The Rocks Below

by Nigel Bird

  She snatched at the slide and it slipped from the base and from her fingers to crack into pieces on the floor.

  Without bothering to clear up the mess, she pulled out another slide and put it into position.

  There was the same bluish smudge and another fiddle with the controls until things came into focus.

  Jenny Wilson slapped the table hard. Hard enough to snap the top of the badly-chewed nail of her right, index finger.

  “Ouch.”

  The pain she felt didn’t make her feel any better, so she took her foot from her slipper and kicked hard at the desk leg nearest to her.

  “For crying out loud.” This time the pain was up to the job. It took her mind from the frustrations of watching the Nobel Prize disappearing from her.

  She hopped around for a moment then looked down to see the blood on her big toe leaking out onto the floor.

  She took a tissue from inside the sleeve of her lab-coat and wrapped it around her wound, then sat on the floor and went through her breathing exercises.

  “I am special,” she told herself. “I’m a very special girl with a very lucky life.” Even to her, the words sounded hollow.

  How they could have messed up the samples like that was beyond reason. Schoolboy errors these were. A disgrace to the university.

  Her breathing exercises had helped to slow her thinking.

  She returned to the microscope to give the sections another look. Maybe, if nothing else, she’d be able to discover what had gone wrong.

  This time, when she looked down she saw something she had missed in her earlier haste.

  Sure, there were animal cells in the sample. But they were inside the rock rather than being on it. In fact, they weren’t just inside the rock, they were part of it. Cells with a nucleus, a membrane, cytoplasm, mitochondrion and ribosomes. The works. And all within the structure of the stone itself.

  Halleluiah.

  She thought of crabs and crustaceans, but that wasn’t it.

  Some kind of symbiosis? A new fusion between life and minerals? The perfect, living and breathing shell?

  And discovered by Dr Jenny Wilson.

  Dame Jenny Wilson? Lady Wilson? Her ladyship?

  The Lady Of The Bleeding Toe.

  If it was the same with all of the slides, she’d be famous. And respected. And loved.

  One more test and if she was right, she’d call a press conference to announce her discovery to the rest of the world.

  American Graffiti

  Talk about painting the town red.

  Hashtag and Sam had tagged the harbour wall and the entrance with anti-fracking slogans and symbols that would have graced any art gallery. They owed their skills to many years of misspent youth, hours hanging around skate parks and days of practising free-running and graffiti on the estates of the towns and cities in which they’d lived.

  Course they hadn’t used any old spray paint for this job. It was an eco-friendly alternative that would eventually return to its organic components.

  With the rest of their team out on the paddle boards, they’d covered the whole of the area. The tips of the rocky outcrops were no longer bird-dropping white and the man–made walls looked like they’d been decorated by some crazy exterior designer from the nineteen-sixties who hadn’t taken off their rose-tinted spectacles since.

  Sam and Hashtag stood on their boards and paddled gently through the steady sea to their final target, the boulder on the beach.

  When they reached the shore, they pulled the board onto the land and lifted their art materials.

  In their full, black wetsuits it was almost impossible for them to see each other when the green harbour light wasn’t on. Even when the light flashed, they would have been virtually impossible to spot from the road because of the shoe polish they wore on their faces.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Hashtag called over to Sam in a loud whisper. “I’m bloody freezing.”

  Sam’s teeth were chattering too madly to offer an answer. If it hadn’t been for the shoe-polish he was wearing, he was pretty sure he’d be glowing blue. Worse still, now he didn’t have his cast anymore his leg was aching like crazy in the cold and he longed to have his crutches back so that he could take the weight off for a while.

  They made their way over to the boulder and got the cans ready for their final tag of the night.

  It was a pretty slick routine they had, Sam working around the top and Hashtag working up from the bottom until they met in the middle to make one large mural.

  ‘FRACK OFF’ it said after their first burst. It may not have been the most imaginative phrase, but it had been the one that had taken off.

  Next, Sam unrolled the stencil he’d carried over and the pair of them set to taping it to the stone so they could get spraying.

  It was a job that required concentration and these two were perfectionists, all of which meant they didn’t notice what was happening below.

  At the base of the boulder the surface of the stone was shifting shape. It no longer looked like hard rock at the base, but more like a curtain of half-baked sponge cake that was moving in and out by millimetres at a time.

  From all around the bottom appeared spiny, black tendrils, 6 on one side and 6 on the other.

  Each of the protrusions wiggled and felt around in the air as if they were new-born snakes tasting the air for the first time and trying to get their bearings.

  These tentacles slithered their way along the sand and the pebbles on the beach together, like a team being carefully choreographed from within.

  As the green light flashed on, they continued on their way, silently and stealthily over to the legs of the surfers trying to decorate their home.

  They got to Hashtag first.

  3 of the tentacles slipped their way at different heights between Hashtag’s left ankle and knee and 3 to his right.

  “Stop messing about, mate. It tickles.”

  Sam didn’t have a clue what Hashtag was talking about and just carried on with taping the stencil.

  The tentacles tightened their grip. Squeezed hard around the rubber of the suit.

  “I mean it, man. That hurts.” It hurt like someone was giving his calves a serious rope burn.

  When he looked down and the light flashed, he saw the cause of his pain.

  “Sam!” His shout was distorted by the fall of his body as his legs were taken from under him.

  “Tag?” Sam had found his voice again just as he discovered that he’d been snared by some crazy, unearthly creature that seemed to want to pull him onto his backside and have him for its supper.

  As the limbs dragged the 2 men towards the opening at the bottom of the boulder, the guys screamed and kicked and grabbed at the sand around them.

  Each of the men managed to get a foot onto the boulder a few feet from the ground. Years of surfing meant that their legs were strong, but Sam’s hadn’t felt the same since the plaster had been removed.

  Their faces contorted as they pushed against the beast, the boot polish making them look like wax toys that were melting in an intense heat.

  It was Sam who cracked first. His foot slipped momentarily, allowing the tentacles to drag his other leg inside. He felt a cold suction at his toes, like he was being licked to death by a toothless grandma with ice cubes in her mouth. The sensation was too unpleasant for him to bear. Instead of facing the pain, his body seemed to take control and do the best thing it could manage – make him pass out and ensure he missed out on the final moments of his existence.

  What Lies Beneath

  There was no sign of Doc Brown anywhere.

  The local police had done what they could but, because he was a known eccentric, they were mostly expecting everything to come good in the light of day. No point calling the coastguard and getting him all hot under the collar in this situation.

  Still, Dougal Munro didn’t like it.

  He’d seen the footprints going over to the boulder and stopping without reason.
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br />   Sure, if he’d had time before the tide washed them away, he might have seen that they’d gone on into the distance after all. He’d certainly have had an easier time explaining things to the police.

  Once the enquiries had been made and a small search been carried out, the constables had assured Dougal that the best thing he could do would be to go home and get some rest. Dougal knew that was the last thing he’d be able to do.

  In his living room, he’d sat by the gas fire and stared into its imitation coals as the flames roared around them and sipped at a large glass of Talisker. His mind was like a pile of clothes at a jumble sale, a few quality items mixed in with a heap of old tat. In the midst of all his confusion, images of Thumper and the Doc pricked at his conscience.

  By midnight, he’d had enough sitting around and needed to do something. Take some action.

  He cursed the young policemen that he’d dealt with. They were 2 of the new breed, a couple of youngsters who didn’t look old enough to shave, let alone get out there saving lives. No doubt their idea of police work was surfing the web and checking the CCTV every now and again. What this job called for was some old-fashioned legwork and Dougal was going to be the one putting in the miles.

  He took his backpack from the hook by his front door and made sure that everything was there.

  Torch? Check. Working? Check.

  Rope? Check.

  Hard-hat? Check.

  Whistle? Check.

  First Aid kit? Check.

  Knife? Check.

  Flare? Check.

  Foil blanket? Check.

  Chocolate bar? Half-eaten, but better than nothing.

  Hip Flask? He’d sort that out on the way and fill the other flask with hot oxtail just in case.

  All present and pretty much correct.

  When he reached the the beach, Dougal wandered over to the cave so that he could retrace his steps.

  It was as he reached up to get at the first of the hand-holds to help him climb up that he heard the screams.

  They weren’t the kind of screams that might be heard on Halloween. They were the deep, throat wrenching kind that meant real danger. The kind that would have scared off the English back in the day.

  Dougal was quick to react. He turned in the direction of the noise, flipped open his bag and pulled out his torch.

  He flicked the switch and moved the beam of light around until he found what he was looking for.

  When he first saw them, he wondered if it was just the whisky playing tricks on his brain.

  2 men in wetsuits were being smothered by what looked like the tentacles of a giant octopus.

  One of the men was writhing and kicking out wildly. The other was limp, as if dead, and was being sucked into the boulder that was at the centre of the legs.

  It was the same boulder at which the Doc’s prints had ended.

  A horrible thought lodged itself in Dougal’s brain. If that rock was capable of attacking these 2 men, then old Doc Brown would have had no chance.

  And if it had taken Doc Brown, then this thing on the beach wasn’t a boulder in the first place.

  Dougal’s body shuddered as if he were dead and someone had just walked over his grave.

  Mercifully, his thoughts were interrupted by the screams of the man on the ground, the one with the strange, black mask who was still showing signs of life.

  “Heeeeelp,” the man cried. “For God’s sake get this thing off me.”

  The plea shook Dougal into action.

  He was over at the boulder within seconds.

  First thing was to try and liberate the man whose leg was already half inside the spongy layer at the bottom of the rock.

  He grabbed at his shoulders and pulled for all he was worth.

  Whatever he was up against, it was far stronger than Dougal. Pulling would be no good, so he needed a new idea.

  He took to stamping at the tentacles with his heel.

  The creature let out a rumble like a lion’s burp that was loud enough to make the ground vibrate around it.

  The stamping may have been hard enough to make the creature shout out, but it didn’t stop it pulling.

  Dougal saw the way it had coiled itself around the man’s leg and was gripping tightly enough to be cutting into the wetsuit.

  He looked in his bag, thinking the knife might work.

  Instead of the blade, he pulled out the flask of soup. It may not have made any sense, but his fingers were unscrewing the top and throwing the contents onto the tentacles before he’d had time to think about what he was doing.

  The air filled with the smell of the beefy soup and the steam that came from it.

  Nothing happened.

  “Is that the best you can do?” Hashtag burst into tears having seen the guy’s first effort. Soup as a dangerous weapon was only going to happen in a sci-fi movie. Or maybe this bloke was just a nutter who watched too much Dr Who.

  One of the tentacles untwisted itself from Hashtag’s leg. Maybe the soup trick had worked after all. Unfortunately for Hashtag, the tentacles that had his leg only squeezed harder.

  The one that had released itself headed in the direction of Dougal and at a pretty fast rate.

  Dougal was ready for it.

  He had grabbed his knife from his bag and opened the blade.

  As the tentacle coiled around his ankle, Dougal chopped down. It was like he was rubbing the blade against a knife-sharpener. There were a few sparks and that was about it.

  Instead of chopping, he tried slicing. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. End of game. It looked like this boulder was going to get 3 for the price of 1.

  Dougal’s ankle hurt. The wrapping was tight. He could feel the rough grain of the surface cutting through his trousers and into his skin. He couldn’t be sure, but there was a warm trickling sensation in his foot, which meant he might well be bleeding underneath his socks.

  He looked over to the other guys.

  It was useless. Now they were both out cold.

  He glared at the face that looked like that of a sleeper having a nightmare and wondered at the black shine to his skin. Then came the moment of recognition.

  “Sam? Sam Surf? Wake yourself, man.” If he was going to die, it might at least be nice for him to go with a bit of company.

  Sam didn’t even twitch.

  Dougal looked back into his bag. Thought for a moment about eating the chocolate and supping the whisky; that would be a better end than Doc Brown had if nothing else.

  And then he saw the flare.

  He grabbed at it and at the same time felt his leg being pulled in the direction of the boulder. It was inching them all closer by the minute.

  To make things quick, Dougal snapped off the plastic safety cap with his teeth and spat it onto the ground.

  Next he twisted and removed the pink cap.

  He held it at arm’s length and at the required 45 degree angle and, being careful not to scratch with too much force, he rubbed the cap against the black button on the flare.

  Within moments, the night sky was brightened by a pink light that reminded Dougal of the nights when his dad would take him down to the shipyards in Glasgow.

  The light from the flare was blinding and Dougal had to screw up his eyelids.

  Molten residue poured from the flare and fell to the ground. Dougal was quick to direct it on to the tentacle that held him.

  There was a fizz, the kind of sound that came from an Alka-Seltzer dropped into a glass of water.

  A pink froth oozed from the black tentacle that had him and before he could register what was going on, it had let go.

  “And Bob’s your uncle.”

  Dougal went straight for the spongy opening into which Sam’s leg had disappeared. He let the flare drip and spill onto the boulder’s flesh.

  The result was amazing.

  There was more oozing. More frothy bubbling, this time accompanied by a melancholy yelp of animal pain.

  Dougal grabbed on to Sam by the shoulders
and dragged him free. When Dougal felt he was far enough away, he dropped Sam and did the same for the other man.

  The boulder seemed to get smaller as it fully retracted its tentacles and the fizzing of flesh continued even when they’d disappeared.

  For a minute or two, Dougal just sat on the sand and sipped at his flask.

  As he waited for the others to come around, he went back to examine the boulder.

  It had solidified once more. Had the same stone façade that had been there the last time he’d seen it in daylight. The only thing that was different was a black smoulder mark on the bottom edge where the flare had burned away. Next to it lay the remains of a wet-suit boot, half chewed and discarded like an old dog’s toy.

  Pearl Harbour

  Jenny Wilson stood up when she heard her name announced by the Nobel Prize panel. She was wearing a long, slinky dress that she’d had designed by Stella McArtney and the high heels that were concealed by the dress made her look a good three inches taller than her usual self.

  The audience also stood, but they were clapping and calling her name.

  “Jenny. Jenny. Jenny.”

  Jenny Wilson blushed as she walked and practised for one final time her acceptance speech. “I’d like to thank all those who supported me along the way, especially my husband, Bill, who has seen the light and is behind me 100% of the way.”

  As she walked up to the stage, she felt her foot snag in her dress and she tripped over at the first step.

  The falling sensation caused her to wake up. She found the reality of her position so much less glamorous than her dream. Her head was on a note pad and there was a dribble of saliva coming from the side of her mouth.

  For a moment she wasn’t sure. She cleared her throat so that she’d be ready to give her speech and then she realised what was really going on.

  She wasn’t too disappointed by what she found.

  Before her were the prints of the photos she’d taken with the polarising light microscope and they told the story better than she could.

  Life and minerals fusing.

  She imagined new medical treatments, not least a whole new range of bone grafts and transplants.

  Another hour of work and she’d have everything ready for the next day. A little writing. Copy a batch of discs containing her press release. A quick trip home to pick up some decent photos of herself (she was thinking of the ones taken at the Musselburgh races Ladies’ Day), pay a visit to the hairdresser’s and she’d be ready. Arrange a press conference for the following day out in Dunbar at the boulder itself, et voila.