The Creeping Kelp Read online

  The web-cam looked at the tar.

  And the tar looked back.

  A single, lidless eye, pale green and milky, stared out from a new fold in the protoplasm. An audible gasp came from the coastguard at the other end.

  “Is this some kind of trick?” the man asked. “Because if it is, I’m warning you…”

  Suzie had taken enough.

  “Listen, arsehole, we’re dying out here. Are you going to help us, or should I call the fucking Royal Navy?”

  The man went white, then red. Noble saw him think about blustering, then saw his eyes look again at the Petri dish. The tar obliged by slumping around the confines of the glass, the lidless eye continuing to stare at the webcam.

  “Do you have engine power?” the coastguard asked finally, dragging his gaze from the eye.

  “No,” Suzie said. By now she was close to shouting. “Just get some help to us. And fast.”

  The man left his seat, leaving Suzie and Noble looking at a view of an empty office at the other end.

  “Now we wait,” Noble said.

  Suzie turned her gaze to the Petri dish. The eye stared back at her.

  “What the hell is this stuff, Dave?” she asked softly. “Did we make it?”

  He had no answer for her. They both stood there for long seconds, just staring down at the tarry material, watching it seethe and flow.

  From outside, a sound broke the quiet—high pitched, like a flock of gulls after a shoal of fish. But it was as if words could be heard in the din—the same words, repeated over and over.

  Tekeli Li. Tekeli Li.

  Suzie went pale.

  “What is it?” Noble said. “What’s wrong?”

  Suzie sobbed.

  “You mean, what else?”

  She turned back to the laptop, fingers frantically dancing over the keyboard as she searched for information.

  “What is it?” Noble asked again, more urgently this time when she hadn’t spoken. She was too busy to reply. After several minutes she finally sat back in her chair.

  “It can’t be,” she whispered. “That’s just a story.”

  “Suzie,” he said softly. “Just tell me. Please?”

  She pointed at the screen.

  “Remember last year, I went on the survey to Antarctica?” She didn’t pause for an answer. “We sat up late one night, as you do, drinking rum and telling stories. Talk got around to the Pabodie Expedition in the early thirties.”

  “Wasn’t there some kind of mass delusion on that one?”

  Her eyes were wide. “So everyone thought at the time. But there’s a story going ‘round that they discovered an ancient city under the ice—a city built by beings genetically engineered for the purpose. These beings are said to be able to take any shape required to get the job done… and at least one of the beings the Expedition found was still alive. They called it a Shoggoth.”

  Noble barked out a laugh.

  “Cabin fever and too much booze, more like.”

  Suzie looked back at the laptop. She looked genuinely worried.

  “But what if it was more than that? Does this sound familiar? This is an extract from a journal of one of the expedition members.”

  She read from the screen.

  “It was a terrible, indescribable thing, bigger than any subway train—a shapeless congeries of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with a myriad of temporary eyes forming as pustules of greenish light all over the tunnel-filling mass that bore down upon us… slithering over the glistening floor, that it and its kind, had swept so evilly free of all litter. Still came that eldritch, mocking cry—

  Tekeli Li. Tekeli Li.

  “Don’t you see,” Suzie said. “It’s the same—the eyes… and the chanting.”

  Noble leaned over her and read the words for himself.

  “That’s just a story to frighten the gullible,” he said, trying to convince himself, more than anything else. Outside, the noise grew louder, the sound ringing all around the ship.

  Tekeli Li. Tekeli Li.

  The protoplasm in the Petri dish suddenly surged against the glass, with such force that the dish fell off the table. The tarry substance started to make its way across the floor, scuttling like a manic spider. Before Noble could stop her, Suzie rushed to the trestle and poured some of the contents of a glass jar on the creature. Steam rose. A vinegar-like tang caught at the back of Noble’s throat and forced him to close his eyes, firmly. When he looked again, there was nothing left of the creature but a smoking pool of oily goop on the floor.

  “What did you use?” Noble asked, aware that he’d just been shown a weapon a bit more devastating than the fire-axe.

  “Hydrochloric acid,” she replied. “We can kill it.”

  Noble remembered the scene out of the bridge window, the forest of swaying tendrils.

  “I don’t think we’ve got enough,” he replied quietly. He turned back to the screen.

  “Okay, for the sake of argument, say what we have here is a Shoggoth from the Antarctic. Why here? Why now?”

  Suzie shrugged.

  “We may never know… not without more study. But I suspect there are at least two driving factors. One is global warming. The ice-shelves have been disintegrating for years now. Maybe one woke from freezing and hitched a ride?”

  He had to admit, it was possible, if not exactly probable.

  “What’s the other thing?”

  “What every creature needs. A food source. If the stories are true, these things are bio-engineered, made of complex hydrocarbons. Other complex hydrocarbons, and lots of them, would be irresistible to such a beast.”

  “But why would…”

  Noble never got a chance to finish.

  The boat lurched. Metal squealed. Even through the door of the lab they heard screams, wild and full of fear, coming from the direction of the bridge house. Noble ran for the door.

  “Wait!” he heard Suzie shout. But the screams were too insistent. He could not stand idle in the face of them. Taking a tight grip on the axe he opened the lab door.

  The screams were too loud. Just as he stepped into the corridor, the Skipper fled down from the bridge. Noble almost didn’t recognise this wild-eyed, frantic man as the usually stoic Captain. In all the years he’d known the man he’d never seen him even so much as flustered. Now he was a screaming, babbling ruin of his former self. Blood poured from his head where a piece of scalp flapped, showing bone below. He was running so fast he almost fell at the foot of the stairs, his legs giving way beneath him. Turning, he gave one look back up the steps and squealed in fear again before getting to his feet and breaking into a limping run.

  Noble saw the reason a second later. A black sphere rolled lazily down the steps, slumping like a partially deflated beach ball. The Skipper yelped and fled along the corridor towards Noble.

  “Quick. In here,” Noble shouted.

  The old man didn’t make it. Behind him, the tar-ball opened and stretched, bat-like wings touching the wall on either side of the corridor. The underside of the wings fluttered… and scores of green milky eyes opened in unison. The thing surged forward. The Skipper had time for one more scream before it fell on him like a wet carpet, engulfing him totally in its folds. Noble moved forward to try to save the man, but was held back by a hand on his shoulder.

  “We need to go,” Suzie said. “You can’t help him.”

  One quick glance showed him she was right. The black mass seethed and roiled over the Skipper’s prone body, but the old man made no sound, even as a lump of bloody meat was dragged forcibly from bone. He was already gone.

  And so will we be if we don’t get out of here.

  Back at the staircase, more black spheres rolled lazily down into the corridor. Noble felt something get put in his free hand.

  “Use this,” Suzie said. “Quickly. It might cover our escape.”

  He held a flare gun, already loaded. He aimed it in the general direction of the Skipper and pulled the tr
igger. He took Suzie’s hand and ran as the corridor exploded with light and searing heat. They reached the end of the corridor before Noble realised they were trapped. The only way to go was up onto the loading deck beside the Zodiac—to the outside where the tendrils writhed around the hull. He turned back to the corridor, looking for another means of escape.

  Too late.

  Black protoplasm, pieces of it smoking, filled the far end of the corridor. Long tendrils searched the air ahead of a thick mass of the black tar. It coated the corridor, reached several feet up the walls, and had already covered half the distance between them.

  “Up onto the deck,” Noble said. “It’s all we can do now.”

  Suzie didn’t argue. She handed him three flares.

  “That’s all we’ve got. Make them count.”

  He nodded. He handed her the axe.

  “Be careful. Chop first, ask questions later. I’m right behind you. Okay?”

  “Got it,” she replied, and started up the small set of steps.

  Noble looked back along the corridor. The black tendrils were less than five feet away and seemed eager to reach for him. He just had time to load the gun and send another flare into the main mass before heading after Suzie out onto the deck. Light and heat followed him out. He turned just beyond the door, loading the flare-gun, but no protoplasm came out of the corridor.

  “Noble,” Suzie cried from nearby. “I need help here.”

  She stood by the side of the Zodiac. A long tendril was raised high over her, and she was barely keeping it at bay with the axe. What she couldn’t see was a second appendage creeping along the deck behind her.

  “Get down,” he called, hoping that her reflex would be as quick as his had been earlier. He raised the gun and fired just as she threw herself forward. The flare embedded itself in the side of the dinghy and burned furiously. Suzie scuttled across the deck to stand with him as they watched it blaze.

  It took most of the two tendrils with it. Noble was about to celebrate when the Zodiac’s fuel tank exploded, the blast knocking him backwards to teeter on the steps to the lower deck. He would have fallen back if Suzie hadn’t steadied him.

  He looked around. Tall black tendrils still wafted on high all around the hull.

  But they’re staying well away from the fires. Maybe we have a weapon after all.

  “Help me,” he shouted. “I’ve got an idea.”

  A minute later he was using the axe to break into the fuel storage area in the stern. There were five plastic containers stacked there, each holding fifty litres of diesel for the Zodiac. Noble stuffed the flare gun into his belt and started to lug the canisters out on the deck.

  The Zodiac had burned itself out and lay in pieces, a smouldering ruin. All around, the tendrils raised themselves up higher, swaying from side to side. Pale green eyes stared down from the heights.

  “Now or never,” Noble whispered.

  He started to pour diesel across the deck. He emptied the first canister completely, making sure the others were sitting in the pool of liquid.

  “Get to the upper deck,” he said. “Quickly. I’ll cover you.”

  She left at a run, clambering up the exterior ladder to the raised deck that sat above the crew quarters. The tendrils continued to sway above the bow, but for now at least, they encroached no further. Noble said a silent prayer and ran for the ladder. A tendril struck at him and missed by mere inches, slapping into the deck at his feet and splashing diesel over his ankles. The air shimmered as the fuel evaporated in the heat.

  Suzie stretched down a hand and helped him haul himself up beside her. He stood, turned… and gasped. The view from the bridge hadn’t really imposed itself on him. At the time, he’d been too preoccupied with merely staying alive for a few minutes longer. But from here on the upper deck, he couldn’t ignore it.

  Black tendrils rose into the sky from horizon to horizon, waving slowly in unison like an audience at a concert moving in time to a ballad. Nowhere could the ocean be seen. All that was visible was a thick mat of black protoplasm anchoring the tendrils.

  And the eyes were everywhere—pale, green, and unblinking. As Noble noticed them, so they noticed him. Tens of thousands of eyes swivelled and fixed their stare on the boat.

  The chant rose, filling the air with noise.

  Tekeli Li. Tekeli Li.

  Tendrils surged forward, crawling over the bow, dragging the protoplasm behind in a dense carpet that started to smother the lower deck.

  “Do it now,” Suzie shouted. “Before it’s too late.”

  Noble waited for several seconds more, until the tendrils had almost reached the fuel canisters.

  “Burn, you bastards,” he shouted and fired the last flare down into the pool of diesel. They had to stand back as the fire took. Tendrils thrashed in frenzy, trying to escape the flames that were suddenly everywhere. Noble threw Suzie to the ground and lay atop her, covering her with his body. The fuel canisters went up, one after the other, the explosions drumming in his ears, the heat singeing his hair. Then all was silence.

  Noble heard his heart pounding in his ears. He stood, carefully lifting the axe from where it lay by Suzie’s right hand. Fires burned across the lower deck. The boat listed sharply to starboard. The Shoggoths backed off, leaving a twenty-meter moat of sea all the way around the hull. Tendrils still swayed lazily in the air, but there was no longer any sign of watching eyes.

  Noble lifted Suzie up.

  “We’re safe. For now.”

  “Maybe for a bit longer than that,” she said. She pointed out to the port side. At the same time, he heard it, the chug-chug of a chopper’s rotor blades. They stood on the deck, waving and grinning like excited school kids as the rescue chopper got closer and hovered overhead. Even as they were lifted upward, the tendrils started to creep back towards the boat, slowly at first, and then faster as there was no sign of further fire.

  When the chopper banked to turn away, Noble got a clear view of the boat, completely covered now, sinking under the weight of the thick black carpet. It went under with scarcely a splash.

  But that wasn’t quite the end of it.

  By now, the sun was setting. Beneath them, the black carpet shone, a shimmering green that looked almost peaceful. Even above the sound of the rotors, he thought he could hear them, would always hear them, a chorus, stronger than any choir, singing in perfect unison.

  Tekeli Li. Tekeli Li.

  A sea of eyes watched as the chopper headed away over the horizon.

  July 22nd - At the Beach

  * * *

  Maggie Welsh was in a foul mood and wasn’t slow in letting everybody know about it.

  “Kimmeridge bloody Bay,” she said in disgust, for maybe the fourth time since her husband had brought their car onto the car park on the cliffs above. “It’s not exactly Lanzarote, is it?”

  Dave Welsh looked at her over the top of his newspaper. His nose and cheeks were liberally splattered with thick suntan lotion, only serving to accentuate the deepening redness of the sunburn on his balding pate.

  “What’s not to like?” he said softly. “It’s a beach, it’s the hottest summer in years, and the kids are loving it.”

  Maggie was too deeply entrenched in her annoyance to let logic get in her way.

  “There’s bugger all to do except sit here and fry,” she said. She was aware that, if they had gone to Lanzarote, they’d just be sitting on a different beach and frying.

  But that’s not the point!

  If they’d gone to Lanzarote she’d have been able to spend days telling the others in the Hair Salon about the trip—about the toned waiters and the tight butts in swimsuits, about the posh nights out in expensive lounges. Now what was she going to say?

  He took me to Dorset and all I got was this lousy tan?

  “Denise Shaw is in Mallorca. Have you any idea how affronted I’m going to be when she asks where we went? Have you any idea how much of her crap I’m going to have to put up with?”
r />   He’d stopped listening; his newspaper raised like a bulwark between them. But she wasn’t ready to stop venting yet—she might not be for quite some time. She turned her ire towards the sea, looking for their children.

  They’ll be doing something I can shout at them for. I need a good shout.

  Their youngest, Mary, paddled around in the shallows some twenty yards away, splashing merrily and singing a song that was almost recognisable as something she’d recently heard on the radio. Zane was further out, pretending to swim, hanging around at the fringe of a group of older boys and trying to get noticed. She sighed as she realised there was nothing to find fault with.

  Well that’s just no fun at all.

  She looked along the length of the beach. Although it was a warm, indeed very warm day, and the beach was golden, there were relatively few people around; some thirty in total on the beach itself, and the same number again, mostly children, in the water trying to get away from the heat. Further out, two small yachts tacked and veered in what little breeze they could grab, but here on the sand it was almost oppressively calm and balmy. If she hadn’t been quite so keen on a shouting match, she might even start enjoying herself. But the thought of Denise Shaw crowing about Mallorca from now until Christmas was just too much to bear.

  Once again, she found her thoughts straying to exotic shores, places where the beaches were packed and there were many more opportunities to pick up brownie points back at the salon. She was so lost in reverie that she didn’t notice when the splashing from nearby took on a frantic tone, and she only looked up when a young voice rose in a high scream.

  Out on the horizon one of the yachts she’d watched earlier upended, the prow pointing straight up before it vanished without a splash. The other seemed to be covered in writhing black snakes. Even as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing, the small vessel imploded, crushed to kindling and torn canvas within seconds.