"You're making this shit up, aren't you? I have no idea what's going on any more."
"As you told me this morning, you're not here to think. You're here to do guns and muscles. So don't sweat it, I'm doing enough thinking for all of us."
They continued walking in silence.
Then Steve spoke. "Troy talked."
"What?"
"About your name. He had no choice. I was on the verge of unleashing a devastating Chinese burn on him."
"So now you know my darkest secret. Congratulations."
"How did you come by it?"
"How did you come by yours?"
"My parents gave it to me."
"There you go, then, you knew the answer already."
"But Peppermint? Is that an old family name, or something?"
"My mother liked peppermint. And before you ask the obvious dumb question, yes, my father liked pastilles."
"Past tense," he observed, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Peri. When did you lose them?"
"'Lose them?'" she echoed. "Like I put them down somewhere and can't remember where? Sod off, Steve. I didn't 'lose them', they died in a road accident. I was ten years old at the time."
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"They died happy. They were stoned out of their minds."
"I didn't mean to pry..."
"Well you did, so now I'm going to make you really, really sorry you did. Something like I feel about it, in fact. My parents were the last of the hippies on the hippy trail in south east Asia. They lived a ludicrous lifestyle of drugs, booze, sex, lots of hair, fewer baths, didn't have a care in the world. They liked to tell everyone that I was a miracle baby. Conceived on the altar of an abandoned temple in Laos, so the gods were smiling on them. Born in a Buddhist commune in Vietnam. Registered with a ridiculous name at a consulate in Goa, where the honourable consul was a worse head-case than my father. A truck took both parents out, just like that, in Ratnapura. The authorities in Sri Lanka stepped in, took me into care and got the embassy to ship me over to Britain to a horrified grandmother. I held onto my name because it's the only thing I have that was theirs."
"That must have been tough..."
"Life with my parents was wonderful. I only realised it was very strange much later. When I found myself going to school for the very first time at age eleven, fluent in five languages but unable to read, write or speak English, with a name that made all the other kids take the piss. I mean, literally take the piss - after all, my initials were pee-pee. Now, that was tough, and it forced me to become tough to get through it. Happy you pried?"
"I did apologise," he mumbled.
"Sod off," she repeated, and they reached the ferry in silence.
***
After a few minutes, the other troops started to board. Steve greeted many of them, and the air was filled with lewd insults, manly back-slaps, ribaldry and general frivolity. Peri noticed that the officer - Mike - had stayed in the command tent. Gus entered the ferry's cabin to man the controls and Amanda leaned against the cabin door looking as if she was not sure she wanted to be here. Peri moved over to the ferry's blunt bow and climbed on the railing to get some height.
"Heads up, everybody," she called out. "Your attention please."
She rapidly became the centre of attention.
"While we cross over, I want to brief you, and I want to make sure we all know what we're doing. I'm Peri, and I'm in overall charge of this operation. I'm going to run quickly through three topics. First, what are we all up against over there. Second, what parts we each have to play in delivering a successful outcome here today. And third, the overall plan.
"First, then, what we're facing. You all know this is a buckthorn operation and you all have the clearance to know that means dealing with a hostile extra-terrestrial biological entity. In other words, we're here to kick ET right up the arse."
Most of the men chuckled.
"The threat is in several parts. The island is infested with creatures that resemble the bastard offspring of a chain saw and a disembodied phallus, two or three feet long. If any of you in fact have a phallus two or three feet long, then I suggest you keep your flies firmly zipped to avoid accidents, and come see me afterwards if you survive this experience, er, intact and fully functional."
This was greeted with raucous laughter.
"For want of an official code word, I'm calling this first type of threat, 'Fucking Ugly Chain Snakes'. Maybe we can abbreviate that, you know, for brevity in reporting? Does anyone have any suggestions?"
There was a chorus of "FUCS!" and more laughter.
"Okay, some good suggestions, thank you for restoring my faith in the ingenuity of the male gender, so from here on in, we'll call them 'Snakes'. It's all fine bandying around a little humour, but the snakes are nasty fuckers. They can jump some feet off the ground, they are covered in spines, and they are ambush predators. They also have another wicked trick for us. They can act as parasites. They bite, they can tunnel into your abdomen, they can sneak in through any natural orifice, and they can take over the body they have just infected. We have seen animals so infected, and we have no reason to believe that humans are immune. We have seen them erupt out of a carcass and launch several feet onto another body to infect it. Think about that. When not wandering around in control of your body, they're eating you from the inside."
She looked around the deck and slowly, with emphasis, she said "Do. Not. Get. Bitten by one of these."
After a pause for effect, Peri carried on. "The snakes apparently were extruded by the main organism, and they seem to act like remote control drones. I believe there is only one ET out there, but given the number of snakes we've seen and heard, it must be one really big fucker of an ET. For now, we'll refer to it with code name 'Fat Bastard'."
She paused, and there were some nervous chuckles.
"Now this is where I'm speculating a bit, and simplifying a bit. The fat bastard is a native of a parallel dimension that forced its way into our dimension roughly two thousand years ago. The Roman Army tackled it then, but couldn't kill it. They trapped it underground. I honestly don't know if we can kill it, or if we have to trap it too. But you can be sure of this. The fat bastard will be well and truly pissed off, and really, really hungry."
She paused to let that sink in.
"Next, what are we doing. Most of us - or rather most of you - will be concentrating on finding and evacuating any civilians left alive over there. As we go, we will be taking every opportunity for attrition against the snakes and any infested mammals we find. That will create a safe environment for destroying the snakes without risk to people. There are twenty-seven residents, according to census data. There may be visitors, there may be absentees. So every building needs to be checked for civilians, alive or dead. We need to get them to the mainland, and we have medical and biohazard teams standing by to deal with them.
"While you are doing that, my team and I will be advancing up the centre of the island. Our specific objective is to locate an archaeological team who may have stumbled into a big, big problem. I said the fat bastard had been trapped underground by the Romans, two thousand years ago. Well, the archaeologists are all set to dig it up. We are going to find them, get them to safety, and assess how we can deal with El Cabron Gordo, hopefully with extreme and permanent prejudice."
She looked around the deck at the assembled men. "Questions?"
Someone called out, "The only question we need to ask is how do we kill these things?"
Steve stepped up. "I found it quite effective to shoot them at the head end until they stop wriggling then stomp on the bastards. They're pretty squishy. It's a bit more complicated if they're infesting animals. You'll need to take down the animal first."
Heads were nodding. Peri could see they were almost across and she needed to wrap up.
"The overall plan should be obvious. Get the civvies out, wear down the snakes, assess the situation, and come back with big guns to kick ET's arse. No
w I could start rabbiting on about we band of brothers, and Saint Crispin's day, and shit like that. But I can't do stirring speeches. So, I'll keep it simple, and I'll just say this: get out there and save the world!"
The ferry stopped moving, and the troops disembarked.
Chapter 22
Anifail Island, North Wales, May 29 last year.
The disembarking troops fanned out to clear the area. Peri noticed that there was not much left of the boatman, Bill. The body had mostly been picked clean, his feet incongruously still in his shoes.
The men quickly and quietly separated themselves out into four-man patrols. One remained at the ferry to secure the route back to the mainland, while four other patrols set off. A pair of patrols took each direction, one of them along The Circle, and the other a little way inland.
Steve quickly organised his patrol, in a loose diamond with himself in the lead, Troy bringing up the rear, Peri and Gus to the left and right, and Amanda and Tash in the centre. They moved off up Harbour Way as quickly and quietly as they could. The fog was, if anything, even thicker than before and both Steve and Troy wore monocular night vision devices on head harnesses.
"Where are they?" wondered Peri aloud. "There's the dead goat, the policeman's body must be over there to our left, and this area was crawling when we passed through earlier."
"Be grateful that there's no sign of them," suggested Troy.
"Nah," said Steve. "If they're not here, it means they're somewhere else, and I'd prefer to know where." He touched the push-to-talk button on his personal radio headset, and called in a progress update to the command tent. He listened to the response, then looked round to say, "Nobody else reports activity either." He glanced at Peri. "Are you, er, getting any, er..."
"Vibes?" she suggested.
"Yeah, any vibes?"
"No," she said shortly. "Don't worry, if I do, I won't keep it to myself."
Peri wondered about her earlier premonitions. They simply came to her, it wasn't as if she was aware of having done anything consciously to seek out a vision of danger. Maybe she could? Was there a way to send out of sort of 'visioning ping'? She continued walking, almost on auto-pilot, and at the same time she kept trying different combinations of thoughts - like 'show me!' or 'warn me!' - to see if anything triggered. But nothing did.
She pulled up short when she realised the others had stopped and Steve was glaring at her.
"Peri!" he hissed. "For fuck's sake pay attention!"
Off to the left there was a light.
***
Old Innes sat on his sofa, looking at the ceiling and frowning. Since shooting the thing that had once been John Willems, nobody had come calling to see why shots had been fired. He had pondered that for a short time before concluding that nobody had come by because there was nobody to come by. From the various windows of his cottage he had seen more of the snake things crossing the road or slithering through fields. He had seen a couple of Willems' goats wander by, caked in blood and walking in the uncoordinated way that Willems had. But he had seen absolutely no people.
He had seen the snake-like creatures emerge to feed on Willems' body, and had noted that some of them were carrying away chunks of flesh. He deduced that there was something nearby that needed to be fed. A nest or a hive, or something, no doubt. It was possible - even probable - that the island was infested with these things, killing people and livestock, either eating them or animating their corpses, and taking away carrion to feed something. He wondered how widespread they were. Had they reached the mainland?
There had been thumps on his front and back doors as they tried to force their way through. His doors were solid timber, with stout locks, and no damned invertebrate was going to break them down. He had cautiously looked out, only to find snake beasts near the doors, watching him.
He knew that they knew he was in here.
There was a bang on the window, and he realised that one of them had thrown itself against the glass. There were more bangs, from more windows. No way would they get through the doors, but the windows were another matter. He had no idea how strong the glass was. He busied himself blocking up the windows, just to be on the safe side.
Innes took stock of the essential supplies on hand. He had enough food to keep himself going for a week or two. Water and power would not be a problem if the national utilities continued to operate. He had a box and a half of shotgun ammunition - about thirty-five rounds. He was confident that he could hold out here as long as he had food, so call that two weeks. After that, well, he'd work on that problem later.
He flopped down into a comfy chair in the kitchen, and promptly dozed off.
He awoke with a start some time later - he had no idea how much time had passed, thanks to the fog outside. It took a minute or two for him to come to himself, remind himself of the nightmare outside, and to wonder what had disturbed him. There was a thud from the sitting room.
His eyes went wide.
Something was inside.
He moved slowly, cautiously, until he could peer through the crack of the sitting room door. Something long and black wiggled out of the old wood burning stove that heated the room, and landed on the floor with a thud. At least two other snake things were already exploring the corners of the room.
He closed his eyes and slumped despairingly as he visualised what must have happened. That big old wood burner was fuelled by logs, and the logs were stacked up behind the cottage, almost reaching the flue in back wall. The snakes could leap, he had seen that already. Apparently, they were smart enough to spot the flue. And find that the catch on the door of the stove was broken.
Shotgun in hand, and with a pocket full of shells, he softly slipped around the edge of the door, and sighted on the closest snake. He squeezed the trigger and the shotgun blasted the snake a couple feet back across the room. Got you, he thought. The thing screeched and slipped into the shadows under the sofa where it hissed and squawked. Okay, he corrected himself, wounded you. There were other movements in the shadows, and elsewhere in the room creatures were turning and focusing on the door. He quickly snapped another shot, hitting another beast, but again, not killing it. He broke the shotgun and reloaded while retreating into the kitchen. He closed the door.
Okay, he thought, at least a dozen of them, and more coming in through the wood burner. He heard bangs as some of the beasts threw themselves at the door. Then there was silence. They would not be breaking through that way. He smiled, but only for a minute. Then he heard scratching and rasping from the door, and closed his eyes in despair. Evidently, they could chew their way through the wood. He had enough ammo to account for maybe a dozen, perhaps even more if he was lucky and accurate. How many could there be? He guessed that the answer was, too many. Once all his ammo was gone, he would be left helpless.
He had always reckoned that no bad situation could possibly be made any worse by a cup of tea. He filled the kettle and sat it on the gas cooker. As he turned on the burner under the kettle, he thought about his situation. He had turned ninety. He still had all his faculties. He had never imagined living this long, especially in the black days of the Falaise campaign when there had seemed to be a German eighty-eight behind every hedge while he and his mates were stuck in a Sherman Firefly waiting to be burned to death. This would be as good a time to go as he could think of.
He poured himself a cup of tea. Bending towards the cooker, he turned on all its burners, including the ones in the grill and oven, and made sure none of the pilot lights were burning. He had a vintage Ronson lighter - he and his crew had bought some from Americans right at the end of the war as mementoes of serving in the tanks they nicknamed 'Ronsons' - as the advertising put it, 'one flick and it's lit'.
He sat back, sipping his tea, and waited for the room to fill with gas.
Something silently began to uncoil in the dark space beneath his chair.
***
Delta patrol was advancing just to the seaward of The Circle, along the east coast
of the island. It consisted of four seasoned SAS troopers, clad in black, armed with C8 carbines and Sig pistols. Aided by monocular night vision gear, they were locating and clearing cottages, sheds and outbuildings. The silence was broken only by the patrol leader's occasional quiet progress reports. They estimated that they were half way up the coast, when the dark bulk of another cottage loomed out of the fog.
Using hand signals, Delta One indicated that Delta Three should take a supporting position, covering their backs and the spaces on either side of the cottage. Delta Two slipped away through the fog to their left, checking for doors or windows to the side of the cottage, while Delta Four moved in mirror image to the right. Delta One moved up to the front of the cottage and took up position to one side of the front door.
Delta Two's voice came softly over the personal radio headset to the rest of the patrol. "Clear left. Two windows, both secure. Moving to the rear."
A moment later, and Delta Four's quiet voice came through the radio link, with a similar report.
Then Delta Two came back on again. "Clear at the rear. One back door, not locked. Holding by the back door."
Delta One touched the push-to-talk button on the intra-squad channel, and said, "Three and Four, stack up on me at the front. Two, stand by at the back. The front door is not locked. We'll count down and breach on three." He paused while his team mates joined him. "On three. One … Two … Three!"
Delta Two, at the rear, and One at the front door turned the doorknobs simultaneously and thrust the doors open so that they banged against the inside walls. Delta Three pushed through into the hallway and pivoted left, weapon ready, into a bedroom, while Four pivoted right into a sitting room and One moved straight ahead along the hall.
Island of Fog and Death: A sci-fi horror adventure Page 18
