Simon Ian Childer

by Tendrils (epub)

  Thomas sighed and settled back into his chair as Renton went on acting as if this was just a normal inter-depart-mental budgetary meeting. He guessed it was Renton’s way of dealing with the unthinkable. He looked at the faces of the other men around the table. All of them were pale, their eyes dulled with shock. And there were empty spaces at the table. Three of their number were missing, presumed dead, including Henry Mitchell.

  Thomas glanced out the window. The sun was shining in a blue sky. It was a hot summer’s day, the sort of day when the parks in the city would be full of office workers during the lunchtime period. Except that today the parks would be empty. Inner London was still in a state of chaos. Fires raged uncontrollably in several parts of the city and the evacuation of everyone in a five-mile radius from Piccadilly Circus was still underway.

  There was no power, no water, no sewer system, no gas, no television or radio and no telephone communication. In the space of a few hours the heart of one of the world’s biggest cities, and the technological and administrative heart of Britain itself, had been destroyed.

  If the cause had been a natural disaster, like a flood, or even an atomic explosion, people could have come to terms with it because any of those events, while deplorable, would at least have been a part of their familiar world. But instead the cause was something inexplicable, something beyond comprehension. It was as if the unknown itself had suddenly taken on solid form. How could you rationally explain the things that erupted out of the ground, out of floors, sewers and drains, and dragged their victims, struggling and screaming, down into the darkness?

  The attacks, spreading outwards in all directions from inner London, continued until dawn. Then, with the first rays of the sun, the tentacles retreated back below the surface. But they remained active in the tunnels and sewers, as the military units, who went below in a hastily organized search for survivors, soon discovered to their cost.

  Yet here, in this Victorian conference room on the north-west outskirts of London, it seemed to Thomas that the events of only a few miles to the south were figments of a wild dream. It all appeared so normal, but he knew if he went outside he would find the streets of Colindale choked with refugees.

  Accurate figures were so far impossible to obtain but it was estimated that nearly 100,000 people had been killed during the night. Not all of them had been victims of the tentacles - several thousand had been killed in the gas explosions, fires and violent subsidences that had racked the city. There were thousands of severely injured casualties as well, which had put a tremendous strain on the facilities of those hospitals outside the danger zone.

  The big fear on everyone’s mind was not just that the tentacles would resume their attacks during the coming night but that they would spread even into outer London. For that reason most people didn’t consider the five-mile radius danger area established by the army to be sufficient and were trying to get completely out of London before nightfall. The result was a massive, slow-moving and chaotic exodus that the police and the military, despite the declaration of martial law, were finding it impossible to control.

  Thomas returned his attention to what Renton was

  saying.

  . . which is why, despite the scale of the catastrophe, we must not be intimidated by these creatures. Whatever they may be they are not manifestations of the supernatural. They are vulnerable. The successes that some of our brave soldiers have had in dealing with them proves that. They have proved vulnerable to bullets, flame-throwers, even ordinary axes. So let’s approach the problem calmly and rationally. I suggest you view the task ahead of us as simply a question of how best to fumigate an unusually large area. And fumigation, gentleman, is what I believe to be the solution to the matter, and I shall be telling the Prime Minister that, or rather the Minister of Defence . . .’ he gave a dry cough, ‘. . . shortly

  Good grief, thought Thomas. Here we have an unbelievably dangerous alien organism of monstrous dimensions under London and Renton was talking as if it was just a job for a pest exterminator.

  ‘First, we must decide what agent would be most effective,’ continued Renton. ‘Personally I favour pumping phosgene gas into the tube and sewer system and then, twenty-four hours later, large quantities of sarin nerve gas. Nothing could survive such a lethal mixture. Agreed?’

  There were subdued murmurs of assent around the table. Thomas spoke up, ‘Excuse me, sir, but you’re still acting on the assumption that we’re dealing with more than one creature.’

  Renton eyed him with displeasure. ‘It’s an assumption I will continue to hold until I get proof to the contrary.’ ‘But no one has yet seen one of your creatures complete, have they?’ argued Thomas desperately. ‘Even down in the tunnels no one’s seen anything more than the tentacles - no one’s ever seen what these things are attached to, correct?’

  ‘It may be that the tentacles are the creatures,’ said Renton easily. ‘They’re like snakes.’

  Thomas gave a scornful laugh. ‘Yeah, the “worms” have grown up into snakes. When are you going to face the truth? We’re dealing with a single organism. The bulk of its body probably lies far beneath the networks of tube and sewer tunnels. Sure, you can flood the tunnels with phosgene and sarin gas and you’ll probably do some serious damage to those tentacles, but you won’t kill itV Renton looked at him and said, ‘Have you finished your tirade, Dr Thomas? If so, we shall continue with the meeting.’

  Thomas stood up, his chair scraping harshly on the floor. ‘Yes, I’m finished, and I’m leaving! Why waste both your time and mine!’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Renton as Thomas marched out of the conference room.

  Robin was waiting for him in his lab. As she couldn’t get to her office - and had no need to, seeing that her paper couldn't be published until it was declared safe for people to move back into central London - he had reluctantly permitted her to accompany him to the lab. ‘I want to be near the centre of the action,’ she’d told him. 'When this thing is over and we start printing again I’m going to have a hell of an exclusive.’

  'If it’s ever over,’ he’d muttered bleakly. But he couldn’t help feeling a perverse admiration for her overriding self-interest.

  She grinned at him as he entered the lab. ‘Should I hail the conquering hero?’ she asked.

  ‘Nope. I’m still crying in the wilderness. What happened last night hasn’t even put a dent in Renton’s aura of infallibility. He’s still in charge and all the others seemed too shell-shocked to disagree with him. I walked out in disgust.’

  He went and poured himself a cup of coffee and then noticed, for the first time, Lisa sitting slumped in a corner. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her complexion pasty.

  ‘Hi, Lisa,’ he said. ‘You alright?’

  She looked up at him but didn’t answer. Her eyes were glazed.

  ‘I think she’s in a state of shock,’ said Robin quietly. ‘From the little she told me when she arrived it seems she narrowly avoided being a victim last night. Instead of going home she stayed over at her boyfriend’s place in Harrow, which I gather she doesn’t normally do on weekdays . . .’

  ‘No,' said Thomas, eyeing Lisa with concern. She was a creature of habits. He knew she always spent weekends with her long-term lover, a dentist, but during the week always slept at her flat in Kings Cross. And Kings Cross had been particularly badly hit during the night.

  He went over to Lisa, took hold of her wrist and felt her pulse. Her heartbeat was very slow. She didn’t resist as he tilted her round to face the light and examined her eyes. He saw the pupils were slow to contract. Robin’s diagnosis was right. He handed Lisa the cup of coffee and ordered her to drink. She did so. ‘Lisa,’ he said firmly. ‘Talk to me . . .’

  Frowning, she focused her eyes on him, then said, in a broken voice, ‘Linda . . . Cindy . . . I’m sure they’re both dead . . .’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ he told her. ‘They’re probably both safe somewhere.’

  ‘Who are they?’ a
sked Robin from behind him.

  ‘Linda’s her flat-mate; Cindy’s her Dalmatian . . .’

  He heard the door opening. He turned and, to his surprise, saw Paul Montgomery come in, followed by Robert Yanchinski, the head of the Immunology Department, and Professor Napier. The latter was a Ministry of Defence scientist who was now in charge of Porton Down’s military programmes, which, contrary to popular belief, are still quite extensive.

  ‘The meeting’s over already?’ Thomas asked them, wondering what they wanted with him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Montgomery uneasily. ‘As Professor Renton had already made up his mind there was little more for us to discuss. Which is why we’re here. We think he may be acting somewhat too hastily . . .’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Montgomery has shown me your reports,’ said Napier briskly. ‘And he’s filled me in on some of the background details of your disagreements with Professor Renton. It seems to me you’ve been a step ahead of everyone else in this matter and it would be foolish not to hear your ideas on how we should proceed in dealing with the menace.’ Thomas looked at him in surprise. He didn’t know Napier very well but didn’t particularly like him and guessed that the feeling was mutual. Besides being a redfaced, army major type he was Renton’s man to his fingertips, all of which made this apparent mutiny even more unexpected. Thomas inclined his head in a mock bow and said, 'Thank you, professor. It’s gratifying to know that not everyone around here regards me as the resident crank. I’ll be happy to give you all my theories, way-out as they may seem . . .’

  'First, I think you should be brought up to date on the latest developments,’ said Napier. ‘Would you mind coming along to the autopsy room - there’s something there you should see.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Mind if I tag along?’ asked Robin.

  Napier turned and frowned at her. ‘Who ..?’ he began.

  it’s alright,’ said Thomas quickly. ‘She is working with me.’

  ‘Has she been positively vetted?’ asked Napier.

  ‘Oh, yes. And how. I saw to it personally.’ He had no qualms about lying to Napier. What did so-called ‘official secrets1 matter now? Anyway, when all this was finished he had decided to leave the CPHL. Maybe he would go into private practice somewhere . . .

  As they followed the three senior scientists along the corridor Robin whispered in his ear, ‘When did you positively vet me?’

  ‘Last night,’ he murmured. ‘Three times.’

  In the autopsy room Napier went to a metal tray lying on a table and, using a pair of forceps, picked up what appeared to be a large piece of greyish, shrivelled paper. ‘Know what this is?’ he asked Thomas.

  At first he didn’t, then he noticed that there was a length of long, black hair attached to a section of the ‘paper’ and he began to get a nasty suspicion . . .

  Napier confirmed it. ‘A human skin. All that remains of an adult female. And there are hundreds more just like it.’

  19

  ‘When the army units entered the tube system at various points this morning in the hope of rescuing any survivors they found bundles of clothing everywhere. Then they realized what was in the clothing . . .’ Napier gestured at the skin which had been spread out on one of the autopsy tables. It lay there like a grotesque, two-dimensional parody of a human being. A shrunken, shrivelled outline alarmingly complete with collapsed eyeballs, nostrils, a gash of a mouth, nipples, pubic hair and toe and fingernails.

  Overcoming his repugnance Thomas reached down and touched the arm of the thing with his bare fingertips. He heard Robin breathe in sharply as he did so. The skin was rough, like sandpaper.

  interesting,’ he said. ‘There’s been some mineralization but nothing like the petrification that the Harpenden and St Albans victims underwent.’

  ‘Can you offer any explanation for the difference?’ asked Napier.

  Thomas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Were any victims like this found above ground?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘And all the petrified victims were attacked on the surface,’ said Thomas slowly. ‘But why is there this difference between the way it treats its victims above and below ground level . . . unless . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ said Napier, watching him intently.

  Thomas had remembered the small herd of petrified cows in the field outside of Harpenden. They’d looked so natural. And in the adjacent field live cows had been grazing unperturbed. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘in its early stages of development the thing prefers to attack by stealth. Now here you have a carnivore that attacks from below, from out of the ground itself, and it needs a lot of food - an individual member of a herd isn’t enough to satisfy it; it would prefer to consume the whole herd. So it attacks quietly and quickly, killing and eating its prey from within and leaving the “shell” behind so as not to panic the other members of the herd into fleeing.’

  The three scientists looked at each other. Napier nodded slowly. ‘It’s a possibility,’ he admitted. ‘But am I correct in assuming you think this has happened before -in prehistoric times?’

  Thomas told him about the analysis of the fibres from the NIREX drill hole and how he believed that the incident there was the direct cause of the subsequent attacks by first the ‘worms’ and then the larger tendrils.

  ‘Others have since come to the same conclusion,’ agreed Napier. ‘And I’ve seen the analysis report from the Natural History Museum myself. Sixty-five million years old . . .’

  ‘Which is about when a lot of species became extinct, including all the dinosaur species, except for those that evolved into birds. Safety in the air and all that . . .’ ‘Good Lord!’ gasped Napier. ‘What a thought! But surely a single creature, no matter how big it grew, couldn’t have wiped out so many animals right across the world.’

  ‘True. Which suggests there were more than one of them. Perhaps the original one reproduced as it grew or maybe more than one of the alien spores or eggs or whatever landed on the earth at the same time . . .’ Napier’s expression grew dubious. ‘All this “alien from outer space” business ... I must admit I’m in sympathy with Professor Renton on it. Don’t like it. Smacks of all that “sci-fi” nonsense.’

  Thomas shrugged. ‘How else can you explain the results of the tissue analysis? That thing certainly didn’t evolve on earth. I see it as a very primitive life form. Even an ersatz life form, if you like. A kind of space-going parasite or virus which infects different planets, feeds off their animal life, then goes into hibernation while it waits for new species to evolve and restock the planet with life. And then it wakes up and . . .’

  ‘Starts eating again,’ finished Napier grimly. ‘It would explain why there are several inexplicable periods of mass extinction in the fossil record, apart from the one 65,000,000 years ago.’

  ‘Yes, it would,’ said Thomas. ‘Except we have an advantage over its previous prey. At least I hope it’s an advantage.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’re supposedly intelligent. Perhaps it’s never encountered an intelligent species before.’

  Napier nodded slowly. Then he said, ‘There’s something else you should see, Doctor . . .’

  Napier led them out of the autopsy room, down the corridor and into one of the labs. A friend of Thomas’s, Gary Fletcher - a rising young star in the microbiologist firmament - and a team of four assistants were at work in the lab. Fletcher and three of the assistants were hunched over microscopes - the fourth assistant was waiting beside a humming centrifuge.

  But what seized Thomas’s attention was the long, black shape lying on top of two lab benches that had been pushed together end to end.

  It was one of the tentacles.

  Thomas approached it, repelled and fascinated by it simultaneously. It was about eleven feet long and its outer skin glistened with a kind of mucus that stank horribly.

  It was nothing like the tent
acle of an octopus or a squid - there were no suckers on it and no evident sign of any musculature development. It just looked like a six-inch-thick tube of clear plastic filled with black fluid. Just a bigger version of the ‘worms’, in fact.

  ‘The army patrols managed to lop off a few bits and pieces in the tunnels before they were overwhelmed and forced out,’ explained Napier.

  Fletcher left his microscope and came over. ‘That’s just one variety of the little buggers,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Come and take a look at this piece of nightmare.’

  Thomas followed him to the other end of the lab. Lying in a metal tray he saw what looked like the last two feet of an elephant’s trunk. The skin was grey and leathery.

  ‘Watch this,’ said Fletcher and jabbed it with a scalpel. To Thomas’s surprise - and alarm - the tip slowly unfolded and he found himself staring into what appeared to be a round, rudimentary eye.

  ‘Reflex action,’ said Fletcher nonchalantly. ‘I think.'

  The ‘eye’ slowly closed again. Thomas tried to suppress a shudder and failed.

  ‘More of a complicated structure than the beauty over there,’ said Fletcher, indicating the bigger tentacle. ‘But still basically very simple. Whatever this is it’s a very old form of life.’

  ‘But not of this earth?’ asked Thomas quickly.

  Fletcher nodded, i agree with you. Has to be of extraterrestrial origin. Like you and the others 1 haven’t found nuclei in any of the cells - if they are cells. But cells or not, they’re incapable of reproducing.’

  ‘But if they can’t reproduce, how can the tentacles grow to such enormous length?’ asked Napier as he joined them.

  ‘The only answer is that new tissue is added to the base of the tentacles,’ said Thomas. ‘Where they connect up to the base of the creature. As new material is added the tentacle is pushed outwards . . .’He turned back to the bigger tentacle and frowned. ‘I don’t understand the mechanism of their movement. I can’t see any muscle development yet they’re obviously very powerful . . .’ ‘You’re right,’ said Fletcher. ‘There’s hardly any muscle tissue at all. What there is controls a series of primitive, sphincter-like valves. The tentacles actually operate by means of a simple but ingenious hydraulic system. I know of no life form on earth that has ever developed such a mechanism, though I suppose you could say that trees make use of a different kind of hydraulic system - and in a much less spectacular way, of course.’