Slither (11 page)

The dog twisted, rolling over, snapping at the worms, trying to bite into them, though steadily weakening as its blood poured out. But at last it caught the tail of one between its jaws and held on, determined.

The worm released the fleshy part of the leg it’d been chewing and aimed at the dog’s throat. For a time it was stalemate between them, though the second worm was still feeding on the hindquarters. Then the dog jerked and shuddered uncontrollably, till it suddenly relaxed into death.

As its jaws slackened their grip, the worm’s tail – over a foot long – dropped to the ground. It was completely severed.

The mutilated worm immediately abandoned feeding on the corpse in order to investigate its shorn tail, examining it from all sides as though trying to work something out. Then, to Matt’s disgust, it began to ingest the tail in a series of purposeful gulps.

‘It’s obscene!’ Fran whispered, horrified.

‘Let’s move while they’re still busy,’ Matt said urgently.

‘And Annie?’

‘D’you really imagine she can still be alive?’

‘Oh, the poor girl!’

‘We can only hope it was quick.’

Even as he said it, Matt knew that death by the worm was never quick. The carnivorous animals he’d seen while filming in East Africa had usually aimed first at the throat to immobilize
their prey before eating them, but worms preferred their meals alive, with the blood still flowing through the veins.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Now, tread carefully, and for Chrissake keep your eyes skinned. If they spot us…’

11

He had to go back there, that much was obvious.

Fran sat in the car, her head on her hands, her face drained of all colour. He knew well enough what she was going through. Every encounter with the worms left him with the same feeling – even now. But that piece of rag tangled in the weeds by the pond nagged at him. He’d spotted it only as they turned to go, and had said nothing. Now he knew he’d have to go back there.

He’d tell her he was hunting – she’d asked for fifty extra skins after all – and to make that look convincing he began to lift some of his equipment out of the boot. Regretfully he left the Bolex camera in its box. These worms were twice the length of any others he’d seen, but he would not be able to manage everything. Having to crawl through that hole in the fence complicated matters. It made escape more difficult if he was in trouble. One day, he thought, he’d devise some sort of face mask.

Fran still had not looked up. She’d a generous spread of freckles across the back of her neck which he noticed now for the first time. He moved his hand to touch her, then hesitated.

‘I… I’ll be back shortly,’ he said lamely. ‘Will you be all right?’

Her head jerked upward and her face hardened with determination. ‘I’m all right now. Where are you going?’ Her eyes fell on the ice-box. ‘Oh.’

‘You said we need more skins. I’ll not be long.’

‘By yourself? Why?’

‘I always hunt by myself.’

‘With Angus,’ she contradicted him.

‘He’s not here. And I take the main risk; that’s my part of the contract – remember?’

‘You’re trying to protect me!’ she laughed, getting out of
the car. She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him, a quick peck, almost maternal. ‘Isn’t that sweet!’

‘No, but—’

‘Matt, love, I’ve recovered now. I’m as tough as old boots. It was just the sight of that poor dog… I’m always like that about dogs.’ She ran her hand over her hair as if to tidy it. ‘But if that’s what worms did to Annie, I’m going after them with you. What should I carry?’

He regarded her uncertainly, knowing the risks, but she insisted. Handing her the two empty ice-boxes, he went back to the boot for the Bolex camera and the hand-lamp. With her help it might be possible to film the worms after all.

Neither of them spoke as they trudged back around the perimeter till they reached the woods and the hole in the fence. Before going through he bent the wire mesh back as far as he could to give maximum room. He also poked around in the undergrowth with one of the walking-sticks, just to make sure.

‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll take the gear through.’

‘Too far away from the water for them,’ she commented.

‘Who knows? They may not be as dependent on water as we think.’

It was already late afternoon and he decided to do the filming first, before the light went. He’d load with fast Eastman-color; with help from the hand-basher he might get some decent shots.

They followed the same path as before, with Matt taking the lead again. The only sound they could hear was their own legs brushing against the undergrowth and the uneasy play of the breeze among the branches. It was turning colder, too.

One worm was still feeding on the carcase of the dog, now an unrecognizable red mass. Several flies shared the meal. Silently, Matt showed Fran how he wanted her to direct the light from the hand-basher and he started filming. The worm blinked up at them, then went on chewing; its skin glowed with a weird phosphorescence.

After a couple of shots he moved nearer the edge of the pond in search of other worms. They might be hiding anywhere in the gullies which were deeply scored into the soggy ground, but he was reassured by the thought that they’d not yet been known
to bite through waders and Wellingtons. Yet how long would this immunity last? He was convinced they’d begin to understand sooner or later.

The pond was still, revealing nothing but weeds and decomposing leaves. The piece of rag was clearly visible among the stems. He stared at it doubtfully as Fran played the light over the water. Where were the worms?

Taking some offal from his pocket he threw it into the water but the pond was so overgrown, it produced only the slightest of ripples. He tried some more a little farther off. Still no reaction; it remained untouched.

The slithering sound behind them was so slight it was almost not there at all. Slow… soft… sustained. A quick gasp from Fran as they both turned. Three worms approached from different directions out of the undergrowth. The fear twisted in Matt’s intestines but he forced himself to raise the camera.

‘Light,’ he requested.

She tried to obey, and switched the lamp on, even, but at the same time she stepped back and slipped on the mud. A terrified moan escaped from her lips as she fell.

‘Fran!’

Matt dropped the camera and grabbed her, catching her with both arms around the body. But the momentum of her fall knocked him off balance too, and his feet began to skid from beneath him. Desperately he fought to regain a firm foothold, aware of the three pairs of hard eyes observing him alertly, waiting for the right second to sink their teeth into him.

It was a miracle he managed to avoid dropping flat on his face. As it was, he was forced down on to one knee in the mud, still holding Fran upright.

‘I’m all right! I’m all right, Matt!’ she announced breathlessly, holding on to an overhead branch to steady herself. ‘Look after yourself.’

As he released her the worms darted closer. His face was almost within their reach and they reared up to strike, their heads back like cobras about to spit venom. Their jaws opened wide. Hate and revulsion flooded through him at the sight of those sharp incisors.

He bent forward challengingly, madly tempting fate, ‘Come
on, let’s see what you can do!’ he taunted them. Some insane mood had seized him and he dared them to attack. In the background he heard Fran pleading with him to get up. ‘Come on!’ he urged them.

Their heads shot forward but Matt was quicker. He grasped the nearest couple by their necks and stood up, one in each hand, laughing in triumph. They wriggled helplessly as he gripped them.

‘Let’s go!’ he said to Fran.

The third worm nudged against the rubber of his waders, then backed away. He ignored it and began to march along that twisting narrow path between the trees, holding the worms before him high enough to keep their tails clear of the ground.

Fran stumbled on behind him, protesting against the risk. ‘They’re too long, too dangerous…’

‘Just what we need!’ he called back cheerfully, ducking to avoid a tangle of branches above his head. One of the worms snapped viciously at his nose; he jerked back, narrowly avoiding its teeth. She was right; he’d have to be more cautious.

When they reached the fence he instructed her on how to open one of the ice-boxes they’d left there and pour a generous helping of chloroform over the cotton wool he’d spread out inside. Then he dropped the first worm in and she slammed the lid down before it could escape.

He waited for a few moments for the chloroform to take effect. ‘Okay,’ he said when he was ready.

She opened the lid and he lowered the second worm inside. The first was sluggish but not yet completely overcome by the fumes. Its head rose slowly over the edge in an attempt to escape, but he knocked it back in sharply with the tip of his walking-stick.

‘That’s the first two safely put away!’

‘You’re not going back again?’ Her voice betrayed her fear.

‘You asked for fifty.’ He spoke lightly, trying to disguise his own uneasiness. What he longed for most at that moment was to get his hands on the driving-wheel again, feel the accelerator under his foot, and forget this place ever existed. ‘How else are we going to get them?’

‘We came here to look for Annie, not to get ourselves killed.’

‘Did you see that piece of rag by the pond. Or rather,
in
it?’

‘Well?’

‘It could’ve been Annie’s T-shirt. She was wearing one that colour when I met her. That makes two reasons for going back to the pond. And there’s a third: I can’t leave the camera.’

She was obviously worried. Her face was pale and she bit her lip uncertainly.

‘Look,’ he said gently, ‘there’s no need for you to come with me. Why don’t you wait outside the fence?’

She scorned his suggestion, picked up the hand-basher and said she was ready to move. Matt slung the second ice-box over his shoulder; the first, containing the worms, he pushed out through the hole in the fence where they could collect it later.

They both carried walking-sticks, expecting to be attacked by worms at any minute, but they reached the pond without seeing a single one. The sun was sinking lower in the sky; the shadows were lengthening. Fran swung the wide beam of the lamp this way and that, on the look out for the slightest glimmer of luminescent green, but she found nothing. Several bluebottles circled over the dog’s remains, but no worms.

‘Fran, watch the water while I try to fish the camera out,’ Matt requested.

He’d hung the ice-box from a branch, well clear of the ground, then waded into the water, intending to try to hook the camera out with his walking-stick. It lay on the mud at the shallow edge of the pond, but he wanted to avoid stooping down in case the worms were waiting for him.

‘But where are they?’ Fran asked, bewildered. She skimmed the surface of the water with the light, illuminating the patches of scum, the dead branch, leaves, stalks, flies and midges.

Matt decided he’d risk it. Using the walking-stick only to steady himself on the treacherous mud, he suddenly swooped down to grab the camera. No difficulty. And no worms.

‘Makes me feel a bit of an idiot,’ he declared ruefully. ‘I never imagined it’d be that easy.’

‘They’re here somewhere,’ Fran said, convinced. ‘Something tells me…’

He held out the camera at arm’s length to let the water drip
from it; the plip-plip-plip as the drops hit the surface of the pond sounded as sharp as a bell. Ripples spread and dissolved. Any minute now he expected the alert head of a worm to appear inquisitively, but…

Nothing.

The trees took on a darker, gnarled shape against the pale sky. Quick shadows jumped about silently as Fran moved the lamp. Elongating. Shortening. Becoming suddenly fat and overwhelming; then shrinking to nothing.

Worms often draw back and merely watch, thinking their own thoughts, perhaps transmitting them for other worms elsewhere to hear. Matt began explaining this to Fran, how he’d frequently felt…

‘
Don’t
!’ she snapped at him sharply.

He stopped short.

A little nervous laugh from her. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit on edge.’

‘I think we both are.’

The sickly odour of chloroform met his nostrils as he dropped the camera into the ice-box and closed the lid. Then he waded through the pond towards the rag he’d spotted, fishing it out with his walking-stick. He showed it to Fran.

‘You told me they don’t bite through clothing,’ she objected.

‘I’m never certain what they can do. These are much bigger than the others.’ He put the rag in the ice-box with the camera. ‘But you’re right, you know. They
are
here somewhere, and not just one or two of them either. If we only knew where to look.’

Taking the hand-basher from her, he swept the beam slowly across the overhanging branches. Maybe these larger ones could climb trees – many snakes did – and were gathering above their heads.

Fran seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Matt,’ she pleaded, ‘let’s get away from here.
Please
.’

‘Okay, but once we’re back in the thick of those trees, keep going and don’t stop whatever the reason. Make straight for the fence and through to the other side. I’ll be directly behind you. And use your stick if you have to.’

He slipped the ice-box strap over his shoulder and checked the knife in his belt. It was already so dark among the trees, it
was no longer easy to pick out the right path, but Fran stumbled on ahead of him, forcing her way through the undergrowth with the help of her stick. Twigs sprang back at him after she’d pushed past them, catching him in the face as he ducked under the low branches.

What were they waiting for? Why weren’t they attacking? These thoughts throbbed away in his mind.

‘Urgh!’ Fran squealed suddenly. ‘Something’s…’

‘Go on!’ he ordered roughly, giving her a push. ‘For Chrissake don’t stop!’

‘Something in my hair,’ she retorted, in control of herself again. ‘No need to shove like that.’

‘Just keep moving.’

He switched on the hand-basher again. She was right – something small and dark was clinging to her hair. But it was round, not snake-like; and it wasn’t green.

When they came to the fence she scrambled through first. He pushed the ice-box after her, then dropped to his knees and crawled through himself. Standing up again, he paused to look back. A shimmer of green among the branches? Perhaps…?

He played the light slowly over the dark group of trees from which they’d just emerged. The wire mesh threw giant, diamond-shaped shadows against the thick foliage. Yes, something
was
shining there like long, thin cat’s eyes…

‘Matt!’ Fran urged him on.

Each carrying whatever they could, they lurched over the rough ground towards the farm track, not stopping till they reached it and could at last see the fierce crimson disc of the setting sun touching the horizon beyond the ploughed field. Then they looked at each other, relieved yet still afraid.

‘Get that thing out of my hair,’ she begged.

It was a bat, and her face broke into smiles when she saw it. ‘Oh, only a bat!’ She took it from him, then tossed it into the air and cried out with pleasure as it spread its wide wings. After worms, even an ordinary bat seemed attractive.

As she relaxed and looked up into his face, her full lips parted invitingly, her eyes tender. They kissed, and her fingers touched the back of his neck, moving slowly around to the scars on his face. ‘I don’t think I fully realized at first…’ she said.
‘Oh, Matt, what you must’ve gone through.’ They kissed again hungrily, her body pressing against him, her tongue urgently seeking his.