Slugs Page 18

  There were two doors leading out of the sitting room. One into the kitchen, the other into the hall.

  ‘You two look upstairs,’ said Brady. ‘I’ll check in there.’ He moved towards the kitchen door while the other two men made their way out into the hall.

  ‘If you find anything, shout,’ Brady called after them.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Palmer said. ‘If I see one of those bloody things, you’ll be the first to know.’

  Brady wandered into the kitchen, stopping for a second to listen to the heavy footfalls of his companions as they moved around upstairs. He could hear them going from room to room, the low murmur of their voices occasionally drifting through to him. Eventually, he turned his attention back to the kitchen, shining his torch across the filth-encrusted lino on the floor and across to the cupboards which had been ripped out long ago.

  A spider had caught a crane-fly in its web and was busily devouring it. Brady held his torch on it for a second, watching the grisly tableau, then he moved the beam across towards another door to his right. As he walked towards it, Brady glanced out of the grime-encrusted windows of the kitchen and spied the sodium glare of the lamps which marked the first street on the new estate. He returned his attention to the other door, shining the torch onto the lock. There was no key and, optimistically, he turned the handle. Needless to say it didn’t budge. The door was locked. He murmured something to himself and stepped back, the torch beam still directed at the peeling door. It was as he took that pace backward he noticed the small gap in the bottom of the door. He knelt to examine it, guessing it to be about two inches high. In one corner of the door something else caught his eye.

  It was a slime trail.

  It glistened in the torch light and Brady extended a gloved hand, touching the mucoid path with his index finger.

  It was fresh.

  He swallowed hard and stood up, trying the door once again, pushing his shoulder against it when it wouldn’t open. But, the hinges were old and rusted and the Health Inspector heard them shriek in protest as he threw his weight against the door once again. This time the very wood itself seemed to crack. He stepped back and aimed a kick at the stubborn lock. The handle fell away, landing with a hollow thump on the lino.

  ‘Nothing up there.’

  The voice startled him and he spun round to see Foley and Palmer standing in the doorway.

  ‘What have you found?’ asked Foley.

  Brady motioned to the door. ‘It’s a cellar or something.’ He shone his torch down at the floor and both men saw the slime trail.

  Palmer crossed to the door and both of them threw their weight against it, hearing the wood groan under the pressure. Finally, under their combined assault, it gave. It flew back on its hinges and slammed into the wall behind with a loud crash. The two men paused at the opening, gazing down into the blackness below. Brady swung his torch round but the beam would only penetrate the darkness a short distance. The stone steps of the cellar stretched away beneath them, the bottom invisible in the pitch black. A rancid stench rose from the cellar, an odour so rank it caused Brady to cough. He covered his nose with one hand and took a tentative step down. The torch beam wavered in his grasp and he had difficulty keeping his feet on the slippery steps. Step by step, he descended.

  Palmer followed at an arm’s length behind, using his own powerful torch to sweep the walls which crowded in on both sides of the staircase.

  There were slime trails on them.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said, softly.

  Brady could feel his heart thumping against his ribs as he neared the bottom of the steps. A thin film of perspiration had formed on his forehead. He directed the torch beam downwards, careful not to slip on the treacherous surface.

  Two steps from the bottom he saw the first slug.

  He stepped back, almost knocking Palmer over. The sewage man followed Brady’s pointing finger and caught sight of the glistening black horror on the step, its posterior tentacles waving about soundlessly.

  ‘What is it?’ Foley called from the doorway.

  ‘They’re down here,’ said Palmer, shining his torch over the floor of the cellar. The entire surface, every square inch of earth seemed to be covered by the slithering creatures. Like a glistening, undulating black carpet.

  ‘I’ll get the poison,’ said Foley.

  ‘No, wait,’ Brady called and took a step down. He crushed the first slug beneath his heavy boot and walked on. He shone the torch over the slimy sea once more, noting that there were perhaps just two or three hundred of the creatures down there. Those closest were moving towards him but the Health Inspector merely backed off.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ asked Palmer.

  ‘We can’t afford to waste any of that poison,’ Brady told him. ‘There aren’t many of them here. That means that most must be in the sewer itself.’

  ‘So, what do we do?’ the sewer man wanted to know.

  Brady put out a hand and felt the damp walls. ‘You’ve got a can of petrol in the back of your van haven’t you?’

  Palmer nodded.

  ‘Go and get it.’

  The little cockney hesitated for a moment then hurried back up the stairs, past a bewildered Foley who was descending the steps.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at, Brady?’ he demanded, seeing the slugs slithering towards them. ‘We’ve got to destroy them.’

  ‘This isn’t the nest,’ said Brady. ‘Look.’ He shone the torch over the hundreds of slugs. ‘The rest of them, the big ones, they must be down in the sewers.’

  Palmer returned a moment later, the petrol can in his hand. Brady took it from him and unscrewed the cap then, watched by the other two men, he walked into the cellar dousing the carpet of writhing slugs in the reeking liquid. They tried to crawl up his legs but there weren’t enough of them and Brady crushed many beneath his heavy boots. He made sure every last drop of the golden fluid was drained from the can then he threw it into the cellar and retreated back up the stairs to join his companions.

  Foley handed him a box of matches and the Health Inspector struck one, its yellow glow illuminating his face briefly before he tossed it down into the black mass.

  There was a high pitched ‘whump’ as the petrol went up, followed, a moment later by a series of pops and dull bangs as the flames destroyed the bodies of the slugs. Yellow flames danced in the blackness, devouring the hideous creatures and filling the cellar with choking black smoke.

  ‘What about the house?’ asked Palmer, watching the fire.

  ‘It’s so bloody damp in there the fire will burn itself out,’ said Brady with some authority.

  The three men watched for a moment longer then closed the cellar door behind them. They made their way hurriedly through the house, clambering back through the broken window.

  As they passed the cellar bulkhead, a thin stream of smoke rose into the night air and they could still hear the pop and crackle as the slugs were incinerated.

  Palmer looked back.

  ‘Two hundred down, 20,000 to go,’ he said cryptically.

  Brady shot him an acid glance and the trio made their way out into the street. By the time they reached their parked vehicles, the smoke from the bulkhead was just a tiny plume of grey against the blackness of the night. Brady looked at it with something akin to satisfaction.

  Palmer handed him his set of breathing apparatus and helped him to put it on, ensuring that he could breathe properly then the little man put on his own mask and tank. Their voices sounded muffled through the perspex and their breathing was heavy and laboured. Each of them picked up a two-way radio and Foley retrieved the third. Then, the three of them walked over to the curator’s car where he quickly pulled the maps from the glove compartment.

  ‘We’re here,’ Palmer told him, jabbing a gloved finger at the circle on the map marked sixteen.

  Foley nodded. He got into his car and started the engine.

  ‘We’d better synchronise watches,’ said Brady.


  They checked their time pieces.

  ‘Keep in contact all the time,’ said Foley and both men waved an acknowledgement.

  ‘Remember,’ said Brady. ‘Five minutes after we give you the signal, let the poison go.’

  The naturalist nodded and watched them as they strode over towards the manhole cover a few yards away.

  It took both of them to move the huge metal disc, weighing, as it did, over a hundredweight. It fell to the road with a loud clang, spinning round and round like a dropped coin. Brady looked across at Palmer who tapped the cylinder of oxygen.

  ‘Thirty minutes,’ he said.

  Brady nodded, noticing that the sewage man had a screwdriver stuck in his belt.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he asked, pointing at it.

  ‘Some of the pipes have grilles across them. I don’t fancy getting caught in a dead end.’

  Brady could feel his heartbeat quicken and he tried to control his breathing but it was difficult.

  Led by Palmer, they began to descend.

  It was eleven thirty p.m.

  Twenty-four

  Brady eased himself gently down from the metal ladder and stood beside Palmer, the effluent dribbling past them at about calf height. The Health Inspector swept the tunnel with his torch, noting that the beam was unable to penetrate the blackness for more than a few feet. Once again he felt that terrible claustrophobic feeling come over him as the walls of the pipe seemed to close in on him.

  ‘We’d better check these out,’ said Palmer, tapping the two-way. He switched his on and spoke into it.

  Up above, the sudden crackle of static made Foley jump but the young curator picked up the set and held it to his ear.

  ‘Foley, can you hear this?’ asked Palmer, his voice buried beneath a crackling blanket of interference.

  ‘Your voice is breaking up,’ Foley told him, fiddling with the controls of the radio.

  ‘Adjust the squelch button,’ Palmer told him and, through the hissing static, Foley heard; ‘Mary had a little lamb its fleece was brown not white...’

  ‘Better,’ said the naturalist.

  Palmer continued, ‘...because the silly animal had rolled in its own shite.’

  Foley laughed. ‘OK, I’ve got it now.’

  ‘Where the hell did you learn that?’ asked Brady, smiling thinly.

  Palmer shrugged and indicated that Brady should test his own equipment. A similar procedure was completed, then both men clipped the two-ways to their belts and bent low, ready to begin the tortuous crawl along the stretch of pipe which would lead to the first of the large central chambers. It was hot inside the suit and Brady felt even more uncomfortable with the breathing apparatus on. Although it was light, the tank of oxygen on his back seemed to weigh him down as he crawled and he could only hear the loud, guttural sound of his breathing as he struggled along behind Palmer. Every now and then the Health Inspector would stop, almost sitting in the flowing effluent, and shine his torch behind them, just to check that there were no slugs near them. He scanned the walls and roof of the pipe for slime trails but, as yet, saw none.

  The meagre shaft of light which poured down the open manhole opening began to fade into darkness as they crawled deeper into the pipes. Brady scrambled on, anxious not to lose sight of Palmer who was about two feet ahead of him.

  They passed a side outlet which was less than a foot in diameter and both men concentrated their torches into the black hole.

  ‘Drain outlet,’ Palmer told him.

  Satisfied that nothing was moving in there, the two men crawled on, now totally surrounded by the cloying darkness. It seemed to swathe itself around them like a shroud and the Health Inspector felt the first drops of perspiration forming on his face. His breathing was heavy and, for a second, he wondered if he might use up his oxygen supply too quickly. The vision of Kim swam into his mind and he tried to push it to one side. Her joke about a forty-year-old man crawling around sewers was beginning to take on extra significance. He closed his eyes tight, until white stars danced before him and the vision of her finally left him. He continued crawling, the progress surprisingly fast, his torch constantly sweeping the pipe in its search for the first tell-tale signs of the slugs.

  Palmer stopped.

  Brady shone his torch past the little cockney and saw that a grille barred their way. The sewage man pulled the screwdriver from his belt and began working on the first of the rusty rivets which held the grille in place. Brady crouched beside him and pulled the two-way from his own belt.

  ‘Foley,’ he said. ‘We’ve reached a grille. We should be through it in a couple of minutes.’

  Foley acknowledged and traced their progress on the map before him.

  ‘Another thirty feet and you’ll be at the first chamber,’ the younger man told him. ‘Any sign of the slugs yet?’

  ‘Nothing moving down here except us,’ Brady told him.

  He clipped the radio back into place and watched as Palmer prized the last rusty screw loose. He stuck the heavy screwdriver into the jaws of the grille and put all his weight on it. The grid came free and the little man tossed it away. It landed with a clang behind them. Some rotted faeces slopped onto Brady’s overalls and he paled, fighting back the nausea. He shone the torch behind them once more then waited as Palmer crawled through to take the lead again.

  Up above, Foley started the engine of the Volkswagen and drove slowly to the next red circle on the map, the site of the next manhole and the central chamber. He parked the car on one side of the road and guessed that it would take them about five minutes to crawl as far as the next vault. The young man exhaled deeply. He hoped that the chamber wouldn’t become their crypt. A quick glance at his watch told him that they had less than twenty-five minutes.

  It was eleven forty p.m.

  Brady and Palmer continued on their journey, passing two more outlets as they did so. They were much larger than the first one they’d encountered and the men found that their torch beams could not penetrate the darkness in those particular pipes.

  ‘It’s a connecting pipe from one of the other main flow pipes,’ said Palmer, peering into the first of the outlets.

  He could see nothing in the darkness and he swallowed hard, even shining his torch into the river of effluent which occasionally washed up as high as his elbows. He, too, was beginning to perspire and he knew that it wasn’t because of the suit. All he could think of was that he hadn’t got the chance to kiss his kids goodnight. The little devils were probably still up, waiting for him to get home. His wife would wonder what he was up to as well. He could imagine her moaning about how his dinner would be spoiled but, at that precise moment in time, Palmer would have given his right arm to have heard her nagging. To be up on the surface, at home. Instead of fifty feet below the ground acting as live bait for thousands of man-eating slugs.

  The river of effluent did not flow high enough to alert him to the rip in his overalls.

  He turned back from the outlet and looked at Brady who had been checking the other hole.

  ‘Can’t see a bloody thing,’ he said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Brady told him.

  They moved on.

  It was a moment or two before the first of the slugs emerged from the larger of the outlets. Moving effortlessly in the slimy environment, it slithered over the damp wall of the pipe, the scent of man reaching it despite the assortment of smells down there.

  In a matter of seconds, the entire pipe was filling with the obscene black monstrosities and, across from the first group, more were spilling from the second outlet. They slid into the water, others crawled along the roof and walls of the pipe, keeping just out of range of the probing torch beams. It was almost as if they knew.

  Brady and Palmer crawled on unaware that, less than ten feet behind, the seething black mass of slugs pursued them.

  The two men reached the first of the central chambers and Brady was glad to find that he could stand up for a minute. He shone his torch around, n
oting that the vault was about twelve feet in diameter. A rough circle with half a dozen outlets flowing into it. The effluent river was flowing swiftly here and it gushed past their feet with a low hiss. He shone his torch up and saw the iron ladder which led up to the manhole. Both of them knew that Foley was up there. Waiting.

  ‘Which pipe do we go into next?’ asked the Health Inspector, shining his torch over the numerous black holes. They seemed to yawn open like huge mouths, screaming a silent warning to the men.

  Palmer took the radio from his belt and raised it to his masked face.

  ‘Foley,’ he said. ‘We’re in the first chamber. On that map, there should be one outlet pipe marked in red, which one is it?’

  Up in the car, the curator scanned the black and red lines, his finger quivering slightly as he finally found what he was looking for.

  ‘There’s about half a dozen outlets,’ he said, vaguely.

  ‘I know that,’ snapped Palmer. ‘Which one is marked in red?’

  Foley found it. ‘If you’re standing with your backs to the main pipe then it’s the one second from the left.’

  Palmer clipped the radio back onto his belt and led Brady towards the designated outlet. They were forced to crawl once more as they entered it and the Health Inspector felt the muscles in his arms and back beginning to ache as he dragged himself along. They made their way slowly through the next pipe which seemed to narrow the deeper they got into it, but Brady told himself that his imagination was beginning to get the better of him and he struggled on behind Palmer.

  He stopped suddenly as he heard a splashing from behind them.

  He stuck out a hand to halt Palmer’s progress.

  ‘Listen,’ said Brady and both men held their breath, torches directed down the pipe along which they had just crept. The powerful beams showed nothing.

  ‘What was it?’ asked Palmer.