The Incredible Melting Man (10 page)

A choking whimper rose from the graveyard. In a spasm of rage the thing hurled the stone head it was holding towards the black cross on the high spire. There was an explosion of glass as it burst through the leaded window and shattered on the stone floor before the altar. Possessed by the blind fury that consumed him the melting man lunged away from the church.

The unquenchable thirst for flesh drove him towards a distant light which burned out across the fields. His sight was blurred and faltering but a new sense had come to his aid. Now he could smell food, the warm life-blood of humanity. Several times he stopped, raising drooping shoulders and sweeping the night air with his upturned face. The crumbling cavities of his nose trembled for a moment, then he was off again on the scent, shoulders hunched, his dripping body rolling in an awkward gait, the muddy and torn hospital robe flapping behind him.

He was learning stealth also, an animal cunning. He stopped at the gate to listen. It was quiet. He began to pad softly up the drive towards the farmhouse. Long before he reached the window he was crouching on all fours, gasping heavily with the effort.

He raised himself to look in at the lighted window, pressing his face to the glass and leaving an imprint of slime. He saw nothing and edged towards the doors. He suddenly stiffened. The noise of voices came dimly to him.

He turned the handle and pushed open the door. Standing in the threshold, the hall light throwing his immense shadow out across the garden, he let out a bubbling cry and lunged inside the house. He burst through the door of the room where the voices were and stood for a moment groping for his prey with the distended arm. Then he let out a sharp cry of disappointment. The room was empty. Only a radio had been left on.

He flung the set aside and it burst like matchwood against the wall. He charged through into the kitchen. Again the room was empty. He scoured the house, mumbling and cursing to himself unintelligibly. In a rage of disappointment and hunger he stumbled downstairs. The house was empty.

He switched off the light and hid in the darkened room, waiting for the occupants to return.

EIGHT

“N
OTHING EVER
happens in this Godforsaken place,” grumbled Fred Zimwell. His right leg was going to sleep and he laboriously disentangled it from underneath the other on the desk top, dislodging a pile of old copy in the process. Scores of sheets of paper were scattered all over the office floor.

“Damn and blast!” he cursed, all his frustration coming to the boil. What had they got for tomorrow’s edition? The paper would be full of the usual syndicated crap, not a single local story of the slightest significance. How the hell could he be expected to make a name for himself in such a backwater? The
Trentham Globe,
he sneered cynically. Some globe! You could write down everything that ever happened here on the back of a golf ball.

In a last despairing effort to dig out something he could sell to a paper where he’d get some notice, he picked up the telephone. He’d try the duty calls again. Police HQ. Please God let there be some juicy smash up on the highway. An epidemic of rabies? Something.

The switchboard girl sounded harassed. When she realised who it was she became insulting. “Not you again?” she sneered. “Why don’t you go home to bed?”

Fred applied the charm. “Now come on, Doris, honey. What’s gotten into my favourite telephone girl? No one told you how beautiful you are tonight?”

“Look, stop bothering me,” she replied waspishly. “We’re busy.”

Fred pounced eagerly. “Great! What’s going on? Murder? Gimme a lead.”

There was an anxious pause at the other end of the line. Doris lowered her voice to reply.

“There’s been an accident on the Queenston road. An old couple. There are no more details.” She rang off.

Damn! he thought. That wasn’t a lot to go on. Still, it was better than nothing. He’d try the fire department. If it was a bad smash they’d know and they were more help than the hospital.

But as far as the fire people were concerned it was a quiet night. And in Trentham, quiet meant quiet.

He’d made up his mind to take a trip out to find out what was going on when the office door crashed open. The night editor burst in, shouting for him.

Christ! thought Fred. Something must have happened to tear him away from his boozing cronies.

“Zimwell,” cried the editor. “Get up off your backside. I want you to do a job.”

The young man shot to his feet and dislodged another pile of papers from his desk. The editor stoically ignored his antics.

“I’ve just had a tip-off that the military have been called into the research centre,” he said. “And there’s top brass about, some General or other from Houston. It could give us a local slant on tomorrow’s launch. I want you to go down there and talk to the director—Doctor Nelson, I think he’s called. He probably won’t talk. But snoop about a bit and try and find out what’s going on.”

The reporter was at the door when the editor called him back.

“And take care, Zimwell,” he warned. “There’s talk of some nut on the loose. Attacking people. So watch out!”

As he drove to the centre, for the first time in memory during his stay on the
Globe
Zimwell felt the adrenalin coursing through his system. A maniac on the loose and the army called out to hunt him. Probably armed with some highly sophisticated modern weapon. His imagination ran wild. He was working on the headline with a by-line big enough for the whole nation to notice his name when he arrived at the gates of the centre. His disappointment was profound when he found the place deserted and for the most part in darkness. Only one wing of the complex was lit.

He was in for an even greater disappointment when he got out of his car and wandered over to the gatehouse. If he was a member of the press, said the security officer, there was just no way he would be let in. Those were his orders and Goodnight.

By dint of massive perseverence Zimwell managed to persuade the officer to ring through to the director to see if he could be admitted. The response was a very curt negative.

He drove slowly round the perimeter road which skirted the centre’s security fence. The army must be somewhere and there was bound to be a soldier with a liquor problem bigger than his pay cheque where a few dollar bills wouldn’t go amiss.

He’d circled the centre and was almost back on the main highway without getting a single glimpse of any army personnel. They must be searching the forest south of the highway, that could be the only explanation.

He glanced up at the church clock as he passed. Twelve fifteen. A damn silly hour to be combing the countryside on his own with a madman about. He suddenly braked. Beyond the church there was a light still burning in a farmhouse set amongst the fields. His first sight of any sign of civilisation. If anyone knew what was going on, they should. The army had probably trampled all over their fields.

He turned the car round and set off up the lane that ran past the church and up to the farm. The moon was hidden and his headlights jabbed a yellow path through the blackness. Behind him the night slid back noiselessly.

He pulled up at the gate and switched off his lights. He got out of the car and looked about him.

It was a pretty lonely place if there was a madman on the rampage. The police had probably warned them not to let anyone in and he wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of being answered. Yet they’d left the light on without drawing the curtains and that wasn’t the action of nervous folks. He put his hand on the gate and pushed it open. It felt sticky. Damn, he thought. Probably just been painted. He rooted for his handkerchief and wiped his fingers. He began to feel nervous.

He walked up the garden path, whistling low, half under his breath, to keep his spirits up. He’d got halfway up the path when the light went out.

He cursed again and felt his heart start to pound. He stopped and wavered. They were probably going to bed. Perhaps he ought to leave it and go away.

He renewed his determination. No, he mustn’t give them a chance to get upstairs otherwise they’d never answer. He quickened his step and knocked on the front door.

There was silence. He became aware of the darkness of the surrounding fields, crouching menacingly, watchful of his every move. He knocked again more heavily.

Again the silence. He was a fool. Of course they wouldn’t answer. They’d have been warned if a nut was about.

He called out.

“Hello there! I wonder if you can help me? I’m from the
Globe.”

The darkness swallowed his words.

He began to feel self-conscious and silly. The
Globe
indeed! These hillbillies had probably never heard of the
Globe.
Odds on they were illiterate. In any case, even if they had heard of it they probably didn’t care. It was a second-rate rag. The vision of his by-line in a really important newspaper returned and stiffened his resolve. He tried the door handle. My God! They’d painted that as well!

But it was open. He pushed his head into the hallway and shouted again. There was no answer. He listened carefully. A faint panting sound was coming from one of the rooms off the central hallway. It sounded like a dog.

He hesitated again. Better not go beyond the door. He could always shut it in the animal’s face if it came for him. He didn’t want tearing apart in the course of duty.

He tried calling to it in a friendly whisper, making reassuring noises. They were just as afraid as you were. That’s what made them so savage.

“Come on, boy,” he called. “It’s only me. Come on, lets have a look at you.”

The panting increased.

He sensed there was something wrong. It hadn’t barked. In any case, it wasn’t hot enough for a dog to be panting. It was quite cold.

It must be a person! He’d scared them. They’d heard the car coming and put the light out because they were afraid. He went through the
Globe
rigmarole again.

“It’s OK,” he added lamely when it was again met with silence. “You can see my press card if you like.”

A strange whimper came from the room, like nothing he’d ever heard before.

There was someone
in extremis
in there. Probably an old fella that he’d frightened out of his wits and who was having a stroke.

He stepped into the hall and tip-toed towards the door. It was slightly ajar. He paused outside and listened.

The noise had risen to a grotesque rasping, like a mad beast choking on its own slaver. It totally unnerved the reporter and he turned quickly and ran out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He sprinted down the path to the gate and didn’t stop until he was safely inside the car.

No wonder they didn’t bother to lock the door, he thought as he sat trying to get his breath back. It sounded as if they’d got a wolf chained up inside there, not a dog. He didn’t like dogs at the best of times and he shuddered at his own rashness at going in. It was bone-headed. He didn’t want the story so badly.

He was still perspiring violently as he drove back down the lane, and when he tried to mop his brow with the back of his hand his fingers stuck to the steering wheel.

As he turned back onto the road by the church he was only a few hundred yards from the main highway. Through the trees he caught a glimpse of a flashing warning light coming towards him from the direction of the town. As he stopped at the junction to let it pass he saw that it was a breakdown truck. It must be on its way to remove the wreckage from the pile-up. He decided to follow it. The truck was going his way and if he drew a blank on the army story he wouldn’t have to go back to the office empty-handed. He could always get some details about the accident. In Trentham you couldn’t choose your stories, you had to grab them while they were there.

As he was about to pull out and follow the truck he caught the glow of headlights in his rear mirror. Someone was coming up behind. It was all activity at last. He wondered if he’d finally caught up with the army and he hung on to get a good look at the vehicle. But just before the church it turned off the road and disappeared in the direction of the farmhouse.

The hillbillies returning to feed their pet ghoul, he thought sardonically, and set off after the breakdown truck.

He hadn’t far to go. The truck had stopped further down the road and was manoeuvring into position next to an old Buick in the ditch. He was flagged down by a policeman. Other figures he couldn’t properly make out were standing round the car.

“What’s going on, officer?” he asked brightly as the policeman came up to the car. It was a face he recognised from the local force.

“Hm. It’s the
Globe,
is it?” grunted the officer suspiciously. “You lot don’t miss much.”

“There’s not a lot to miss round here,” rejoined Zimwell wrily.

“Maybe not,” conceded the officer. “But we could do without this sort of thing.”

The reporter glanced at the Buick. There didn’t appear to be any damage to it.

“What
has
happened, officer?” he asked.

“I’m afraid it’s top security.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the figures round the car. Zimwell could see now that he’d caught up with some of the elusive soldiers.