The Incredible Melting Man (5 page)

He stopped and switched off the machine so that he could hear better. The silence flowed round him.

As he strained to listen, he caught the sound of the blood beating in his ears. Then a branch stirred above his head.

He jerked upwards in time to see the erect tail of a squirrel disappear into the foliage of a tree. His heart began to pound.

Slowly he approached the dark thicket. He flicked the switch of the machine again and it rattled out an urgent warning. Again he faltered.

“Steve,” he called. “Steve, it’s me, Ted. Ted Nelson.”

The silence swallowed his words.

“Steve,” he called tremulously. “I’ve come to help you.”

Again nothing. One step further and he’d reached the outstretched branches of the holly tree. He gripped a branch firmly and a spine pierced the soft flesh of his palm. He flinched but maintained his grip, drawing back the branch. He peered into the hollow gloom. Something glistened.

“Steve?” he whispered. Then he recoiled.

Lying on a bed of rotting holly leaves was a hand. The fingers were running like jelly.

The choking sob was lost in the thick bed of dead leaves. Face down he lay, like an over-ripe fruit, running flesh covering the corrupt seeds he bore. His tears, tainted by decay, drained away into the fertile earth.

He shook with despair. The earth would not hide him. That’s what it had wanted, the thing up there, for him to take root in the wholesome soil of Earth and bring forth its own foulness. His mission had been so cruelly reversed: they had set out bearing life to the dead planet, and had returned with death. If they’d only known, they could have stayed buried in the cold Martian dust where death belongs, not here, with nowhere to hide his vile contamination except in the pure flesh of the living.

He raised his riven face and the dead leaves stuck to it. Wearily he brushed them off with his remaining hand. He smelt his own decay as the tissue broke again, letting out the seeping filth. The waves of burning nausea rose from the pit of his stomach and he retched caustic.

Dear God, where could he hide?

Ted Nelson’s voice had been like a lost melody. How he’d desperately longed to answer, to hand himself over to the doctor’s care. But it was too late. When they’d dearly needed help up there on the red planet, there’d been no one. It had got at their radio, snapped the one life-line that anchored them to humanity. And when they’d drifted loose (it was so easy out there amongst the stars), it had been ready, waiting for them. If only that call had come the moment they’d landed.

His instincts had told him there was something wrong about the storm. But he hadn’t been trained to follow his instincts. They’d been taught a procedure in the event of a dust storm, to sit it out on board the module and then continue with the exploration when it had moved off. No one had mentioned the fear. No one had taught him what to do when fear broke loose from the locked confines of his trained mind and became as real and tangible as rocket failure.

So he’d ignored the message of the sand, drummed out on the hull of the module. He’d ignored the warning left at the door, wet and warm like blood. Even the radiation, antipathy of life: they’d put on their suits and stepped past it.

They’d set foot on the planet of ashes like sailors on a plague ship.

He was to blame. Against the dictates of his real self he’d led them out there. Blind science had gone hand in hand with commercial greed and military prestige. These were the false gods that had persuaded him to tread where no sane creature with all his live and healthy senses would ever have gone. And for the sin of such arrogance and stupidity all humanity would be made to suffer.

He could not answer Ted Nelson’s call. While the torn vestiges of humanity still clung to him he must hide, hide while he could until the red rage struck again and drove him to his hideous crimes.

He looked down at the swollen hand, deformed beyond recognition, and saw the blood beneath the nails. It was not his blood.

He groaned with the weight of his guilt, throwing himself back on to the ground. He felt the cool earth on his burning face. Around him nature thrived, trees full of birdsong and leaves quivering with green life. But he was filthy with death. The flies crawled over his body, drank deep from his festering wounds, then fell off bloated with poison. He was Beelzebub, lord of the flies, the Devil come from the stars to punish mankind with everlasting death.

He thought of the little girl. What had she seen to cauterise her infant mind until the day she died? He’d not yet seen his face, only its horror reflected in the soul of innocence, in blue eyes fragile as flowers. They’d told him he was beyond all help, even if he should wish it. He was the Devil let loose to terrorise the living. Who could bear to look at him?

There was only one way. He was not the Devil but Judas. He did not exult in the betrayal of humanity but could only suffer in the knowledge of his guilt. Now, while the alien cells were still, before they shrieked again for food, he must kill himself.

He stumbled to his feet, smothered now in dead leaves. Cradling his purpose, his one remaining grain of human independence, he set off back towards the river. In the cool clean waters he would drown the burning hatred and purge his guilt. In the river lay his salvation.

Laughter snared him. Carefree laughter like a silver bell rang out through the trees. It sang of beauty, youth, and happiness, and the alien cells heard it. They stiffened and trembled under the rotting skin in hungry anticipation. His precious grain was spilt.

He crouched like an animal close to the earth and watched. Bubbles of mucus burst from the corners of his mouth as the pained breathing quickened. He was almost invisible in his suit of leaves.

A young woman swept through the trees and came into his field of view. She was beautiful and enjoying every minute of it. Not in a vain coquettish sort of way, but in innocent exuberance. She found a small glade where the sunlight danced, and swirled round. Her skirt swelled into a reel of gay colours and her long dark hair spilled outwards, trapping strands of golden sunlight. Then she sat down on a mossy log and began running her fingers through the soft grass. Her green eyes sparkled with happiness.

A man’s voice, betraying impatience, called out from within the wood.

“Sandra. Where are you?”

Again the peel of silver laughter as she threw back her head and called.

“Over here.”

The man emerged, looking hot and bad-tempered. He had a camera slung round his neck. He was dressed in denim, his shirt very wide open at the neck where he sported a number of silver chains. Another assortment was round both wrists. He wore tinted glasses and a drooping brown moustache, slightly darker than his hair which had a pale highlight at one side. He looked to be in his late thirties, but may have been younger; the trendy, somewhat degenerate cliché of his appearance was misleading. He had a peevish voice.

“Now come on, doll, stop goofing around and let’s take these pictures.”

The girl became self-conscious in his presence and her manner became affected. She arched her back and let the sunlight fall full on her face.

“Isn’t it heavenly,” she cried, screwing up her eyes. “If you half-close your eyes it just melts into a green, green world.”

The man scowled impatiently.

“OK, honey,” he drawled. “Quit the kid’s stuff. I want some sophisticated snaps.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him with a worried frown. She was no more than seventeen. Eighteen at the most.

“Don’t you think I’m sophisticated, Charles?” she asked.

Charles’s manner changed. “Of course I do, honey. Real sophisticated,” he flattered. “That’s why we’re here to take pictures.”

The girl looked a lot happier.

“All right,” she smiled. “Let’s start. How about one with me sitting here?”

The man’s face clouded for a second, but he soon covered it up.

“OK now,” he said unenthusiastically and began pretending to take some shots. The girl thought they were for real.

“How about something a bit different now?” he announced, coming closer to her. Behind the tinted glasses the eyes were sharp and restless. “Can you draw your skirt up a little bit?” he wheedled.

The girl looked shocked. “What’s wrong with my skirt?” she demanded.

“There’s nothing wrong with your skirt, honey,” soothed the photographer. “It’s just that I’d like to see a bit more of those pretty legs of yours.”

The girl was not impressed by his flattery.

“You said that about my face. I thought it was for one of those nice calendars, where you just show their faces.”

Charles’s smile was growing very thin. “It is for a calendar, sweetheart. But we take all of you and decide how much to leave on. If your legs are just as pretty as your face, we like to leave both on. OK?”

“OK,” agreed Sandra reluctantly and hitched up her skirt to just below the knee.

“Can we see your knees?” drawled Charles impatiently. “This is not New England last century.”

She hesitated, unhappy with the situation.

“Look here, doll,” he said. “I’m a busy man. There are plenty of other girls who’d jump at the chance of appearing in our magazine.”

“Magazine?” started the girl. “I thought you said it was a calendar.”

Charles shrugged, rattling his assortment of silverware. “Magazines, calendars. What’s the difference?”

“You mean it’s for one of
those
magazines?” cried the girl, genuinely shocked.

“What do you goddam think it’s for?” shouted Charles, dropping all pretence. “A bloody chocolate box?”

He approached her menacingly.

“And while you’re at it,” he snarled. “You can unfasten that blouse. We wanna see something of you. And I don’t mean just that goddam innocent face.”

He tore at the buttons on her blouse and she let out a terrified scream, struggling wildly as he attempted to molest her.

Drawn by the sound and smell of fear, the thing rose from the bushes. Hunger and resentment burned in the swollen red eyes. He stood, a battlefield of warring impulses. The bloodlust beat against him like an angry tide, pushing him mercilessly to murder, to appease the drumming of the craving cells. But even as he rose in his wrath, a tiny piece of jetsam braved the tide, salvaged from the wreckage of his old self. Pity for the beautiful girl checked the rage and turned the indiscriminate anger on the man, symbol of his own corrupt self, a despoiler of innocence, beauty and life.

Yet he hesitated for the girl’s sake. Recalling the blue eyes of the small child as they froze in terror, he faltered, loath to expose his vileness again. Beauty and innocence spoke to his soul, and a small part that was still uninfected replied and checked the alien rage.

And it was enough to save her. Out of the wood came sounds of whistles being blown and men shouting. The search party had heard her screams and was rapidly converging on the spot.

The man turned guiltily as the first white-coated technician arrived. The girl clutched her torn blouse anxiously to her and looked appealingly at her rescuer. The technician’s disappointment changed to irritation when he read the situation. Other staff from the research centre were also arriving.

“You shouldn’t be here,” shouted the technician. “It’s private property.”

The photographer had regained his composure and began arguing. Unseen by any of them, the thing crept away into the wood.

Once out of earshot he began to run, swiftly but unsteadily so that he lunged against overhanging branches and they plucked at his skin, leaving thin nets of glistening slime like spiders’ webs hanging from the leaves. A black cloud of flies pursued him, buzzing greedily around his head. As he ran his breathing grew more pained. Between the gasps came tight sobs of despair. He was weeping for the girl. The image of her beauty had lodged in his decaying brain and it hurt more than the searing pain in his body.

He burst through the trees into an opening. There was a flap of panicked wing-beats as a flock of mallards rose in noisy consternation from the surface of a small pond. They rose like arrows towards the sunlight, leaving the water rippling and dancing between the green circles of water-lilies.

He crept towards the edge and peered over the side into the turbulent water. As the ripples settled he saw his reflection.

He let out a bellow of anguish and brought his deformed hand down upon the image, splintering it into a thousand fragments of bobbing sunlight. He beat again and again, trying to hammer it down into the red mud at the bottom of the pond where it belonged. Then he hurled himself after it, gulping at the liquid in a bid to douse the unquenchable fire in his guts. He threshed and floundered in the water, but it wasn’t deep enough to hide him. His lungs burnt fiercer as they filled with water and vomited themselves clear in a spasm of agonised retching.

He raised himself, the red and muddy water cascading from his body. The dead leaves, still glistening from contact with his melting skin, floated limply about him. The water had scorned and rejected his miserable life and the fire raged stronger within, fanned by the flames of bitter resentment.

He shook himself like an animal and padded off in search of food.

FIVE

T
HE
G
ENERAL
’
S
jet had been delayed. As it touched down the shadows were already beginning to lengthen against the walls of the research centre. The hot rim of the sun rested on the topmost leaves of the trees across the airstrip.

Ted Nelson waited nervously on the tarmac while the steps were wheeled up to the side of the plane. The door opened and an aide stepped aside to reveal the burly hulk of the General scowling down at him. The stars on his epaulettes glinted malevolently as he marched down the steps and the rows of medals jostled self-importantly on his square chest. When he reached the ground Ted Nelson was amazed to see how short his legs were. For all the world he looked like an angry Charolais bull.

After a stiff handshake and gruff acknowledgement the General bulldozed his way into the back seat of the waiting car and they set off ostentatiously across the tarmac. It was a ludicrously short distance to travel to the centre and they could easily have walked, but the General had insisted that he have a car waiting to meet his plane, and Ted hadn’t the confidence to argue. In the five years the centre had been under his charge there hadn’t been much protocol. They were scientists and had soon forgotten they were an offspring of the mighty Pentagon. From the expression on General Perry’s face it looked as though he was determined to remind them.