The Fungus

Slocock finished reloading the guns, then climbed back down and came around to the front of the vehicle. They watched as the bulky white anti-contamination suit disappeared from view as Slocock bent down to peer under the truck.

Then they heard him say over the radio, “One of you start the engine, will you.”

Wilson was going to crawl past Kimberley but she said, “I’ll do it,” and slid into the driver’s seat. She switched on the ignition. The engine made a wheezing sound but didn’t start. “What’s wrong?” she asked Slocock.

“Dunno,” came his reply over the radio. “We got three bloody holes here. Some bastard was firing armor piercing bullets. And there’s a great puddle of oil under the engine.”

“You mean we’re stuck here?” asked Wilson, alarmed.

“Don’t know until I look at the damage. We’ve got spare parts and tools — might be able to fix it. But this armor cowling is going to be hell to get off.”

“Shit,” said Wilson. The thought of having to walk all the way to London filled him with despair. It would take days. And they’d never be able to do it wearing the anti-contamination suits.

“You any good with cars, Wilson?” asked Slocock. “I’m going to need some help out here.”

“No. I’m useless at anything mechanical. Can’t even change a typewriter ribbon without. “

“I’ll help you,” Kimberley told Slocock. “Where I come from, if you can’t fix your own car when it breaks down, it stays where it is for keeps.”

“Good girl. Put a suit on and get out here pronto. And bring the tool box with you. As for you, Wilson, the guns are loaded again now. If you see anything coming our way you shoot, understand?”

“Yes. I understand,” said Wilson grudgingly.

As Kimberley opened the hatch and prepared to crawl through he said to her, “Be careful out there.”

She grimaced. “Oh, come on, Barry. Save the clichés for your books.”

Deeply stung, he was at a loss for words as she disappeared through the hatch and swung it shut behind her.

He sat there fuming with anger for about an hour while Kimberley donned one of the suits and joined Slocock at the front of the truck. For a time he listened in on their conversation, but he got bored with their talk about past experiences with the internal combustion engine as they struggled to remove the cowling, and he switched off the radio.

It was hot in the cab and getting hotter. There was no air-conditioning, only a vent leading from the rear compartment which could be instantly sealed in an emergency. Wilson decided to leave the hatch open for a while to let what air there was circulate better.

At 11.30 a.m. Slocock and Kimberley returned for something to eat and drink. Wilson joined them in the rear section and helped them out of their suits, which stank of disinfectant.

“How bad is the damage?” he asked.

Slocock collapsed on one of the bunks and wiped the sweat from his face, which was glowing red from the heat and the exertion.

“Pretty bad. We’re leaking oil like a sieve and the fuel pump’s out of commission. Radiator’s also got a hole in it, but that’s the least of our problems.”

“Can it be fixed?”

“We can do some temporary repairs. Fuel pump’s going to be a real pisser. Whether it’ll get us to London is anyone’s guess.”

“How long will it take you to fix things?”

Slocock shrugged and looked at Kimberley. She said, “At least another four hours. Possibly longer.”

“We’ll never reach London by tonight.”

“No,” agreed Slocock. “We’ll have to stop for the night somewhere along the way. I don’t feel like driving this around in the darkness with things the way they are out there.”

An atmosphere of gloom settled over them as they shared a thermos of coffee, provided by their Wolverhampton army hosts, and ate a can each of cold stew.

Then, after Kimberley had given them their shots of Megacrine, the two of them got into their suits again while Wilson returned to his vigil in the driver’s cab.

Before Slocock left, Wilson asked him whether they should report to Buxton and tell him what had happened. Slocock vetoed the idea. “Screw Buxton. Why waste time talking to him or anyone else on the outside? They can’t help us. When we’ve got some information for them we’ll send it, but until then they can sweat it out. Serves ‘em right.”

It was even hotter in the cab now, and Wilson was quickly drenched in sweat.

Wearily he made periodic sweeps of the area with the binoculars, but all remained still.

Then, while making one of these sweeps, he noticed something odd. He happened to focus on one of the bodies lying in the distance and saw that it had undergone some kind of change.

The fungus covering it had grown thicker. It was now almost impossible to tell that there was a man’s corpse under it.

Puzzled, Wilson investigated the four bodies lying closer to the truck. They too had changed. They now looked as if they were covered by patchwork fur blankets.