There were too many strangers. When out on the streets, he ran everywhere; it was as though he were naked and that by moving swiftly he could shorten the period of exposure. It was a common enough syndrome among fledgling orphans, that awkward reaction to the world in general, but most managed to overcome their uneasiness in time. But not so Gordon; he missed the home and its security to a distressing degree. The orphanage had found him a bed sitter in the house of a friendly and tight-knit family, and their very closeness towards each other had made him feel even more the intruder. They tried to make him feel welcome and he accepted their hospitality with due gratitude, but the more time he spent with them the more he was aware of what he had missed in his own upbringing; he felt no resentment, but he did feel different.
Girls were a problem, too. He was attracted to them and several in the supermarket where he worked were kind towards him, yet again he felt there was a barrier between him and them, that he could only watch their world through an invisible glass screen. Given time he would have joined the people inside, but the loneliness of the interlude between became too hard to bear. Inside the home he had been someone; outside he was nothing. He returned and they turned his defeat into triumph.
The home was his home, and it was there he wished to stay.
Gordon turned in his sleep and his eyelids twitched, then opened wide. He stared at the tent's sloping ceiling for a few moments, his dream-thoughts tumbling over themselves to disperse. The night-light gave the slumbering shapes in the tent an eerie, green tinge as he looked around to see if anyone was awake. He listened for the tell-tale and not uncommon sob in the night, the sudden spasmodic jerk from a curled-up form beneath a tightly clutched covering, but the snores and sighs of the sleeping boys assured him all was well. Then what had caused him to awaken?
He lay in the gloom and listened.
The soft scratching noise made him turn his head towards the canvas wall of the tent and the sound stopped. He held his breath.
Something pushed against the coarse material, something low, near the ground. The bulge was at a point near his hips and it suddenly began to move towards his head. Gordon carefully slid his sleeping-bag encompassed frame away from the protuberance and the movement outside came to a halt. It was as though whatever was out there had sensed his presence, had been aware of the movement inside.
Gordon had to restrain himself from crying out and leaping away from that side of the tent. It would frighten the younger boys, he told himself. Besides, it was probably only a fox or some other curious night animal and it would never penetrate the tough canvas. He slowly unzipped the sleeping-bag and eased out his arms.
The bulge began to move again, upwards, towards his face, and he saw it was at least a couple of feet long. It had to be a fox! Maybe, but not likely, a badger? Whatever the creature was, it wasn't very tall. Or was it just crawling along on its stomach? It could be a dog. The movement stopped again and the bulge seemed to press even further in. Gordon drew his head away, but it was still less than a foot from the straining canvas, and he had an uncanny feeling that the creature beyond could see through the material, could smell his fear. Gordon's free hand groped down towards his side and scrabbled around for the torch he always kept close by when camping. The boy nearest to him stirred restlessly as Gordon's hand brushed against his sleeping-bag, but the searching fingers finally closed around the cold tube of metal. The torch had been pushed to one side by Gordon's sliding body and had come to rest against the nearest boy's sleeping form. Gordon gripped the handle tightly, then froze as the thin, scratching sound came to his ears once more.
With a barely suppressed cry he swung the heavy torch in an arc and struck hard at the swelling and the canvas became slack again, the creature obviously having fled. He thought he heard a high-pitched squeal as the makeshift weapon had struck, but couldn't be sure it could have been the screaming inside his own head.
Gordon switched on the torch, keeping it low, his own body screening the light from the rest of the dimly lit interior, and studied the bright, circular shape of canvas before him. He settled back into his sleeping-bag, but kept the torch on, studying the loose material to see if the creature's scratching had caused any damage. No, it was still intact; it would take more than a nosey old fox to make a hole in such tough canvas. His body began to relax and his breathing became more even; his thumb moved against the switch to turn off the harsh beam of light, and it was then that a heavy weight threw itself at the tent's side, the bulge showing clearly in the centre of the circle of light.
The scratching sound became frantic and Gordon gazed on, mesmerised as a small tear appeared in the canvas and a long curving claw pushed its way through. The rent tore downwards in a violent movement, then the claw disappeared to be replaced with tiny, scrabbling protuberances on either side of the hole.
Gordon screamed as the two sets of claws broke through and ripped the material to shreds before his eyes. The black, bristling-furred body that launched itself through the gap lunged at Gordon's exposed face and sank its teeth deep into the open jaw, knocking him backwards, rolling with him onto the startled boys trapped inside their sleeping-bags.
They cried out in alarm, not realising what was happening to their supervisor, the thrown torch shining uselessly into the folds of a sleeping-bag, the dim night-light not strong enough to explain the writhing shapes. The boy nearest the torch managed to push his arm free and make a grab for it. He shone the beam towards the screaming figure, but none of the boys understood just what clung to their supervisor's bloody face. A boy near the tent's wall shouted as he saw something black scramble through a gaping hole in the canvas, and the boy with the torch shone it in that direction.
Gordon choked on his own blood as he tried to push the creature away from his face, its claws raking his chest into a bloody mess. Its teeth were locked into his jaw bone and he could not tear them loose. He knew the animal had the strength and the weapons to kill him, but what he saw made him react almost automatically, as though once more he was viewing life through a glass window. This time, though, he was on the inside he was part of that life and the others, the black creatures, were breaking through the glass to reach into his world.
He knew he had to stop them.
The pain was blinding, yet it meant little as he rolled his body towards the gap, dragging the creature with him. He could feel the bone in his jaw splintering and cracking, and the blood was running down inside his body, hindering his breathing, but his mind seemed almost apart from it, telling him one thing over an dover again: Stop them coming through, block the hole with your body.
He knew he was there, knew his back covered their entrance, preventing them from pouring in. And he knew they were eating him, their teeth gnawing into his back, snapping around his spine and pulling. He knew the creature at his face was trapped by its own teeth at his jaw, but nevertheless was busy sucking his blood, draining him of life's fluid.
But he didn't know that other bulges were appearing all around the tent's walls, the scratching sounds mingling with the panic-stricken cries of the boys inside, and the canvas material puncturing in long, tearing gashes.
Dawn had begun to tip the treetops with a golden rim as the rising sun decisively cut its way through the mists. It was not unusual to find the Reverend Jonathan Matthews trudging down the lane from his vicarage towards the old church at such an early hour for, in recent years, sleeping had played a less important part in his life. The first rays of light projecting their leafy pattern onto his bedroom wall had become an increasingly welcome sight as the approaching day gave relief to the night's loneliness. Since his wife's untimely death eight years before, the vicar had had no one to confide in, no one to give him comfort. He had often considered speaking to his Bishop of his latter-day doubts, his spiritually debilitating fear of death, but had decided he would fight the battle alone. God would surely give him the grace to overcome his lack of faith.
He pulled the scarf concealing his clerica
l collar tighter around his neck, his frail body all too vulnerable to the morning dampness. Again and again he asked himself why such troubles of the mind should plague him in his later years when his beliefs had been so strong before? He felt somehow it was connected with the forest itself. In his imagination the brooding menace in the surrounding woodland seemed to represent death's constant presence, always there, lurking just out of sight, watching and waiting for the precise moment in which to reveal itself. For him, the forest had once been a place to love; now it had become a symbol of his own trepidation.
The vicar entered the covered gateway to the church and paused to gaze up at the ancient building's steeple. It wasn't high, the pinnacle barely topping the highest branches of the surrounding trees, yet it reached upwards in solid defrance of its earthly base as though it could pierce the heavens themselves, and feed through its funnel shape the souls of the faith-ful. Its spiritual brashness gave his heart a sudden uplift.
Doubts were a part of serving, for if there were none there would be no searching for answers, no obstacles to surmount - no tests to be judged by. This was his time of testing and when it was through he would have sturdier faith, a stronger belief in God.
The little church always gave him this sudden surge of optimism, which was why he often visited it so early in the morning.
The negative thoughts of the night had to be swiftly allayed if he was to survive the day, and a quiet hour at the altar helped him build his barrier. His feet crunched along the narrow gravel path running between the gravestones towards the church porch, his eyes avoiding the slabs of grey on either side, and it was only when his hand was on the circular metal handle of the door that he heard the scrabbling sounds that came from the rear of the building.
He slowly turned his head in that direction, a curious coldness stiffening his spine. Listening intently, he tried to place the sound. It was as if earth was being scattered, the sound of someone or something digging. It would have to be an animal of some kind, for he could not recognize the familiar thud of a spade biting into the earth, nor the dull clump as the tossed soil struck the ground in one loose lump. This was a ceaseless bar-rage of scattered dirt.
The splintering of wood made him jump.
Dread rising in him, he left the porch and continued on down the path, his footsteps loud, wanting to warn whatever was behind the church of his approach, wanting the area to be deserted before he reached it.
‘Who's there?’ he called out and for a moment, there was silence. Then the scrabbling noise began again.
The vicar reached the corner of the church, the ground beside the path dropping away to a lower level, stone steps leading down to the grass-covered graveyard. From there he could see the freshly opened grave.
It was the plot in which old Mrs. Wilkinson had been laid to rest the day before, untidy piles of earth lying in scattered heaps around the rough, circular hole. The gnawing of wood told him the worst.
Rage made him tear down the steps. What animal would burrow into the earth for the flesh of a human corpse? He reached the edge of the hole and cried out at the sight below.
The hole was wide and deep, a pit with acute sloping sides.
At the bottom was a mass of squirming, black furry bodies. He could not recognize the animals at first, for the pit was darkly shadowed, the sun still hidden behind the trees, but as he watched, he began to establish individual shapes. Even then he wasn't sure what the creatures were.
One emerged from the writhing mass, its mouth full of dried meat, and scrambled over the backs of the others towards the side of the pit. Just before the gap it had left behind was closed by other eager bodies, the vicar saw directly into the damaged coffin. The sight of white broken bones stripped of all flesh made him sink to his knees, bile clogging his throat to be expelled onto the undulating mass below. He wanted to run from the terrible scene, but the convulsions wracked his body painfully, causing him to sway precariously, his fingers digging into the soft earth. He knew these creatures now - they were the harpies of his own conscience, come to torment him, letting him know death was not sacrosanct, the body could be further defiled.
The Reverend Matthews hadn't noticed the other rats in the graveyard, hidden in the grass, behind the trees, crouching beneath gravestones; those that had silently watched him enter the church grounds, followed his progress along the path with black, evil eyes, creeping forward, their bodies close to the earth. He wasn't aware that they were all around him, moving closer, haunches quivering in anticipation. It took long seconds for him to realise what was happening when the first one bit into his ankle, calmly eating into his flesh without haste or aggression.
And by the time he had screamed and struck out at the rat it was too late, for the creature's companions were already launching themselves at his body, landing heavily against him, teeth snapping and claws scratching for a hold, toppling him over, down into the pit among the others, who welcomed the new, warm meat and the satiating blood that ran from it.
In an effort that was brought about by terror overriding all pain, he gained his feet and tried to scramble up the steep incline, long black bodies clinging to him and pulling him back, but there were still more waiting for him up there. His hands grabbed at the grass, trying to haul himself from the pit, and the rats bit off his fingers one by one, the small bones proving no problem for the razor-sharp incisors. Unable to grip, he slid back down, one foot falling into the open coffin, sinking into the remnants of the old woman's now masticated flesh.
One of the creatures followed him down and for a few seconds he gazed into its black eyes, the twitching pink nose only inches away. The rat slid onto him, its jaws opening wide.
The vicar's body was smothered by other giant vermin, the pit filling and brimming over with their agitated, struggling bodies, and his screams were muffled. He wondered why it took so long to die for he could feel a rat inside him, one that had eaten its way beneath his ribcage and was now gorging itself on his heart. Surely he should be dead by now? The pain had stopped moments before or had its intensity become subliminal? Why did he still wonder? Why did the questions, the doubts, persist?
Surely now there would be an answer? But no revelations came.
There was only the awareness that he was being eaten. And then he realised his body was dead, that only his thoughts remained, and . . .
The rat fed on his brain, its pointed head buried deep into the open skull, swallowing cells and tissue that no longer functioned, the impulses finding no receptors and fading to nothing.
Sunlight pushed its way over the treetops and bathed the church and its grounds in a fresh, vibrant glow; but no birds greeted its arrival. The only sound to be heard was a faint scuffling noise from somewhere behind the ancient building.
Soon, even that was gone.
Seven
Pender was tired. He and the head keeper, Denison, had spent the morning touring Epping Forest, visiting various farmsteads, private dwellings and official organizations within the area, looking for rodent signs, questioning the many occupiers. Most had had some trouble with vermin at one time or another, but none was of a serious nature and they could all identify their particular pests.
The day had started early for the investigator and the night before had ended late. He found himself biting into his lower lip in frustration as he mulled over the outcome of the previous night's meeting at the Conservation Centre. He knew Stephen Howard had become more of a businessman than a technical researcher, but hadn't realised to what extent. Rat-kill's director of research had patiently listened to both sides of the somewhat heated argument that had continued between Pender and Whitney-Evans, his face impassive, occasionally nodding in agreement at points made by either protagonist, but rarely adding his own comment. Pender soon guessed Howard was waiting for a reaction from Thoraton, the Private Secretary for the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, before he, himself, allowed his views to be known. Pender had seen Howard take this noncommittal lin
e often in company meetings where superiors were involved and it had always mildly amused him; but now there was much more than private ambitions involved and the research director's attitude irritated Pender. It became obvious that Whitney-Evans and Thornton had discussed the matter before the meeting when the private secretary suggested that matters should proceed with the utmost caution, that he would refuse to recommend a full-scale operation until it was proved conclusively that the Black rat was breeding in the forest.
Stephen Howard agreed that more evidence was needed before such drastic and costly action was taken; besides, the Black rat, if it did still exist, had been pretty inactive up until now and it was fairly safe to assume it would remain so during the few days it would take to firmly establish its presence. He could see no reason to ring alarm bells at this time.
Jenny had lost her temper then, her eye-witness report having been dismissed almost out-of-hand, and the theory that it might indeed have been a group of coypus she had seen emerging from the pond seized upon and used against her. Pender, seated next to her in the Centre's library which was being used as the conference room, clasped a hand over her arm beneath the table to calm her, knowing her rage would be wasted on men like Whitney-Evans, Thornton and Howard. He, too, was angry, but he had long ago learned to control anger and direct it purposefully. He had begun to tell them of the dangerous consequences procrastination might bring. He had made a detailed study of the London Outbreak and he reminded them of the mistakes made at that time, the underestimation of the rats that had cost the lives of hundreds, the inadequate measures at first used against the vermin, the warnings that had been ignored beforehand. Would they take the responsibility for another ‘Outbreak?
Eric Dugdale, of the Safety Inspectorate, agreed with Pender: the risk was too great to take any chances. The head keeper, Denison, was unsure. None of his men had reported any strange happenings in the forest, although he had noticed a certain unease in them lately; his own sighting of a white deer, traditionally a bad omen, had disturbed him greatly.
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