Showing posts with label World of Horror. Show all posts

Sunday, 19 April 2015

'Man's Best Friend' - part 2 of 2

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MAN'S BEST FRIEND

Part 2 of 2

Nik Morton

The dog’s home was a noisy, depressing place. Rather like a string of wash-houses. The four surrounding brick walls had been whitewashed, the concrete yard scrubbed. Dedicated girls in sweaters, jeans and scuffed boots struggled with meal sacks for the strays.

Inside the surgery Dr. Wallace, the female veterinary surgeon, greeted Pointer.

‘It must shake your girls pretty badly to put down so many of these waifs and strays,’ he began as Cheryl jotted notes. Dan stayed outside, taking photos.

As Dr. Wallace replied Pointer peered through the wire-mesh window into the courtyard. A girl had about twelve hounds of various shapes and shades on a multiple lead, shepherding them into a square building in the yard’s centre. Whether mere puppies or fully-matured, they were going to be done to death. Mercifully painless, but death all the same. He detected no anguish on the girl’s face; but he doubted if such a procession could ever be dismissed as just part of the job: inside, she cared. He switched back to the vet as the door outside slammed shut and the bolt crashed home. Under his breath he cursed all those people who bought dogs and then neglected them, let them stray, put them out at night, like the poor cat; those who found they couldn’t afford them, once their puppy-hood had gone...

‘... I’ve operated on many dogs, it’s my life’s work, after all,’ Dr. Wallace was saying in great earnest, hands wringing. ‘What you’re asking me to do – I must think it over...’

‘Agreed, Doctor. As you must realise, what I’m proposing would mean you couldn’t work here anyway. So, if you will excuse me, we’ll see about more suitable surroundings.’

***

‘Your dossier packs quite a theory, Mr. Pointer,’ said Sir Mark Stevens. ‘I pride myself on having an open mind. Indeed, I would not be where I am today were my approach to change not an enlightened one,’ he chuckled, more to himself than anyone else. ‘I would suspect that what you suggest we do – with your mysterious vet’s assistance – is, er, highly irregular... But I must agree it seems necessary too.’

‘Then you’ll give us full use of your theatre and equipment?’

‘Indeed. And some of my more trustful staff, to help with the EEG and what-have-you.’

***

‘You’ve hardly eaten, love,’ Judy berated softly. ‘You sure you’re not heading for something?’

‘No, it’s just – well, I’m tired. This story’s a tough one... No bloody breaks at all. This is the third day we’ve – ‘ He stopped. ‘Well, I’m whacked.’

Judy, knowing better than to question him further about a ‘live’ story, said, ‘Why don’t you take Rik out for a walk in the park – he’s pining, you know – it’s almost a week since you took him. And I don’t seem to get the time, what with the washing, Michael, shop-‘

‘All right, I’ll pop into the Anchor, have a pint.’ Reluctantly, he rose, fetched Rik’s lead. The handsome beast started panting and brushing his sleek hide against Pointer’s trouser legs as he buckled on the lead and collar. He felt a trifle guilty about neglecting Rik. It hadn’t been altogether because he was too busy or too tired. He hardly dared admit it to himself, but of late he had become wary, even a little afraid, of Rik. He only hoped that Rik hadn’t smelled the fear.

Later that night he felt ashamed, as though he had betrayed a trust: Rik trusted him as master and loved him and his family without reservation. Could he be as honest? He wondered.

***

Stray dogs were caught and tranquillised and vivisected. The docile ones were compared with the more vicious breeds, the savage waifs. The encephalograph showed little difference at all in their wave-patterns. Both types dreamed under sedation; certain stimuli affected them much the same.

They took cornea tissue from the accredited wild dogs, to test for rabies. 'Negative.'

Test after test proved the same: negative.

Pointer began to despair. Doubts crept in. Could the theories be wrong, after all?

Then, they got a break on the fifth day.

One of the violent dogs actually went berserk whilst under the EEG. In some quite indefinable way, it seemed to resemble all the others Pointer had seen. The snarl, the lack of mucus in the gnashing mouth. The beast was heavily sedated, yet the jaws snapped and the creature barked and growled, writhing until the EEG contacts were almost torn off.

But they had what they wanted. Testing a violent dog, proved to be so from previous scrutiny, they discovered that this one was similarly affected, though to a lesser degree.

As though some outside stimulus were affecting the brains...

Dr. Wallace indicated the marked differences on the EEG printout. 'These are normal alpha waves. See, they occur with a 10-per-second frequency... Now, look here... Notice the difference? These are delta waves, with a frequency of 5 seconds, usually indicative of cerebral tumours or epilepsy.'

Pointer looked up from the analysis.

Her steady grey eyes met his. 'Needless to say, these dogs were one hundred percent A1 - and are again right now...'

'Could it be some form of radiation poisoning? Or high-frequency sound, perhaps? Could it be that? The new jets, the Jumbo Concords?'

'I honestly don't know, Brian. But there's enough statistical fact with these here and Dan's photo-file to back up your demand for a more comprehensive investigation by the government. Of that I'm certain.'

'I hope you're right,' he said with feeling.

***

There was no respite for Pointer and his dog-tired team. With Daldry, they strode into the Minister for the Environment’s office, unannounced. Though he hadn’t been in London since his dismissal, Daldry was still well-known as an eccentric who said what he thought. He was also a man known to speak only when there was something worth saying: a rare breed.

The Minister chased away his petulant secretaries and offered Daldry and his party chairs, which they hastily drew up round the impressive ministerial desk.

‘Here are the facts, Minister,’ Daldry began. ‘The last time I spoke to you – when I had but an inkling – you said, obtain scientific proof… Well, here it is!’ he barked, heavily lowering the file onto the already cluttered desk ‘You run a similar filing system to me, I see,’ he added in an aside.

‘Yes, random,’ the Minister acknowledged, smiling. ‘I can’t possibly read all this now. What does it say, briefly?’

‘It covers – first-hand and otherwise – every reported dog-biting. It highlights the increasing number of stray dogs roaming the cities and towns – each listed in the Annex – which, as you know, will ultimately lead to a health-risk, not to mention the savagery many of these beasts have resorted to already.’

‘I’m aware of most of these problems. I’ve issued directives to the local gov-‘

‘You’ve done damn-all to correlate all this!’ Daldry snapped, fist-pounding the file. Pointer was enjoying this; it was a pleasant change to watch someone else endure a classic Daldry roasting. Instead of leaping onto the defensive, the Minister was looking quite unsettled. ‘Read the figures, the dates, the places, the facts, and you’ll see something very peculiar indeed…’

The Minister’s face dropped. ‘In what way?’

‘I can’t describe it.’ Daldry fleetingly turned to his reporting team, turned back again. ‘None of us can. But we feel something’s tampering with the brains of these dogs. We’ve jotted down a few theories – all pretty hair-raising, I’ll agree. But could the Army, for instance, be testing a new sonic invention? Or maybe another country’s trying out a weapon, experimenting… I know it sounds crazy, Minister. It could be the new jets. It could be a lot of things. We recommend that all loose dogs should be killed on sight – at least till it’s discovered what’s disturbing them, making them insane killers…’

‘Rabies – a new form, perhaps?’

‘Tests have eliminated all organic forms of disturbance,’ interjected Dr. Wallace. ‘When it comes, the interference affects their brains, Minister…’

‘All we ask is that something be done,’ Daldry ended.

‘Yes, I agree.’ The Minister sighed. ‘But I’m afraid I cannot see the PM acceding to your recommendations. You know how dog-loving the British people are. They’d never accept killing all loose dogs on sight. Never. Only in times of emergency, in extremis… If it were rabies, heaven forbid-‘ He shrugged. ‘You see, it’s so difficult an area…’

***

Judy had been sweeping autumn leaves in the garden when she heard the commotion. On entering the dining-room, she stopped dead. ‘Oh no!’ It was an absolute shambles. Their three-piece suite was ripped open, the standing lamp lay smashed. Michael’s toys were strewn all over the place. The table-cloth had been torn away, spilling a bowl of fruit. Curtains hung askew, chairs were overturned. And then she heard Rik’s low guttural growl and saw his tail whipping back and forth. The rest of him was concealed by the sofa. Already in tears over the damage, she wailed, ‘Rik! Get out of here! Get out!’ Incensed, she ran over, brandishing the garden-broom.

But Rik ignored her, just continued growling.

Then she saw Michael’s blood-spattered shoe, his toeless foot protruding…

She went cold throughout her body. Seconds seemed like hours as she forced herself to get closer, the blood pounding in her temples. At the full sight of her son she collapsed to her knees, pummelling the torn sofa in futile anguish.

***

Sitting in the back of Daldry’s car with the others, Pointer looked out the rear window as the Environment Minister descended the Ministry’s steps towards the Rolls. The chauffeur opened the door.

Dimly glimpsed through the tinted glass, Pointer noticed two beautifully marked Dalmatians in the back seat with the Minister, licking his hands. He was smiling. A freak of light caught the gleam of sharp canine teeth, white and well-honed.

Pointer couldn’t move. He stared, transfixed as an unnameable chill walked his spine. Dozens of the world’s most powerful people possess dogs…

***

'Now that you've been provided with the Funds required for your project's improvement, Aldebaran-Pyrrhon,' boomed the All-liege, 'I trust the results will be forthcoming?'

'Certainly, My-liege.' Aldebaran-Pyrrhon bowed backwards as was his planet's custom. 'Perchance you would answer a single query, My-liege?'

'Perhaps.'

'Why are we colonising Earth?'

'Obvious, physicist. Because it is there!' The All-liege grew stern of countenance. 'Now, how long before the beams can function as desired?'

'Oh, I'd estimate about one Earth-year - possibly less... Then we'll be able to control the human minds, make them kill each other without reason...'

'And we'll meet no resistance afterwards?'

'None whatsoever, My-liege.'

* * *

Previously published in World of Horror under the penname Platen Syder, 1974.

This is another of my ‘invasion stories’ I wrote in the 1970s, alongside ‘Gifts from a Dead Race’, ‘Can’t See the Wood for the Trees’, and ‘The Lights in the Sky’ – all of which have been posted in this blog.

I couldn't resist using Pointer as the name for a main character; this has carried over into my Avenging Cat crime series, where two NCA cops are Pointer and Basset, 'the dogs of law'...

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, you might like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat (2013), which features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’. He is also featured in the story ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.

Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as an e-book.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4&keywords=nik+morton

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton

Or you could try my co-authored fantasy novel Wings of the Overlord (by Morton Faulkner) currently available in hardback (5 good glowing reviews):

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Overlord-Chronicles-Floreskand-Morton-Faulkner/dp/1908483857/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1427540952&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=wings+of+the+overlord

Floreskand, where myth, mystery and magic reign. The sky above the city of Lornwater darkens as thousands of red tellars, the magnificent birds of the Overlord, wing their way towards dark Arisa. Inexplicably drawn to discover why, the innman Ulran sets out on a quest. Although he prefers to travel alone, he accedes to being accompanied by the ascetic Cobrora Fhord, who seems to harbour a secret or two. Before long, they realise that it's a race against time: they must get to Arisa within seventy days and unlock the secret of the scheduled magical rites. On their way, they stay at the ghostly inn on the shores of dreaded Lake and meet up with the mighty warrior Courdour Alomar. Alomar has his own reasons for going to Arisa and thus is forged an unlikely alliance. Gradually, the trio learn more about each other -- whether it's the strange link Ulran has with the red tellar Scalrin, the lost love of Alomar, or the superstitious heart of Cobrora. Plagued by assassins, forces of nature and magic, the ill-matched threesome must follow their fate across the plains of Floreskand, combat the Baronculer hordes, scale the snow-clad Sonalume Mountains and penetrate the dark heart of Arisa. Only here will they uncover the truth. Here too they will find pain and death in their struggle against the evil Yip-nef Dom.

Saturday, 18 April 2015

Saturday Story - 'Man's Best Friend' - part 1 of 2

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MAN'S BEST FRIEND

Part 1 of 2

Nik Morton

‘What is wrong, Chincho?’ Lady Elvira Blake asked the Pekinese as she cradled the animal in her voluminous breasts. The dog’s prominent eyes sparkled strangely, made her start for no logical reason. ‘Come, I told you, I’ve just today made my will – you’ll be well cared for when I die.’ And the loose folds of flesh about her jowls and throat wobbled like some ageing bloodhound’s. ‘So, cheer-‘

Her words were literally choked-off as the dog’s small sharp teeth sank into her old flesh. Unintelligibly, she squealed, tried warding the animal off, but the snarling Pekinese just clamped its jaws tighter onto her throat, the skin tearing. Within seconds, both Chincho and his mistress were covered in blood.

Wordlessly, Lady Elvira fell screaming to the Persian carpet, incapable of defending herself any longer, paralysed with fear. The winged chair toppled with her. Their combined weight was too great, crushing the dog beneath. Chincho let out one almighty yelp, his neck cracked resoundingly and then he was still, jaws gripping his mistress’s flesh even in death.

***

‘Come in, Brian, sit down, sit down,’ said Jack Daldry, Brian Pointer’s editor.

Gathering up the various unsolicited manuscripts and back-issues from the chair indicated, the journalist piled them on the threadbare carpet by the waste-basket and sat down. ‘You’ve got a nasty assignment again,’ Pointer accused.

Squinting over horn-rimmed glasses, Daldry looked chary. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You don’t offer me a seat – unless the job’s so bad I need to hear it sitting down, that’s why.’

Daldry shrugged. ‘You may be right. I don’t know on this one. But I do know my nose seldom lets me down, and I think we’re onto something rather weird...’

‘Do I need to take notes?’ Pointer asked, fishing in his tatty suit for his dog-eared pad.

‘No, my idea is too way out even for that – yet...’

‘Go on, then, Jack. I’m intrigued. Appetite whetted...’

‘As an ex Fleet Street man yourself, I take it you’re well aware of trends in newspapers?’

‘Naturally. There always seems to be a spate of similar incidents, accidents, etc. Fires, for example. You can have one massive fire, bad safety precautions, a lot of deaths. No sooner have the embers died than the nationals are reporting other fires, front-page terror banners with pictures. It doesn’t mean there’s been a sudden upsurge of fires – they’ve just latched onto topical news. It happens all the time.’

Daldry nodded. ‘That’s true enough – though a trifle cynical, I think.’

‘You forget, Jack, that’s why I’m not working in Fleet Street now – my cynicism didn’t appeal. It makes me sick sometimes too!’

Clasping his podgy hands round a number of newspaper cuttings, Daldry’s penetrating water-blue eyes held his. ‘Brian, bearing in mind what we’ve just said, I don’t think these incidents come under that heading.’ He handed Pointer the clippings.

Each was a report, some featuring alarming, snarling pictures, concerning vicious attacks by dogs. ‘Mad, starving guard-dogs?’ He eyed Daldry sceptically. ‘What’s nasty about that – apart from their keepers needing some of their own treatment?’

‘You sympathise with the dogs, then?’

‘You forget, I’m biased – I’ve had Rik my Alsatian for four years – and he’s as gentle as a nurse with both Judy and Michael.’

‘Oh, of course. A lovely brute. How on earth did you train him?’

‘With time, patience – and kindness. Judy got jealous at times,’ Pointer laughed.

‘How old is Michael now?’

‘Four.’

‘Well, Brian, bias or not, bear with me on this. Look at the dates of the reports. The variety. Of course we’ve had postmen attacked before. But not on this scale. To my knowledge, there has never been an incidence of so many vicious dogs attacking people in such a short space of time... And look at the distance apart they are: Luton, Manchester, Portsmouth, Glasgow and Cardiff... Even docile spaniels and Pekinese have turned on their owners.’

‘Yes, it is quite a hefty coincidence. I’ll grant you, but – ‘

‘You don’t seem very impressed.’

Pointer shrugged noncommittally. ‘It’s unusual...’ Maybe Jack Daldry was going a bit crackpot, judging by this latest hair-brained idea. But Pointer still had faith in him – he’d been a damned good editor, who had increased his paper’s circulation when others were dwindling or folding. If he hadn’t been so stupid as to dally with that press lord’s wife and subsequently get thrown out on his ear, he’d be a rich man and retired by now. Instead, he was in this backwater town, mooning over some outlandish theory of ferocious dogs with Hitchcockian terror tendencies. ‘Yes, Jack, I think it’s worth looking into.’

‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

‘I’ll get onto it right away.’ He closed the door; the hammered glass pane rattled. Pointer paused, thoughtful. The poor blighter... Still, why not get a story on the front page for a change? He’d been so wound up with the seamier side of things, producing centre-page exposes that he hadn’t had a front-page headline story in over three months.

I’m slipping, he thought, stuffing the cuttings into his jacket pocket.

***

'What are all those cuttings for?' Judy asked Brian after their meal. Michael was getting ready for bed, saying goodnight to all his toy soldiers. Rik cocked an ear at the tone of Judy's voice but didn't move, just lay with muzzle flat on the rug, wolf-like features relaxed.

'Been through my pockets, darling?' Pointer asked with a smile.

'This one's from the Standard - it's atrocious. If you worked for them - !'

He picked up the crumpled paper ball from where she'd flung it, glanced down. Yes, he'd heard about this particular story. The Standard, a rival paper, had been pursuing the dog-terror campaign with irresponsible fervour. Most papers fell into the trap, at one time or another; an obsession with some newsworthy sensational item.

'Why did they print such pictures for children to see?' she asked, clearly upset.

Pointer rose from the table. 'Shock tactics, love - and sometimes it works. If people treated dogs more carefully, more gently...' He sighed. 'I'll tuck Michael in, while you do the dishes.'

Judy's anger subsided. 'All right.'

Talbot, his opposite number on the Standard, had covered the story. He'd told Pointer all about it over a couple of stiff drinks, hands shaking at the memory: and Talbot had been a veteran war correspondent in Malaysia and the Middle East! The story had been pieced together from eye-witness accounts.

The Raegan family, mother, father, Grannie and young Amie had been motoring along the M6 together with their pet golden retriever, Paddy. Grannie was feeding both Annie and Paddy pieces of milk chocolate in the back when the dog suddenly went berserk and bit into Amie's wrist. The father, distracted by the screams, accidentally slewed the car into a left-hand lane, barely missing an approaching Renault. Paddy let go as the father decelerated and regained control of the car. Behind, the Renault's horn blared. Then, Paddy leapt over the seat, savaged father's ear. The car squealed as he instinctively jammed on the brakes. They veered right, into the fast lane - and collided with a speeding unattached lorry cab.

Talbot arrived on the scene at the same time as the firemen. They had to cut the only survivor out. Grannie needed a leg amputation. But what stuck in Talbot's mind, what impelled him to order numerous stiff drinks, was the sight of the heads through the shattered windscreen - mother's, father's and the dog's, its teeth still sunk into the father's jaw...

This was the shock-photo featured in the Standard.

And as Pointer tucked in his son he thought of Rik, of the times he'd rolled on the carpet, playing, his forearm lightly gripped in Rik's formidable jaws. For fleeting seconds, as the dog's hot breath warmed his face, he'd wondered about the animal ferocity behind all that muscle and bone, but only fleetingly. After all, Rik was well-trained; Mac, a police dog-handler, had said as much himself: 'No worries there, Brian.'

He switched out the lad's bedroom light. Bloody scare-mongers! he thought.

***

Sun streamed down onto the shopping precinct’s white paving flags. Prams and push-carts jostled amidst the crowds. Babies wailed and the rare street sellers tried eking out a living. The stomach-turning smell of hot-dogs wafted up his nostrils, onion-strong.

Pointer felt rather foolish wandering the streets, seeking evidence of insane dogs. There were certainly enough dogs around, if the soiled pavements were anything to go by. Pet poodles cuddled up against vast quantities of mammary glands and fox furs; the two guide-dogs leading blind masters he’d seen before turning into the main precinct; a stray mongrel scurrying through the milling crowd, tail wagging, on the scent of a friend or female. But not one of them appeared in the least sinister.

He did not know why exactly he stopped by the black Labrador sitting docilely next to a baby’s push-chair, its leash loosely tied to the chair’s tubular framework.

The dog’s red-circled eyes looked weary. The blonde child in the chair reached out with his chocolate-covered fingers and tugged the animal’s nearest ear. The Labrador turned slowly, a pleading look in its eyes. Pointer sympathised. Being on guard-duty – even for loved ones – wasn’t much fun, he mused.

Pointer went suddenly very chill, immobile with some unfathomable paralysis. Time seemed suspended. The animal’s hackles were up! In horrible slow-motion, the dog’s ears pricked up and its jowls peeled back from gleaming yellow-white teeth.

The child screamed, tried warding off the brute, without success.

Pointer felt his feet move, heard the drumming of his heart, and moved towards the savage beast, opening his mouth to yell and scare the creature. But his voice had lost itself somewhere.

The remarkable sensation faded, only seconds in reality, and he kicked the dog in its ribs, twice. Tail between legs, the brute whimpered and cowered away from its victim.

Ears flopping back where they had been, the Labrador looked at its handiwork and seemed to comprehend what it had done. Head bowed, the dog fled through the crowds, crying and howling.

Women passers-by shrieked. Probably they had been doing so before, but Pointer only noticed now. He was shaking from head to toe, cold with fear. Leadenly, he removed his jacket, covered the dead child just as the mother rushed out, her face changing as swiftly as a chameleon’s from rouge to white. He hadn’t seen such a look of unadulterated horror for many a year. As the police arrived, he wanted desperately to offer some crumb of comfort, but he couldn’t stay. Barging through the shop into the back room without apology, he became violently sick.

***

Old Ronald and his guide-dog had crossed this particular section of the High Street every day, barring Sundays, for over five years. And almost as religiously for those years, Mrs James from Ye Sweete Shoppe had chatted to him as they crossed.

This time was like any other. The elderly couple exchanged pleasantries at the kerb. Then the guide-dog rose from his haunches and led his master across the road –

‘Ronald!’ called Mrs James, grabbing the old man’s arm. ‘Wait!’

The dog instantly turned on her, bit into her ankle. To the accompaniment of tortured brakes, the No. 322 bus wailed to a halt. But, face blood-drained, the driver realised he had been too late. Afterwards, he was relieved before the bus continued on its journey; he didn’t sleep for many a night afterwards, reliving the tragic accident. He just couldn’t understand why the guide-dog should have led his master into the path of his bus… Nor why they found the dog’s teeth deeply imbedded in the old woman’s leg. For Christ’s sake, they’re supposed to be trained dogs!

***

'The attacks seem to be on the increase, Jack,' Pointer said, purple-ringed eyes betraying sleepless nights.

He watched the editor scowling over his latest report. It was uncanny, the way Daldry had a nose for the unusual, the extraordinary, long before anyone else... Yet, he was no sensationalist. The paper had reported on the various attacks, some of which Pointer had covered, but apart from issuing a plea to local governments to do something, he refrained from going out stronger. He had no wish to alarm the people. Meanwhile, other papers were featuring horror-pictures of mutilations caused by those deranged dogs. They were running a weighty crusade, particularly against the neglected guard dogs, usually the much-maligned Alsatians.

'MOTHER REFUSES TO HAVE DOG KILLED - and that's after the animal mutilated her little girl,' Daldry said, extracting from some clippings in the dossier Pointer had compiled. 'Twenty stitches she had, Brian. Twenty!'

He read another: 'STEER CLEAR OF ALSATIANS, THEY CAN'T BE TRUSTED' - SAYS EXPERT. Now is that sensible reporting, I ask you? We have a madman loose, do they then say, Stay clear of men, they can't be trusted?'

'Some folk never learn, you know, Jack. How many people walk up to a complete stranger's dog and immediately stroke it? A damned lot of them. Even with Alsatians. I suppose approaching someone's Alsatian and stroking it is a kind of personal dare, bravado, to show off to friends. Then they go up in arms when the poor mutt barks or growls. Maybe only sensational shock tactics will get through!'

'There's plenty of public outcry, certainly. At the moment. But what's the root cause, I'd like to know.'

'Well, a chap I was speaking to the other day told me some of the reasons. He left the British Security Industry Association two years back. He says there's no legislation; they want a licensing scheme to control all guard-dog operators...'

'Seems like a good idea.'

'Except that the Home Secretary turned it down flat. Quoted figures at them. It seems, of the 4,000-odd cases of dogs biting people reported in one year, only 81 involved guard-dogs.'

'So, are we wasting our time compiling this dossier?' There was a steely glint in Daldry's eye now.

Pointer shook his head, lips pursed. 'No, we carry on. It's not just brutal handlers turning guard-dogs vicious - the backstreet security firms - no, it's a damned sight worse than that!'

The editor smiled, pressed his dilapidated intercom's buzzer: 'Cheryl, Dan, come in, will you?' He turned. 'Brian, I want you three exclusively on this, night and day. I don't care how you go about it, but I want results.'

'Carte blanche?'

'Yes.'

Fresh-skinned and slim, chestnut hair loose and long, Cheryl rushed in and pecked Pointer on his raspy cheek. 'Jack's already briefed us, Brian. We're ready when you are.'

'Good.' Heading for the door, Pointer slapped Dan Pontiferi on the back with affection. 'Keep your camera loaded, Dan - this'll be a grisly one...'

Daldry watched them go and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He sighed, threw the latest edition savagely into the over-brimming wicker waste-basket.

The news-paragraph, 'HOUSING ESTATE TERROR DOGS' was on page three. Mostly in packs, some sixty-odd stray dogs had reportedly prowled a Newcastle housing estate, scavenging and attacking people. The Post Office had called off the regular delivery men, 'It's too dangerous,' a spokesman said. There was talk of using firearms.

'Page three!' Daldry seethed. 'One damned paragraph!' His rival news-editors were already tiring of the terror-dog story. In another week or so - short of the dismembering of an infant - the incidents wouldn't get any coverage at all. Or, just possibly, two lines alongside ads for peek-a-boo brassieres and Kung fu toilet paper...

***

To be continued tomorrow…

Sunday, 22 March 2015

'Can't see the wood for the trees' - part 2 of 2

CAN'T SEE THE WOOD FOR THE TREES

Part 2 of 2

Nik Morton

Ilex - holly - Wikipedia commons

Ilex, looking to all the world like a holly tree, sent his dispatches from Chequers:

Election in the offing. Parties equally divided: the upcoming SDP likely to cause consternation. Opinion polls predict that they will hold the controlling votes in Parliament. Plans afoot to carve up the country into a tripartite state.

Thirty-five miles outside Brussels, at Casteau: The secrets of NATO here at SHAPE are no longer hidden. Russian agents also possess this information. Follows...

Outside the white concrete and tinted glass buildings at the Manned Spacecraft Centre at Houston, a couple of saplings had great difficulty penetrating the sound-proofing, but eventually their ultrasonic capillary lifted details from the men of NASA.

At the Kapustin Yar cosmodrome there were only a half-dozen brother Larix larches. Enough.

Data seeped in continuously, night and day. Now the gigantic Sequoias were brimming full. They would shortly have to send out what they held so far, to make room for additional input. The picture was nowhere near whole; but it was emerging, clarifying...

Privately, Sequoia G pondered on the human designs on Space. Was that why the Conquest had begun?

Many trees, such as Acer in Oxford, moved at night, seeking out better sites. Movement was incredibly difficult and ponderous in Earth's gravity, though their hyper-sensitive antenna-like leaves afforded ideal early-warning of any approaching human creatures; the dogs they could contend with...

It was a sluggish business, a night-long ordeal. First, the roots that had continuously sought water had to heave themselves out of the earth. This was not easy. The roots' delicate tips had penetrated the soil with a corkscrew motion, circumventing rocks or simply heaving them aside or cracking them wide open with secreted dissolving acids. So they were deep, in some cases like the icebergs of the sea, two-thirds of their bulk submerged.

As their own scientists had long ago discovered, sonic-waves continued to exist long after their emissions, for it was impossible to destroy energy. Now, Salix was able to sweep the leaves of the newly harnessed vassal-trees of Earth and learn what they had 'heard'.

The broad picture possessed many promising aspects. Yet there was a gloomy side also.

Presently in existence were innumerable nuclear arms silos buried deep beneath the Earth's surface, poised, watchful, primed. True, most were targeted on ideologically opposed countries. Even Ailanthus, the 'tree of heaven' reporting back from China's Sinkiang Province, indicated that they were aiming at every Western country, including those in possession of merely token military forces.

But should an invasion from Space occur, it seemed logical to assume that all this weaponry would be speedily deployed in the defence of the planet in a common cause.

So Sequoia G was far from happy when he issued the 'send' message to his confederates. Within the breadth of a nanosecond, the entire mass of data collected hitherto was beamed out of the Earth's atmosphere, way beyond the planets of Neptune and Pluto, far off into Deep Space.

***

For two hours Roger seethed on the cottage doorstep. Where the hell was she? He stepped up and down the ash-covered driveway, trying to keep warm. It was forecast to be a grim, cold winter. Though only the first week in October, there was a nasty bite to the air. His thoughts repeatedly reverted to that day only two weeks ago, in Port Meadow. It seemed incredible that it had been so warm then.

He must make Pauline see sense. She can't possibly be happy with Michael deVille. She must have realised, he told himself, he wouldn't just be content with her brush-off on the phone. After all they had meant to each other, to end it with an impersonal phone call? Had meant to each other? But he still loved her! There's irony for you. At first he had enjoyed the chase. She had simply been yet another conquest. But that had backfired shortly after their first illicit night...

He pulled his glove back. She was due here with Michael well over an hour ago. Where the hell were they?

Impatience getting the better of him, Roger took a swig of whisky from his glove-compartment's metal flask.

If only he could end it amicably, like she had said. But he intended going through with the confrontation, baring their deception for Michael to see. It was a risk; he might alienate her completely. But he had to try it. He was desperate for her.

This is ridiculous! He shrugged inside the wool-lined car-coat. They could have had a puncture. Michael was too frail and impractical to change a wheel. And Pauline probably wouldn't be able to unscrew the wheel-nuts...

He slumped into the sports car. I'll give them five more minutes, he decided. Then I'll go looking for them.

Another whisky wouldn't go amiss, either. The act of scouring the road for them might cool his rising impatience. And, if they are stranded with a flat, his 'timely' appearance might serve him in good stead with Michael.

Five more minutes then.

***

It would take the Earth's astronomers some time to make out Arbor's shape, for there were few light surfaces on him to reflect Sol's rays, leaving his unlit mass to merge with the blackness of space. Only the gradual obscuring of distant stars would give any clue that he was there at all.

Arbor stretched about three miles wide, seven miles from topmost branch to his nether roots, with a mighty girth of six miles. He was travelling at maximum velocity now, forty miles per second.

Whilst sailing steadfastly through space, he was in the fall of his life span. He possessed no leaves, for they had provided the initial boost to send him on his way. Deep umber, pitted and scored, roots gangling and crawling to the fore, Arbor's gigantic naked boughs pointed abstractedly in the direction he had travelled. Silently, ominously, he moved through space, heading roots first for the blue-green orb of Earth.

Not long now...

At a distance of 933 million miles, Sequoia G's second transmission of massed data homed in on Arbor's central taproot. Hungrily digesting these facts in an instant, Arbor commenced evaluating, planning, deploying stratagems.

It was strange how trees - so closely resembling his own people - should be quite common on Earth and be trusted and regarded as harmless, planted in places of honour, thought of with sentiment, even love. Most strange.

The primary problem was to devise some method of effective defence against the Earthside nuclear weapons. Arbor decided to dispatch the information to the prodigious force to his rear. Fifty thousand warriors of his age and sagacity fanned out in a circular van and when eventually spotted would appear to any astronomer merely as a stray planet - until it was too late.

As the forward scout Arbor hoped the scientists with the Conquest Force would come up with something before he arrived.

In the meantime, his duty required him to issue authorised orders to Earth: As the building youth of our race, you were specially chosen for our preliminary thrust force. The time has now come for you to select your targets: Use utmost caution. On no account must any clues be left that would lead to suspicions being aroused.

Arbor steeled himself to pursue with the final directive: Those whose sacrifices entail perishing for our noble cause, our supreme Conquest, they will be honoured beyond their dreams. Their names shall go down in our Esteemed Annals as the harbingers of doom to all Earth people!

There, it was said.

***

'Christ!' Roger couldn't believe his eyes. He tried braking but he was too late, travelling too fast, reactions sluggish. He felt the reverberating dull thump and sensed the car jerk up onto its hind wheels and continue growling forward, up into the air.

Tyres screamed and burned. The ear-rending crash jarred his entire body. The seat-harness dug into his chest and stomach, made him retch, short of air, head spinning.

Shards of glass stung his face. Contorted metal creaked and groaned. His legs were numb. Drunkenly, he wiped his brow and his hand came away clammy, wet, red.

Through the mists of semi-consciousness, he peered between the splintered, starred windscreen, over the crumpled bonnet; the headlights had ploughed through the Daimler's front seats, embedding the engine deep in the rear.

He wasn't capable, but he wanted to be sick.

Acer, mortally wounded, struggled off the roadside into the undergrowth and lay down, shaking in unremitting agony. Dimly he remembered his duty, and rose ponderously, each movement excruciating, tearing his nerve fibres to shreds. Slowly, he sank his roots under the soil once more, his mission accomplished. Scarred, branches splintered and missing, Acer stood unbowed and proud, and died.

Roger was shaking violently behind the steering wheel when the police accident unit arrived. Pale with shock, he was mumbling incoherently to himself.

'What a mess!' exclaimed a case hardened constable. 'He's driven right through the windscreen!'

Paling, his companion replied, 'The other car. Looks like Mr deVille's Daimler - the Foreign Secretary and his missus...'

The voices barely penetrated. Roger sensed the constable's gentle hand on his shoulder. Forcing his lips to cease their maddening tremble for at least a few seconds, he whispered, 'The tree - it - it jumped into the road!'

Smelling the whisky-breath, the constable swore. 'Jesus, if I've heard that once, I've heard it a thousand times!'

* * *

Previously published in World of Horror, 1974 under the penname Platen Syder.