‘Oh, Christ!’ The words burst from her lips; she was terrified. The torchlight wavered, then she switched it off. ‘Oh, Christ, what are we going to do?’
Aubrey tried to say something, but the spittle rasped in his throat and he couldn’t speak the words. Those twisting stone steps were the only entrance to this chamber — the other hadn’t been excavated — and to get there they’d have to pass two of the worms.
‘We…’ The words wouldn’t come. He shook his head as if to shake the fear out of his brain. His stomach cramped up and he found it hard to breathe.
The worm in the patch of moonlight moved. It slithered towards them across the stone slabs with an effortless grace, then stopped again. Its eyes were hard, betraying nothing. In spite of himself Aubrey stared at them. He was gulping the air, swallowing, gasping for breath.
He felt Cynthia tugging at his sleeve. ‘Lift me,’ she begged, ‘lift me on to the altar where they can’t reach.’
She meant the ledge cut into the wall. He tried to help her, despising himself for his own cowardice, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. His arms shook as he grasped her to take some of her weight; but she was halfway up already and she managed to scramble on to it.
‘There’s room for you too,’ she said.
‘No.’
The ledge was narrow and she sat on it with her legs drawn up, her knees touching her chin. In that skimpy dress she looked only too exposed. A sacrifice — that’s what she’d said, wasn’t it? He took the torch from her. It was the only weapon they had, that and his bare hands. When they’d attacked Mary Keating he’d plucked them off her and killed them with a mere flick of his fingers. But they’d been small, no longer than earth worms; these were the size of rattlesnakes. More of them now, too. In a circle around him. Watching.
‘Cy—’ His mouth was dry and he knew he was shaking. It would be different if he could lash out at them with his fists, if they were something solid he could hit. But these long, ribbonlike things wriggling towards him, the movement passing like waves down their sinister green bodies, getting closer to his feet, his legs… It was a re-run of every nightmare he’d ever had.
One of them touched him. Reared up and lashed into him, its teeth missing his flesh but tearing his trouser leg at knee level. He recoiled. The edge of the altar hit the small of his back. The bile rose inside him and he spewed.
The nearest worm caught the full force of the vomit. It’s mouth opened as if it enjoyed the stuff. The sight of it caused Aubrey’s stomach to heave again. Once more he retched, and once more the worms advanced.
Somewhere, he thought distantly as they bit into the calves of his legs, he’d heard they didn’t attack through clothing. That was wrong. He wondered at the way his mind functioned with an apparently cool logicality while they gnawed at him. Certainly he was screaming, he could hear himself, and lashing out with the torch, trying to batter their brains out, but inside — in the very eye of his dying — was a calm centre.
The pain was intense at first as their teeth found his flesh, but then it began to slip away. He was lying on the hard stone floor and one of the worms was coiled over his eyes, feeding on his cheek. Somewhere he could hear Cynthia sobbing — or was it Carole? — and he wanted to say her name. If only he could have had her on that ledge-like altar beneath the Saxon cross. Fertility ritual by the light of the full spring moon … moon … moon…
A scream bounced around the excavated walls of that death chamber, coming closer, a shrill scream — not his — penetrating his ears like hot needles. Something struggling and heavy fell across him, writhing in agony, screeching as her flesh was torn and their blood mingled. As they’d wanted to mingle, he thought. As they’d wanted to.
18
On board the fast Royal Navy command craft, Matt scanned the Westport quayside through his binoculars but saw no sign of life. The evacuations had obviously been thorough. Normally on a day like this there would be a good scattering of people about. The fresh breeze put white crests on the waves and caused the neglected sailing dinghies to bob up and down at their moorings. The fishing nets on the harbour walls were equally unattended, the roads deserted.
‘Can’t see any worms,’ he reported, shouting against the breeze.
‘Let’s put in!’ Tegwyn Aneurin Rhys called back. His bald head was sun-tanned and his fringe of grey hair stuck out even more wildly than usual. ‘If we can’t get as far as your house we might at least reach the shop. You said you keep some of your pictures there.’
The bronzed, bearded lieutenant gave the order and the boat began to edge forward again. He’d shown no curiosity about his two civilian guests; in fact, he’d hardly spoken at all.
Matt and Fran had left Westport the previous Saturday afternoon before the police had decided on evacuation, so they’d missed the long traffic jams. On arrival at the Old Rectory they’d found an official black Rover 3500 parked in the drive. Rhys had bustled out to greet them with firm handshakes and the comment that he was tied up for the moment, so could they look after themselves for an hour or so?
He’d shown them upstairs to a large room containing a wide marital bed and a couple of thousand books. Fran declared Matt could read if he liked; she was going to soak in the bath. Then, only a few seconds later, she’d unexpectedly reappeared, a towel in her hand. She’d stood uncertainly in the doorway.
‘What’s wrong?’ he’d asked.
‘I’m scared to.’ All the colour had gone from her face. ‘I’ve remembered Helen. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to have a bath again.’
She’d contented herself with a wash while he kept guard, just in case. If Rhys agreed, he thought, he’d fit wire mesh over all the outlets.
Two hours later they’d heard voices in the hall as Rhys said goodbye to his guests. Car doors slammed discreetly. Wheels crunched gently over the gravel as the Rover 3500 pulled away.
Rhys had come bounding up the stairs, apologizing profusely. ‘Of course, I’ve known the Minister since we were both at Cambridge,’ he’d explained. His Alsatian had looked up at him with understanding eyes, then sat down to scratch itself. ‘The situation’s serious. Reports of worm attacks are coming in from all over the country, especially seaside places and rivers. The Prime Minister intends to seek powers from the House of Commons on Monday to declare an official State of Emergency. Several areas are being evacuated already. The army’s been using flame-throwers in an attempt to contain the menace but, as I told the Minister, we need to know a lot more about these worms if we’re not to be completely overrun. A scientific advisory committee has been established under Professor Jones.’
‘But he’s never seen one alive!’ Matt had exclaimed.
Rhys had grinned. ‘Wait for it, Matt. I’ve involved you two. You’re to give evidence. We’re going to need all the film you took, the still photographs, everything.’
As their craft moved alongside, a young rating — he couldn’t have been twenty years old — jumped smartly ashore and tied up. For a few seconds no one else moved. Westport seemed unnaturally empty and quiet. The masts of the yachts and fishing boats swayed in a strange, gaunt dance. Rows of gulls sat on the telephone wires.
‘Risk it?’ asked Matt uneasily.
‘It’s what we came for.’ Rhys turned to the lieutenant to explain they might be wanting to get away in a hurry, so…
‘We’ll watch out for you, sir.’ Laconic.
He’s probably wondering what the fuss is about, thought Matt.
They went ashore, Matt first. The moment he felt the firm stone of the quayside beneath his boots he could sense their presence. They were in the town somewhere, though they weren’t visible. He grasped his usual heavy walking-stick; in addition, he had two knives in his belt. Rhys had armed himself with a vicious-looking knobkerrie.