The Fungus

“It crossed my mind,” admitted Carter. “But I’m not a brave man. Death still scares me. I want to live as long as I can, even like this.”

They were passing through Marble Arch now. The arch itself was invisible under the fungus. Ahead stretched Oxford Street — a bizarre fungal canyon.

Wilson suggested taking a short cut through the back streets but Carter advised against it, explaining that many of the smaller streets were completely blocked. “Best if we head along Oxford Street and then go up Tottenham Court Road,” he said.

A few minutes later Wilson stopped and stared hard at the Babylonian Gardens of hanging fungal rot and yeasty strands that obscured the front of what was obviously a large building. He experienced a shock of recognition. “Good Lord, that must be Selfridges! I’ve got to take a quick look, do you mind?”

Carter said hesitantly, “I don’t think we have the time — ” But Wilson was already pushing his way through the fibrous curtain and Carter, and Kimberley, had no choice but to follow him.

They entered Seifridges’ department store through a shattered window. Inside, the store was not filled with the homogeneous mass of fungus that Wilson expected but instead contained a mad variety of different growths everywhere, and on everything, in bright, mottled profusion. The atmosphere was heavy with damp and barely breathable with its moldering stench.

Wilson stared around in disbelief. “We used to shop in here — Jane and I — a lot. In the early days, when we were still. “ His voice dried up. For some reason the ruined interior of the famous department store was having a greater impact on him than anything else he’d seen so far. He suddenly realized how much the fungus had destroyed. Even if it was finally overcome things would never be the same again. London definitely wouldn’t, and nor would he.

“Come on, let’s get going,” he said roughly.

They moved on along Oxford Street. At the end stood the Centrepoint high-rise, its highest three or four floors entirely clear of the fungus. It gave the impression of something bursting free of its shroud, but Wilson guessed that the fungus would continue to grow inexorably upward until it covered even this tall building’s roof.

They turned into Tottenham Court Road. As they did so there was a loud rumble from the direction of the City. Wilson asked Carter what it was.

“Building collapsing,” said Carter. “It’s happening all the time, but getting more frequent as the fungi eat through the concrete.”

Wilson looked back at Centrepoint and wondered what kind of crash it would make when it finally toppled over.

They approached the Post Office Tower. It resembled an enormous mushroom. Fungus, dark and malevolent, had accumulated around its bulbous summit.

Somewhere up there was Jane and, hopefully, his two children. But what did they look like now? Like one of the horrors he could see across the road, calmly munching on a piece of fungus?

The sight sickened him, yet at the same time made him aware of how hungry he was. A thought occurred to him.

“What do you do for food?” he asked Carter.

“I do the same as that poor unfortunate,” said Carter, gesturing at the creature opposite, who resembled an overripe Michelin Man. “I eat the fungus. Some of it actually tastes quite good. But then, I always liked mushrooms.” He made his wheezing laughing sound.

The fungus made the tower seem even bigger than it was, and as they approached it the tall structure loomed over them oppressively.

Wilson remembered the one occasion he’d gone to the top of it. It had been years ago, back in the days when there was a revolving restaurant and observatory open to the public. Before the IRA had blown out a chunk of the place with a bomb in ‘73.

They drew closer to the base of the tower. “Where’s your radio equipment located?” Wilson asked Carter.

“In the adjacent Telecom building, not in the tower itself. But there is probably stuff I could use up in the TV control room if I could get access to it. And I’m going to need to rig my antenna as high as possible. I can’t transmit from the first floor. The fungus appears to absorb radio waves.”

“Where will you get your power from?”

“There’s a diesel generator in the basement. It’s kept running by your wife’s people.”

Wilson was surprised. “Why?”

“She needs the power for whatever she’s doing up there.”

Carter led them to a doorway partially obscured by fungus. They entered a dank, foul-smelling stairwell. Wilson checked the flame-thrower. There was a reassuring slosh of fuel in its tank. He ignited the after-burner. “You show me the way up to the top,” he told Carter, “then wait until I come back. If I don’t come back you’ll know I’ve failed.” He turned to Kimberley. “Same goes for you.”

She shook her head. “I’m coming up with you. I haven’t come all this distance to stop now.”

“Look, you’ll be in my way if I have to use this thing.”

“I’ll stay well behind you,” she said firmly. “But I am Coming with you.”

He sighed. He wasn’t going to waste time or energy arguing with her.