Whirling World

by Drinkel, Dean M

  He wanted something in return. Fair’s fair. If nothing else, he wanted that car!

  It was still there, the same vehicle he had tried to steal, only now being driven by the widow woman, who locked it away properly; as did the boyfriend with his motorbike, when he visited. Big Al was keeping the place under surveillance. Sooner or later an opportunity would arise.

  He was there, hiding, the day the woman had a panic attack over the big German shepherd as it trotted towards her. Without thinking he lobbed half a house brick at the beast and moved forward to support her as the animal turned tail and ran. He had no specific plan in mind, outside somehow getting hold of the garage and car keys.

  Agnes Clifton, for her part, looked at her knight in shining armour and saw a powerfully built streetwise yobbo. Not too much brains, probably, but with a face that spoke of cunning and cruelty. Weak at the knees, she clung to him.

  ***

  The one thing she’d missed since Colin’s death was a touch of the rough stuff. The fact that Mike could hump all night was marvellous, but he was not at all adventurous. The tweaked nipples and smacked bottoms were not for him, and Agnes missed that side of things. Her late husband had been full of those tricks but had little in the way of staying power. Maybe this tough looking hoodlum might be able to combine elements of Colin’s rough foreplay with Mike’s ability to keep going. Somehow, he looked the part.

  “Thank you, thank you,” she kept repeating, clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

  The bitch is panting for it, realised Big Al. Getting into the house was going to be easy; after that, well, one step at a time. “Let me help you to your door,” he offered, keeping a firm grip on her elbow as he guided her along the path. “I’m sure the dog is gone now.”

  “But maybe not! It might return! I shouldn’t be alone, just in case.” She waved the hand holding a key. “Please stay until I steady myself. Have a cup of tea.”

  “Well, just for a couple of minutes I suppose.”

  As soon as the front door shut behind them, Agnes grabbed the man round the back of his head with one hand, pulling his face down to hers, while her other hand reached towards his groin.

  “Get off, you slag!” shouted Big Al, pulling away from the attempted kiss and pushing at her roughly.

  “Hit me, would you!”

  “That wasn’t no hit! I only shoved you!”

  “But you want to, don’t you?” Agnes smiled salaciously, moving back towards him. “Go on then, hit me good.”

  This was way outside Big Al’s comfort zone. All he’d ever demanded was a passive partner, a woman who would merely lie there while he did the business. Nothing fancy, very straight, and nothing that even hinted at a relationship. Panic coincided with anger and as the woman came at him again, with that big dirty grin on her face, so he grabbed her around the neck and started to squeeze.

  Colin and Agnes had sometimes talked about erotic asphyxiation, the breath control play, but it had scared him. Too many accidental deaths, he’d claimed; an Aussie singer, a British MP and a Hollywood actor being among those who’d perished while playing the game. And it was usually regarded as a solo enterprise, though Agnes could see no reason why it couldn’t be worked into a twosome.

  It had been something she had often thought about, and when the man started putting pressure on her throat, her first reaction was that he was willing to play the dangerous game along with her, and she reached again for his groin area.

  Big Al became more and more enraged, pouring all his energy into his grasping clasping hands, and by the time Agnes realised that this was no sex game, it was too late. Her final struggles were both futile and pointless, and ceased well before he loosened his grip and let her lifeless body slip to the floor.

  ***

  This had not been what he was there for, but he would cope, he always did. With a grim determination he searched ‘til he found her car keys and a key ring which he hoped would include one for the garage. He also stuck what money he found into his pocket. It might be best not to ransack the whole house though. Too time consuming.

  Stepping over the dead woman, he made for the front door and left the house. Being totally concerned with only his self, Big Al missed seeing the shadowy figures lying in wait as he hurried to get the car he had come for, still applying a personal logic that claimed it was his by right.

  The German shepherd’s muzzle continued to drip blood and throbbed painfully. His howls had soon brought the rest of his pack to him and they had settled down to wait, strategically placed, determined to extract revenge.

  Big Al knew nothing until they were upon him, dogs of various breeds, not all recognised by the Kennel Club; snarling, biting, intent upon his destruction. They took his legs first, bringing him to the ground, sharp canine teeth then sinking into his arms and hands. Big Al’s screams were matched by the drone of a helicopter flying overhead.

  Finally the big German shepherd came and stood on his chest, throwing back its head and howling at the sky, before lowering its gaze, looking at the man. Big Al saw what was in those eyes and screamed with pure terror. The German shepherd showed its fangs, and went for the throat.

  ***

  The cats had been edgy all day at the Foxglove Trading Estate. Hutton too, as he wrestled with the personal problems he had building up. Five o’clock had been reached, the time he normally left, but today he was still sat at his desk, pondering. Should he go through the rigmarole of flat hunting again, or just accept the inevitable and move in with Agnes? Neither course of action really appealed.

  The skinny tabby trotted in through the open roller doorway and looked up at him through the large office window that gave him such a good view of the Warehouse. Once it had established eye contact with him, the cat moved a few steps away and then looked back up at him, repeating the sequence until it had gone through the doorway. It then came back in and started the whole process over again.

  The cat’s oddball behaviour reminded Hutton of the Lassie films he had seen repeated on television when he was a kid. The way the smart dog would get the message across that she wanted someone to follow her when there was trouble. He stood up from his desk, left the office, and took the steps down to the Warehouse floor.

  “What’s the matter, gal?” he asked the tabby, smiling a little self-consciously. “Has one of the children fallen down the well?”

  The cat moved off, glancing back now and then, as if to make sure he was still following. Hutton tagged along, more than a little intrigued, realising he was being led towards the former pesticide plant, and what was that he could hear?

  Cats, that’s what!

  Hissing, snarling, meowing, high pitched and low. Dozens of them, all around; advancing, retreating or holding their position, bellies to the ground or up on tiptoe. But beyond them, and probably the cause of all this agitation, he could see what appeared to be a pale green and glowing liquid oozing from the old building. Oozing indeed, he could see as he got close enough, from the cracks in the concrete floor. And it wasn’t liquid, but a living mass of insects, some sort of bugs, shining like a million miniature northern lights.

  Hutton was no chemist, but wondered if a phosphorus residue from the pesticide manufacturing process might have leaked onto the concrete floor, gradually seeping down as the cracks appeared, causing some sort of reaction within the burrowing insect population.

  Dotted here and there within the flowing green mass, he could see…what were they? Good God! Cats! Dead ones, corpses, skeletons! They were fighting a desperate rear-guard action, he could see now, and they were losing. As the unstoppable tidal wave of insects swept forward, engulfed cats were being eaten alive.

  Hutton stepped back quickly as the realisation struck home: if they could devour cats, they could eat humans too. Flesh was flesh! He backed away slowly, watching with a terrible fascination, as more and more of the disgusting creature spewed out from the cracks that were visible through the open
plant doorway.

  The cats were losing, and knew it, many having already died. Suddenly it was every feline for itself as they gave up the fight, scattering in all directions to escape. No longer having an adversary to overcome, the insects poured forward ever faster and Hutton, now in full retreat himself, was cut off from the most direct path back to his Warehouse, being forced to use a more roundabout route.

  All he was thinking of was jumping on his Suzuki and roaring away to safety, but when he rounded a corner it was to see his machine surrounded by the glowing advance, and every bit of rubber and plastic had already been stripped away, leaving only the metal parts.

  In a total panic now, Hutton dashed into the Warehouse, looking for where he could hide, as far away as possible from this insect tsunami of hungry snapping mandibles. The office and the rooms beneath it were too accessible and the rest of the building was just an empty shell. Without giving it any thought, he clambered up the metal rungs and crouched inside the cab of the derelict overhead crane.

  Peeping from above he saw the glowing mass sweep into the Warehouse and realised for the first time just how trapped he was. Too late for anything else now though, he would have to keep his head down, stay hidden, and outlast the buggers.

  If only…!

  It was as if they knew where he was, and maybe they did. Maybe they could smell his flesh, his blood, the fear that dripped from every pore of his body. Up they climbed, from rung to rung, heading straight for him. There being nothing in the cab he could use, he took off a shoe and beat at the insects as they reached him, killing some. But there were too many.

  Mike Hutton had never met Big Al Popham. He wasn’t even aware of his existence, but he matched him, scream for scream, as the flesh was ripped from his body. Only death brought silence.

  The surviving cats had fled, never to return. Hutton, the lone human occupant, was dead. The Foxglove Trading Estate was under new ownership.

  The Eyes Have It

  by Russell Proctor

  The man with the moustache opened the door and motioned Luke through. Inside the room he saw a plastic-covered table, a couple of hard chairs and lockers against the far wall. Set above the door, as in every room, were an eye and an ear, side by side: a blue eye, staring at them with an unblinking gaze; an ear, trembling slightly as it eavesdropped on their conversation.

  The man opened one locker with a key. “Looking forward to being an organist?”

  “Not sure,” said Luke. “First day on the job. Kind of freaky, I guess.”

  “I’ve been doing it five years now. You get used to it.” The man pulled a large leather bag out of the locker and heaved it onto the table. “Nothing to it, really. It’s the late hours that get you most. ”

  “I expect so.”

  The organists always worked late at night. Luke had started sleeping during the day in preparation. Now it was winter he hadn’t seen the sun for a week, but he knew working a night shift wouldn’t be easy.

  “The bag’s heavy. It’s your job to carry it.”

  “All right.”

  “My name’s Frank, by the way.” The man held out a thin hand. Luke gripped it and wondered why the man could sweat so much when he himself felt so cold.

  “I’m Luke. Um…is there much training involved?”

  He hadn’t been told much about the job. The interview had made it clear what his duties were, but the specifics hadn’t been very…well, specific.

  “I’m all the training you need. I’ll show you how it works.” Frank pulled the leather bag towards him and unlocked the clasp. The bag fell apart into two sections, lined with bottles and steel implements and a coil of plastic rope. One section held a set of gleaming hypodermic needles. Another compartment revealed storage containers. “Careful with it. Every item it contains is Central property, so you have to account for it. The guy you’re replacing left it fully stocked.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He became a mortician.”

  “Oh.” Luke didn’t like the off-hand way Frank spoke of the morticians, as if they were casual acquaintances. He’d known several people taken by them. They worked at night too. Always at night.

  “What did you do before this?” Frank asked, sounding like he really didn’t want to know. He heaved the two halves of the bag back together, locked the clasp and pocketed the key.

  “I drove taxis.” More correctly, the taxis drove him. He plugged himself into the dashboard and the taxi used his brain and eyes to guide itself around. He just had to sit there and take the fares and be the mouthpiece for the taxi’s polite, or not so polite, conversation. “This pays more.”

  “I took a taxi ride once,” said Frank, but left Luke guessing what he’d thought of the experience. “Come on, we better get you in uniform.”

  He opened another locker and pulled out a tatty white smock. “One size fits all they say,” Frank smirked as he handed the garment over. “They’re wrong. Just put it on over your own clothes.”

  The thing was way too large. Luke rolled the cuffs back to keep his hands free. The bottom hem hung around his knees. He felt different, not like his old self. It wasn’t just first day on the job nerves. Somehow, donning the smock made him a new person. Could he really do this?

  “Looks fine,” said Frank, slipping on a smock of his own that somehow seemed a much better fit. “Time to get to work.”

  They left the room and headed down a flight of stairs to a metal door labelled: Organists only. Frank held out a card to a human mouth set in one side of the door. A pink tongue emerged and licked the card. The door slid open.

  “Remind me to get you a card later,” said Frank as they passed through.

  A woman sat behind a desk, with a feeder wire leading from her head. The same woman who fed the machinery during his interview. Not unattractive, but being hooked up to the desk eight hours a day had taken its toll on her. Too many lines around the mouth, the glazed look caused by long hours plugged into the machinery set too hard. Luke would have been the same if he’d stayed in that damn taxi much longer. But no more. Finally, a job where he could move about, do his own thing.

  The desk itself was a classic piece of machinery: heavy, clunky, metallic, its internal gears turning audibly as the thing used the woman to observe the two men.

  The woman said, “Frank. And the new man. Excellent. Ready to work?”

  “Sure,” replied Frank. “I’m showing the new guy, what’s-his-name, what to do.”

  The woman nodded. Gears in the desk turned. A light bulb mounted on the top winked a couple of times, and two seconds later a slip of paper reeled out of a slot in the front. Frank tore it off.

  “Today’s first assignment,” the woman said, her eyes fixed on Luke. “You’ll get the rest by brainbox as usual.”

  “This job’s on the other side of town,” said Frank. “Shouldn’t C Division take care of it?”

  “C Division is experiencing over-demand. Our organist responsibilities have temporarily been extended.”

  “Fine by me.” He winked at Luke. “We’re paid by the job, see?”

  They left the room and headed down to the garage level of Central Building. Frank signed for a car, a black Stallion sedan with four metal-rimmed wheels and a high cabin accessed by a footplate that dropped down from the side of the vehicle.

  Hidden machinery opened the doors as they approached and both Luke and Frank slid into the back seat, Luke hefting the leather bag. In the front seat sat a man with a feed going from his brain to the dashboard. Luke stared at him. This one didn’t speak, didn’t even turn his head; had probably been hooked up for days. Luke remembered the year before when a taxi had gone off the road and crashed. The feeder had been uninjured physically, but it took a week to find the car and by then his brain had completely gone. Mush. Sometimes Luke had dreams that it happened to him.

  No more. No, I’m above that now. Not a feeder anymore.

  Frank gave th
e address to the car and it exited the basement of Central Building. Traffic was light at this hour and they headed across a bridge into C Division, only stopping at one open hand signal: a human hand, palm held open and forwards towards the oncoming traffic. Luke looked at the hand until it closed into a fist and the car started forward again. Large hands were used for traffic signals so they were easily visible. This one was enormous, with thick hair on the back of the fingers. The contributor must have been a strong man, had probably made his living with his hands. He only had one now.

  Luke wondered idly how it would go if any of the contributors put up a struggle. Frank didn’t look particularly strong, and Luke knew after a year sitting in a taxi he had lost a bit of his old form. A contributor who refused to co-operate might be a problem. He remembered the coil of rope in the leather bag.

  “Where’s this first job?” he asked as the car turned into a tree-lined street with houses on one side and the river on the other. Quite a well-to-do area.

  “Just along here. Number 36. Keep a lookout.”

  Number 36 had a gravel path leading between bushes to a white stone porch. Lights shone from the windows, so the residents were still awake, probably watching TV. The gravel crunched under Luke’s feet; he wondered if the sound would alert the occupants. Again, the anxiety arose: what if they objected, didn’t want to make their compulsory contribution to the needs of the machinery?

  Frank pressed the button on the front door. A man’s voice called out from inside: “Please come to the front door! You have a visitor!”

  “One of the new voice-box doorbells,” said Frank. “These people have money. The real fancy doorbells can sing, I’ve heard. Way above my price range, though.” He pressed the button again.

  “There is someone at the door! You have a visitor!”