William Meikle: Infestation

They all heard it at the same time, a scratching, scuttling noise, coming from the far corner on the other side of the dinghy. Mac and Nolan moved without having to be told, Mac circling ‘round toward the far side of the boat while Nolan joined Banks in heading directly for the source of the sound.

The first thing Banks saw was a prone man’s leg jerking as if in death throes.

We’ve got somebody alive here.

Then he stepped forward and saw what was feeding on the body and causing the leg to spasm.

Three of them; at first, Banks thought they were, surreally, armadillos, for they had the same armored look to them but these beasts were flatter, more oval in shape and definitely more crustacean than mammalian, with broad flat tails slapping on the garage floor as they fed. The more he looked the more they reminded him of the common woodlice that had infested his childhood home. But he wasn’t going to be able to pinch these between thumb and forefinger; the beasts feeding on the dead man’s guts in the corner were each almost two feet in length. They moved with great efficiency, the talon-like hooks on their feet tearing flesh in strips then fed it up along their length to an eager mouth that tore again, before passing into a maw. They chewed with sounds all too close to disgusting delight.

Banks saw Mac arrive on the far side of the body from him, weapon raised. He waved his finger – no shooting ­– he didn’t want their presence here given away. But Nolan at Banks’ side either didn’t see the signal or was too caught up in his disgust to obey. He raised his rifle and put three rapid rounds into the body of the beast nearest him, the shots almost deafening in the confines of the garage. And as if it was a signal, all three of the creatures, even the one Nolan had so clearly hit, turned and as one launched directly at the Irishman.

Nolan danced backward, his weapon still raised, but the things were too fast for him and were at his ankles, clambering over his legs before he could move. He screamed as ribbons of material, then flesh, were torn from his shins.

“Stand back, Cap,” Mac shouted and stepped forward. He kicked one of the beasts against the wall, where Banks was able to put it down; not easily, as it took three bursts – nine rounds – before it finally lay still. He turned to see Nolan trying to hold one of remaining two away from his face, even while its legs tore at his flak vest under his parka, trying to get at the soft parts.

Mac dispatched the second with three bursts of fire of his own, then both he and Banks were at Nolan’s side, trying to tear the third off the Irishman. The beast flew into frenzy, legs tearing and ripping, Nolan screaming in terror, material flying in scraps of duck down and nylon. Finally, Banks and Mac got a clean grip on it, although Mac took a sliced cut across the back of his glove in the process.

“On three, into the corner,” Banks shouted and on the count, they heaved the beast away from them. It immediately tried to come right back but by then all three men had their weapons up and ready. The creature blew apart in a deafening flurry of weapons fire, leaving behind only a smear on the wall and a ringing in Banks’ ears that was going to take a long time to fade.

Blood streamed under the torn fragments of Nolan’s trousers and the Irishman was pale, almost ashen but his voice was strong enough when he struggled to his feet and spoke.

“Going to need a hand here, Cap,” he said.

“I’ve got dressings in my pack,” Mac said but wasn’t given time to do anything about it. More rapid fire carried in to them from outside.

“I’m right with you,” Nolan said, all three of them left the garage at a run.

They only got as far as the shoreline track when they met the others running up from the south toward them.

“We need to find cover, Cap, and fast,” Hynd said.

Over the man’s left shoulder, Banks saw why; the shoreline heaved, as if the rocks themselves were alive, then they surged up and out of the water; the same kind of beasts they’d killed, scores of them, swarming up out of the slush.

“The post office,” Banks shouted. “It’s our only chance.”

They retreated in the face of the rapidly advancing swarm.

Rika Svetlanova put down the box of hard biscuits and stood still, listening, sure she had heard something, far off.

An engine? Please let it be an engine.

But the noise wasn’t repeated and she wasn’t about to leave the safety of the pantry to investigate, despite the growing cold. She tugged her jacket tighter around her, thankful she’d been wearing her outdoor clothing when she’d needed to run. She’d been here for two days now going by her watch and had heard no other voices, had talked to no one. The power had run down on her phone hours ago, although there was little chance of getting any kind of signal down here almost in the center of the many layers of hull and metal. And she wasn’t about to venture out of the room to look for company anytime soon.

It wasn’t safe.

It might never be safe.

The boat rocked gently below her. As far as she knew, they were still at anchor in the bay, moored alongside the drilling rig; they certainly weren’t under power, for she would feel the engines thrumming underfoot and hear the drumbeat thud of the turbines. Instead, all she felt was the gentle rocking, almost enough to send her to sleep.

Almost.

She had some light, so obviously an emergency battery somewhere was working but the bulb above her had dimmed considerably in recent hours. It wasn’t going to be too long before she was left in darkness.

She’d been awake now for over forty-eight hours and had found herself dozing several times, snapping awake when her head nodded on her chest. But full sleep was going to be a long time coming and untroubled sleep a long time after that, for she had seen too much these past days to ever sleep soundly again.

Maybe I’ll sleep when I get back to Moscow; my own bed, a good meal, and some large shots of vodka sound good right about now.

She laughed at the thought. Planning ahead wasn’t a great idea, given her circumstances. She was in the main larder of the boat, with plenty to eat and drink at hand and a flow of air that, although it tasted of death at times, was breathable, for now. But to venture beyond the door might well be the death of her and she didn’t know how long she’d stay brave enough to avoid opening it.

But she would go mad here if she stayed for much longer without doing anything.

If I cannot leave, at least I can make a report; it might be of use to someone, in the weeks to come.

She turned to her pocket Dictaphone, checked there was still power in the batteries, and spoke into it.

“I have decided to tell the tale here of our failure, in the hope that anyone who comes across this will not make the same mistakes we did, mistakes that have got us all killed… or worse.

“We got here in late spring. I know we’re not supposed to be in Canadian waters but there’s too much at stake here for us to ignore the wealth that’s lying in our reach, opened up by the warmer waters of the Arctic. Someone will harvest the riches lying here, untapped as of yet. If we don’t get it, another country will, and the Americans will be just as blind to the diplomatic niceties as we have to be. So we came across the Circle, determined to try.

“We went up and down the coast around here for several weeks, running seismic surveys, before deciding on the best spot for drilling. The week while the rig was put in place and made fit for operation proved to be a tedious one and I’m afraid I drank more vodka than was sensible and suffered for it with horrible hangovers and seasickness that had me quite debilitated for a time. But finally, it was done and we drilled.