened on the handlebars; as if she wanted to move off. But he was in the way and she couldn’t. Just here, there were mosquitoes, but he saw none of the tiny satellite clouds.
“Get off your bicycle and get in the car,” he ordered roughly. “Hurry!”
Her eyes were honey-coloured.
“I’ll do no such thing,” she said, half angry and half scared. “Move aside now, and let me pass.”
The Irish brogue which had been noticeable at luncheon was much more pronounced, and her face was flushed. He didn’t need telling why. Here was a lonely forest road, and a man in a powerful car stopping a girl on her own—oh, God, why did it have to be so difficult?
“Listen to me,” he said, forcing himself to speak calmly. “There has been an escape of poison gas in the district, and everyone must get under cover. I’m going to a decontamination point now. Get off your bicycle and get into the car.”
“It’s a fine story you’re telling me,” she said, and there was a hint of laughter in her voice, although obviously she was a little scared. “It’s a new one, I have to say that for you. Now get out of my way, please, I want to get on.”
He didn’t move.
“I’m quite serious,” he said. “There’s death in the forest.”
Out of the corner of his eyes he caught sight of a few dozen mosquitoes; they flew into a tiny sunbeam, which turned their wings to gold and their bodies to beauty; and they were only two yards away. He could not see any dust. He waved at them.
“It’s a madman you are,” the girl said, and her laugh took on a note of real nervousness. “Please let me pass.”
Instead, he stepped towards her, hands stretched out to hold the bicycle. She slapped at his right hand, then trod heavily on the pedal and shot forward. He was taken so much by surprise that he moved. She thrust her hand out to push him further away. He lost his balance and staggered; and she was past him, cycling furiously towards the village of silence, and to all the horrors there.
“Come back!” he shouted. “Come back!”
She glanced over her shoulder, cycling furiously. The only way to catch up with her was to turn the car. The little fool deserved anything she got, he couldn’t have warned her more clearly.
She didn’t look where she was going and the front wheel touched the side of the road, where there was a slight dip; and she pitched forward. As she tried desperately to save herself, Matt went after her; at least she couldn’t get away again. She managed to leap from the machine without falling, pushed it away and turned to face him; the expression on his face would have been enough to frighten anyone.
“Don’t come near me!” she cried. “Don’t come near me!” Her hands were raised to fend Matt off, and he saw her look round desperately, as if for a weapon, or else in hope of seeing someone come to her rescue.
Then a mosquito settled lightly on the side of her arm.
Matt jumped forward, and struck at it. He did not touch it, but the wind of the movement dislodged the insect, which flew off and was lost to sight.
There was no visible dust.
The girl hadn’t a chance.
She was terrified now, backing away and stumbling. Matt closed with her, put his arms round her and held her tightly, so that she couldn’t struggle or kick. He lifted her clear of the ground, finding that she was rigid with terror. He ran to the car, bundled her in, and slammed the door. She had it open again by the time he was at the wheel, but he dragged her back, leaned across her, and slammed the door. He was gasping for breath, and the girl was pressing against the door so as to keep her distance.
“Relax,” he made himself say. “I’m not going to hurt you. You may not believe it, but I’m trying to save your life.” He took the Quick Kill and sprayed it about the car again, while the girl stared as if he had taken leave of his senses. He put the tin back, and went on: “No, I’m not mad, either. Did that bite you?”
“Did what bite me?” She had the slight emphasis on the “h” in what, to make it sound so Irish, and watched him with enormous rounded eyes.
“There was a mosquito on your arm,” he said. “Did it bite you?”
“A mosquito, was it? No, I don’t think it bit me.” She rubbed her arm with her forefinger. “But perhaps it did, there’s a little irritation, but it’ll do me no harm.”
She stopped, and held her breath.
He stared at her, as if in horror; and he felt real horror. For he could see the tiny bump, not yet even red, which was rising just below her right elbow, exactly where the mosquito had been.
“You can think I’m crazy, you can think what you like, but I’ve got to squeeze the poison out of the bite,” Matt said. “Don’t make any more fuss. Stretch out your arm.”
She didn’t move.
“Stretch your arm out!” he shouted at her. “Do I have to knock sense into you?”
Terror showed in her eyes, and he could understand that and yet could not control himself because he could not make her believe her danger. Slowly, she held her arm towards him, staring all the time, and he took her wrist with his left hand and was about to squeeze the little bump with his right.
Then, his door opened.
He heard the movement, dropped the girl’s arm, and turned his head. A man was at the open door. All Mat
t really saw was his waist, and a clenched fist moving at great speed. He could not dodge. The blow caught him on the side of the jaw, jolting him sideways. He banged against the windscreen, and for a few moments was so dazed that he could not think about his own or the girl’s danger. Then he felt himself being dragged out of the car; he hadn’t the strength to resist.
His head began to clear.
He saw the man standing on the grass of the forest, with the massed trees and the little shafts of sunlight showing behind him; a big, handsome fellow wearing a tweed jacket, riding breeches and leather leggings. In his right hand was a sturdy stick, with a sharp ferrule at the end. He was staring across the roof of the car, where the girl was already scrambling out, and there was a faint smile at his lips as he turned back to Matt.
The smile faded; bleakness replaced it.
“Try to give me one reason why I shouldn’t thrash the wits out of you,” he said.
He looked quite capable of doing that.
The girl appeared from one side, and about them all as they stood by the side of the big car, the insects of the forest hovered and hummed, and not far off a little cloud of mosquitoes was bright in the sun; only a gentle wind was needed to blow them right into their faces.
Matt said: “I’ll warn you as I’ve warned the girl. There is a kind of poison gas loose in the forest, and it’s being carried by mosquitoes. I’ve seen a dozen people paralysed already, and know of some who died. This girl’s been bitten by a mosquito.”
He turned towards her.
She had lost some colour, and looked distressed. Now she glanced down at her arm; there was just a little whitish bump, not much larger than it had been when she had last seen it. But he had scared her, and she put a hand towards it.
The big man said: “That’s the best tale I’ve heard for a long time. Did he tell you the same story, Kathleen?”
“Yes, sir, he did indeed,” Kathleen said.
