John Halkin - Slither

As the road crossed the moor the wind buffeted him and in response the bike seemed to buck beneath him. He felt exhilarated, almost happy, but then he took control of himself again. The hatred hardened within him. He stopped, consulted a map, and then swung off the road on to the moor. The ground was uneven, rising and dipping unexpectedly. Once more he slowed down almost to a crawl, conscious of the cartridges of dynamite he was carrying.

The entire moor was a nursery — that’s the word the surgeon had used — and with one blow in the right place he could destroy a whole generation of worms. And die while doing it, perhaps.

From time to time he caught glimpses of the pipeline cutting across the moor, dead straight, a scar on the face of nature. At least it meant he was heading in the right direction. Over to the west the fleeting clouds were tinged with pink as the sun sank lower in the sky; how much more daylight he had it was hard to guess. Half an hour perhaps. An hour at the most.

Then, when he least expected it, his front wheel gave way and sank almost to the axle in mud. His rear wheel slewed around violently.

But he didn’t come off. He managed to keep the bike upright and kill the engine. After a struggle he succeeded in coaxing the front wheel out of the mire and on to firmer ground. This was as far as he could get; now he’d have to continue on foot. He left the bike where it was and made for the nearest hillock to look around.

The oil pipeline was not too far away now and he could actually see the point where they’d taken it underground ‘to preserve the beauty of the environment’; that was before money ran short. To get to it he would have to cross a wide expanse of treacherous ground, part mire, part rivulets and streams, where each tussock of grass or rushes might collapse beneath him. Or might conceal a whole posse of soldier-hunter worms.

But he had no choice; he had to do it.

He returned to the motorcycle and prepared the dynamite, trying to remember all he’d learned during those three days of filming years earlier. One thing he hadn’t collected from that squat building was a pricker, but he made do with a pencil instead, pushing it into the end of the dynamite cartridge. Drawing it out carefully, he inserted one of the electric detonators, cap first, then half-hitched the leg wires around the cartridge.

Underneath his heavy motorcycling gear he was sweating like a pig. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, desperately trying to work out what to do next. Checking that the shunts were still in place on the wire ends, he placed the primed cartridge back into the saddlebag and began to pack the rest of the dynamite around it. It made quite a tidy little bomb. When it was ready he unstrapped it from the bike. Then he pulled on his gloves and adjusted his helmet.

If the worms chose to attack too early, he thought, he’d be helpless, with the spool of connecting wire and exploder in one hand and the dynamite-filled bag in the other. He longed for the comforting feel of a good firm stick.

He walked slowly, taking great care over where he placed his feet. Whether he made it back to the bike afterwards or not didn’t seem to matter. His mind was intent on that one satisfaction: the big bang. It worried him that he knew nothing about the oil inside the pipeline. What was its flashpoint? Would it ignite, or merely spread over the swampy ground in one vast dark slick?

His foot slid forward into mud which sucked hungrily at his boot. He almost panicked, almost dropped the bag, but then he righted himself and pulled his foot slowly out again. The mud was reluctant to let him go.

Still no worms, though. Somewhere over that dark moor he was convinced they were gathering. Or was that merely his terror of them painting devils in his mind? He stopped and stared around, trying to pick out the tell-tale green. No. Nothing.

Unexpectedly, he reached a stretch of firm ground with solid soil and rock underfoot. He was almost there. The pipeline was only a few yards away. They were the most difficult yards so far, with luscious grass concealing hollows filled with thick black mire, then sudden streams. He floundered across, slipping and skidding, his feet unable to find any firm foothold, till he stumbled into gently running water. That was the answer, of course. The stream bed offered a much better footing than the soggy land.

A worm darted at him but he ignored it. A second, then a third appeared, all three worrying at his boots and leggings. When he left the stream they accompanied him. A few more joined them, wriggling swiftly over the ground, their shining green bodies tinged with red from the setting sun.

‘Glory be to God!’ he exclaimed fervently, not for the first time that day, as he reached the pipeline.

At that point it passed over several rounded boulders of rock protruding above the surface like islands in the midst of the swamp. It couldn’t have been better. He laid the bag of dynamite carefully on the ground, then eased it into the gap between the pipe and the exposed granite.

The worms flung themselves at him, biting into his sleeves and the shoulders of his thick jacket, smacking against his helmet, across the visor, on the neck covering. Again and again they attacked, always from the same side as though trying to goad him into moving on.

How long it would be before they succeeded in chewing through his new clothing he’d no idea, nor any intention of sticking around to find out.

Once the dynamite was in place he stood up and began to pick the worms off one by one, fiercely squeezing the life out of them, crushing their skulls. As always, most of the others broke off their attack and slithered across the ground to feed on their dead comrades. It gave him a few seconds’ respite.

He stooped to snatch up the leg wires. One insistent worm slashed at him but he dodged back, its teeth only inches from his eyes. It it hadn’t been for the helmet he’d have been blinded immediately.

Fortunately the wires were quite long and he was able to stand back while he took off his gloves to remove the shunts. He attached the bared ends to the connecting wires, covering the join with a couple of makeshift twists of insulating tape.

One of the worms bit through the motorcycling gear; he felt the scrape of its teeth against his left calf. A shock of panic tingled through his nerves. Looking down, he saw it lying between his feet, its body betraying that slight tautness he’d often noticed when they were feeding.

He stamped down on it, hard; the vertebrae cracked beneath his boot.

But the worm didn’t die immediately. It recoiled without opening its jaws, taking a piece of his skin with it. Then it lay jerking unpleasantly on the ground till he kicked it away from him.

Now that they’d drawn blood he knew it was only a matter of — oh, perhaps no more than a few minutes till they overcame him. He was quite resigned to the thought. After all, he’d been living on borrowed time ever since he’d first met them in the sewers. But he would complete his job first. He swore that much.

He began to unwind the connecting wire from the spool, following the pipeline for a few yards before heading away in the direction of a large outcrop of rock. The tufts of grass were uneasy underfoot as he crossed the mire and he was forced to make several detours.

The worms went with him. He became aware that they were no longer biting, not as long as he kept moving. Experimentally he stopped a couple of times, only to be nipped again. It was a new behaviour pattern, something he’d never met before; it made him cold with apprehension.

Then they left him, withdrawing to the edge of the mire, where they kept watch like guards drawn up in pre-arranged positions. He looked around, puzzled. Then, glancing down at his feet, he noticed the ground heaving beneath him.