The Fungus

“You were lucky.” He felt his thigh. There was a large flap of skin hanging loose and a lot of blood. But he knew he’d got off lightly. His main hope was that they couldn’t find something even bigger to roll down. If the tank had been only a couple of feet wider it would have swept them both down the staircase. All the way to the bottom.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg he started upward again. Then stopped almost immediately. He could hear footsteps padding down from above. They were coming to see the effects of their weapon.

He waited until they were just around the bend, then turned on the flame-thrower, shutting his ears to the female screams that resulted. A burning figure stumbled around the curve as before and seemed to reach its arms out to him before collapsing. Again fire dribbled down the stairs, making the fungus sizzle and producing a stench.

He moved on. He passed three more bodies at different intervals, all of them smoldering. The one that had got the furthest up the stairs was twitching feebly. He ignored it and kept going.

The climb went on for ages. He felt certain he was almost at the top but every time he rounded the curve there was just another expanse of stairway ahead.

It was during one of his increasingly frequent halts to catch his breath that he heard a woman’s voice call out clearly from the darkness ahead, “Turn back. You can’t get past us, even with your devil’s man weapon. There are too many of us. We are blocking the way completely.”

With a shock he realized he recognized the voice.

“Hilary!” he gasped. “Is that you?” The last time he’d seen Hilary Burne-Smith was at a pub in Highgate, the night he’d told her that he thought their brief affair should come to an end. It was during one of those periods when he was making a periodic attempt to repair his relationship with Jane, shortly before he gave up and left for Ireland.

Hilary Burne-Smith had been the newest of Jane’s assistants, fresh from Cambridge and a stranger to London. Feeling sorry for her, they’d invited her to dinner on several occasions. He’d given her a ride home each time, and then one night she’d invited him up to her place for coffee, and…

He knew he hadn’t taken advantage of a lonely, homesick young woman who could have been rather attractive if she’d lost a bit of weight; he was aware that she’d done the seducing, not him. But he certainly hadn’t resisted one iota. And sex with her turned Out to be surprisingly good. Hilary in bed was a different Hilary from the somewhat shy and very correct young lady he’d come to know across the dinner table. He would have been quite happy to continue the affair except for the nagging guilt, and there was more guilt when he told her it was over, because her reaction had been unexpectedly emotional. There had been lots of tears and he’d sat there, all eyes on him, feeling like a heel.

That had been over two years ago. He hadn’t seen her since. And now here she was confronting him in the dark in this hell-hole.

“You?” she said with surprise. “It can’t be!”

“I’m afraid it is. Barry Wilson in the flesh. How are you, Hilary?”

There was a long pause before she answered. “Why are you here? Why have you murdered my sisters?”

Wilson flinched at the word “murdered.” “I have to see Jane. speak to her. It’s very important. She’s the only hope of saving the rest of mankind from the fungus.”

In the darkness Hilary laughed. To Wilson it seemed, under the circumstances, a shocking sound.

Then she said, “Mankind is finished. A new order has arisen to cleanse the world of his unholy deeds. The great softness will spread across the globe and blur the edges of Man’s harsh works before consuming them totally. And Man himself will also be consumed. Only those who welcome the softness — who become part of it — will be saved.” She spoke the words as if reciting a litany.

Wearily he said, “The only softness around here is in your brain. Christ, Hilary, only a short time ago you were a scientist! You can’t have changed so completely, so quickly. There must still be a glimmer of rationality in you somewhere. So listen to me, Hilary. Pay attention to what I’m saying! You’re sick! But you can still help protect others who aren’t sick!”

There was another long pause and when she spoke again her voice sounded different. “You’re right, Barry.. I am am sick. What am I going to do? Can you help me? I can’t seem. to think. straight anymore. “ Her voice broke and he realized she was crying. Then he heard her coming down the stairs toward him. She stepped hesitantly into the red glow coming from the after-burner. She was still recognizably a woman. Her fungus consisted of a thin moss-like mold that looked like some kind of skin-tight costume covering every inch of her. Her full, heavy breasts swayed as she came slowly down the stairs. Her eyes — those very familiar eyes-were stricken with despair.

“Hilary. “ he whispered, a terrible sadness welling up through him. She held out her arms to him.