the bed and staggered toward the toilet. His guts were on fire again and he could hardly stand. He got his pants down and collapsed onto the seat just in time. The little control he had over his bowels went and with a searing pain his rectum released what felt like sulphuric acid.
Afterwards he sat there trembling, too weak to move. His head throbbed appallingly and his limbs ached. I’m dying, he told himself. I hope.
When he’d finally managed to get himself back to the bed the door opened and Helman entered to make one of his periodic checks on Wilson’s condition.
“How are we feeling now?” he asked cheerfully as he put the cold end of a stethoscope onto Wilson’s sweaty chest.
“We are feeling fucking terrible. We are feeling even more fucking terrible than the last time you asked me.”
Helman made a clucking sound. “Now, now, Dr. Wilson, you should think yourself fortunate. Your reaction to Megacrine has been relatively mild.”
“Mild? Why, you great, fat, crazy.
“Yes, mild. We almost lost poor Kim.”
“Kim?” Wilson’s mind had gone blank. “Who the hell’s Kim?”
“Kimberley. Her heart stopped. Luckily we got it going again within less than a minute. No serious damage, thank God. She should recover all right.”
“Her heart stopped?” gasped Wilson as the meaning of the words sunk in.
Helman nodded. “It was a close thing.”
“Jesus,” whispered Wilson.
“The Sergeant seems to be pulling through okay though. His reaction has been even less severe than yours.”
“That’s marvelous,” muttered Wilson. He didn’t give a damn about Slocock. But Kimberley—the extent of the shock he felt on hearing she’d almost died surprised him. With her along the journey ahead had seemed almost bearable, but to have to make it alone with Slocock was unthinkable. Especially feeling like this.
He shook his head wearily. “How the hell are we going to travel any distance in this condition? I feel so weak I can hardly stand and from what you say Kimberley must be a lot worse.”
“This is just the initial reaction. You’ll feel better as your body adjusts. You won’t feel well, of course, and if there’s a mistake in your dosage these acute symptoms could recur, but I should say you’ll be fit enough to travel by tomorrow night.”
He took out a syringe and asked Wilson to roll up his sleeve. “I’m going to take another blood sample. If the test results are good I’ll give you something that will knock you out for a while. By the time you wake up you should feel much better.”
Wilson woke up feeling terrible. True, he didn’t feel as sick as before, but he still felt pretty bad. It was like a combination of the worst hangover of his life with an influenza attack. The thought of walking a few yards, much less flying to Wolverhampton, definitely did not appeal to him.
He pressed the buzzer beside the bed. Shortly Helman came bouncing into the room, looking as cherubic as ever. Wilson remembered the fungus-covered cats in the laboratory.
“Ah, good! You look lots better.” He gave Wilson a quick examination and then said, “Come and see the others. They’re awake too.”
Feeling dizzy, Wilson followed Helman unsteadily down the corridor and into Kimberley’s room. She was propped up in bed and talking to Slocock, who was sitting on the end of the bed.
Wilson’s irritation at seeing them on obviously better terms was overshadowed by the shock of Kimberley’s appearance. He could barely recognize her. She looked shattered. Her face was pasty and haggard and her eyes were sunken and surrounded by black rings.
She gave him a weak smile. “Hello Barry, how are you feeling?” Her voice was like an old woman’s.
Ignoring her, Wilson turned angrily on Helman. “This is ridiculous!” he cried. “She can’t travel in that condition!”
Helman spread his hands helplessly. “I’m afraid she has to—”
“No, I won’t permit it! The Sergeant and I will have to go by ourselves!”
“You’d never reach London without me,” said Kimberley. “Without me to regulate the dosages of Megacrine you’d quickly become incapacitated.”
“I don’t care,” said Wilson. “It’s out of the question. I refuse to let you come with us.”
Helman pursed his cupid’s bow lips. “I’m afraid, Dr. Wilson, that you have no choice in the matter.”
Five hours later, after they’d rested and managed to keep down some soup, they climbed into the army Lynx helicopter that was to take them to Wolverhampton. This time they were accompanied by only the dour MI5 official.
Kimberley had improved a little but still looked terribly ill. She sat in the helicopter with her eyes tightly closed as if using all her willpower not to throw up.
Helman stood there waving as the helicopter lifted off. Wilson didn’t wave back.
11
“What is it?” asked Wilson.
“It was a ‘Stalwart’,” said Slocock. “An Alvis PV2 ‘Stalwart’ Mark 3.” He was impressed. Someone had done a hell of a lot of work on it in a very short time.
They were standing in a shed at a make-shift army camp on the outskirts of Wolverhampton. The center of attention was a large, six-wheeled army truck. It stood very high off the ground on its huge balloon tires, its angular front similar to that of a landing craft. It was amphibious and its built-in propulsion units could, Slocock knew, push it through still water at four to five knots. Slocock had driven one before—there were not many vehicles in the British army he hadn’t driven—but he’d never seen a Stalwart quite like this one.
Its rear freight section had been completely encased in what appeared to be half-inch armor and supported a gun mount. There was a smaller gun mount on the roof of the driver’s cabin. But the internal modifications were even more surprising, as Slocock saw when their temporary host at the camp, Major Buxton, showed them inside the back compartment.
To get in you had to go through a small airlock, just big enough for one person at a time. “When this is operating your anti-contamination suit will be sprayed with a powerful disinfectant as you come through,” he explained. “Make sure you wash all the stuff off before you proceed into the living section. I’m told it’s highly toxic.
“Sorry it’s a bit cramped in here but we had to cram a lot of extra gear into a limited space. Those bulges running under the two bunks are the spare fuel tanks. Fifty gallons in each.”
“Only two bunks,” said Wilson, “but there are three of us.”
“The third person will have to sleep in the driver’s cabin. But I doubt if it would be wise for all three of you to sleep at the same time.”
Slocock automatically swung his kit onto one of the bunks. There was a clink of bottles as the bag landed. Buxton raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Slocock had been breathing whiskey fumes on everyone since his arrival. During the chopper ride he’d got through a third of a bottle. It didn’t do much for his stomach or his throbbing head but at least it dulled the nagging pains in his arms and legs.
Most of the space was taken up by oxygen cylinders. “Your air here and in the driver’s cabin will be recycled, just as it is in a small submarine. There are two chemical carbon dioxide scrubbers that will extract CO2 from the air. You’ll need to bleed oxygen from the cylinders at regular intervals to maintain the air pressure.” Buxton indicated a pressure gauge on one of the walls.
None of them mentioned what would happen when the oxygen finally ran out. Then they’d have to breathe the outside air, and the only thing between them and fungal infection would be the unproven Megacrine drug.
The compartment also contained a barely concealed chemical toilet. There were no cooking facilities, but
