The Fungus

“Oh.” He glanced at Slocock and saw the expected sneer. “Sorry. Are you feeling any better?”

“No. Where are we?”

He told her they were approaching Kidderminster. She said she was going back to sleep and not to wake her unless something important happened. He switched off the intercom with a sigh.

They rode on in silence for a while. Then Wilson pointed at the bottle of whiskey resting upright against Slocock’s crotch like a glass phallus. “Mind if I have a drink?”

“Piss off,” said Slocock.

Wilson wondered if he was joking.

“Does that mean no?”

“Look mate, I’ve only got another four bottles left.”

“That’s plenty.”

“Not the way I drink. And who knows how long it’s going to be before I get my hands on any more. So I’m sure as hell not wasting any of it on you.”

“You don’t like me very much, do you?”

Slocock laughed. “You intellectuals are real sharp. Yeah, you’re right. I don’t like you. My job is to make sure you stay alive long enough to do your job. After that, well, we’ll see.”

Wilson realized, with a mild shock, that Slocock was making some kind of threat. And yet he was surprised to note that it didn’t particularly disturb him. There were too many other things to worry about.

“Well, as Flannery would say in a situation like this, ‘Up yours, boyo.’”

Slocock grunted. “Who the flick’s Flannery?”

“An old friend of mine.”

“Sounds like a real wit. But whoever he is he’s too far away to do you any good.”

“You’re wrong there. He’s closer than you think,” said Wilson and smiled.

They made a wide detour around Kidderminster just to be safe even though the town appeared deserted. Slocock sent the Stalwart off the road, through a fence and across the fields.

Wilson winced when the vehicle crushed the fence under its tires. “Aren’t you afraid we might get a flat? I noticed we’re not carrying a spare.”

“They’re puncture-proof. The tubes are honey-combed with lots of separate cells inflated with nitrogen.”

They got back on the A449 without any difficulty and were heading south toward Worcester when they encountered a group of nine people coming along the road. Five men, two women, and two young children. Wilson expected Slocock to speed by them as he had the other group, but to his surprise the Stalwart began to slow down.

“Why are you stopping?”

“Take a closer look at them.”

As the truck came to a halt about 20 yards from the group Wilson saw what Slocock was talking about.

They were victims of the fungus.

Compared with Dr. Bruce Carter on the video they seemed scarcely affected, but it was there nonetheless. They all appeared to be subject to a particularly dark blue five o’clock shadow. The women and children too. And the same blue coloring was on their hands as well.

Wilson felt his flesh crawl.

The group had come to a halt and were staring silently at the vehicle. They projected a sense of hopeless despair.

“Can’t we do anything at all for them?” Wilson asked Slocock.

“Yeah, we could shoot the poor bastards.”

Wilson didn’t take him seriously until he reached up and pulled down one of the folding gun-control units from the ceiling of the cabin.

“No!” cried Wilson, grabbing his arm. “Don’t! Let them live!”

“Why? They’re finished anyway. If they get through the dead zone they’ll die on Buxton’s barrier. Be doing them a favor to put them out of their misery right now.”

“And I say let them be!” cried Wilson, his voice rising to a shout.

Slocock shrugged and said, “Okay, don’t get excited.” He started the truck moving again. “Your trouble, mate, is that you’re too squeamish. But you won’t be for long.”

As Slocock drove past the group Wilson got a closer look at the blue mold covering their faces and hands. He avoided looking at their eyes.

They stood motionless as the truck went by. Not much more than two weeks ago, Wilson realized, these had been normal, healthy people. But now, thanks to one mistake made in a laboratory in distant London, their world had been turned upside down and destroyed almost overnight. And he too was doomed..

Later, as they got nearer to Worcester, Wilson began to notice streaks of color that were alien to a British summer landscape. Bright orange, purple, blue and red. they were not the color of flowers; the orange was brighter than marigolds and seemed to glow unhealthily, and the purple suggested something that was rotting rather than living.

Worse were the large patches of gray. On one occasion they passed an entire field of grayness. Whatever the crop was — either wheat or barley — it was covered with a thick coating of gray fuzz.

“Well, we’re in the land of the magic mushroom for sure now,” said Slocock and took another drink from his bottle.

The sight made Wilson aware that the fungus attacked other living things apart from people. Crops and livestock right across England were being destroyed, which meant there would be a tremendous food shortage in the months ahead. Those who survived the fungus would most probably die of starvation.