The carpet seemed to be moving under him, a broad white stream filling the corridor. And they were dropping from the walls by the hundreds, he saw, eager to move out into the world, their world, to seek nourishment.
Dan remembered the white grubs in the tent feeding off his friends. He knew now what they were--and what they would become. These were the larvae of the homunculi, come to inherit the earth.
He walked through them leaving flattened oozing footprints, entered the suite, and shut the door.
Chase stirred and moaned in drug-induced slumber. His shirt and trousers were saturated, the foam mattress soaking up perspiration like a giant sponge.
Ruth sat watching him with her back to the wall, knees drawn up.
She had administered morphine-based analgesics and was down to the last pack of vials, which on half-dose might go around one more time. With the fever and lack of water there was a danger of salt depletion and dehydration, but there was nothing else she could do.
The room was airless and sweltering and it was getting hard to breathe. Every breath required a conscious effort. She'd never realized how difficult it was when you had to concentrate on the simple act of replenishing your lungs. Breathe in, breathe out. In and out. In. Out.
The storm had faded to a background rumbling. Mingled with it was the sound of weeping from the next room. Jen had wanted to go to him, unable to bear the thought of her husband lying alone, untended, uncared for, but Dan had restrained her. He didn't give a reason, only that it was safer to stay here and not venture into the corridor.
It was very peaceful now that the storm had abated. Ruth felt comfortably drowsy and relaxed, only dimly aware of the tightness across her chest, drifting into a deep dreamless sleep.
"They're blocking off the air!"
Dan was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the door. She watched him hazily. He seemed to be babbling.
"If they fill the corridor we won't be able to breathe."
Ruth flinched, then cowered away as he grabbed hold of a chair and smashed it with all his strength through the large window. The glass collapsed in the frame and tinkled away into the night. At once the fetid smell of the jungle wafted into the room, but now Ruth found that she could draw breath without the constricting pain in her chest. She struggled to her feet, gasping.
"Dan, who's out there? Is someone--something--in the corridor?"
He didn't answer. She followed his gaze to the door. Paint was flaking off. The door seemed to be bulging. The sound of straining timber sang a low steady note of protest. There was a metallic screeching as the hinges were forced out of their seatings.
"What is it? For God's sake, tell me!"
Dan was crouching, arms hanging limply, his face drained of expression. "They're growing in the corridor," he said faintly. "I don't see how because there's nothing to eat out there. The food's in here. But they're growing all the same ..."
The door split down the middle and something white seeped through.
Ruth grabbed him, her nails digging into his arms.
Jen appeared in the doorway, mouth working, eyes wide with shock, and behind her Art Hegler shouted hoarsely, "They're breaking through! Stop the bastards, stop them!"
"There's nothing we can do," Dan said helplessly. "They must be everywhere by now."
He glanced up as the ceiling creaked. A woman scuttled into a corner, screaming through her hands. Dan stared upward as bits of plaster showered down and a jagged crack opened up with a noise like a rifle shot. He couldn't believe it. The pressure! Pulpy soft bodies surely wouldn't have the strength. But their combined weight might do it, packed tightly together, struggling and squirming for growth, for expansion, for life.
Plaster and shreds of insulation were falling all around, filling the air with dust. Dan pulled Ruth to the wall and together they stooped, trying to protect themselves from the debris. Shielded by a raised arm, Dan peered through the thick pall of dust, quite certain that he was hallucinating. The aliens had landed- A silver-suited humanoid figure was descending slowly from above, hovering in midair. Another followed, and another, and they were being invaded by a swarm of aliens from the hole in the ceiling.
Standing there like an apparition, the bulky helmeted figure looked all around and then stepped toward Chase. Ruth tried to get in the way, using her body as a shield, but the silver figure pushed her aside and knelt down as if to inspect the man on the mattress more closely. In place of a mouth there was a metal grille.
"Dr. Chase, I presume," said the alien. He spoke in English.
Chase opened his eyes, adrift in a sea of pain and confusion. He nodded slowly and closed his eyes.
"Glad we got to you before the uncles did," said the alien cheerfully. "Ready to leave?"
29
"Uncles," said the man in the green smock. "Never heard of them before?"
Chase paused from sipping the amber liquid through a plastic tube to shake his head. It was concentrated glucose with a cocktail of protein and vitamin additives. Far too sweet for his taste, but Dr. Pazan insisted that he consume 300 ccs every twelve hours--essential if his body were to combat the effects of the polluted rainwater.
Dr. Pazan made a brief notation on the chart and clipped it to the bed rail. He was a small brown man with elliptical close-set eyes and a runway of bare skin through black glossy hair. "Uncles are what we call the homunculi, a species of mutant that breed and disseminate by spores. Very odd. A hybrid of animal and plant life; unique I should say."
"Where on earth did they come from?"
" 'Where on earth.' Most apt. First reported about five years ago in a group of islands somewhere in the Pacific. Nobody seems to know how they got there. Rumor has it they're the outcome of a genetic experiment that went wrong." Dr. Pazan shrugged, his eyebrows mimicking the movement. "Could be, I guess. Some lunatic attempting to create a new life-form and things got out of control."
"Don't they always?"
"Is that your innate cynicism coming out, Dr. Chase?" Dr. Pazan smiled. "You must be improving."
"I hope so, otherwise what's the point in drinking gallons of this weird and dreadful concoction?" Chase set the empty beaker aside with a sour expression. "You know, a dash of vodka wouldn't go amiss. A dash of diesel oil, come to think of it."
Dr. Pazan chuckled and went on to the next patient in the six-bed ward.
It was the blue crystalline light filtering dimly through the narrow smoked windows that Chase couldn't get used to--fluorescent-bright inside, nothing could be seen outside except an amorphous blue glimmer of spheres and tall steel spires giving off flaring highlights. Chase had pondered them for hours and remained perplexed. Exactly where the hell was he?
The explanation Dr. Pazan had given him about the "uncles" was the first and only time he'd answered a question directly. All other questions had been politely evaded, including the question about why the doctor refused to answer questions. Where was he? It was frustrating not to know.
Having finished his round, Dr. Pazan paused at the door and said, "How do you feel? Strong enough?"
"Strong enough for what?"
"Some answers."
"Great." Chase settled back against the pillows and folded his arms expectantly. "At long last."
Dr. Pazan wagged a slim brown finger. "Not now, later. I'll send your visitor up in an hour's time."
"Visitor? Who?"
"We'll let my concoction settle first," said Dr. Pazan and left with his enigmatic smile.
Men in silver suits. Ruth's face. Bleached desert divided by a grid. Art Hegler crucified on TV antennae. Jen with red-raw eyes. Daven-try's bloated head. Jungle. Swamp. Dr. Chase, I presume? Vegetation growing out of Nick's mouth. Himself immersed in a bath of glucose. Boris saying, The beard suits you. Most distinguished with the streak of gray . . .