“What about phone calls? Visits from your neighbors?”
“I took the phone off the hook and my neighbors and I don’t speak to each other as a rule.”
“Extraordinary,” murmured Peterson.
“And now can you tell me what all the panic’s about? I presume it’s not World War III, otherwise we’d all be glowing in the dark by now.”
“No, it’s not World War III, Dr. Wilson,” said Peterson. “But before I explain there are some questions I must ask you.” He glanced at his clipboard. “You are married to Dr. Jane Wilson, are you not?”
Wilson was taken aback by the introduction of his estranged wife into this bizarre conversation. “Yes,” he said. “Why?”
Peterson ignored his question. “And she was a mycologist working at the Institute of Tropical Biology in London?”
Wilson didn’t care for his use of the word “was.” He began to get a queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. “That officer was joking, wasn’t he? When he said that London no longer existed?”
Peterson and O’Connell exchanged a look. The younger officer’s face was now completely white. Wilson’s anxiety increased. Something had happened in London. Something horrendous. But if it wasn’t a nuclear war what was it? Some sort of nuclear accident? Or had we dropped one of our own H-Bombs on it by mistake? It was probably the Americans’ fault—they were always having accidents with their bloody bombs and missiles, dropping them all over the place. “Broken Arrows” they called them.
“Look, you’ve got to tell me!” he demanded. “My children are in London.”
Peterson held up a hand. “The officer was exaggerating. London still exists. It’s just that—well, it’s been changed.”
O’Connell suddenly bent forward and put his hands over his mouth. His shoulders began to shake and he made a dry retching sound. Wilson didn’t know if he was crying or about to throw up.
Major Peterson regarded O’Connell with a pained expression. “Perhaps you should leave, Captain. I can handle this.”
With a visible effort O’Connell straightened and regained his composure. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. “I’m fine, sir. Really. I’ll be all right.”
Peterson turned back to Wilson. “About your wife,” he began.
Wilson cut him short. “Why the hell do you keep going on about Jane? One moment we’re talking about some disaster that’s befallen London and the next you’re back asking questions about my wife! What’s she got to do with any of this?”
“Believe me, Dr. Wilson,” said Peterson, “she has a lot to do with it. Now please let me continue with my questions. I assure you they are all relevant to the situation which I will explain to you shortly.”
Wilson sighed impatiently. It was like something out of Kafka. “Go on,” he said.
“Your wife is regarded as one of the top experts in the field of mycology, correct?”
“Yes. Whenever and wherever in the world people get together to discuss fungi my wife’s name is invariably mentioned in tones of awe. What of it?”
“And you’re a mycologist too, I understand?”
“I used to be,” Wilson corrected him. “I decided I’d made what is called a career error. I gave it all up to become a writer. Besides, one scientific genius in the family is enough.” He couldn’t keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice.
“But you kept in touch with what your wife was doing?” asked Peterson. “In her research, I mean.”
Wilson nodded. “Couldn’t avoid it. All she ever talks about.”
“And what was she doing?”
“Trying to breed a new species of mushroom. Big mushrooms that would grow quickly and be about ten times richer in protein than the ordinary sort. She has visions of solving the world food shortage with the things. Never thinks small, my wife.”
“Do you know the exact method she was using to create these big mushrooms?” asked O’Connell eagerly.
Wilson frowned. “Well, I don’t know the exact details of her current line of research. I’m not that interested anymore so I haven’t bothered to ask. But I know she’s been tinkering about with the chemical structure of the mushroom enzymes.”
The two officers exchanged another glance. Then Peterson wrote something down on his clipboard. “That’s a start anyway,” he said.
Increasingly puzzled, Wilson said, “Look, you’re talking as if she actually succeeded with these mushrooms. Has she?”
“Oh, she’s succeeded all right,” said Peterson dryly. “And she may indeed solve the world food problem, but not in the way she envisaged.”
“Will you please tell me what you’re talking about?!” demanded Wilson.
O’Connell gestured at the map of Britain on the wall. “Dr. Wilson, most of southern England, as well as other areas of the mainland, is infested with fungi. The stuff is growing on everything, including people. Millions have died already. And they’re the lucky ones.” His voice dried up and he shook his head helplessly, unable to continue.
Wilson stared at him, then at Peterson. The expression in their eyes told him it was no joke. His mind reeled as the enormity of O’Connell’s words sank in. “But—” he began, and stopped. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally all he managed was a lame, “It’s incredible.”
“It certainly is,” agreed Peterson. “When it started it was as if the world had gone mad. No one could explain what was happening. The fungus just began sprouting all over the place for no apparent reason. Then the boffins came up with a theory. Something was reacting with all the different species of fungi it came in contact with, causing them to grow and mutate at a tremendous speed. You’re the expert, Dr. Wilson. Just how many species of fungi are there?”
In a daze, Wilson said, “Nobody knows for sure. The fungal kingdom is a huge one. There are probably over 100,000 recognized species and a lot we haven’t discovered yet. They range from microscopic fungi, molds, lichens, and yeasts to fungi like toadstools, puff-balls, and stink-horns.”
“Well every single species of fungi within the affected area is going berserk,” said Peterson. “And the area of contagion is expanding very fast. It’s predicted it will cover all of England, Scotland and Wales within two months.”
“Jesus,” whispered Wilson. “My kids—what about London?”
“I’ll be blunt, Dr. Wilson. Things are bad there. Very bad. That’s where the plague began. The city is now cut off completely from the outside world. We have no communication with anyone in it. Apparently one type of fungus has developed a taste for electronics. All the phone, radio, and telecommunications equipment in London has rotted away, along with a lot of other materials. Anyway it’s doubtful if anyone in London is still capable of rational conversation now—the last radio transmissions from the place were pure gibberish.”
Wilson was thinking of Simon and Jessica and kicking himself that he hadn’t let them stay on longer in Ireland as they’d wanted to. No, he’d sent them packing back to Jane’s parents in Highgate so he could get back to work on his bloody book! Christ, had his damn selfishness sent them to their deaths? No! He couldn’t let himself believe that. They had to be still alive. Surely not everyone in London had been affected? With difficulty he forced his attention back to what Peterson had just said. “Gibberish? What do you mean? What exactly is the situation in London?”
O’Connell answered, “The fungus affects its victims in different ways. Some species simply kill people—they grow all over them and riddle their bodies with their roots. “
“Hyphae,” corrected Wilson automatically.
O’Connell glared at him and continued. “The victims are literally eaten away. And some are killed from within. The fungi grows inside their bodies and then breaks out.”