The Fungus

“That’s crazy! We’re going to need those!” cried Slocock. “Get up front and start the engine,” ordered Wilson. He picked up the remaining Sterling and hung it over his shoulder, then followed Slocock towards the hatchway. On the way he noticed something on the floor. He bent down and scooped it up. Then he tossed it over to Kimberley. “I don’t think you’ll have a need for this again this trip.”

She stared speechlessly at the half-empty jar of Vaseline.

In the driver’s cab Wilson sat as far away as possible from Slocock, jamming the Sterling between himself and the door.

The revolver he kept in his hand.

Slocock was revving up the powerful eight cylinder Rolls-Royce engine prior to moving off. Wilson had a thought. He told him to cut it.

“Well, make up your bloody mind,” he growled as he obeyed. “Now what?”

“Get Buxton on the radio. I want to talk to him.”

When Slocock had made contact with the Wolverhampton base it took a couple of minutes before Buxton could be located and summoned to the radio. While he waited Wilson thought he could hear shooting in the background.

When Buxton did come on the channel his voice sounded high-pitched and ragged. “Wilson? That you? Why on earth haven’t you kept in contact? What are conditions like in London? Have you located your wife yet?”

“I’m afraid we’re still west of Oxford,” said Wilson, wondering what was wrong with Buxton. “Had a few problems that delayed us. Also we’ve lost our sterile environment. But we’re okay and pushing on now. We’ll be in London by late afternoon for sure.”

Buxton just said, “Oh Christ.” The shooting in the background was getting louder.

“What’s happening where you are? What’s all that gunfire?”

“We’ve been cutoff. The infected area outflanked us before we could pull out. And now some of my men have mutinied. They want to join forces with the other rebel units and make a push to the coast. They’ll probably succeed, too. The rebels are well armed and numerous. They’ve got several Chieftain and Challenger tanks. But if they reach the coast in any number, the French are almost certain to execute their plan to drop nuclear bombs on the country ahead of schedule.”

“Look, we still have a chance of achieving our mission,” Wilson told him. “Our vehicle is still mobile and we’re still all healthy. Even though we’re exposed now, the Megacnne is obviously giving us adequate protection against infection.”

There was silence at the other end. Then Buxton said, “We got a message from Bangor. The surviving two volunteers on Megacrine have both succumbed to fungal infection since you left.”

Unexpectedly, Kimberley took the news worst of all.

When Wilson told her over the intercom what Buxton had said she cried, “Oh Christ, it’s all over then! We’re finished! We have no protection at all! We’re going to end up looking like those people in the street. We’ve got to turn back!”

“Take it easy. The drug must be giving us some protection, even if it’s only for a limited period. We may still have enough time to get to London and find Jane.”

“To hell with London and Jane! Let’s go back! Now, before that horrible stuff starts growing on us!”

“Kimberley, I suggest you take a long drink from one of the Sergeant’s remaining bottles of scotch and calm down. You’re getting hysterical. If it makes you feel better, get into one of the suits.”

“What good would that do? It’s too late! We’re. “

Wilson switched off the intercom. “She’s starting to crack up.”

“But she’s right,” said Slocock. “I agree with her. We turn back. Those rebel army units will punch a hole through the barriers all the way to the coast. We could follow in their tracks.”

Wilson waved the .38 at him. “You don’t have a vote in this anymore, Sergeant, and neither does she. Get moving or I’ll put a bullet in your brain and drive this thing to London myself. You showed me how, remember?”

Slocock restarted the engine.

PART THREE

1

They did a wide detour to the south of Oxford, almost as far south as Abingdon, and then sped across country until they encountered the M40 north of High Wycombe. They had only made one stop along the way. They’d both grown used to seeing the increasingly bizarre growths as they penetrated deeper into the infected area — such as the red candy floss-like fungus that hung from the branches of most of the trees, and the colonies of huge mushrooms and toadstools, some of which were over 20 feet tall — but as they were driving across a field Slocock suddenly swore and braked the truck.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, pointing to a growth a few yards away. It looked like the erect penis of a sleeping giant. It was about six feet high and its head or cap was covered with a thick black slime. Several birds were stuck fast in the stuff, their feathers plastered to their bodies. A few of them were still struggling, but the rest were still