Infested (7 page)

Thirteen

I wasn’t sure what happened next. The fog was thick around me,
wrapping me up in a cold, damp, death shroud and that should have been the end
of my story, but then I became jolted back to some kind of consciousness as I
ran into something solid. The impact caused me to slide forward off the seat,
so I landed in a twisted heap in the bottom of the canoe. All I could make out,
was that the fog ahead had somehow solidified. My fevered brain could make no
sense of it at the time.

The next thing I remember was being borne upward; I glanced around to
see the canoe far below me, bobbing on a rising swell and I wondered if it had
finally happened, that I was dead and being carried up to heaven.

I woke lying on my back in a kind of hospital room. The bed was hard
and uncomfortable and the thin sheet was tucked in too tight. Someone else was
in the room with me, sitting at a desk, facing the wall. He appeared to be in some
kind of uniform. I tried to speak, to get his attention but my mouth and throat
were gummed up and I couldn’t form the words.

Raising my head proved an impossibility, it felt heavy, like a bowling
ball, and most of the movement came from my eyes. I saw there were needles in
both my arms, connected to drips hanging near my head. I ached, especially in
my spider bitten leg, but for now it appeared I was safe and being looked after
and so, without really caring who it was tending to me, I let relief wash away
my worries and closed my eyes again. For a brief moment, just before I fell
back to sleep, I wondered whether I was in prison but after all I’d suffered,
even that would have been welcome.

When I next woke, the man was still at the desk, but this time he
turned at the right moment and caught the movement in my eyes. He rose and
walked over, smiling as he checked the charts hanging at the end of the metal
framed bed.

At first it took a while to realise the movement I was feeling was the
room swaying and not me.

“Bit of a storm blowing in,” said the man. “I’m Toby Walker by the
way, ship’s doctor. Now, you just wait there a minute.” With that he left the
room via a small, roughly oval door which was set into the wall about a foot
off the ground so there was a large step. If I’d studied the door sooner, I’m
sure I’d have figured out I was aboard a ship, it even had a wheel set into the
middle of it.

When he was out of the room I had a few moments to think about recent
events. I wondered how long I’d been asleep, whether there were many survivors
and then I shuddered, for I knew, whatever happened, life would never be the
same again. My first priority though was the itching in the leg the spider had
bitten, it was driving me mad and the tubes in my arms were too short for me to
reach down and scratch it without pulling them out.

A tall moustachioed man walked into the room, immaculate in his pressed
uniform, complete with epaulettes and a cap, and I immediately stopped my
wriggling. “Welcome aboard.” He said. “I’m Captain John Warren. I understand
you’re somewhat of a survivor.”

All I could do was nod.

“What’s your name?” he asked and when I croaked an unintelligible
answer he looked at the ship’s doctor, who shrugged his shoulders. “Get him a
drink will you, the poor chap’s dying of thirst here.”

At that point I was glad of my muteness, as my mind raced to get my
story straight.

The doctor nodded again and stepped out through the hatch - for that’s
what I decided it was, rather than a door - returning a few moments later with
a glass, which he raised to my lips.

“I’ll come back in a bit, when you’re feeling a little better,” said
the Captain before turning to Doctor Walker. “Let me know when he can talk
will you.”

“Yes Captain.” He said when the Captain was already half way out of the
room. “Better?” he said to me after I’d taken a few sips. The water did
indeed feel tremendous as it soothed my throat with coolness. I nodded but the
itching in my leg was intolerable and I resumed my squirming. My voice was
still a croak as I tried to tell the doctor, but from the pointing of my chin
and my wriggling, he got the message.

The doctor took the glass of water and placed it gently on the bedside
table before taking a small step back and standing with his back ram-rod
straight. A sincere look came over him, one I didn’t much like and I studied
the crow’s feet around his eyes, trying to read his expression.

“Can you still feel your leg?”

I wanted to scream:
Of course I
fucking can!
but I just nodded, not liking the tone of his voice.

“It’s not unusual in a case like yours.”

The penny dropped that something wasn’t right and I raised an eyebrow
at him.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” he started. “But I’m afraid I had
to amputate. Just above the knee.” The doctor paused for a moment, to gauge
my reaction and I slowly nodded to show him I understood before he continued.
“It was dead I’m afraid, we had to remove it to stop the rot from spreading. I
think it was only because of your immobility in the canoe that it didn’t kill
you before. In a way you’re lucky,” he said with a wry smile.

He was right and I knew it. Although my head was reeling with all that
had happened, I accepted the news better than I would have predicted. I’d
heard of amputees being able to feel their ‘ghost’ limbs, but I never imagined
it could still itch enough to drive me to the brink of madness.

“Do you want some time alone?” the doctor asked.

I nodded but signalled to be fed more water before he left.

After more sleep I woke assuming it was the next day, although having
no window to the outside made it impossible to be sure. The doctor was up and
about, checking his instruments and my charts and when he heard me moving he
came over to the bed, smiling. “And how are you today?”

I discovered I’d regained enough strength to reach over and bring the
glass of water to my lips myself. I drank a good swig and dribbled some down
my chin because of still lying down. “Good,” I said and although my throat was
sore and my voice feeble and hoarse, it pleased me to be speaking. Evidently
it pleased the doctor too as he beamed at me.

“Ready to try speaking to the Captain?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,”

Shortly afterwards, the Captain had pulled up an orange plastic chair
and was sitting near my head. Anxiety was etched onto his face and he kept
chewing his fingernails. His voice was steady though, when he asked my name.

“Erm… Bobby Jones,” I replied.

He didn’t bat an eyelid, “Well Bobby, it’s an… unusual situation we
find ourselves in, yes?”

I nodded.

“I haven’t flown the helicopter in a few days, want to save fuel you
see, but from what I can gather it’s pretty bad.”

I nodded again.

“Did you see any other survivors?”

My mind turned to the old couple in the car, and to Lindsey, of course,
and I responded with a slow shake of my head.

The Captain seemed to sag slightly before composing himself. “What,
none?”

“No,” I said. “What about you, have you come across anyone else?”

He gazed off into the distance, through the wall, and I knew he hadn’t.
It seemed unbelievable, and I waited in silence for him to resume speaking.
“You’re the only one.” He mumbled. “Apart from the few fishing vessels which
have joined us and the three Navy vessels we have. There’re more boats coming,
not many though, I don’t think. Nothing from the land.”

“So, what’s the plan?” I asked after a long silence, during which he
understandably appeared deep in thought.

Captain John Warren looked me directly in the eye. “I have absolutely
no idea.” He shrugged. “In the absence of any chain of command it’s my duty
to defend the capital. But, it appears there’s no capital left to defend, or
anyone to defend it from. We can’t do a damn thing about these blasted
spiders.”

“Do you know where they came from?” I asked.

The Captain pointed at the low, metal ceiling, “They seem to have
fallen from the sky.” He leaned forward, massaging his temple with his
fingers.

“The meteor storm,” I said to myself more than anyone. “Do you know of
anywhere that’s not been…?” I thought for the correct word, “infested?”

Again he shook his head. “We were on a joint exercise with the
Americans on the night of the storm. Quite impressive it was. I’ve never seen
anything like it. A few hours later, the call came in to return home ASAP.
The American boats got the same call and so we each went our separate ways and
sped home under full steam. The Chinese ships we were tailing did the same
thing by the look of it. So, no, it’s everywhere.”

He questioned me for a while longer but neither of us had the heart for
it. I didn’t see much of the Captain after that, I suppose he had a lot on his
plate. The small matter of my missing leg didn’t seem quite so important, with
the human race on the verge of extinction. I soon got used to it, and nowadays
I manage well with a crutch.

We stayed at anchor in the Thames Estuary for a few more weeks, during
which time we amassed quite a flotilla, mainly of fishing boats but also a
smattering of Royal Navy ships, two nuclear submarines and no less than three fully
laden super-tankers. We were joined by four French warships and their
accompanying boats and ships and although I played no part in the negotiations,
they were accepted into our fleet.

During this time, I was not the only one to spend long hours standing
on deck, staring longingly at the grey coastline of Blighty, knowing full well
that to set foot upon home soil would mean a sure and painful death. Then the
day eventually came when I stood near the stern, on the helicopter pad, and
watched England recede into the distance behind our churning wake as we set
sail in search of a new home.

I can’t remember how long ago that day was, but ever since we’ve all
been clinging to the hope that somewhere on this watery planet there is an
island just for us; free of infestation, lush and bountiful. A place where we
can live out the rest of our lives in peace.

###

Novels by the
author

Flux

The Dark Stone