The Creeping Kelp (7 page)

Rankin dragged me away. Three new-formed eyes watched us intently.

“In all truth, I have no idea,” he said. “But I have sent a sample back to the Yanks. They’ve got more sophisticated equipment than we have. Maybe they can make something of it, where I cannot. But I do know something… I know that the top Brass will not be able to ignore me. Not this time.”

From inside the glass, the noise grew louder.

Tekeli Li. Tekeli Li.

The field test was scheduled for noon the next day. I spent most of the morning trying to convince the Colonel to postpone it, but a combination of the smell of beer on my breath and a fear of disappointing his superiors, led him to dismiss me out of hand. I watched the preparations in the harbour with a terrible, sinking feeling in my gut that had nothing to do with the booze from the night before.  

Rankin was back into his full-blown show-off strut, with no sign of the confusion he had shown earlier in the laboratory. He marched around the harbour barking orders, a conductor marshalling his orchestra. By the time the Brass arrived at quarter to the hour, everything was in place. A fine drizzle started to fall and a chill settled in my spine. Suddenly, I wanted to be somewhere else—for I knew one thing for sure. This was not going to end well.

But it was too late. Everything was ready, and Rankin’s demonstration was imminent.

We stood in a rough semi-circle just above the shoreline. Several yards beneath us sat the now-familiar metal box. From where I stood, I could hear the thing thrash against the inside walls, like a manic drummer in some free-form jazz band.

 A chain led from the top of the box along the shingle to lie at Rankin’s feet. The harbour wall stretched away to our left and ahead of us in the water, a small flotilla of boats made another rough semi-circle encasing a drift-net full of mackerel bought just that morning from some very grateful fishermen down in Helensburgh.

The fish was our bait. Rankin had wanted to use a couple of convicted murderers from Barlinnie, but even the Colonel had drawn the line at that. Rankin had also suggested using sheep, but those of us who had seen the test on the pony balked at that. I wasn’t the only one who did not need to see that depravity again.

The men on the boats were equipped with flame units and each boat contained several bottles filled with acid. I hoped it would be enough.

Rankin stood, centre-stage, and waited for the Brass to move into their place along the harbour wall looking down on the metal box. When he finally spoke, it was in a voice honed by many years of addressing large lecture theatres. His words carried, loud and strong, in the still air.

“I have called you here to witness the future of naval warfare. With this new weapon, German harbours will be rendered unusable for years, maybe even decades, and all at minimal cost. You previously complained that energetic seaweed wasn’t good enough, wasn’t flamboyant enough.” He paused for effect before continuing. “You wanted flamboyance? Here it is.”

He dragged on the chain. The lid of the metal box started to open, slowly at first.

Then things went bad very quickly.

A handful of tentacles found the edges of the box and tore at it, ripping it like so much tissue paper. A chunk of metal flew like a discus, passing less than three feet over the head of the Secretary of State on the harbour wall. The kelp came out of the box like a greyhound from a trap, expanding as it came in a roiling mass eight feet wide and near again as thick. It completely ignored the net full of fish. Instead, it threw out a writhing forest of tentacles… straight towards Rankin.

He had to step back sharply and even then the leading tentacle caught him around the left foot and tugged, hard. He fell, slightly off balance, and a second tendril reached for him. He just had time to kick off his shoe and scuttle, crab-like back up the shingle beach. The tentacle dragged the shoe back to a maw in the kelp where it disappeared with a moist suck. The moving carpet of fronds came up out of the water, still focussed on Rankin, who was still trying to get to his feet on the loose shingle.

The air was full of the high ululation.

Tekeli Li.

A gull flew down, attracted by the noise. Two tentacles plucked it out of the air. A new maw opened and took it as fast as a blink. The body of kelp did not slow. It came up the beach, shingle rattling like gunfire beneath it. 

It was then that I saw the fatal flaw in Rankin’s planning. All of the men with the flame units and acid had been placed out on the boats in expectation that the fish would be the target. They were now frantically trying to reach shore, to get at the creeping creature, but they were still too far out to be of any help.

Up on the harbour wall, security guards ushered the Brass to safety, but down on the shore, we were in disarray. A fresh-faced young squaddie stepped between Rankin and the creature. He raised a rifle and took aim, pumping three quick shots into the main body. The bullets had no effect. The tendrils wrapped themselves around the lad and dragged him off his feet. He scrambled, screaming amid the shingle, as he was pulled backwards. Three more soldiers started to fire shots into the thrashing fronds, but to no effect. The young squaddie’s screams turned frantic. The carpet of kelp surged and fell on him like a wet blanket. His screams cut off mercifully quickly, but the kelp continued to buck and thrash around his body, giving it a grotesque semblance of life long after it was obvious that he was gone.

All along the back of the kelp, moist mouths opened and squealed, the sound keening and echoing around the rapidly emptying harbour.

Tekeli Li. Tekeli Li.

Those of us who had not yet fled turned and ran.

The kelp followed us up the jetty, gaining with every second. We ran, a ragged, disorganised mob, into the warren of Nissen Huts. Several men tried to set up a rear-guard action, blocking one of the alleys between the huts with volleys of gunfire. The kelp swarmed over them without a pause. Man-shaped forms squirmed and writhed within the kelp, then went still.

I ran faster.

When I turned to look again, the kelp had more than doubled in size.

I saw Rankin’s white mop of hair among the people just ahead of me. The kelp saw him too. Tentacles raised in the air, thrashing wildly and the keening squeal rose to a frenzied howl.

“Rankin,” I called. “It’s only angry at you. Nobody else has to get hurt here.”

I wasn’t sure that he’d heard me until I saw him duck inside the lab. Soldiers ran past the open door, heading for the road out of the Base and I was sorely tempted to go with them. But despite his faults, Rankin had believed in me, and I owed him for that. I threw myself towards the lab, just ahead of a nest of tentacles. Behind it, I could see that the soldiers with the acid tanks and flame-throwers were only now making their way onto the jetty—too far behind to be of any help.

Rankin stood near the door, staring at a point over my shoulder.

“Get into the corner,” he shouted at me. “Pull the left hand chain.”

That was all he had time for. The kelp flowed through the doorway, blocking all escape. I pushed myself as far into the corner as I could and grabbed at the chain.

“Not yet!” Rankin shouted. He danced aside, avoiding thrashing tentacles, until he stood on the spot where the metal cage had sat during the earlier experiment. “Wait until it is all inside.”

He swerved again, just avoiding a long tentacle. But that only served to put him inside the reach of several more.

“Rankin!” I called out. “Look out!”

But I was too late with my warning. The first tentacle took him around the waist. He screamed as it started to tug at him, but he held his ground, forcing the main body of the kelp to come to him. More tentacles struck at his chest and his ankles. He struggled to stay upright. By now, most of the kelp was inside the room.

Once more, I reached for the chain.

“Not yet!” Rankin screamed. “None of it can escape.”

The kelp rolled over the lab floor. It opened out like a huge umbrella towering over Rankin, then fell on him, his white hair being the last thing to disappear from view.

“None of it can escape,” he called at the end.“Do you understand?”

I understood, all too well.

“Goodbye, Rankin,” I whispered and pulled the chain. I turned away, unable to watch as the screams, both from the kelp and the dying man, filled the lab. But the acid rain did its job. In five minutes, all that was left of Rankin and his creation was a pool of oily goop on the lab floor.

It was only later, as I downed the first of many drinks I have had since that day, that I remembered his words.

“I have sent a sample back to the Yanks."

I spent weeks after that checking. I found the shipping order and the name of the boat, the Haven Home. Records show it was sunk by a U-Boat somewhere off the Scilly Isles. In my dreams I see a glass container, lying in a flooded cargo hold. Inside, the creeping kelp sits, dormant, waiting.

And I worry.

I worry about breakages.

I think we’re in trouble.

That’s what Suzie had said. After reading the papers, Noble had to agree. He’d been lost in the story, but now that he was finished, he became all too aware of the aches and pains that racked his body.

But it could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse.

He put the papers down on the small table beside the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling. He was aware that, as yet, no one had come to check on him, despite the fact that he had been awake for at least an hour now. He considered calling out, but there was something about the deep silence that made it seem like sacrilege to break it.

Besides, I shouldn’t complain about getting some rest.

His thoughts kept returning to the last phrase in Ballantine’s journal. Suzie had it underlined in thick black pencil strokes.
I worry about breakages.
There was no doubt in Noble’s mind that the things that had overrun the
Earth Rescue
were indeed the self-same creatures that Ballantine described so vividly.

It seems he was right to worry.

He lay there for a while trying to sleep but his brain refused to slow. Eventually he gave into the inevitable and picked up Ballantine’s journal again. He was half way through his second read when someone finally came to check on him.

The male nurse who entered looked just as tired as Noble felt.

“So what’s the story?” Noble asked. “What’s such a big deal that I get left here to rot for hours?”

The nurse smiled.

“I looked in less than two hours ago and you were fast asleep.”

“That’s not the point,” Noble replied. “Come on, spill it. I know there’s something going on and I need to know what it is.”

“What you need to do is rest,” the nurse replied.

He refused to be drawn into conversation as he slowly and methodically freed Noble’s leg from the tackle that constrained it.

“Okay. If you won’t tell me what’s going on, can you at least tell me where I am?” Noble asked.

“That’s classified, sir,” the man said and kept at his task.

Noble laughed.

“Who am I going to tell?”

But the nurse wouldn’t be drawn. He only spoke again as he left.

“Stay off your feet for a while,” he said. “There’s nothing broken and you didn’t need stitches, but the surface abrasions are pretty bad and you’ll be stiff for a while.”

“Thanks,” Noble said. “But I knew that already.” He was talking to an empty room. The nurse had already gone.

Stay off your feet? My arse.

This time when he swung his feet out of bed he didn’t feel like throwing up. He took that as a good sign and was about to head from the door when he realised he was only wearing a hospital gown, with nothing underneath. Another quick look around showed him his clothes in a small pile on a chair at the other side of the room. He headed that way, but soon realised the futility of the attempt—the floor bucked and swayed like a boat in a heavy sea and his wounded leg felt like a lump of cold wood grafted at his knee. He fell back in the bed, a cold sweat at his brow and a pounding heart in his chest. The room started to spin and once more, in his mind he was back, dangling at the end of a tether, the black tendrils reaching for him. He screamed, loud and long until his throat was raw and sore.

No one came.

Finally, he lay back exhausted and fell into a feverish sleep.

Once again he came to his senses slowly. He was sitting up in the bed and a warm body was pressed up against his good side. He turned and looked into Suzie’s concerned face.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. She had been crying again, but he knew better than to draw attention to it.

“I’ve been better,” he said. “How long have I been out?”

“Just a few hours,” she said.

He saw in her eyes there was more to be said.

“But?” he asked.

It came out of her in a rush, as if she’d been keeping it bottled up. He sat in stunned silence as she told him of the attack on Lyme Regis. He hadn’t seen the video footage that she had sat through, but her voice carried the whole horror of it and his own experiences filled in the blanks.

“How many dead?” he whispered during a pause.

“Over a hundred. But it’s hard to be sure yet, as the town is being evacuated and many fled by car and by foot during the attack itself. The army has cordoned off the whole seafront—I’ve told them it’s near impossible to police the coastline, but you know how these guys think.”