by S. T. Joshi
Adams spoke at last: “It was moving around next to Faust on the beach. Pretty vigorously.”
“Jesus. What the hell is it?” Merritt asked, stepping back in revulsion. “And that smell! Is that—”
“Yes,” Randolph confirmed. “As it warms up, it starts emanating that strange odor . . . Like plastic burning.”
The intercom interrupted them: “Commander Merritt, this is McConnell. Faust is awake, sir. Not said anything yet, but he woke up a little while ago.”
The senior officer looked from Adams to Medic Randolph to the slowly writhing thing on the countertop. “Keep me posted on this, Randolph; I want to know what you find out about the microscopic results. Christ—gives me the fucking creeps. Let’s go, Adams.”
Merritt thumbed the button on the wall speaker: “Roger that, McConnell. On the way.”
VI.
Drifting,
Spiraling:
The breath of a sigh,
Or the blink of an eye
Is all that it takes;
And then the sleeper wakes—
VII.
“Faust. My name is Christopher Faust,” the man on the bed replied. His voice was weak, strangled.
Commander Merritt: “Were you with the Australis crew?”
Faust nodded; his gaze was distant, fixed on something just beyond the officer. Ensign Adams watched Merritt as he continued to question the man. “Where are the other members of your crew? Did they go inland?”
Faust nodded again. “Yes. Three . . . of them went to the center of the island. We started with nine. I was . . . the aviator.” Faust’s voice was curiously flat and atonal. He never made eye contact, just kept them fixed straight ahead. “We . . . were attacked.”
“Attacked?” Merritt shared a surprised look with Adams. “What do you mean? By whom?”
“Not whom—what.”
“Okay, then,” Adams said. “What?”
Faust slowly, mechanically, turned his head toward the ensign, his eyes staring forward. “By . . . the things in the air. The things from the sea.”
There was a tense silence.
“Okay, airman Faust,” Merritt said at last, forcing a smile. “You’ve had a rough time. Let’s reconvene this later, once you’ve been able to regain your strength.”
Faust methodically turned to face Merritt again, features slack, rubbery, eyes unblinking.
“They’re . . . alive on the inside, Commander. Three of them went to the center of the island.”
Merritt nodded. “We’ll see if we can—”
“And then,” Faust interrupted, “the sleeper wakes.”
Adams gasped, and the C.O.’s head snapped back in astonishment.
“What?” Merritt stammered, “What did you say, Faust?”
“The sleeper has awakened.”
After a long and uncomfortable silence, Adams signaled Merritt to step out of the quarters.
“Let’s go over and visit Randy again, sir,” the ensign said as the two men moved away from the infirmary.
VIII.
“Wow. That’s really weird,” Medic Randolph said. “What does it mean? Is it from a book or something?”
Adams huffed. “Yeah, I’ll say . . . it’s from a weird dream I’ve been having—”
“And every time you nap or go to sleep,” Merritt interjected,“this dream picks up at exactly the same place . . . Same strange feeling, same bizarre imagery, right?”
Adams stared at Merritt, his mouth hanging open. Finally: “Yes.”
A cold sweat broke out on the C. O.’s body, yet he felt too warm. “I’ve been having it, too. Started around the time that we began looking for the Australis. Just shy of a week ago—”
“Oh shit, this is freaking me out, sir!” Adams exclaimed, plopping into a chair in Randolph’s lab.
The medic stared at the two men who seemed suddenly unable to communicate. “Pretty strange. Twilight Zone-type stuff . . . Well, not to add too much more weird to it, sir, but I found something . . . interesting during the microscopic exam.”
Merritt cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes, then turned his attention to Randolph. “Okay. What have you learned?”
“It’s odd, I’ll give you that, but just hear me out a minute . . . ”
The medic sat down with the others, grabbed a pen and some paper and started writing and sketching. After a few moments, he began to explain his findings: “So this organism is . . . unusual physiologically. Perhaps you’re familiar with the concept of the Hayflick Limit?”
Merritt shook his head.
“Well,” the medic continued, “it’s an observation in genetics. Basically, it’s the idea that there are physical limits to the number of times a cell can divide . . . under certain conditions these limitations are able to be chemically or virally circumvented, avoiding the natural process of cellular suicide known as apoptosis. This thing not only looks to have solved this problem, but also has a ‘workaround’ for the shortening of telomeres as a creature ages. Conceptually, telomeres are the ends of genes that are worn down by cell division; imagine that they’re like the little plastic caps on the tips of shoelaces that keep them from fraying. ‘Younger’ telomeres keep the genes viable. This is also the case with several cancers—that they can keep the telomeres ‘young’—as a result, damage arises, in part, due to unchecked cellular division. Normally that’s a good thing, as it would impact the length of the telomeres negatively, thus applying a kind of brake to out-of-control division—” Randolph drew some examples on the paper to assist the visualization; Merritt nodded for him to continue.
“Anyway, from what I can tell with this thing, there’s very rapid, controlled cellular division, and an ability to deliberately allocate cell speciation. So in a way, these tissues have characteristics of a tumor, but without the need for a continuous— or in this instance any—blood supply, as they appear to take oxygen directly from the atmosphere; the integument acts as a porous gas exchange membrane, similar to the way insects breathe, but more complex. Sort of like an external lung.” The medic glanced over to Adams who seemed to understand.
“So what does that mean?” Adams asked, leaning forward.
Medic Randolph tilted back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Not clear, but it looks like it makes these cells immortal. Not only that, but there’s another strange element . . . ” Randolph returned to the sketch paper. “See where I drew this? Here, and here?’
Adams and Merritt nodded their heads in understanding.
“It appears these cells are peculiar hybrids of some kind . . . They have aspects of genetic mosaicism, and are these little . . . independent units . . . they’re like tiny mirrors of the larger organism—”
Merritt: “I’m not following.”
Adams picked up the explanation: “What I think it means,” he said as he glanced at Randolph, “is that each cell is a microcosm of the complete organism.”
“Exactly: All of the material is there; each cell appears to have a pluripotent cellular reserve. It’s not only immortal, like certain jellyfish, but self-organizing; completely contained within itself. And not only that,” Randolph said, “but it seems that every cell is on some level . . . conscious for lack of a better word—”
“What are you saying Randolph?” Merritt asked, touching his temple as he struggled to understand.
“I’m saying, Commander, that the cells react not just as cells—meaning with respect to extreme heat, cold and some of the chemical agents I’ve applied to both the biopsy cultures and the entire appendage—but they cannot be ‘killed’ in the normal sense of the term; they regenerate, and relatively quickly. Not only that—they behave as though they have a type of ‘collective awareness’ and each can respond accordingly to the stimuli or circumstances as either A) a unified being, or B) as an autonomous piece of that organism, thus insuring survival at all cos
ts. They even seem to be able to absorb and replicate other proteins, which gives them the ability to . . . become that protein.”
Adams laughed without humor. “Oh my God. You mean like that fucking ‘80s movie?”
Randolph looked surprised. “Yeah, actually. Quite protean. Just like that, or Invasion of the Body Snatchers. There are other examples in nature microscopically, and so on. Besides, this isn’t quite the same. I seriously doubt this is an alien; it’s probably just an evolutionary strategy. Most likely a viral thing, or at least started that way. Hell, turns out a shitload of our so- called ‘junk DNA’ is comprised of retroviruses that functionally seem to have no purpose now. Might’ve had some uses at one time, but those uses are genetically ‘turned off’, ’cause we don’t need them due to the way we’ve evolved. Proof of that is the way our wounds heal; we have most of the same DNA as, say, a salamander, but they can regenerate arms and legs, and we can’t. We just scar over.”
Merritt’s head was swimming. “So what did you do with the—”
“With the specimen?” Adams finished.
Randolph nodded toward the storage freezer. “In there; won’t hurt it, but slows it down quite a bit. In fact, I noticed that the severed part is re-growing. Looks like it’s trying to re-create the missing body.”
“Shit! How do we rid of the fucking thing?” Merritt was genuinely alarmed.
Randolph assured him: “No worries, sir. It needs a lot of oxygen to facilitate this process. It’s fairly immune to temperature extremes, but it can’t stay submerged—kills the tissue in a matter of minutes based on my tests; of course, seems likely that a completely . . . integrated organism might be able to overcome that problem. Could be multiple types of organisms, too: They reported other strange creatures there, right?” He paused, noting the concern on the C.O.’s features. “But with respect to this thing, Commander, don’t be too worried—it takes a while to re-grow whole pieces. Probably a few days or more depending on size, maybe longer. The absorption trick is faster, but has similar limitations; I mean it’s an ‘organic machine’ in a way, so while the duplicated components are nearly perfect, they occupy a state between being alive and dead. Besides,” Randolph said, shrugging, “this is the find of a lifetime—we need to bring it back with us.”
Before Merritt could mount a protest, the intercom sounded: McConnell.
“Commander, something . . . interesting is happening. Could you please report to the bridge?”
“What is it?” Merritt asked, pressing the switch.
“The ship near the island, the Indianapolis has—”
Adams gave a stunned look to Merritt: “Did you say Indianapolis, McConnell?” There was a pause.
“Sorry, sir. I’m tired, and I’ve been having this crazy dream . . . I mean the Australis—she’s completely sunk now.”
IX.
Equipped with sidearms, survival gear, and machetes, they returned to the island the next morning. Once on the beach, Faust stoically led Adams, Merritt, and three others into the forest at the center. McConnell had briefed them of increasing seismic activity during the past day, warning them to be mindful of possible tremors.
Overhead, huge bird creatures the size of small cars swooped and pirouetted in the overcast sky; as they were making their landing in the surf, Adams managed to photograph a bizarre, man-sized purple and red mega-crab exoskeleton that was drifting in a backwater near some crags. As was the previous case, compasses, radios, and GPS devices became unreliable.
Inside the canopy, the kaleidoscope of brilliantly-plumed flowers, lush plants, and fantastically odd-looking—even menacing— giant insects was overwhelming: The place was an explosion of noise, a jumble of odors, a riot of color. The weather had graced them with a fortunate reprieve.
“Christ, the biodiversity of this place is unbelievable. It’s covered with all manner of independent ecosystems,” Adams observed, slicing though the thorny undergrowth with his blade, face slicked with sweat. Merritt nodded in breathless agreement, but before he could speak, an awful shriek peeled through the tangled wilderness. It was human: female.
“Faust, you mentioned that Australis had a woman onboard?” Merritt asked, wiping sweat away with his sleeve. They paused, quietly trying to ascertain the direction that the scream had come from.
“Yes.” Faust replied, staring at Merritt, his face waxen, his demeanor indifferent. After another moment, he pointed. “That way.”
X.
The breath of a sigh,
Or the blink of an eye
Is all that it takes;
And then the sleeper wakes—
“What if Earth
Be but the shadow of Heaven, and things therein?”
XI.
The explorers had reached an opening in the mega-flora, the evident remnants of a collapsed volcano caldera: It was hot, humid; the otherworldly antithesis of Antarctica. Even more incredibly, inside the caldera were the apparent ruin of a vast city, with indications of a long dead, yet obviously advanced civilization. Merritt was in a state of mental shock as the team hacked a passage into the clearing: Caressing the intricate stone buildings, marveling at the complex etchings which scored the coarse rock edifices, some more than three stories tall, he was astonished that this place existed, and wondered about the people that had carved these stones. How many places are like this on Earth, just waiting to be uncovered? The commander took note of the sky: It was getting dark, and he observed that, strangely, there were no animals or insects to be found in this area. The heavy air was still, musky, preternaturally quiet.
“Help . . . Help us!” It was a hushed, breathy cry from somewhere in the twilight.
Merritt: “Adams! Did you hear that?”
The rest of the search crew paused to listen. Once more: “Help . . . ”
Deep in the interior, the landing party found her: Julia Murphy—former crewmember of the Terra Australis Incognita.
What was left of her, at least.
XII.
As the Moon’s shadow eclipses the Sun,
So Man stumbles; and thus ends his run—
XIII
Murphy was lying in a supine position, naked on the ground near one of the buildings: The dim light from the sky overpowered the brilliant light originating from large, ornate green and blue fungi covering the lower part of her torso and obliterating her legs. As they watched, the men could see the carnivorous fungus creeping across her skin, dissolving it and fueling their grim, heatless glow.
“Help me . . . Please help . . . ” Her face was sweaty, her breath shallow, her dry lips cracked.
Even though he was horrified, Merritt felt compelled to act ,and rushed past the stunned group to get near the stricken woman. “I’m Commander Scott Merritt, of the USS Higgins.” Leaning closer to her, he swallowed back a stab of bile, fighting a surge of nausea at the sickly sweet odor coming from her mouth. His mind was racing as he suddenly yearned to be home with his family. He felt for this poor girl; she reminded him not only of his wife, but also of all the things he most cherished, that he was compelled to do anything to protect. She smiled wanly, then unleashed a blood-freezing scream of agony. Merritt’s chest thundered in pity and terror.
“It . . . it chased us in here . . . ” Julia’s bony arms were shriveled, drawn into a pugilistic formation, Merritt noticed; he distantly remembered that as a sign of neurological damage: The fungus was aggressive—moving from the exposed viscera of her guts and over her chest by fractions of inches in just a few minutes.
“It chased us . . . into the city . . . then . . . Captain Roland slipped. That . . . that was him.” She motioned with her head to a blackened knot of dehydrated shapes; even the bones had been dissolved by the fungus; the only thing remotely humanoid was its general size and form, and possibly a lump that resembled the jawless head of a lamprey. The ground rocked slightly, followed by a low rumb
le, not unlike thunder in the distance; a very minor quake.
“Dr. Crowe tried to save him . . . but . . . it got him, too.”
“There were three of you?” Merritt asked, face softly illuminated by the surreal glow of the predatory fruiting bodies, as eerie and distressing as a corpse candle. Merritt suddenly understood why there were no other animals here: The area was overrun by the creeping fungi—dimly glowing all around as the daylight extinguished. The other patches were smaller; less recently fed he suspected, and the whole place was littered with similar black masses to the erstwhile Capt. Roland.
Other animals! Jesus, it’s like this whole island is alive.
“My God . . . ” Adams had made the same mental connection just then: “We have to leave, sir! It’s trying to lure us in!”
“No!” Julia screamed. “Save me!” At that instant, her mouth exploded outward with slimy black mold, the lower portion of her face collapsing like a deflated mask, the eyeballs falling into the pulsating, radiant mass of mushrooms and bloody tissue.
Merritt screamed: he jumped backward in abject horror and panic as the fungus consumed the girl.
Too late.
XIV.
Thus ends his run —
“I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.”
XV.
On the Higgins, McConnell was frustrated.
He had not been able to raise anyone for hours, and now the party was stranded on the island for the night. Even though they had been lucky with the weather most of the day—no way that could hold much longer—the seismic readings had spiked recently. He felt a certain amount of dread that a major event was likely in the immediate future. Something about the whole scenario deeply disturbed him, but he was hard-pressed to articulate exactly what it was; the sooner they abandoned this god-forsaken place, the better he would feel. It reminded him of when he was working on the blowout after the DeepwaterHorizon disaster in the Gulf of Mexico, not far from his home town of New Orleans. The name of the well prospect had been Macondo, just like the fictional town created by Gabriel García Márquez in his books. McConnell recalled that those had been nightmarish times, almost as surreal as the events in some of Márquez’ work, as though the Earth was finally rebelling against the insult of humans overreaching their assumed dominion. BP, Transocean, and Halliburton covered up a lot, but there were things he had seen that still sickened him: trapped sea turtles burned alive; birds drowning because they were too heavy to fly away due to the thick crude slicking their bodies; massive, undocumented beachings as animals tried to escape the toxic sludge of oil, methane, and chemical dispersant. There had been other things; rumors of something else that had been discovered in the blowout, barely held in check by the final cap of the well. Some said it could never be capped permanently, and it was a matter of time before the fissures on the seafloor created by the disaster fractured to a point that whatever was there would become active again.
