Wiggins went to join Davies in the doorway.
“Stand back, lad,” he said. “Watch the door. We’ll give Donnie’s idea a shot; if it works, we might not have to waste any ammo on these wee buggers, but if they look like they’re going to get in, take them down fast, same as before.”
The first worm to approach the door was far from a wee bugger, being almost a foot wide, with a mouth to match. It pressed forward through the wash of water running down the doorway, electricity cracking all around it, blue light dancing among the white fangs. It stopped as if it had hit a solid barrier, straining in place but unable to make any headway. The copper wires connecting the vases took on a faint but distinct golden glow and the air hummed.
“Fuck me sideways, it’s working,” Wiggins said.
Donnie pumped the air with a fist as the worm tried to press into the doorway only to be obviously repelled by the new field being put out by the series of vases. The golden glow from the wires intensified and flared in counter to the blue flashes of static coming in rhythmic waves from outside the door. Another worm, equally as large, joined the first in attempting entry and met with the same resistance. The golden glow from the copper wires filled the chamber with a warm light and the hum became a tingling vibration that ran through Donnie from the soles of his feet to the crown of his skull. Neither worm was able to gain entry through the door.
“Remind me to watch those shite Ancient Aliens documentaries,” Wiggins said. “Well done, lad.”
Donnie felt his grin grow wider, sharing, if only for a moment, in the men’s camaraderie. It didn’t last. The blue flashing intensified as the worms strained against the field and the golden glow flared and now flashed in reply, warring colors clashing in swirling patterns around the walls. More worms gathered in the doorway straining to come through. The hum from the batteries raised to a wail, almost a shriek.
“How long will your wee batteries last?” Wiggins asked.
Donnie could only shrug.
“I don’t have a Scooby, sorry.”
“Stay tight,” Wiggins said to the other soldiers. “We wasted these fuckers easily enough before, so even if Donnie’s magic batteries fail, this shouldn’t be a problem.”
There was a distinct creak from above them, loud even above the wail from the batteries. Pieces of foliage fluttered down on their heads, the dry scraps taking flame as they reached the fire. Donnie looked up to see blue electrical discharges dancing along the surface of the ceiling.
“The fuckers are up on the roof,” Wiggins shouted. “Heads up, lads.”
Donnie saw a small hole at the apex of the ceiling, made for the escape of smoke from the fire. He kept expecting red worms to slither down through it but no sign of them appeared as of yet. Instead, the creaks and groans from above increased, more dry debris fluttered down, the blue flashes became more persistent, and more worms strained at the doorway. The glow from the copper wire was bright yellow now and the howl from the vases protective field echoed around them as the blue and the gold warred for control.
Okay, Captain Banks. We could do with the cavalry about now.
- 17 -
Banks and Hynd arrived at the airstrip a full two hours later than they’d planned. Any hope they had of a quick rescue was quashed as soon as they saw the site. The strip lay empty of any aircraft and the whole area appeared deserted, although there was a light on in the shack that passed as a control room and a transport truck with the keys in the ignition parked outside it.
“Somebody’s around somewhere,” Hynd said.
“Aye, or was until recently. Let’s take this nice and slow, Sarge. My gut tells me something’s fucked up here.”
“Mine is saying the same thing.”
They stayed in the shadows as long as possible until they crossed the compressed sand that passed as the landing strip and approached the control room from the side so as not to give themselves away in the light. Banks indicated to Hynd that he would go first and stepped carefully into the shack. It was empty. A large radio of some vintage took up most of one wall but when he tried he got no signal on any band, just rhythmic washes of loud static.
“Cap,” Hynd said from outside. “Got something here.”
Banks went out to find the sergeant at the rear of the shack, standing over what looked to be a pile of clothes on the ground. When Hynd moved a jacket to one side, he saw a white rib cage beneath it. A pistol lay near the body, two shell casings beside it, and more of the waxy, noxious remains of one of the worms.
“I guess this is the guy who ran things here,” Hynd said and Banks nodded as the sergeant continued. “What about our ride?”
“Either buggered off already or not coming,” Banks replied. “The radio’s as fucked as the sat-phone so there’s no way to tell. Looks like we’re on our own again.”
Hynd eyed the truck.
“What do you think? Will we get back the way we came in it?”
Banks thought back over their path.
“Mostly, apart from yon dried river bed and we’ll just have to find a way ‘round it. It’s our only way out of this tonight.”
The truck started first time and held more than half a tank of fuel. They found a thermos of coffee, bread, and cheese in a satchel in the shack—the dead man’s breakfast—and took it with them. They stowed their bags securely behind the seats and with Hynd driving made their way slowly south.
*
“The headlights on this thing are shite,” Hynd said as the truck rattled and bounced in the rough terrain. Even on full beam, the lights did little more than partially lighten up their route ten yards ahead of them. The only saving grace was that it wasn’t raining, for there were no wipers for the windshield.
There had been no sight of either worms or blue electrical flashes since they’d left the old riverbed behind on their way north but now that they were heading back, they saw dancing aurora of blue under heavy cloud cover on their southern horizon.
“It’s still raining down that way,” Hynd said.
“Aye, but we cannae avoid it. That’s the way we’re going and at least this beats walking.”
Banks passed Hynd a smoke and they alternatively drank strong black coffee from the thermos. Banks winced as he tasted the thickly bitter brew.
“I can see why they smoke those crap black fags around these parts,” he said.
“Do we have a plan, Cap?” Hynd asked after a while.
“Beyond getting back to the lads, not much of one. I’m hoping that once the rain stops, the phone will start working again and we can call in an airlift. Failing that, we’ll drive this thing back along the road by yon filling station, head east, and reach the town the professor mentioned as where they got their supplies. From there, we should be able to get some sort of message home, or a better form of transport.”
“And the worms?”
“If they leave us alone, we’ll leave them alone. They don’t seem to give a fuck about us if we don’t make too much noise, so let’s not do anything to change that.”
*
A twenty-minute drive brought them to the dry riverbed, almost at the point where they’d crossed it earlier. Hynd stopped the truck at the rocky ledge.
“We’ll not get down that way, Cap,”
“Or up the other side. Let’s head west a bit—the worms were going east the last we saw of them and I’d rather not tangle with them again if we can help it.”
Hynd drove west along the lip of the ledge that marked the northern edge of the dried riverbed and after half a mile of crawling they arrived at a dip that would take them down to the softer ground. Banks tried to peer into the night towards the southern bank, hoping to see a matching dip on the far side but the darkness was too impenetrable.
“We don’t have a choice. We’ll have to risk it,” he said. “With the rain off and the sky clear, I’m hoping the buggers have all either moved on east or are well underground.”
“Aye, well if one of them’s big enough to think it can swallow
this fucking truck, it’s welcome to try it,” Hynd replied and took the truck down onto the riverbed.
The heavy vehicle wallowed as soon as it hit sand. For a few heart-stopping seconds, Banks thought they were stuck before they got started but Hynd dropped down to first gear, put his foot down, and they began to inch forward, painfully slowly at first before finally gaining some traction and picking up speed.
They went across the dried riverbed at barely more than walking speed but at least they were heading in the right direction. Banks kept shifting his gaze, trying to cover as much ground as possible, anticipating an attack, but there was no sign of any worms.
As they approached the south bank, he scanned the ridge for anywhere they might be able to drive up onto the rock.
“There, ten yards left,” he said, pointing at where there was a dip in the rocky ledge.
Hynd sucked at his teeth.
“Risky, Cap. It looks a wee bit steep to me.”
“Put your foot down, man. Take a run at it.”
Hynd still looked unsure but he lined the truck up with the dip and pushed down on the accelerator. The truck jerked forward three feet then lurched to a halt, almost throwing Banks into the dashboard. His side of the truck dipped a foot lower and he saw sand fly as the front wheel spun in place.
“I didnae mean like that,” he said ruefully as Hynd cut the engine. “Hold on, I’ll get something under the wheel.” He got out the truck, retrieved his kit from behind the seat, and took out his sleeping bag, unrolling it and getting it as far under the front of the wheel as he could manage. As he stood to give Hynd the thumbs-up, he saw the sarge’s gaze lift to a point past Banks out on the riverbed.
“Get your arse in here, Cap,” Hynd shouted. “We’ve got incoming.”
Banks risked a look over his shoulder as he moved.
Out in the middle of the riverbed, a three-foot-high hump showed in the sand as if something moved under the surface, something huge, coming straight at them.
*
Hynd had the engine going and was pumping the accelerator as Banks climbed inside. Banks retrieved his rifle and leaned out, attempting to get a clear shot as the truck bucked and swayed, trying to get traction. The worm was gaining fast at their rear, surging up as if from some depth, a thing almost four feet wide. Sand tumbled, revealing glistening red skin and a maw of a mouth that looked big enough to swallow the truck in a couple of bites.
“Floor it, floor it,” Banks shouted.
“I’m fucking trying,” Hynd shouted back.
The worm came up out of the sand, trying to bite at the rear passenger side wheel. At the same moment, the sleeping bag finally did its job, the front wheel caught, and the truck took a lurch forward. That meant Banks’ aim was off when he got a shot in, putting two rounds, not in the beast’s throat as he intended but raising two furrows along its back. He expected the wounds to gape but instead saw things squirming in the opened flesh, a myriad of worms, no longer than his index finger, tumbling in droves down onto the sand where they immediately started to burrow. The wounds continued to split like an over-ripened fruit and the thicker mass of the tiny worms bubbled out from the inside.
That was the last sight Banks had of it for a few seconds. The truck sped off the riverbed and bounced hard when it reached rock. For a second, he thought Hynd was going to lose it but as the suspension squealed in protest, the truck climbed precariously up onto the rocky ledge and level ground where the sarge brought it to a halt.
Banks was able to turn and take a last look back at the worm. It was already deflated, as flat as the sleeping bag it laid beside, falling apart into the pink ooze they’d seen before, with thousands of tiny squirming worms leaking out of it onto the sand and burrowing away.
- 18 -
The glow from the copper wires flared, blazing as bright as the fire at the room’s center. Outside the door, the entrance was packed with worms attempting to thrust through, blue lightning crashing against the gold of the protective field. Above Donnie’s head something cracked, loud as a gunshot. More debris fell from above.
“The bloody rafters are going,” Davies shouted.
Donnie felt something grip at his left arm and looked ‘round to see the professor, wide-eyed and obviously terrified, looking up at the hole in the roof. Donnie followed his gaze in time to see a four-foot-long worm slither through the hole and tumble down, right on top of the fire, raising sparks that scattered above their heads before descending to burn at their shoulders and scalps.
“Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” Wiggins shouted. “Davies, you’re with me. Let’s see these fuckers off once and for all.”
Donnie covered his ears again as Wiggins and Davies moved to the doorway and began firing out into the night. He was so intent on watching them that his heart almost stopped when Wilkins fired three shots upward to the roof, only six feet from Donnie and enough to temporarily deafen him with the thunderous roar. He looked up just as the ceiling collapsed in a downpour of foliage and split timber. Among the wreckage was what was left of one of the large worms it having been burst and split under Wilkins’ shots. What fell was pink and wet and it flooded down on top of Professor Gillings like a waterfall, soaking him in oozing gore.
The man immediately started to scream. Donnie only heard it faintly but the man’s terror was plain to see. He was covered in pink ooze that writhed and boiled, full of tiny, two-inch long, pencil-thick worms. The professor was frantically trying to brush them off his body but seemed to be having problems with that and Donnie soon saw why. The worms had already started to chew on hands and face and some of them showed only the last of their tails as they burrowed, eating into flesh with a rapidity that brought fresh screams of terror from the stricken man. The professor screamed again; three of the worms found his tongue and chewed. His mouth filled with blood, choking the screams.
When Donnie went to move to the professor’s aid, he found the floor covered with more of the squirming worms, all of which seemed intent on heading for the professor for easy food. Donnie stomped down, hard, feeling them squish, greasy and wet underfoot. The professor was frantically trying to drag his legs from where they were caught up in the sleeping bag. He put a hand on the ground to try to get some balance and a swarm of the tiny worms covered it, blood flowing as they chewed and burrowed. Two more went in through Gillings’ left cheek, leaving dark, wet holes as they went in deeper. Worms seethed and roiled at Gillings’ neck where a clump of them had been trapped between his flesh and the collar of his shirt. Blood spurted. The professor screamed again, spraying blood from his wounded tongue and threw himself onto his back, rolling around as if trying to squash the attacking worms. More of them seethed over the sleeping bag itself, material and inner fleece flying as they attacked it like miniature buzz saws.
“Need some help here,” Donnie shouted, still stomping furiously in a St. Vitus dance of rage and worry for the older man, but the soldiers had their own problems; Wiggins and Davies with defending the doorway and Wilkins firing again and again up towards the new emptiness above them.
Donnie waded through the ooze, still stomping, cursing loudly yet only hearing a dull echo of his voice above the ringing in his ears. The professor was only four feet away but by the time Donnie reached him, he’d lost his left eye—Donnie was dismayed to see two tiny red tails disappear inside as the things continued to burrow—and apart from a tremor in his right arm was lying still.
“Davies,” Donnie shouted. “We’ve got a man down.”
Davies finally left Wiggins and ran over but Donnie already knew it was too late; Gillings’ remaining eye stared sightlessly upward and the only movement in his body was an artificial one provided by the myriad of worms that coursed through him, still burrowing, still eating.
*
“Give me a hand here,” Davies shouted, bending to lift the professor. “We’ve got to burn the body, right now.”
Donnie stepped back, squashing more of the worms underfoot but
not noticing, only having eyes for the dead man. He shook his head.
“I can’t…”
Davies didn’t have time to argue. Having fed, worms were already beginning to eat their way back out of the body. They were larger now and still hungry.
“Wilkins, give me a hand,” Davies said. “Get him on the fire—fast now.”
Donnie finally managed to move when Wilkins and Davies hauled the dead man up and helped them to throw it over the hearth, into the center of the fire pit. The sleeping bag blazed. Worms popped like tiny firecrackers in the heat and the professor was quickly ablaze. Donnie was aware that both Davies and Wilkins were now stomping on the ground in the same manic dance he’d been doing seconds before but Donnie was rooted to the spot, staring into the flames as the fire took what remained of Professor Gillings away. His gaze followed the smoke up through the hole in the roof.
Cold stars looked back down at him.
The room fell completely quiet, the ringing in Donnie’s ears slowly fading away, the only sound now the crack and hiss from the fire.
Davies was looking down at a mess of pink ooze on the floor, already hardening into waxy furrows.
“Did we get all the wee fuckers?” he said.
Wilkins stomped hard on one last squirming worm, wincing at the obvious pain that had shot up his leg.
“I think so,” he replied.
“They’ve fucked off out here too,” Wiggins said from the doorway.
Donnie hardly heard them. He felt bile rise in his throat and made for the doorway, reaching it just in time to step over the copper wire, lean outside, and lose a mess of coffee and partially digested biscuits onto the steps outside.
*
The next ten minutes were a blank spot in his mind. He was vaguely aware of Davies checking him all over for bite marks or signs of burrowing. Wilkins made a pot of coffee, Wiggins guarded the door, and the fire kept crackling, although none of them ever looked at it.
Operation Mongolia (S-Squad Book 8) Page 9
