John Halkin - Slither

‘Of course we hope she’s going to be all right,’ the nurse reassured him hurriedly. She was auburn-haired and had freckles, like Fran’s, across the bridge of her nose. ‘I think you should eat something. Do you good.’

Mr Griffiths, the surgeon, came into the waiting room in his shirtsleeves, carrying his jacket which he put on as he spoke. ‘You’re Mr Parker, are you? Rhys phoned me about you. We’re old friends. Hear you’ve found the worms’ nursery. Congratulations. First positive news we’ve had about this affair.’

‘How…?’ Matt began.

‘She’s as well as can be expected. I’ll be blunt. You know what these worms can do, perhaps better than anybody: Loss of blood — considerable. They severed an artery. Shock — a key factor. As well as the leg, they’d also started work on the lower abdomen. Now you have it, straight.’

‘But will she live?’

‘I don’t know.’ Mr Griffiths sat down next to him and put a hand on his arm. ‘I’ve told you all this because Rhys said you like to know the facts, unadorned. That makes two of us. Now the best thing you can do is let them give you a bed and something to help you sleep.’

‘I’d rather get some fresh air.’

‘That’s your decision.’ He stood up and buttoned up his jacket. ‘But don’t do anything silly, will you? You’ve something to live for. Your daughter’s going to need you whatever happens. Don’t forget that.’

Matt left the hospital and walked down the hill into the town. The remains of the overalls flapped about his legs in the breeze and the uppers of his boots were lacerated in several places. He’d need fresh clothing, that would be the first step, something strong enough to keep the worms at bay till he’d done all he intended. Another frogman suit too; they’d cut through the first at the hospital to get at his wounds more quickly. If only Fran had been wearing one.

It was already late afternoon but there were still several hours of daylight left. Long enough, anyway. He passed a butcher getting ready to close up, clearing the meat out of his window. In front of an outfitters he paused for a moment in two minds, then went on. That wasn’t the sort of thing he needed. A woman came along the street towards him and he tried to ask her advice; she gave him one look and walked away, probably frightened by his odd appearance — his unusual height, his clothes in rags, his missing fingers, his scars and beard.

But turning a comer he found what he wanted in a large, double-fronted shop whose windows were filled with motorcycle accessories and camping gear. He went in.

A lean, hard-bitten man — ex-Navy by the look of him — looked up from his newspaper. ‘Been in the wars, skipper?’

‘Accident,’ Matt said briefly. ‘Need some new clothes.’

‘You can say that again,’ the man commented. ‘What takes your fancy?’

Matt hunted around among the motorcycling gear, selecting the thickest he could find in his size, black imitation leather lined with sheepskin. The man let him change in the storeroom at the back.

‘You look more human now. What about a helmet?’

He produced a cycling helmet with a visor on the front and a row of studs around the bottom edge for a cape which could be tucked into the top of a jacket. ‘Keep the wind out.’

And the worms, thought Matt approvingly. He told the man to add it to the bill, as well as a new sheath-knife.

‘Skin-diving stuff?’ he enquired.

‘Snorkels, masks…’ The man pointed to the other side of the shop.

‘A rubber suit?’

‘Sorry, not your size. Don’t know where you’d get that. Nowhere round here.’

While he was making out the credit card slip, Matt asked him where he could hire a car. ‘Or a bike,’ he added.

‘If it’s a bike you want I might be able to help. Where are you camping?’

‘Not far. About five miles.’ No point in disillusioning him. ‘I could bring it back tomorrow.’

‘That’s up to you.’ The man handed back his credit card and led him through the shop to a side door. It opened into a lane leading to a garage and workshop. ‘He may be able to fix you up. Tell him I sent you. He’s my brother, and just about the biggest motorcycle dealer you’ll find in these parts. But don’t get into any more accidents, or you won’t be too popular with him.’

Twenty minutes later Matt rode back down the lane on a shining 50 °CC bike. At first the garage owner had been suspicious, wanting to check his licence and demanding a deposit, but when Matt pointed out that the scars on his face had been inflicted by worms, he’d suddenly snapped his fingers and said, ‘You’re that cameraman! Saw your picture in the papers!’ It was the old routine, and it never failed. ‘Ask me, it’s all these nuclear power stations are to blame. They’re the cause of changes in nature — the weather, the worms… Well, if you’re trying to do something about those worms, you can have a bike with pleasure.’

Matt had one more stop to make as he headed back in the direction of the moor. As they’d come in by helicopter he’d spotted a quarry just off the main road and by now, he reckoned, the workmen would all have gone home.

He found it without too much difficulty. As he’d hoped, it was deserted. A squat, stone building stood isolated from the rest; he guessed this was what he was looking for. He rode up to investigate. The door was strong and firm, securely locked.

Over on the other side were three wooden huts, one obviously an office and the others possibly toolsheds. He chose the smallest and tore away the padlock with a wrench from his saddlebag. The tools were stacked neatly inside.

Taking one of the picks, he rode back to the stone building. It needed quite a few blows before the woodwork around the lock splintered and gave way.

The explosives were in boxes neatly ranged along the shelves inside. Here, he felt uncertain. Some years ago while he was still a camera assistant he’d spent three days filming at a quarry. He could still remember some of the details — how to prepare the primer, connect up the exploder… But he knew only too well he might blow himself up before he got anywhere near the worms.

He took one or two boxes down and looked inside. Detonators, cartridges of dynamite… But the sight of them began to bring it all back.

Still hesitating, he looked in several other boxes before making up his mind. Then he selected some No. 6 electric detonators, a carton of dynamite and a small exploder which he could hold in his hand, packing it all as carefully as possible into the side-bags of his bike. He was about to leave the quarry when, as an afterthought, he went back for a length of connecting wire.

His mouth tasted sour as he kicked the starter. It needed only one tiny thing to go wrong and his bike would blow up underneath him with all that explosive packed in its saddlebags. But the engine growled gently and he eased the bike over the rough ground towards the road. Then he opened her up and sped along the smooth tarmac, eating up the miles towards his appointment with the worms. ‘Don’t do anything silly,’ the surgeon had said to him, but there was nothing silly about fighting for survival — and that’s what this battle was all about.

The worms knew this instinctively, just as any wild animal knows it. That was where Rhys was so wrong-headed, assuming the worms could reason when in fact they were merely behaving in accordance with their genetic programming. Matt had shot enough educational film to understand that much. But if some other life-form tries to overpower you and take over your territory — whether it’s tigers, alligators, driver ants, cockroaches or anopheles mosquitoes — you hit back and kill them.