Lair

But the policeman ran by. The PE instructor could hear the thudding footsteps, the swishing as thin branches were brushed aside, the muffled cursing as the law officer became confused. Then all noises receded as the policeman passed his position and ran on towards the road. It was unbelievable! The man had missed him completely.

Mollison realized he must have been screened from his pursuer by trees or bushes before he'd slipped into the dip. He was surprised the policeman hadn't heard him fall, but guessed the man had been making too much noise himself. And the dip had been shielded by more undergrowth around its edges. It was a perfect spot to hide in, a perfect place for lovers. Yes, someone had obviously used it already for clandestine purposes there was a torn old blanket, twisted and leaf-strewn not three feet away from his very nose. And unless he was mistaken, that was a woman's shoe ... His eyes widened as the objects scattered around the small, hidden clearing became recognizable. There was torn, mangled clothing, another shoe a man's this time what looked like a pair of women's tights hanging loosely from a twig. A gold wristwatch. Why would someone leave a gold ? Whatever had caused the mental delay, it was gone now and he realized the full horror of what surrounded him.

Deep red bloodstains smeared everything: the ripped clothing, the blanket, the shoes, the earth even leaves on the undergrowth were discoloured. He knew the white gleaming objects were bones and the lumps of mushy substance that clung to them were flesh, but he could not understand why the bones did not form a recognizable shape; he failed to see that they had been torn apart, that the deep indents and the jagged endings had been caused by gnawing teeth.

He opened his mouth to scream but, partly because he was too stunned and partly because he still wanted to escape, no sound emerged.

Instead, he began to sob again and, when he finally found the courage to take his hands from his face and look around once more, an irrational question entered his mind and he began searching the clearing. Although their bones were scattered, they could still be pieced together and buried complete; but after a while he gave up. He couldn't find them. He sat and wondered where the heads had gone.

Ken Woollard trudged across the muddy farm towards the farmhouse. His usual ill-tempered disposition had been worsened by the unwelcome visit from the 'authorities'. One of them had been the head keeper, Denison, a busybody if ever there was, and the other a man from Ratkill, the pest exterminators. Asking bloody fool questions, meddling. Of course he had problems with bloody vermin what farmer didn't? But nothing he couldn't handle himself. He'd laid down poison two days before, immediately he'd discovered the remains of one of his cats. Lord knows what had happened to its companion he hadn't seen hide-nor-hair of it since. Anyway, the fluoroacetamide hadn't been touched and he'd discovered no new evidence of rats in the area, so why should he report any trouble to the two snoopers? The cat could easily have been killed by dogs. Or maybe a fox had been crazed enough to have a go. Or a badger. He didn't know of any badgers in this part of the woodlands, but with Epping Forest, anything was possible; new breeding grounds were always springing up. Some said they'd even seen a white deer roaming free in the forest lately. Yes, a badger could have caused the damage to the cat. Violent bloody creatures they were, when aroused.

Powerful. There were rats around, all right the loop smears in the barn were proof enough of that but not the big ones, not the Black rats. No, he'd have seen 'em. Big as dogs, they said. No way they could run around without being seen. Nelly had wanted him to report the trouble, but then she always panicked, the silly woman. She was a countrywoman, born and bred, and had never feared any living creature.

Until the London Outbreak, that is. That had shook her bad. She couldn't even stand mice after that. Just as well the two snoopers hadn't gone up to the house and asked her questions! She'd have told

'em, all right. She'd have blurted out everything. A good strappin'

was what she wanted. That'd make her hold her noise. Been what? seven years since he'd given her a strappin'. Ten years since he'd given her a good layin'. The land took it out of a man.

No, no trouble 'round here, misters, he'd told 'em. Nothing he'd call trouble, anyway. Of course he'd contact The Warren at any signs of unusual vermin activity. Be in his own interests, wouldn't it? The two men had departed satisfied, leaving the farmer sitting on his tractor staring thoughtfully at their backs.

Well, more poison would go down tonight, and a stronger dosage, at that. He'd take all the necessary precautions, but he wouldn't be panicked by them who knew nothing about working the land. He could take care of his own. Thing to take care of now was his belly. He was starvin'.

The farmer stomped his boots down hard on the cobbled yard, unloading the mud clinging to the under soles He wouldn't mention the two men and their questions to Nelly, she'd only get into a tizz and start naggin' again. He tramped across the yard, muttering to himself, wondering why he hadn't had the sense to pack up farming thirty years ago when he was a young man. His two sons, miserable bleeders both, had gone off as soon as they saw the sense of it. Merchant navy, the two of 'em. Should have been here helpin' him out. That's what education did for you. He paused at the front door of the farmhouse, an aged and crumbling two storey building, and lifted one booted foot, a hand held against the door-frame for balance. With a grunt, he jerked off the boot and let it fall to the ground.

It was while he stood there, balanced on one leg, that he became aware of the unusual silence in the farmyard. Not that farmyards were noisy places, but there was usually some activity going on. Now there wasn't a sound. Not even from the birds. Except... His head swung round to the door and he stared at the wood panelling. Except... for the faint scuffling noise from inside the house.

Curious, he placed his ear against the wood and listened. More scuffling noises, the sound a cat makes when scuttling across the floor after a ball of paper. Or after a terrified mouse. Perhaps the surviving prodigal cat had returned. Yet the noise was too great to have been made by one animal. Woollard stood erect and cursed himself, annoyed at the silly way he was behaving. He was acting like an old woman, listening at bloody doors! It was those two snoopers they'd put the wind up him with their bloody stupid questions about bloody stupid rats! He grabbed the door handle and pushed hard, barging into the narrow hallway without further thought.

"Oh, Lord God..." he said quietly, for once his anger overwhelmed by what he saw. The hallway was filled with black, furry bodies that wriggled and climbed over each others' backs, that scuttled in and out of doorways, that leapt up at the walls as though trying to escape from the squirming, tightly pressed mass, that ran up the stairs and tore flesh from the bloody shape that lay sprawled there.

Nelly's eyes stared down into her husband's, but there was no life in them. A hand still clutched at the bannister rails and held her in that position, halfway up the stairs, on her back, as though she had slipped while fleeing, turning and grabbing for a rail as the rats dragged her back down, nipping at her legs, running up her body, sinking their teeth into her breasts.

Even as he watched, her fingers began to open as one creature ate its way into the tendons of her wrist, and she began to slide down, the dark bodies coming with her, refusing to let go of their prey. Her head was held up as though she was unwilling to take her eyes off him, but he saw it was because of the rat burrowing under her chin, pushing up the jaw as it worked its way inside.

She slumped to the bottom of the stairs, her knees high, feet held by the mass of bodies in the hallway, her head now rolling sideways, mercifully breaking the spellbinding gaze on him.

The farmer ran forward, his anger finally breaking forth, the one boot he wore stomping down on the vermin's backs. He slipped, for there was no firm footing, the floor a moving carpet of bristling fur, and his hands clutched desperately at the walls for support. He was on his knees, trying to crawl forward through the creatures, but they struck out at him with sharp incisors, clinging to him as their companions had clung to his wife.

The farmer moved forward, slowly, painfully, his exposed foot already torn and shredded. He tried to keep them away from his face, but his hands were weighed down by bodies and he was unable to even lift them from the floor. He became motionless, resting there in the hallway on hands and knees, unable to see his wife beneath the sea of black creatures. Soon the weight of the rats on his back crumpled his body into a heap and he too disappeared beneath the ever-moving mass.

NINE

Fender looked into the open grave and shuddered. The remains of what were once two human beings lay down there, their bones stripped almost clean. The identity of the skeletal corpse still half-inside its coffin was known to the group of people in the graveyard it was an old woman who had been buried the day before but they could only guess the identity of the second. It was an educated guess though, for the vicar of the Church of the Holy Innocents could not be found.

Blood had soaked into the walls of the grave giving the soil a rich viscous quality; the shattered wood of the coffin lid was stained red.

Fender wondered how it had happened. Had the vicar, on his way to his early morning devotions inside the church, heard the noises coming from the graveyard and gone to investigate? Had he fainted when he had seen what was happening and fallen into the grave? Or had he been pushed into it? Could rats, no matter how large, have caused this? Fender shook his head in disbelief. Rats were not burrowers; they wouldn't dig into the earth to reach a corpse. At least, normal rats wouldn't.

A voice broke into his thoughts. "Mr. Fender? I'm told you can throw some light on this."

Fender almost smiled at the policeman's solemn optimism. "I'm not sure," he said. He turned away from the grave and walked towards the single, foot-high railing that bordered the church grounds, the uniformed policeman following. Fender squatted on the iron bar and ran a hand across his rough chin. He could see the group of people near the entrance to the graveyard, all eyes turned away from the open grave. Whitney-Evans was there, so was Alex Milton, both deep in conversation. Denison was talking to Eric Dugdale, the safety inspector, obviously making a report of their fruitless questioning that morning. There were several other figures that Fender did not recognize but assumed were staff from The Warren offices. Jenny was being consoled by the senior tutor from the Centre, Vie Whittaker, who had an arm around her shoulders and was talking to her quietly. Why didn't he get her away from this bloody place, Fender asked himself.

"Can you help, sir?" the policeman hovering over the rat catcher prompted.

Fender looked up at him and shrugged. We think it was rats," he said.

The uniformed man paled visibly. "Do you mean Black rats? The ones that were in London?"

Fender nodded. "It seems likely."

He stood once again and faced the policeman. "Look, I think you'd better get whoever's in charge of your station down here right away.

Things are going to start happening and the sooner the local police are involved the better."

"I'll get on the radio now. But is there any more you can tell me before I do?"

"Only that I'm from Ratkill and at the moment investigating evidence of Black rats in the forest. I think this confirms it beyond all doubt."

"Bloody hell! Why weren't we informed?" The colour had returned to the policeman's face with his anger.

Fender held up his hand in apology. "Sorry, but nothing was confirmed until now. We didn't want to cause a panic."

The policeman turned away in disgust. "All the bloody same, you lot,"

Fender heard him say as he stomped off.

"Just a minute," he said, bringing the policeman to a halt. "You're not to mention what I've told you to anyone."

"If you think..."

"Not to anyone. I'll speak to your inspector when he gets here.

Clear?"

The policeman's answer was unintelligible, but it was obvious he understood.

"Now," Fender went on. "Who discovered the ..." the word was hardly appropriate but he used it anyway'... bodies?"

The policeman pointed towards an elderly man standing uneasily on the fringe of the group near the gate. The old boy over there. He maintains the grounds around the church. It's frightened the life out of him."

"I'm not surprised. Where did he report it from?"

The rectory. He went there to tell the vicar. Fortunately, Mrs.

Paige, the housekeeper, was in. She told us she hadn't seen the vicar all morning that's why we think it could be him down there." He nodded towards the freshly dug pit.

"Okay. You'll have to keep them both quiet for the moment."

"Are you kidding? Half the forest knows by now. Mrs. Paige has probably been on the phone all morning. The bloody forest superintendent was up here almost as soon as we were."

"All right, but they don't know about the rats yet, do they?"

"Of course not'

Then that's the way it has to stay for the moment."

"Until when?" The policeman's tone was belligerent.

Fender sighed. "Until we start moving the people out. Look, I know how you feel. I'd like to get this out into the open right now, myself; but things have to be organized first'

Recognizing the frustration in the rat catcher words, the stiffness left the policeman's voice. "Fair enough, Mr. Fender. We'll do our best." He strode off towards his patrol car.

Fender walked over to Jenny and Whittaker, conscious of the shock they were in. The girl managed a weak smile as he approached.

Will they do something, Luke?" she asked. "Will this make them act?"

Yes, Jenny, they'll do something more constructive now. They'll have to."

What happened, Fender?" asked Whittaker. "Could rats really have done that?"

"I think the Black rat could. It's obvious they were after the dead body, although how they knew there was a fresh corpse down there beats me. The other person if it was the vicar presumably disturbed them and they got him too."

"But, rats digging?"

"I know. I've never heard of it either. But it sure as hell wasn't the vicar digging the body up no spades around."

"Fender, may we have a word?" It was Whitney-Evans' voice calling.

"Be right there," Fender answered. Then he turned back to the two tutors. Why don't you take Jenny back to the Centre," he said to Whittaker. "She should rest after a shock like this."

"I'm okay, Luke," the girl said.

"He's right, Jenny." Whittaker looked concerned. "Let's get away from here."

She reluctantly agreed but gazed up earnestly into Fender's face. Will you be coming back, Luke? I'd like to talk to you."

Fender nodded. You'll be seeing a lot of me from now on, Jenny."

Whittaker frowned, unsure of the meaning in Fender's words. "Come on Jenny, let's go," he urged, and gently led her away from the church grounds.

Tender." Whitney-Evans again.

"Coming," the rat catcher said wearily, and walked over to the superintendent and the Warden of the Conservation Centre.

"What caused this?" Whitney-Evans demanded to know.

What the hell do you think caused it?" replied Fender, anger broiling.

You think it was the rats?"

"I'm bloody sure it was."

There's no need to adopt that tone, Fender. I'm only asking your opinion."

"My opinion didn't count last night'

"Of course it did. We took the correct action."

"We could have avoided this."

"Perhaps. I still maintain, from the knowledge we had at the time, that we took the appropriate action. Now, is there definite proof the Black rat was involved in this terrible business?"

Fender stared at him in disbelief. "No," he said deliberately. "I believe there's a tribe of cannibals living in this forest and last night or some time this morning, they decided on a little feast."

The superintendent's face became outraged. There's absolutely no need for your ill-manners, Fender. Just who do you think you are to talk to me in this way?"

Fender controlled his anger and ignored him. He turned to the Warden.

"I suggest we set up an operational HQ at the Centre immediately, Mr.

Milton. If you could start by sending any classes you may have back to their schools, I'll get things organized from the Ratkill end. I've asked the constable to get his station inspector over here I think he should be put fully in the picture ..."

"Aren't you exceeding your authority?" Whitney-Evans interrupted.

"My job is to prevent another Outbreak, Mr. Whitney-Evans, and I answer only to my organization and the government in times of emergency. My authority overrides that of any outside bodies. If you want me to produce the official papers giving me that power, they're in my car. I can

That won't be necessary. But I think there should be another meeting before you put any plans into action."

"Oh, we'll have another meeting all right. And another. Then another.

But while we're talking, I'm going to make sure something is happening.

You can help by calling in all your staff. Anyone connected with the forest, not just the keepers. Someone, somewhere, in the forest must have seen signs of these rats. I want to know when and where."

This time Alex Milton spoke up. "Why, Mr. Fender? How will that help?"

We have to find a pattern. We have to know their haunts, their hunting-grounds. Rats are scavengers and if they find a good source of food, they'll stick to it until it runs out."

"But we've had no reports of damage or losses," said Whitney-Evans.

"Not serious losses, anyhow."

Fender shook his head. "No, that's what I don't understand. I'll need to speak to the farmers I questioned this morning again. I think one or two may not have been exactly honest."

"Surely not?" said Milton. The farmers know how serious the vermin problem is."

"Yes, and they know how serious it is to have their farms put in quarantine. They'd suffer heavy losses."

What then?" asked Whitney-Evans. What if someone admits they have had trouble?"

Then we can start pinpointing locations on a map. We already have three the Centre itself, the pond and this graveyard. We can begin to work out their boundaries, trace their movements. It'll give us a more defined area to work in. You see, to eliminate the rats, we have to find where they're coming from, we have to rout them out. So our priority is to find their lair."

TEN

It was early evening before the meeting finally got under way and the Centre's small lecture hall, though less than full, seemed crowded to Fender. He quickly scanned the many anxious faces, estimating there were over thirty people present. Personally he would have chosen a more select gathering; in his experience, the bigger the crowd, the more confusing the outcome. He supposed, however, each was necessary to the operation to be discussed.

He recognized the Private Secretary for the Ministry of Defence, Robert Shipway, talking with Antony Thornton from the Ministry of Agriculture, at a long table hastily brought in for the occasion from the Centre's library. Beside them sat the Director-General of the Forestry Commission with one of his commissioners and someone from the Department of the Environment Fender could not remember his particular title, nor the names of any of the three. Whitney-Evans was seated next to Stephen Howard, Alex Milton sitting slightly away from the table. The police commissioner for the Essex area occupied the other end of the table, together with Mike Lehmann and a major from the Armed Forces. It was to be a high-powered meeting and Fender could already see that Stephen Howard was revelling in it.

The others in the room sat facing the select group at the table in the lecture hall's rows of rising seats, Fender among those in the front row. Eric Dugdale of the Safety Inspectorate was there with two members of his staff; several local councillors spoke together in hushed voices; the inspector from the area's nearest police station sat in deep silence; Charles Denison, seated next to him, equally silent; Vie Whittaker and an attractive, middle-aged woman introduced earlier to Pender as Alex Milton's wife, Tessa, sat immediately behind. Other seats were taken up by several men referred to as Verderers of Epping Forest, and a few members of the community considered important enough to be invited along. Thankfully there were no journalists present, but Fender knew it would not take long for the story to break.

The general low-voiced din was interrupted by Antony Thornton tapping sharply on the table top with the blunt end of his fountain-pen.

"Gentlemen, I think we should proceed with the meeting without further delay. I believe everybody who should be here is here." He looked around at the forest superintendent and Stephen Howard for affirmation.

Both men nodded.

Thornton continued. This is just a general meeting to let everyone who will be concerned with the operation know exactly what is happening.

Details will be discussed in subsequent smaller gatherings by those directly involved." He paused and looked around, his voice losing some of its briskness. "Most of you have some idea of why you were called here, but for the benefit of those who haven't, I'll start at the beginning. Over the past few days, damage has been done that suggests a powerful vermin is at large. Droppings have been found which indicate the vermin is the Black rat."

A buzz of voices broke out behind Fender. Thornton held up a hand to still them.

Yesterday, three of the creatures were sighted by a tutor of this Centre. It was not a definite sighting..." Fender flinched '... so we thought it wise to investigate further before pushing the panic button."

Where were they seen?" a voice from the back asked.

"Quite near here." Thornton looked towards Whitney-Evans who said: "A small pond near the larger Wake Valley Pond."

Thornton continued. "Ratkill had already been notified and a rodent investigator, Lucas Fender, was at the Centre examining damage caused by these creatures when the sighting took place. He immediately searched the area around the pond and discovered the remains of a family of stoats; they had been slaughtered. He also examined the droppings left by the vermin at the Centre and his conclusion was that there was, indeed, a strong possibility that the Black rat was inhabiting a certain part of the forest."

Fender smiled grimly.

"However, in the meeting that followed, we all agreed that further more concrete proof was needed before we put into action plans for quarantine and the evacuation of the forest population."

"Couldn't my station at least have been informed?" demanded the police inspector.

Thornton regarded him coolly. "I'm afraid not. I repeat: we had no definite proof of their existence, therefore we deemed it unnecessary to alert anyone at that time."

"And is that your proof?" said the inspector, undaunted. The incident up at the churchyard?"

Once more, a babble of voices broke out in the lecture hall and Thornton's fountain-pen was tapped hard to bring order to the meeting.

"What does Inspector Reid mean?" asked a verderer above the other voices. "What happened up at the church?" The question had more effect than the fountain-pen and all noise died down.

Thornton straightened in his chair and looked stiffly around the room.

"Firstly, let me say this meeting will be conducted in an orderly fashion. We need to progress rapidly if we are to implement immediate action. Further questions will have to be put at the end of this statement and the subsequent statements by any of my colleagues at this table. Now, Inspector Reid, I will answer your question. Yes, the churchyard incident does give us further reason to believe in the existence of the Black rat in the forest."

"But it's still not definite proof," said Whitney-Evans.

Thornton turned on him with barely disguised anger. "Even you, Edward, can't close your eyes to that atrocity."

Would you please tell us what has happened?" It was the same voice from the back, obviously undeterred by Thorn-ton's previous remark.

The private secretary's head snapped round. The remains of two humans were found in the churchyard this morning. One had been buried normally yesterday and the other ... the other we believe to be the body of a Reverend Jonathan Matthews, vicar of the Church of the Holy Innocents."

A loud gasp went round the lecture hall.

Thornton went on, his voice brisk and emotionless. "Both bodies had been stripped of flesh. We believe the vicar discovered these creatures digging up the corpse and was killed by them. Indents on the bones and their fractured state indicate that sharp implements were used to tear off the flesh: sharp teeth in other words. What's left of the clothing is being examined to ascertain whether it was the vicar or not, but we fear there can be little doubt. Even more odd in this most bizarre of incidents, the skulls of both bodies were missing."

Thornton did not allow the disquieting news to disrupt the meeting further. "Although we still have only one actual sighting of these creatures, I think we can assume beyond all doubt that it is the Black rat behind these incidents. We know of no other creature in England that could cause such damage.

"Now, our plans to combat this menace. All homes in the immediate vicinity will be evacuated by midday tomorrow. The superintendent's men are at this very moment warning all householders to stay inside and keep their windows and doors firmly closed even to erect barricades if necessary. Many will obviously prefer to leave their homes right away, even though they are quite safe for the moment."

"How can they be safe with giant rats roaming the forest?" asked a councillor, leaning forward in his seat.

The rats haven't broken into any houses yet," said Thorn-ton, now resigned to the interruptions. "Besides, to our knowledge, they have only attacked one living person so far. It seems unlikely they would suddenly go on the rampage after being undetected for all this time."

"But isn't it escalating?" the councillor insisted. "I mean, at first just damage to property, then killing other animals. Now they're onto humans."

Fender turned to stare at the man, realizing he was right. Considering the rats had not been seen in the forest before yesterday, there seemed to be a rapid and frightening increase in their activity.

"I think the vicar was attacked because he disturbed them," replied Thornton. "He may even have foolishly tried to chase them off. No, I'm sure people will be safe for the moment -as long as they stay indoors. If my colleagues agree, I think we should start a phased evacuation: the immediate area first, then moving out towards the surrounding woodlands. Major Cormack will organize the quarantining of the entire forest, working in conjunction with the Essex and London police forces."

"How do you propose to keep the whole area out of bounds?" asked the director-general for the Forestry Commission. "I mean, there's over 6,000 acres of woodland to cover."

We'll concentrate on the logical area say within two or three miles of this spot."

"It's still a hell of an area."

"I agree. But there are plenty of broad roadways running through the forest; these can be marked out at various intervals. We'll also use helicopters for surveillance. I can't actually imagine anyone wanting to get into the forest once they know what's in there, can you?"

"I thought the idea was to keep in whatever's there," the police commissioner commented drily.

"Quite. But we'll come to that later. The Ratkill people will move in at first light tomorrow morning and it will be their job to root these monsters out and destroy them. But I'll let Stephen Howard, the research director of Ratkill, explain his operation." He looked encouragingly at Howard, who almost stood before he realized he was not addressing a public meeting.

What we'll need," he began, 'is full cooperation from everyone in the forest..." he smiled disarmingly '... and detailed maps of the whole woodland area. Most important will be plans of sewage works running beneath the forest, because you can be sure, that's where the rats will be. My crews will need army protection. Your Green Goddess fire engines, Major Cormack, will be invaluable; since they've been brought up to date with new, high-powered hoses, they'll prove ideal for protection that's one thing we can thank the last firemen's strike for.

Flame-throwers might come in handy, too, although I don't like the risk to the forest itself nor to my own men. They don't appreciate singed backsides."

The remark barely raised a smile around the room.

"My crews will all be wearing protective clothing, similar to but more advanced than that used in the London Outbreak. A team of investigators will go in first and find the likely spots, then the destruction crews will move in. I'll let Mike Lehmann, our head biologist, explain exactly what will happen."

Lehmann was uncomfortable under their gaze, but he struck out boldly.

"If it really is the new breed of giant rat in Epping Forest, then we're in serious trouble. And if these are the descendants of the Black rat from the London Outbreak and all the evidence points in that direction there are a couple of questions that need to be answered: how did they escape the annihilation of their species in the city; and how have they remained undetected for so long?"

They could have found their way into the forest before the extermination took place," the defence secretary suggested.

"It's possible, although the previous attacks suggested they were confined to certain areas of the city," said Lehmann. The other possibility is that they were somehow unaffected by the ultrasonic sound waves we used to draw the rats from their nests into the gas enclosures, and fled afterwards when they realized the game was up.

Nowadays the machines are used to drive the vermin away, not draw them in; but either way, our experiments with them at the Ratkill laboratories show that the ultrasonics become ineffectual eventually; the rats adapt, learn to ignore them."

"I must point out here," said Howard, 'that tests are still in progress with these machines. I think we can develop one that will be extremely effective once we find the correct wavelength or indeed, wavelengths."

To do that, we'd need a mutant rat itself. Our own over reaction killed them all off four years ago apart from the few that obviously escaped. We'd have been wiser to have saved some for study."

"Surely," said the defence secretary, 'you can experiment on ordinary rats?"

We've been doing just that," the biologist replied. "Unfortunately, the giant Black is no ordinary rodent: it's a mutation, its genes are different. They're not just bigger and stronger, they also have a high degree of intelligence. They'd need it, to have remained hidden these past few years. Of course, the fact that rats are nocturnal has helped; but what puzzles me is why there's been no evidence of them until now. Even more puzzling and, I may say, more ominous: why now?

"My guess is that after the mass destruction of their breed, the survivors developed an even stronger fear of man, which was passed on to the following generations. We already know of their abnormal brain-power. I'd say this has advanced with the new generations, too.

They've kept out of sight, foraged in places safe to them, left little evidence of their presence."

"It could be that there is just a small number of them," Whitney-Evans suggested hopefully.

Yes," agreed Major Cormack. "A small group would be hard to detect in a forest full of wild animals."

"It's unlikely," said Lehmann. The life-span of a rat is from fifteen months to two-and-a-half years; the female can have five to eight litters a year with as many as twelve new-born in each litter. She's ready again for mating within hours of giving birth, and the young ones reach the reproductive stage after only three months. You can figure out for yourself just how many could be bred in the space of four years."

Fender could almost hear the clicking of mental arithmetic going on around the hall.

"I think there's plenty of them," Lehmann continued, 'but they've gone literally underground. I believe they're in the sewer network beneath the forest; that's where we'll look for them. The perverse thing is that the normal Black rat, or Ship rat as it's sometimes known, is arboreal it can climb trees, high buildings; the mutant has been forced to live below ground. It could explain why they dug up the corpse at the church: they've learned to be burrowers."

"But that's impossible," Milton began to say. "It would take decades for them to evolve ..."

"For any normal animal, yes," the biologist cut in. We're dealing with the abnormal."

Thornton spoke. "So your recommendation is to tackle them at their source: the sewers."

Lehmann nodded. "If they're there. We'll pump gas into the network, using a proprietary powder that produces hydrogen cyanide gas when it comes into contact with damp soil or damp air. Our main problem other than attack from the rats themselves will be to block all holes leading from the sewers."

"I'm afraid many of the sewers have overflowed into some of the streams," said Whitney-Evans. "We've complained to the local authorities often enough."

Those outlets will have to be plugged. We'll need the help of your forestry staff to locate them and any other outlets from the sewers."

"Perhaps we can help too," said Milton. "My staff at the Centre know the forest like the backs of their hands."

"Fine, the more, the merrier."

Why not use rodenticides?" the defence secretary asked.

That could be our biggest problem, I'm afraid," Lehmann said grimly.

There are two main types we could use. One is of the single dose variety: sodium fluoroacetate and fluoro-acetamide, which is normally used in sewers; zinc phosphide;

nor bromide which is harmless to most other animals; arsenious oxide, which is dangerous to most other animals; alpha-chloralose, normally used only against mice. The big disadvantage with these is that rats have a built-in instinct against anything strange to them. We call it neophobia new object avoidance. It makes it difficult to get them to accept new bait. They might try it after a while, but only in small amounts. If they feel any ill-effects at all, they leave it alone completely. A single dose poison might just kill a few, but even that would serve as a warning to the others."

"And the other type of poison?" the defence secretary asked.

The others are anticoagulants. They kill by their reaction on the rodent's blood system: they interfere with a substance called prothrombin which causes the blood to clot when vessels are broken. The rat suffers a haemorrhage at the slightest damage to blood capillaries: a tiny scratch can kill it. Females having litters are obviously very susceptible.

Three kinds are in current use: Warfarin, coumatetralyl and chlorophacinone. They're administered gradually, building up to a lethal dosage. The rat gets used to the bait, feeds on it regularly, then suffers the effects."

"And all this takes time," said Whitney-Evans.

"Yes, but the process can be speeded up. However, that isn't our problem. Over the past few years, rodents in this country have been building up a resistance against anticoagulants. It began in a couple of countries on the Continent, now it's spreading over here. Luke Fender, there, has just returned from the North where he's been investigating the matter. Luke?"

The resistance was first noted in Wales and the Midlands, but now it's spread as far up as Cheshire and down to the south-west coast," Fender told them. We've bred Warfarin resistant rats in our own laboratories, but these others have developed their own immunity. The point is this: the Outbreak rats had developed that same immunity before gas was used as the final solution. It seems likely that resistance will be inherent in those descended from the rats that escaped from London.

That's why I agree with Mike: gas, providing we can trap them in the sewers, has to be the answer. If the machines can't be relied on to lure them out, we have to keep them in and destroy them there."

"I think we're all agreed, then," said Thornton. "Gas it shall be.

Gentlemen?" he asked the room at large. A murmur of assent was given.

A councillor raised his hand. "What about disease from these rodents?

How will we combat that?"

"I don't think we need worry ourselves about that problem at the moment," Stephen Howard said smoothly. The disease caused by the vermin at the time of the Outbreak was a particularly hideous distortion of Leptospirosis or Spirochaetal Jaundice. Fever first, before jaundice set in. The victim became prostrate, blind, then all senses were lost. Coma, then the skin began to stretch and tear, and the victim died. The horrifying thing is that the whole process took only twenty-four hours. Fortunately, an anti-toxin was soon produced, so we needn't fear the disease any more. The other, more normal rodent diseases are too minor nowadays to worry about. No, the main danger it would seem is attack from the beast itself. Of course, everyone "out in the field" as it were will be wearing protective suits." Howard reached behind his chair and drew out a large, mounted photograph of a dead mutant Black rat. "At this stage, I think it might be an idea to remind ourselves just what our old enemy looks like." He stood, resting the photograph's base against the tabletop so everyone could see.

Fender groaned inwardly. The research director was obviously enjoying throwing the fear of God into his captive audience. No doubt he felt it valuable to impress on them the dangers his company faced. It would make the company bill seem cheap. The move was effective. Fender could feel the shudders run round the room.

"Ugly brute, isn't he?" Howard said jovially. This is actual size.

Over two feet in length more than three, counting the tail; long, pointed head with deadly sharp teeth the incisors are particularly large; ears pink, naked, pointed. The fur is actually dark brown, but mottled with specks of black that give it the appearance, from a distance, of being completely black. It's much like the normal Black rat apart from its size, the main difference being its large brain and strangely humped back powerful hindquarters, you see. Its claws are lethal."

One of the forest verderers had gone deathly white. "My God, are they all like that?" he asked.

For a moment, Howard seemed flustered. "What do you mean?" he said.

"Are they all that size? It's monstrous."

"Yes. Afraid so. All that size."

Fender hadn't missed the research director's reaction and he was puzzled by it. He could have imagined it, but Howard had almost looked shifty for a moment. As though he had been caught out. Now he seemed relieved that the question was only to do with size. Fender frowned.

"I have a question." It was the police commissioner who spoke, a straight-backed, sombre looking man.

"Yes, Commissioner?" said Thoraton as Howard swept the photograph from the table and placed it behind his chair.

"Earlier, Mr. Lehmann was puzzled by the fact that the rats had remained hidden for so long. Someone else asked why their noticeable activities seemed to be on the increase. It all appears to be pointing to one thing, doesn't it?"

He left the question unanswered and there was silence around the room.

Fender cleared his throat. "Er, I think I know what the Commissioner is getting at. There does seem to be an escalation in the rats'

activities. Why have they been seen lately after all these years of hiding? What's given them their new boldness?"

"And your explanation, Mr. Fender?" Thornton asked.

"One of two things; or perhaps a combination of both. At the time of the Outbreak the mutant rat was motivated by the desire for human flesh. The new breed may also have decided it would no longer be dominated by man, or fear him as it had in the past. It decided to strike back.

They possessed a new brain-power and soon they had the essential ingredient which gives any army the confidence to become the aggressor: the power of numbers. Perhaps that was the real turning-point for them."

"I see what you're getting at, Mr. Fender," the defence secretary said. "You're suggesting the rats in Epping Forest have reached a sufficiently high number to bring out that aggressiveness."

"As I said, it may be a combination of two factors. They have the strength now, although I doubt they've reproduced in the quantity Mike suggests the forest would be overrun with them if that were the case.

These are a mutant strain: their reproductive capabilities may be different to that of a normal rodent. We know from the few groups left after the Outbreak that their reproductive system had been impaired either by the ultrasonic sound waves or their mutant genes, so it may well have become an inherent thing. The other factor is that the old blood lust has returned. Their strength in numbers may have triggered it off, or the taste of fresh animal flesh may have awoken an old memory, a desire that's been lying dormant for years. And if that's the case, the attacks are going to get worse. Remember, they've now tasted living, human flesh."

The statement caused a stir and once again Thornton was forced to use his fountain-pen as a gavel.

"I think it's time we got down to the details of the operation," he said. "I shall inform the Minister myself of what has happened and what action we shall take. There is no way we can keep this from the media, but I suggest that all statements are issued directly from my offices; perhaps then we can avoid alarmist reactions. Fortunately we have been alerted to the danger in good time; we are in a position to control the situation. There has been only one human killing so far let's restrict it to that number."

The next half-hour was spent discussing plans for the forthcoming operation, Fender and Lehmann putting forward their requirements for dealing with the vermin, the police commissioner and Major Cormack agreeing on the most effective ways in which to deploy their separate forces. Maps were brought in and ruled off into sections, phone calls were made, certain members left on various assignments, lists were drawn up. Things, Fender reflected with some satisfaction, were beginning to move.

He hardly noticed the Conservation Centre's secretary-cum-girl Friday when she nervously entered the lecture hall. She whispered something into Whitney-Evans' ear and he quickly left, his expression one of concern. He was back within seconds and brought an abrupt halt to the proceedings with a message that sent a chill through everyone present.

"I'm afraid I have some rather distressing news," he began, his voice grave, devoid of its usual pomposity. "One of my forest keepers has just returned. As you know, my men have been out warning the forest residents to stay indoors. He ... he visited a small holding not far from here, within a mile. The door to the farmhouse was open, but when he called out, nobody answered. So he went in. In the hallway he found two ... bodies, presumably those of the owner and his wife, a Mr.

and Mrs. Woollard. Identification was not possible because the bodies had been eaten; not much of them was left."

ELEVEN

Fender tapped lightly on the door. It was late, well past eleven, and there was nothing more anyone could do that night. The lecture hall was deserted now and only a few lights shone in the working area of the Centre itself. He had left the main building and walked over to the separate residential annexe. He knocked again, a little louder.

Who's there?" he heard Jenny's voice say.

"It's me. Luke."

The door opened and Jenny peered out at him.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you, Jenny. I couldn't get away any sooner."

"It's all right, Luke. I wasn't asleep. I'm glad you came." She opened the door wide and motioned for him to enter.

The room was small, two beds occupying most of its space with a door presumably leading off to the bathroom. A lamp glowed in one corner, giving the room an intimate feeling, and glass-covered but frameless prints, together with delicately painted ornaments, bestowed some warmth upon the functional interior.

"Cosy," he commented.

She smiled. "I share it with Jan Wimbush. We've tried to put some life into it."

"I've just left Jan. She told me where to find you."

"Where is she?"

"In the kitchen, washing up. She's had a busy evening."

Jenny looked angry with herself. "I should have helped her out. I'm afraid today's events have disorientated me."

"It's okay, Will has been helping her. They're doing fine. Are you still feeling bad?"

"No, I'm okay now. It was just the shock. The vicar's housekeeper came running round to the Centre, you see. The poor woman didn't know what to do when the grounds man told her what he'd found. I went there myself to check. It was so ..." She quickly lowered her face, forcing back the tears; she'd cried enough that day.

Fender felt strangely awkward. He wanted to hold her as he had done earlier, but he was unsure of her mood. One moment she was cold, reserved, the next she seemed to be reaching out, seeking contact.

She lifted her head, pushing away her anxieties. Would you like some coffee? You must be dead beat."

He grinned. "I could do with something stronger, but coffee will do."

"How about both? Jan and I always keep a bottle of scotch handy for our frequent mutual sob stories."

"You're terrific," he said.

"Sit down and relax while I get it." She pointed to the only armchair and he sank back into it with relief, closing his eyes and resting his head back. The tutor disappeared with an electric kettle into the adjacent room and he heard the sound of running water. "Have to be instant, I'm afraid," she called out.

"Anything," he answered.

Soon a heavy measure of scotch was in his hand and Jenny was feeding coffee and boiling water into two sturdy-looking mugs.

"Make it black, one sugar," he told her. She placed the steaming mug at his feet, then sat on the single bed, facing him. He took a large swallow of whisky and studied her, wondering how good her legs were beneath the tight jeans. Pretty good, if outward appearance were anything to go by. The baggy, loose-fitting cardigan had been replaced by a tight-fitting man's shirt, her breasts swelling against the material in a very un masculine way. It was her face that intrigued him, though: it was somehow both soft yet determined, her brown eyes liquid, but penetrating, as though she could see into his innermost thoughts.

"I'm sorry for yesterday, Luke," she said.

Yesterday?"

"At the meeting. I'm sorry if I seemed to blame you for what was happening. Or, I should say, what wasn't happening. I get so sick and tired of people who refuse to take on responsibilities, who are content to talk, talk, talk, and do nothing. I'm afraid I put you in with the rest."

"What's changed your mind? If it is changed, that is."

"Further thought. You did your best they just wouldn't listen."

They're listening now."

Yes, and look what it took to make them."

"It's the way things are, Jenny. You'll go mad with frustration if you don't acknowledge that. You don't have to accept it; just realize it's there. There are other ways to fight against it, whether you call it apathy, evasiveness, self-protection I call it fear. The thing is not to let it get to you."

"And you don't?"

He smiled. "I try not to."

She looked deep into his eyes. "Luke, what's going to happen?"

For a moment he thought she meant between them, their growing interest in each other; then he realized the feelings could be entirely one-sided from his side.

You mean the rats?"

She nodded and, from his initial hesitation, he knew she had read his thoughts. He carefully explained to her the details of the operation which was to begin at first light the following day and which would continue till all the mutant rats had been exterminated.

"So we at the Centre will be involved?" she asked when he had finished.

"I'm afraid so. We'll need everyone who knows the forest. Don't worry, there'll be no danger to you."

"I wasn't worried. I'd intended to stay and help in any way, even if it was only making tea for everybody. I can't stand the thought of them being in the forest, you see. Those monsters, feeding off the wildlife, destroying. They make the forest seem ... unclean. I despise them, Luke."

Fender sipped his coffee, the whisky having warmed the way for it. Why are you here at the Centre, Jenny? It seems a strange, almost lonely life."

"It isn't. Not really. I love the work, it's as close to nature as you can get without kissing all civilization goodbye. The children I teach are fun. And the staff are marvelous; we all work together."

"And Vie Whittaker?"

The old reserve came back into her eyes for a moment. What about him?"

"Oh, just a feeling. He seems to care about you."

"He does, but he's foolish. He has a wife but they're separated. Kids too." Her voice softened. "He thinks he's in love with me, but half his mind is still on his family. Sometimes I think he accepted this job to prove he's independent of her, but, I think soon, he'll discover he isn't."

"And you? How do you feel towards him?" He half-expected a rebuttal to his question, but she smiled sadly and looked down at her hands.

"I don't intend to be used in a situation like that. Not this time."

And there, he thought, lay the answer. At some time or other she had been involved with someone who had let her down badly. It explained her reserve, the coldness that sometimes masked and marred her true nature. The Centre was her escape, a kind of nunnery without the harshness or the religion. Nor the total rejection of the outside world. He wondered how long it would take for her to adjust again.

"What about you, Luke?" she countered. "Why aren't you married?"

"I love my work too much." "You hate your work." It startled him.

"Why do you do it, Luke? Why rats?"

"I told you yesterday: the money's good."

She shook her head. "No, that's not it. There's some other reason."

He drained the last of the coffee and placed the mug on the floor.

"I think I'd better make a move. It's an early start tomorrow..." he glanced at his watch '... I mean today."

She rose with him. "I'm sorry if I was probing." She moved closer.

"Really."

He smiled down at her. "I started it. I got what I deserved."

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Of course. I'll be pretty busy, but as of now, Jenny, you're part of the operation, so we'll be working together." And then he wanted to kiss her, but foolishly ridiculously he was afraid to. He hadn't felt that heart-shaking fear since he'd been fifteen, on his first date. It was crazy, but irrefutable: he was afraid his advance would be rejected. He stood there like a naive fool, too nervous to take a forward step. So she kissed him.

It was a light touch, and on the cheek; but a pleasurable shock ran through him dispersing his uncharacteristic timidity.

"Jenny..."

"It is late, Luke. Walk me over to the main building so I can help Jan clear up. Then you go and get some rest; it sounds like you're going to need it."

He relaxed, no longer the schoolboy. "Okay. I'm staying at the hotel in Buckhurst Hill. It shouldn't take me much more than ten minutes to get there, and only two minutes more to be sound asleep. It's been a long day."

But it wasn't over for him yet.

Jan Wimbush wiped the steam from her spectacles with the end of her sweater. All the cups and saucers were washed now, the ashtrays emptied and clean, the big table in the lecture hall wiped of all stains. Tomorrow would be a busy day but, thank God, there would be no classes and all the Centre staff would be helping.

Alex Milton had spoken to the staff earlier that evening, explaining the rat problem to them and how the Centre was to be the operational headquarters. If any of his members wanted to leave, they could do so he wouldn't blame them in the least. But their help was needed by the men who were coming to destroy the vermin. He had been assured by Ratkill's research director that there would be no real danger to the staff, providing they did exactly as they were told and wore the protective clothing that would be issued when outside the confines of the building itself. Everybody volunteered to stay, of course, most looking forward to the drama. The fact that the local vicar had apparently been eaten alive by the monsters seemed hardly real to those who hadn't visited the graveyard, although the warden did try to stress the deadly seriousness of it all.

The three classrooms had been cleared, the desks in each room pushed together to make two big tables. The laboratory itself was to be used as a storeroom for the gas tanks and rodenticides the Ratkill people would be bringing. The protective suits would also be kept there. The lecture hall would be used as the main operations room, while the library would be reserved for smaller, more select meetings by the inner committee.

Jan put her spectacles back on and tried to look out into the night through the large, single-frame window; all she saw was her own reflection. She didn't much fancy walking over to the residential wing by herself. Anything could be out there in the dark. Most of the staff had retired for the night, but Will Aycott had stayed to help her finish up. He was around somewhere checking that all the windows and doors were secure; he also had the keys to the main door.

Jan turned from the window, not too keen on her own reflected features, and switched off the kitchen light. Will would see her back to her room he'd tried to get into it often enough. Luckily, Jenny Hanmer was a good chaperone to have around in fact, they were useful chaperones to each other at times. Not that she disliked Will. Sometimes she wished she had her own room.

She wondered if Jenny was feeling any better. She'd had a terrible shock up at the churchyard; Jan wondered what had possessed her to go up there in the first place. She wouldn't have had the nerve. Still, Jenny was different. She had guts. She stood up for herself.

Will, where are you?" Jan called along the darkened corridor. There was no reply so she walked its length, peering into doorways as she went. The lights in the end classroom were still on, throwing a rectangle of brightness across the corridor. She marched towards it, assuming he would be there and hadn't heard her call.

Will, are you in there?" She peered round the door and saw that the classroom was empty. He must be at the other end of the building, near the library.

Jan glanced around the room, checking that it was in order and the sliding windows closed. The large windows ran the length of the building without a break on that side, compensating for the lack of glass at the front. Satisfied all was in order, she reached for the light switch, then groaned silently when she noticed the lone coffee cup resting on the work top beneath the windows. Will must have missed it.

She crossed the room and stared disgustedly down into the cup. Someone had dropped a cigarette end into it. Sighing, she looked up at her reflection in the black glass again, brooding on her physical inadequacies. Too thin, neck too long, chin a little too firm. No breasts to speak of. Her hair was too straight and always lank two days after washing. And the glasses. No matter how well she groomed herself for a special occasion, no matter what make-up she used, what perfume, how beautiful the dress, she always had to detract at least twenty percent of the overall effect by donning the glasses. It was unfair. Still, Will seemed to find her attractive; maybe she was being too hard on herself.

Jan suddenly had an uneasy feeling. It must have been the total, obscuring blackness outside, the lightless forest something to which she had never quite adapted. But now it worried her more than ever before. Obviously, the fact that there were monster rats roaming around out there had a lot to do with it; for her, Epping Forest had rapidly lost all its charm. She shivered. Silly, but it was almost as though the creatures were out there watching her. She leaned forward, pushing her face close to the window and shielding the light from behind with her hand. She stared out into the night through the shadow her own form had created. Then the window exploded into her face.

Fender and Jenny were just entering the main building when they heard the crash of glass and the shrill scream that accompanied it. They looked at each other in shocked surprise, then rushed into the reception area, almost colliding with Will Aycott as he emerged from the corridor.

"Where did it come from?" Fender asked, grabbing the young tutor's arm to steady him.

The other end. One of the classrooms."

"Come on." Fender ran down the corridor, Jenny and Will hard at his heels. They made for the lighted room at the end, further screams and scrabbling sounds urging them on.

"It's Jan!" Jenny shouted, fearing the worst.

Fender stopped at the doorway, his eyes widening and the skin at his scalp tautening. The two tutors crowded in behind and he held them back, preventing them from entering the room. Jenny screamed at the sight before them.

Jan Wimbush was dragging herself along the floor towards the door, her spectacles gone, her face a bloody mess, glass slivers projecting from her cheeks and forehead glinting like silver shards in the overhead light. Rivulets of blood ran down her arms and her chest was stained red. She raised a quivering hand towards them as though beseeching help, strange gurgling sounds coming from her throat.

Clinging to her back, weighing down her frail body, was a huge, evil-looking black creature. Its head was buried beneath the hair at the back of her neck, its shoulders jerking spasmodically as it drank in her blood.

"Oh, God, help her, Luke!" Jenny implored and she saw the rat catcher face was a mask of sheer hate.

"Get help, Jenny," he told her, his voice tight. "Don't go outside the building. Use the phone."

She stood there, mesmerized by the awful scene, and he had to shove her hard. "Move!" he shouted.

Fender held on to Will, feeling the younger man's fear, but knowing he was courageous enough to run forward and help the girl.

"For Christ's sake, we've got to save her!" the tutor shouted.

Fender motioned towards the window with his head. "Look," he said.

Perched on the work top before the shattered window squatted another huge rat, its body hunched, hindquarters quivering. It stared at them through evil, dark eyes. It was suddenly joined by another.

Jan's screams had died into a low, heart-rending wailing, and she still pulled herself forward, the pain in her neck pushing her on, her eyes imploring the two blurred figures to help her. She tried to reach behind her with one hand in an effort to drag the deadly weight off, but the creature ignored her feeble struggles.

"We've got to get rid of those two first," Fender said grimly, shutting the girl's cries from his mind.

"But Jan..."

The other two will attack while we're helping her. Come on, we'll have to move fast. We've got to prevent more getting in."

Fender pulled the young tutor forward towards the arranged desks in the middle of the room. "Quickly. Grab two legs we'll use the desk as a battering-ram."

As they snatched up the flat-topped desk, Fender glanced towards the broken window. There were now three rats perched on the sill.

He knew they would attack at any moment, for their hindquarters were bunched and trembling, building up pressure.

"Now!" The two men ran towards the window, the desk held before them, its top a strong, flat shield. They hit the vermin with all the force they had, sending them scurrying back, through the broken window, out into the night. But one managed to slither clear; it scrambled off the work top and disappeared beneath, scuttling into a dark corner.

"Hold the desk against the window-frame, Will. Don't let them get back in. I'm going to help the girl."

The tutor could only watch as Fender dashed away. He felt a blow against the wooden surface and the desk shifted back a few inches. His muscles stretched taut as he pushed it further against the frame.

Fender already knew the weapon he was going to use against the rat; he had seen it from the doorway when he had forced himself to think clearly and not be panicked by the situation. His loathing of the creatures had helped override his natural fear. He reached up for one of the metal skewers used for soil-testing mounted on the far wall of the classroom. They were between three and four feet in length, having a single-bar crossing handle at one end and tapering into a corkscrew point at the other, resembling an oversized wine bottle opener.

He ran back to the girl. She was still crawling, almost at the door now, but her movements were weak, her wail diminished to a dull moan.

The black creature clung to her,

oblivious to the two men. Jan suddenly rested her head on the floor, as though she'd given up, the effort too much. Fender prayed he wasn't too late.

He stood above the mutant, his legs astride the girl's recumbent body, and raised the skewer high, one hand halfway down its shaft, the other over and around the handle. He plunged down, using a slight sideways movement for fear of impaling the girl. The rat emitted a high-pitched squeal as the sharp point struck into its flank. Its pointed head arched upwards, its mouth wide, revealing blood-soaked teeth, red liquid spurting from its throat as it choked.

Fender used all his weight, pushing hard, sinking the skewer deep, dislodging the squirming creature from its perch. It fell against the floor, claws tearing at the wood surface and causing long scars. Fender began to twist at the handle, the corkscrew point churning into the rat's intestines, bursting through its stomach, sinking into the floor itself.

The mutant rat struggled, its squeals almost pitiful, childlike; but Fender did not relent until the skewer was imbedded into the floor, pinning the black creature there, its struggles becoming weaker until they became just a nerve-twitching reaction. He left the improvised weapon standing rigidly upright and bent down towards the girl. He winced at the sight of her mutilated face when he turned her over. Her eyes were closed, but he was relieved when a low sob escaped her.

"It's all right now, Jan," he softly told her. "You're safe."

Fender knew he had to stem the flow of blood from the back of her neck if she were to survive her ordeal. He turned her over again and parted the blood-clotted hair to examine the damage. He almost retched when he saw the open wound. The top of her spine was exposed but, fortunately, the rat had burrowed beside it and not into it. She would have been permanently paralysed, if not killed, if it had. He reached for a handkerchief and placed it over the wound, pressing it against the flow of blood.

"Luke, help me, help me!"

The rat catcher whirled at the sound of Will's voice and saw a rat biting into the young tutor's calf. Will's arms were still pushing at the upturned desk and Fender could see the claws and pointed snout of a mutant on the outside as it balanced on the window-sill trying to push its way through the narrow gap between table and frame on that side.

The tutor was kicking his leg out, afraid to let go of the desk; the rat refused to be shaken off.

Fender quickly looked around for another weapon and his eyes rested upon the red and white surveyor's stakes propped up in one corner. They were at least five feet long and about two inches in diameter; these, too, had pointed ends for sinking into the ground. He hurried over and grabbed one, the others clattering to the floor as he disturbed them.

Holding the stake before him like a lance, the rat catcher ran at the rodent clinging to Will's calf and struck. The point slid off the rat's back, cutting a red groove beneath the bristling, black fur. It lost its hold on the tutor and turned to face its aggressor, long front teeth baring in a ferocious snarl, one front paw raised, claws outstretched.

Fender poked at it with the stake, aiming for the eyes, trying to blind it. The rat tried to duck beneath the point, but Fender immediately lowered it, keeping the creature at bay. He stabbed again, striking at the head, hoping to pierce the skull, but once again, the blow glanced off. It caused the rat to stagger back though, and Fender pressed his advantage, stepping forward, pushing, stabbing.

The mutant reared up and it was frightening to see its full length.

Fender aimed for the stomach, but the rat fell back wards, turning over and scrambling round to face its assailant again. It clawed at the tormenting stake, its jaws open wide, hissing a stream of pink-flecked saliva. Fender lunged, the point disappearing into the creature's mouth and cutting into the throat.

Once more, the rapid, high-pitched squealing as the rat scuttled backwards, trying desperately to escape the choking weapon. Fender went with it, not allowing the rat room to break free, but it suddenly shook its body violently, twisting and turning until it was loose.

Fender struck again and this time the point cut into the creature's hindquarters, penetrating, but not deeply. The rat broke away and scuttled for the open doorway, passing between the impaled rat and the limp body of the girl.

"Luke, I can't hold them off much longer," came Will's desperate cry.

Fender hurried over to the young tutor who was ignoring his leg wound and keeping his arms taut against the desk, his hips resting against the work-top unit. Fender struck out at the lethal-looking claw curling around the wood and when it disappeared, helped Will to shift the desk along, filling the gap.

Will, can you get to Jan? Drag her out into the corridor?"

What are you going to do? You can't hold them off forever."

"Pretty soon they're going to have the sense to break through the other windows. That's how they got in in the first place. When they do we'll have no chance this room will be swarming with them."

He gasped as a body thudded against the other side, the desk-top juddering and moving back an inch. They pushed it back.

"Get the girl out, Will, then stand by the door. I'll be coming through fast and you'll have to get it closed behind me."

"Okay. Ready? I'm going to let it go now."

Fender redoubled his efforts as the bodies thudded against the wood. He could hear claws scrabbling at the surface as they ran up its length.

"Hurry, Will, for Christ's sake hurry."

The young tutor limped towards the prone body, his teeth clenched against the pain, his face deathly pale. He almost wept when he turned Jan over and saw the damage the broken glass had done, but he knew there was no time for grief. He grabbed her beneath the shoulders and, in a half-crouched position, began to drag her through the doorway.

"Look out for the rat that got into the corridor," Fender warned him.

The pressure against the table was becoming too much, the thumps against it increasing in frequency. He propped the bright-coloured stake against the wood, hoping it would hold the desk in position long enough for him to make it to the door. Then the indescribable happened.

The long windows on either side all shattered at once. The noise of falling glass was deafening and the sight of the black, furry bodies hurtling through, squealing their fury, skidding off the work top onto the floor, was almost enough to make his heart stop beating.

Fender ran.

The rats were too stunned and confused to attack at once, and Fender gave them no second chance. He dived when he was still feet from the door, rolling into the corridor and crashing against the wall opposite.

"Shut it!" he screamed, and Will lost no time in doing so.

The door rattled in its frame as the vermin threw themselves against it. They could hear the scratching sounds, the splintering as the creatures gnawed at the wood.

Fender shook his head to clear his senses.

"Are you okay?" the tutor asked anxiously, holding on to the door-handle as if to keep it closed.

Yes. I knocked my head, that's all." He got to one knee and crouched beside Jan and felt her pulse. It was weak. We've got to get her to a hospital. I don't think she'll make it, otherwise." He looked up at Will. You can let go of the door I don't think they're that clever."

Will sheepishly dropped his hand. "My God, listen to them. It won't take them long to gnaw their way through."

"No, and we'd better be out of here before they do."

"Luke, I've called the police." It was Jenny, standing at the end of the darkened corridor, by the reception area. "I've also called the Warden, on the internal phone and warned him to keep everybody inside the living quarters until the police get here."

"Good girl. Stay where you are, we'll bring Jan..." His voice broke off when he noticed something dark moving along the corridor, something low, crouched close to the wall. It was making towards Jenny.

"Jenny, run! Get away from there!" He was on his feet, running down the corridor. Jenny stood transfixed, her eyes wide with terror.

The rat moved with incredible speed, Fender's shouts and footsteps galvanizing it into action. It broke free from the shadows. Jenny could only step back as it sped past her, its stiffened fur actually brushing her legs. It scuttled madly around in the wider reception area, looking for an opening, a crazed look in its eyes. Jenny leaned back against the far wall and watched in fascinated horror. Fender reached her and shielded her body when he saw the rat's frantic actions.

A full-length window stood by the glass door, giving half the reception area a glass wall appearance. The rat ran at the lower pane and bounced off its rigid surface. It tried again, throwing itself at the glass with desperate strength. Fender was conscious of a police siren in the distance, the unmistakable wail growing louder with each second.

The rat scrambled away from the glass and made towards them. Fender got ready to kick out at it, but the creature turned before it reached them and hurtled itself at the window once more. This time, the glass shattered and it was through, disappearing into the shadows outside, leaving scraped-off hair and blood on the remaining window fragments.

"Oh, God, Luke. It's vile. It's so vile." Jenny leaned against Fender's back; he was too afraid to take his eyes off the broken pane in case the rats came swarming through.

"Luke. Come here, quickly." It was Will calling from the gloomy end of the corridor.

Fender grabbed Jenny's arm and took her with him.

"What is it?" he asked when he reached the crouched figure.

"Listen!"

Fender heard nothing. Then he realized what the young tutor was getting at. The rats," he said. They're gone."

TWELVE

It was the dogs who aroused the slumbering Police Training Camp on Lippits Hill. For the cadets and training officers who survived, it was to be a night they would never forget, a horrific memory that would fill their dreams for years to come.

They staggered from their barrack huts, half-dressed, half-asleep, cursing the animals for the terrible noise, cursing the handlers for not keeping them quiet. Yet they knew from the sound that the dogs had been disturbed by more than just a prowler; their frenzied barks had merged into a fearful howling ululation that pierced the bitter night and sent shudders down the spines of all who heard.

"What the fuck's got into them?" one young cadet asked as the men gathered in groups outside the huts.

"Where the bloody hell's their handlers?" another cursed.

They began to move in the direction of the pens, but a sergeant, hastily donning a heavy coat, brought them to a halt.

"Listen!" he commanded, and those nearest to him held their breath.

The word spread back to those at the rear, and the excited voices died; they stood shivering in the dark, each man's senses keened to the night.

"What is it?" one finally asked, mystified and a little afraid.

"It's screaming," another answered. "I'm sure it's screaming.

If someone could get the bloody dogs quiet we could tell for sure."

"No, no, it's not screaming," someone else said. "It's the ducks. The noise is coming from the duck farm. They sound like human voices from a distance."

They all listened again, while the dog-handlers hurried towards the pens, anxious to calm the agitated dogs. Not far from the training centre, a quarter of a mile at the most, in a remote but mainly un wooded area, a large, wire-fenced pound had been erected. Inside, various breeds of duck were raised, some for their meat, most for their eggs. It was a specialist enterprise and held hundreds of birds within its boundaries. Now the policemen and trainees had something to relate the sound to, they began to agree: it wasn't human screams but the cries of disturbed fowl.

The camp supervisor joined them and they could not see how drawn his face looked in the darkness. He had received a phone call from his superior earlier that evening, and the news had been bad.

The supervisor quickly gathered the senior officers and instructors around him and explained just what his fears were, and within ten minutes firearms had been issued to the officers and most capable trainees. They set off in force from the camp towards the duck farm, trudging over the fields behind the training centre, the route being more direct than the long detour by road. Beams of light from powerful torches struck into the night; the dogs, eager to confront an age-old enemy, pulled at their leashes, snarling and yelping in their desire for combat. A token force was left to guard the grounds, the camp supervisor remaining with them, trying to make contact with the deputy assistant commissioner, who would inform the assistant commissioner, who would inform the commissioner. The order for all officers and cadets to remain within the confines of the camp came too late; by then, the policemen were approaching the duck pound itself.

"Hold it! Hold it!" No one was sure who was giving the order, but they all came to a halt and looked uneasily around.

"Keep those bloody dogs quiet!" came the voice again and the burly figure of the sergeant in charge of firearms came striding forward from the rear. "Just listen, everyone."

The handlers tried to muzzle their dogs with their hands, but the animals were too restless. They pulled away from their masters, deep growls coming from their throats. The ducks were frantic: the men could hear the flurry of wings above the squealing clamour. But other sounds began to come through and it slowly dawned on the policemen that they were human voices. Human screams.

"It's coming from the mobile home site!" the sergeant shouted. "It's not just the ducks. It's on the other side of the pound!"

He ran forward and the men followed, skirting the high, wire fence, running downhill to the small track that led to the secluded estate.

Lights were on in the large private house that stood near the entrance to the mobile home site and they could see figures at the upstairs windows, waving. One window opened and a man began shouting down at them, but his words were lost in the overall clamour.

There were thirty houses in all, constructed of timber and glass, resting on concrete bases. They were called mobile homes because they had been brought fully built to the site on wheels and planted in position like giant dolls' houses, ready for occupation. Most of the inhabitants were young couples who could not afford the high price of more permanent, brick-built homes, or retired couples who sought small accommodation in peaceful surroundings. They all enjoyed the community spirit in the tiny, one-street estate, and agreed that the timber houses were as solid and permanent as any built of brick. That night they discovered just how vulnerable they were.

The policemen were suddenly aware of the dark shapes running through the grass around them, streaming from the site, meeting them and scurrying through their midsts. The lead dogs went wild, attacking the black creatures, while the men stood perplexed. The torch beams probed the long grass and the cry went up: "Rats! They're the Black rats!"

The policemen kicked out, sickened and frightened. Those with weapons began firing at the vermin, cautious of hitting their companions, but anxious not to be touched by the creatures. The officers tried to bring some order into the chaos, but they themselves were near to panic. A young cadet went down, a bullet in his leg. As two of his companions pulled him up, they found two rats clinging to his body.

They tried to tear the tenacious beasts from him, but soon found they had to defend themselves from similar attacks. The wounded cadet fell again and his scream was added to the others.

The officers ordered the men on, urging them not to attack the vermin, but to press on to the mobile home site. It was too much for some of the young cadets; they ran off into the night, seeking refuge from the nightmare. Unfortunately for them, their fleeing figures attracted the attention of the rats more than those who had stayed to fight, and they were followed. From different points in the darkness came their solitary cries as the rats sought them out and attacked.

The main body of men found themselves on the estate, the vermin sifting through them as they ran on. Each policeman had tried to avoid the scurrying black shapes beneath his feet, unwilling to provoke attack, anxious to get to the people at the site. The handlers stayed with their dogs who were in a mad frenzy, snapping at the vermin, lifting them into the air, shaking them furiously like rag dolls. The dogs, fierce and brave as they were, had no chance against the swarming vermin, the razor teeth cutting into their flesh like sharp knives, their bodies brought down by the sheer weight of the leaping creatures.

The handlers tried to help but they, too, were engulfed by the rats, and they cried for help as they fell. Several armed policemen turned back and fired into the scrabbling heaps, no longer caring who or what they hit.

The two lamps that lit the street dividing the facing row of houses revealed a carnage that stopped the policemen in their tracks. Gaping holes in the wooden structures showed where the rats had torn their way through to reach the people inside; broken windows gave evidence of the other means of entry. There were black, bristling-bodied creatures swarming all over the houses, scuttling in and out of buildings, over the rooftops, through the tiny gardens. The policemen saw groups of them fighting among themselves over bloodsoaked objects objects they realized were dismembered parts of human bodies tugging, ripping apart.

An old man, his naked body thin and wasted, crashed through a glass door, falling into the tiny garden area, twisting over an dover in the flowerbed, one rat clinging to his shoulder, another at his buttock. A woman appeared shrieking at a window, trying to tear away a rat entangled in her hair. She slumped forward, and jagged shards of glass jutting from the window-frame cut into her ribs, piercing her lungs, stilling her cries. A man stood fully-clothed on the roof of his house, a small bundle that must have been a baby cradled in his arms, kicking out at the rats as they scurried up the walls in an effort to reach him. In the garden below lay the crumpled figure of a woman, the rats feeding off her body while their companions tried ceaselessly to gain purchase on the roof-top. An elderly couple, both clad in dressing-gowns, marched defiantly down the centre street, the man striking out with a heavy-looking walking-stick, the woman wielding a metal dustbin lid, using it as a shield. When the man went down, she tried to cover him with her own body, the lid protecting their heads; but the rats found other, more vulnerable, parts. A man wearing only a pyjama jacket sat on the steps to his house and stared down disbelievingly at the dozen or so rats eating away at his legs. A boy, barely fourteen, hacked away at the mangled body of a rat with a carving knife. He knelt on the ground, the creature between his knees, while three of its companions nipped away the flesh from his back. An obese woman, her voluminous pink nightie patterned with red stains, wildly smashed a black creature against a wall, both hands wrapped around its neck, cursing the vermin, screaming in hate rather than fear.

One of the houses was ablaze, the flames creating dancing shadows, the scene a madman's dream. A figure impossible to tell if it was a man or woman appeared in the doorway and ran screeching into the turmoil outside, body aflame, lungs already seared by the heat. Black creatures followed, their stiff fur on fire, squealing and dashing to and fro in their own terror.

And above it all was the screaming, the wailing, the moaning, the crackle of flames, the squealing of the vermin themselves. The cries for help. The crash of wrecked furniture. The thuds of makeshift weapons. The overturned radio, volume accidentally turned up full, blaring out sentimental ballads linked by the silky voice of the late-night DJ.

Wherever the stunned policemen looked was a new horror, and finally their minds refused to accept any more, everything becoming a confused blur. They attacked, using guns, firing indiscriminately, hardly needing to select targets for the rats were everywhere, merged almost into one struggling heap before them. Hundreds, hundreds, hundreds.

The men without weapons used anything they could lay their hands on, tearing off strips of low fencing, porch support, anything they could use as a club. They tried to work in large groups for self-protection, but so many went down under the vast numbers of rats that they found themselves battling in smaller pockets. Smaller and smaller.

The mutants left not because their acute hearing could pick up the sirens approaching in the distance, but because their hunger was satiated, their bellies glutted. They fled almost as one, many carrying awkward loads they had patiently severed from lifeless bodies.

Across the fields they went, heading for the forest areas, the scuttling thuds of their many feet the only sound they made. The other woodland creatures froze, too terrified to move as the vast black river passed over them. Soon the forest was silent again. Only the sound of low-pitched moaning rolled over the fields and this was soon drowned by the blaring sirens.

Lair

The rat, a peculiar white scar running the length of its skull, threaded its way through the rubble, its load hardly hindering the journey. Others followed behind, a few bearing similar burdens to that of the leader, while still more carried dismembered limbs and meat chunks. Their own bellies were full; the food was for their masters.

The main force had returned to their dark sanctums beneath the forest, the excitement of killing still with them, their bodies tired but still trembling from their recent onslaught.

The leader had broken away from them, its squeals commanding certain others to follow, for they still had a duty to perform. They came with their burdens, submissive to their leader, who in turn was submissive to others.

There was little light when they began to descend, the moonbeams finding only small openings to penetrate, casting silvery Pools of reflection in scattered patches. But the creatures were used to the darkness, and those below had little use for the sun. The leader was aware of the stirring all around as it dropped from the last incline and landed in the lower level. The burden dropped from its jaws and the rat hissed menacingly as others scudded towards it. It retrieved the sticky, dripping thing and padded forward, making for the far corner where its master lay. The underground room was alive with rustling and spasmodic movements, filled with excited mewling sounds.

The rat was challenged by others of its kind as it approached the bloated thing in the corner, but it hissed back, dropping its burden and baring its teeth. They backed away and crouched low, ready to spring forward at the slightest provocation. Further, more strident hissing came from the blackness in the corner, and the creature there shuffled around in its bed of straw and damp earth, impatient, hungry for the food the Black rat had brought.

The rat lifted the heavy object once more and moved closer to the obese creature, fearful yet fascinated, almost mesmerized. It vaguely remembered a time before when the dominant rat had been more powerful, its claws sharp enough to have caused the searing injury to its head, subduing it, making it obey. The creature still held that terror for the Black rat. It dropped the food into the straw and the thing shuffled its fleshy bulk forward, its two heads weaving to and fro in the air, snouts twitching, the teeth curled back, tusk-like from the lack of gnawing. The two mouths plunged at the bloody object, seeking the natural openings, sucking noisily at them.

The rat edged forward, wanting to share in the prize, afraid of its master, but arrogant enough to express its own leadership. The thing screeched in rage, sending the rat scuttling back, the guards following and lashing out with their claws. The scuffle was brief, the rat breaking away and rolling over, exposing its neck in the submissive gesture, bleating for mercy.

The guards returned to their crouched positions and the rat heard the sucking, gurgling noises as the creature in the corner resumed eating.

The others in the underground chamber, those like the dominant mutant, bloated, hairless, began to attack the food brought to them, tearing it away from the black vermin, hissing and squealing in their lust.

The big rat turned and padded away towards the incline leading from the chamber. It stopped just once and glared around at the dim, gorging shapes. Then it scuttled up the slope, its companions following.

THIRTEEN

Two days after the massacre at the mobile home site in which sixty-three residents and forty-eight policemen and trainees had been killed, the task of locating and blocking all sewer openings in Epping Forest was still in hand. Although no one had been foolhardy enough to enter the sewers, the operatives knew the vermin were in there: they could be heard. The main exits had already been sealed with concrete and small apertures were left to take the tubes through which cyanide powder would be pumped. The search was now on for the smaller holes that would be used as escape exits by the rodents when the underground tunnels were filled with the killer gas. Groups of men wearing protective clothing and guarded by armed soldiers scouted the woodland, looking for rat 'runs', the paths made from constant use by vermin, tracing them back to their source. Each group carried detailed plans of the sewer network with accurate positioning guides related to the ground above. It was painstaking work, but necessary if the operation were to be successful.

The idea was to create a vast underground tomb for the vermin. The gas would be poured in through thick tubes from machines bearing no resemblance to the old-fashioned hand-pumps that had once been used.

The machines, which looked like huge vacuum cleaners, had been hastily developed after the London Outbreak, and were powered by their own generators. Their air-blast enabled the cyanide powder to penetrate the deepest sewers without risking the lives of the operatives, as long as all the openings were tightly sealed. Should they accidentally come in contact with the toxic fumes because of a leakage, each man carried amyl nitrate capsules to counteract the gas.

It was realized that not all outlets could be found in the dense undergrowth of the forest, but it was hoped the channels would be so heavily impregnated with the gas that the rats would have little time to break out. The few that did could be dealt with in the following days. The purge would be relentless, with no thought to other woodland wildlife the consequences if any of the mutants escaped would be too serious. The Prime Minister himself had promised the country that the whole of Epping Forest would be razed to the ground if necessary.

Encouraged by this statement, certain members of the public had been discovered starting their own forest fires, and had been promptly arrested.

The outcry against this second rodent invasion within five years had, of course, been enormous. The government true, it had been a different government at that time had promised that a catastrophe such as the London Outbreak would never happen again. So much for the 'official'

word. Members of the ruling body shuddered as they anticipated the recriminations to follow, while the Opposition rubbed their hands in vengeful glee, remembering the humiliating beating they had taken from the public years before. The principal department involved, the Ministry of Agriculture, was already busy preparing documents to prove there had been no negligence on its part. The Ratkill board of directors gloated with satisfaction while their executives revelled in the sudden storm of activity. It had been a Ratkill investigator who had confirmed the infestation and who had recommended instant action, only to be overruled by the private secretary for the Ministry of Agriculture, who had wanted matters to progress more cautiously. Of course, that 'delay' would not be denounced publicly by Ratkill unless a later inquiry brought it out in the open. No, it would be a matter between themselves and Antony Thoraton; it might prove useful to have the gratitude unspoken, of course of such an influential man.

Epping Forest itself was now devoid, apart from those involved in the eradication itself, of all human life. It was decided after the massacre that not just a confined area would be cleared of residents, but Epping Forest's entire population. The more nervous considered the whole green belt area to be in danger, but were assured that this was not the case. There were very clear indications as to the extent of the vermin's penetration, and this was well within the forest itself; there would be no danger to those living in the surrounding areas.

The evacuated area was ringed by a human chain troops spread as wide as possible without breaking visual contact, armoured vehicles constantly patrolling the perimeters. Their numbers were strengthened by the metropolitan and county police forces and even local fire stations stood by in readiness. Gazelle helicopters swooped low over the treetops and scanned the ground below. Chieftain tanks stood immobile and menacing, facing into the forest, ready to rumble into action at the first command.

The only occupied area within the guarded boundary was the Conservation Centre, its small car park and front lawn crowded with military, police and Ratkill vehicles, the main building itself buzzing with activity.

No one was allowed to enter the restricted area without an army escort, and the same applied when leaving the Centre. Eight Green Goddess fire-engines stood along the road cresting High Beach, glaring down into the valley like mechanical predators. Army scout cars, their personnel feeling secure and protected inside the rough metal carriages, raced carelessly along hoggin paths, keeping a sharp lookout for misguided or just plain stupid civilians who had ignored the warnings and slipped through the cordon. Why anyone should do so, knowing full well the dangers, was beyond the soldiers' comprehension, but they had learned from past experience never to underestimate the imbecility of certain individuals on occasions like these.

More atrocities had been discovered in the two days following the mass attack: the tattered remains of a tent in a remote corner of a field, the inside splattered with dried blood, the floor littered with the remains of twelve missing Barnardo boys and their supervisor; bones of what had obviously been a courting couple in a small clearing not far from the roadside, the couple's fawn-coloured car nearby; an empty rowing boat drifting an one of the few lakes where fishing was allowed, the missing occupant's rod and sandwiches still lying in the bottom of the dinghy; an empty lorry, the driver's door wide open as though he had jumped down to clear the winding forest road of some obstacle or animal cattle often wandered across the roadways; an abandoned but sparkling new bicycle; a saddled, riderless horse; a house, close to several others, but empty and bloodstained.

It had been impossible for the warnings to reach everyone despite the frequent radio broadcasts, the patrols with loudspeakers, the knocking on doors there was always someone whom the news did not reach. Most of the residents had fled without further prompting, but there were several surly old farmers who had to be forcibly 'persuaded', and a few of the wealthier residents who considered themselves above the attention of mere rats, who had to be ordered out. But finally, the woodland had been cleared and the mass execution of the vermin was underway.

The forest was quieter than it had ever been, the wildlife nervous. The sun shone bright but impotently on the verdant acres, the autumn chill dissipating its warmth. The country held its breath.

Fender spoon-fed the powder into the hole, ensuring there was no breeze to blow the substance back into his face. The fumes could easily enter the grille in the strong, plastic visor, part of the protective suit he wore against rodent attack. The group around him were also dressed in the silver-grey suits, the material a combination of tough fabric and fine strands of close-knitted, flexible steel. The helmets, with their plastic face coverings, gave the men a sinister, alien appearance, but each was confident that no sharp teeth could penetrate their armour.

Fender cursed the clumsiness of the heavy gloves, but felt no inclination to remove them. For all he knew there could be a mutant rat lurking only feet away in the passage he was preparing to block, ready to snap off his fingers. The hole looked hardly big enough to contain a giant rat, but he knew from the map Whittaker was holding that there was a sewer below, so he was taking no chances. There was a definite run leading from the tunnel which showed it was in constant use. He shook the long-handled spoon free of the deadly powder and withdrew it, wiping the surface against the soil as he did so, then pulled up a clod of earth from the ground nearby and plugged the hole, turning the grass roots so they faced outwards. That way the powder would not be covered with loose earth.

Fender stood. "Okay, Joe, block it," he said.

Joe Apercello, another Ratkill operative, stepped forward, bringing a large tin of ready-mixed, quick drying cement with him. He struggled with the tightly sealed lid for a few seconds, then began to remove a glove for better purchase.

"Leave it on, Joe!" Fender snapped, and the man shrugged, pulling the glove back.

"It's bloody awkward," he complained.

"It's more bloody awkward without fingers," Fender told him.

The lid came away with a sucking sound and Apercello dug in with a trowel, thickly spreading the compound over the hole. Sealing every opening with concrete was an added precaution: generally, earth would have been sufficient, the powder itself acting as a death-dealing sentry, but it had been agreed that extreme measures would be taken the mutant rats would never be underestimated again.

Vie Whittaker had the network map spread out on the ground before him and was marking the position of the now-plugged exit with a felt-tipped pen.

That's the fifth this morning," he said with some satisfaction The channel runs dead ahead..." he extended his arm in the direction he meant'... north-east." He looked up and added, The undergrowth has certainly covered the area since the sewer was dug. Well have a hard job locating any openings."

We're bound to miss more than a few," Fender said, 'but that's not the point. Once the machines start pumping the gas into the main exits, the rats will have little chance of escape. They'll be finished before they know what's hit them. The object of this exercise is to stack all the cards in our favour."

Whittaker nodded, the movement barely noticeable inside the helmet. He stood, folding the map so only the next relevant section showed.

"Do you think we'll be ready by tomorrow?" he asked.

We've got to be. We can't..." Fender frowned. "Captain, tell your man to get his bloody helmet back on." He pointed towards a soldier who was wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

The captain flushed behind his plastic screen. You, get it back on immediately!"

The startled soldier hastily began to don his hood. "Sorry, sir, it's so bleedin' hot in here," he said lamely.

Captain Mather glared at the small squad which formed a protective semicircle around Fender, Whittaker and Aper-cello. An army truck stood waiting in a clearing nearby, its engine idling, ready to move at the slightest hint of trouble.

You all know the danger," the captain said, 'so let's not have any more silliness. Clear?" He neither expected nor received an answer as he turned back to the rat catcher "Sorry, Mr. Fender, it won't happen again."

That should do it, Luke," came Apercello's muffled voice as he patted down the fast drying cement. "No bugger'll get out of there."

"Right," Fender said, picking up the container of cyanide powder.

"Let's move on."

The senior tutor fell in beside him as they trampled down foliage with heavy boots, helmets bent in constant examination of the ground before them, searching for signs. The soldiers fanned out on either side, also searching the ground but keeping a wider alert for any impending danger.

You were saying we have to be ready by tomorrow... ?" Whittaker prompted.

We can't risk holding them inside any longer," Fender continued. We drilled probes with microphones attached, so we know they're there. I listened in myself it was bedlam. They seem to know they're trapped and they're panicking."

"But we know these mutants can burrow why don't they dig their way out?"

"Oh, they will. That's why we have to move fast. At the moment hysteria is preventing them from using whatever sense they possess.

Pretty soon, though, they're going to get the notion to tunnel their way out. Fortunately, these sewers have been firmly constructed they'll hold the rats for a while."

"And these holes we're sealing? Why haven't they come pouring through?"

"Don't tempt providence: they could do just that. My guess is that the rats are afraid. Remember, their ancestors were virtually wiped out in London. Call it race-memory, or sheer instinct, but they know they're under attack from their worst enemy: man. They're just plain terrified at the moment, too scared to come out and show themselves. How long they'll remain in that state is anybody's guess."

They trudged on, both men lost in their own thoughts. It was Whittaker who finally broke the silence.

"I don't understand why the other animals haven't been slaughtered by the vermin. I mean, if they're so ferocious and there are so many of them, why haven't they overrun the forest?"

"Firstly, we don't know exactly how many there are. My guess is that there are a thousand or so they haven't reproduced like the normal rodent. It would still be enough to make them aggressive."

"A thousand? My God, that's terrible."

"Not really, not in an area this size."

"What makes you so sure? There could be several thousand."

Fender shook his head. "I'm not sure, but I don't think so. If there were, they'd have been seen sooner. They would almost certainly have begun slaughtering the other wildlife. I'm sure their build-up has been gradual. Remember, compared to the normal rodent they're giants, and Mother Nature isn't keen on allowing her bigger creatures to have large litters."

They're no bigger than dogs. Even pigs ..."

"In the vermin kingdom, the mutants are as big as elephants. Anyway there's the other side of the argument: these are freaks, mutants their genes have been altered in some way. Maybe the ultrasonics used on their ancestors did it, maybe not, but their difference could easily have changed their reproductive cycle."

"But there were many thousands in London!"

They were mating with the normal species of Black rat. It's all theory on my part, but here, I think, we have the pure strain. I'll bet they're even stronger and more cunning than the first. They've been clever enough to keep out of sight -until now."

"It makes you wonder if we really are going to beat them."

We will." Whittaker could not see the grim determination on the rat catcher face.

"All right, if there really are as you say just a thousand or so, it still doesn't explain why they haven't attacked the local wildlife before now."

"Rats can survive on practically anything. You can be sure they've killed other animals, but on an unnoticeable scale. Their main supply of food has obviously been scavenged from other sources: houses, farms, allotments, the countryside itself. I bet if we were to check now, we'd have reports of all sorts of vermin trouble that in the past has just been put down to rare and isolated cases. It's frightening to consider, but I wouldn't be surprised if these mutants have deliberately been keeping a low profile regarding their raids."

"It's a little hard to believe."

"What's happening now is a little hard to believe. One thing we do know for sure: their restraint has gone. They're out to kill anyone or anything."

Apercello, who was some distance ahead, turned and waved at them. His words through the plastic grille were hard to catch, but he began pointing towards the ground quite near his feet.

"Looks like Joe's found another opening," said Fender, hurrying forward.

The hole the rat catcher colleague was standing over was much larger than the one they had just plugged. Its sides were smooth, as though used by many bodies.

"Christ, that's one all right," Fender muttered, bending low and examining the hole. "It's the right size. Captain, let me have the torch, will you?"

Captain Mather passed the square-shaped torch over to the rat catcher who shone its powerful beam into the tunnel.

"Nothing there," Fender said, straightening. "Let's get some powder down fast. The sooner it's plugged, the happier I'll be."

They went through the process of laying the cyanide and sealing the exit again, Fender helping Apercello pack the cement.

"Okay. Number six done. Mark it..." He didn't know what had made him look up into the trees at that moment, but Fender suddenly felt even more uneasy than before. Had he seen something move? The other men regarded him curiously.

"What is it, Mr. Fender?" Captain Mather enquired.

Fender studied the nearby trees for a few seconds longer before replying. "Nothing. I thought I saw ... heard something, that's all."

The officer looked around nervously. "Perhaps we should be moving..."

There's something up there!" It was Apercello's voice. "I saw it move. It was darting along a branch."

The soldiers who were nearer to the trees began to back away apprehensively, their firearms pointing into the foliage overhead.

There's another!" shouted Vie Whittaker pointing to a different tree.

All eyes swivelled. They saw a swaying branch, but nothing else.

A sudden rustle to their right had everybody spinning in that direction. A flurry of dead leaves fluttered to the ground, but the tree's branches were still too full of brown foliage for the men to see what had caused the downfall.

"Keep still, everyone," Fender ordered. Now scan the trees around us.

If you see any movement, don't shout, just point."

Their heads turned slowly as they studied the treetops, each man scarcely daring to breathe. Fender kept an eye on the men, occasionally, irresistibly, glancing upwards. His eyes riveted on a soldier who suddenly began gesticulating towards an overhead branch.

"Captain," Fender said quietly. "One of your men has spotted something." He nodded towards the pointing man. The others became aware of their companion's excitement.

There it is!" someone shouted. "Creeping along that branch! It's one of 'em, one of the rats! Jesus, there's another!"

It became too much for the soldier. He raised his rifle and aimed into the tree, his gloved finger pushing its way awkwardly though the trigger guard.

The explosion and consequent high-pitched squeal seemed to act as the signal for the rats to attack. They fell from the trees almost as one, dropping through the air on to the men below, the forest suddenly alive with their screeching squeals and flying black bodies.

FOURTEEN

Fender rushed forward, crashing through the brittle undergrowth, making towards a fallen soldier who was desperately trying to push away a rat clawing at his chest. All around, the soldiers were struggling with vermin that had landed on their shoulders and heads, several of the men on their knees, others running wildly in circles, completely unnerved by the attack.

The rat catcher pulled at the creature on the fallen man's chest, grasping its twisting neck and tugging and squeezing at the same time.

A sudden weight on his back sent him tumbling forward over the soldier.

He kept rolling, hoping to crush the creature, but it clung tenaciously. The pain was excruciating as the rat bit into the tough material of the protective suit, the teeth not piercing but pinching the skin together. As he tried to roll his body free, Fender realized there was not just one, but two rats attacking him. He lay on his back, endeavouring to still their movements with his own weight, reaching behind to grab at their scrabbling legs. He was conscious of the screams around him, the sharp reports of gunfire, the thrashing of bodies both human and animal. More black shapes were dropping from the trees, leaping from the branches, running down the rough bark, filling the forest glade with their numbers.

He tried to rise, but a rat landed on his chest and for a brief moment he found himself staring through the plastic screen into the monster's slanted eyes. It was almost as if the rat were studying him, looking deep into his mind, a cold hate stabbing its way through. The creature's jaws opened and Fender stared in fascinated horror at the cruel, yellow teeth, the deformed an dover-large incisors honed razor-sharp from constant gnawing. Spittle smeared the plastic visor as the mutant hissed at its prey. The pointed head snapped forward and Fender jerked his head back in a reflex action. The teeth skidded across the plastic, leaving deep grooves and a trail of saliva. The rat catcher forgot about the struggling bodies beneath him and began to pummel the creature on top with his fists. The rat staggered sideways but recovered, the blows driving it to a new fury. Its powerful jaws locked around one of Fender's wrists and he screamed at the intense pain, the thickness of the gauntlet gloves saving him from serious injury.

He managed to pull the arm free, but the rat's head was poised above him, ready to strike again, this time at his throat. Even the steel-lined clothing could not save him if those teeth locked onto his windpipe. Fender tried to turn his body, but the two rats beneath him held him back. The rat's head plunged.

And then exploded in a cloud of blood and tissue. The gunshot ringing in his ears and his visor splattered red, Fender pushed the slumped body away from him. He quickly cleared his vision with a gloved hand, wiping away the running blood and clots of bubbling substance. Captain Mather towered over him, a revolver still smoking in his hand.

"Over. Quick!" came the command, and Fender felt his body turned with a rough kick. He waited for what seemed an eternity, knowing the captain was taking careful aim, ensuring the bullets would not pass through the vermin into his body, and shuddered when the sharp reports came and the paw grips on his back were released.

Mather helped him to his feet and once more Fender was allowed a clear view of the frantic struggle taking place. The rats seemed to be everywhere, swamping the soldiers with their numbers, pulling and tearing at the terrified men. Automatic gunfire stopped the soldiers from being completely smothered, and the armoured suits prevented them from being torn to pieces. Nevertheless, for the soldiers it was a losing battle. The pain inflicted by the clamping jaws was evident from the screams that rang out, and it could not be endured for much longer. The rats were dying in large numbers, their bodies leaping into the air in shock as bullets struck, a strange shriek, like a hurt child's, bursting from them as they died.

Fender looked around for Whittaker and Apercello, but it was impossible to recognize anyone in the bizarre uniforms. They didn't carry guns, but then there were so many now who had dropped their weapons and were using their hands to ward off the vermin.

Captain Mather dropped to his knees beside him, a rat perched precariously on his shoulders, another biting into the material at his stomach. Fender grabbed the rodent that had its teeth sinking into the top of the officer's helmet and pulled it free in one swift, sharp movement, tossing it as far away as possible; Mather carefully shot the one at his stomach, ignoring the pain, refusing to succumb to panic.

The rat that Fender had thrown came scurrying back, leaping at its attacker without breaking stride. Fender kicked out and was lucky enough to make contact. The rat's long body jack-knifed in the air and fell into the undergrowth. The rat catcher dashed forward and brought his heavy boot crashing down on its head, crushing the skull.

He turned back to the army officer who was trying to shake his arms free of two more mutants that were weighing him down, making it impossible for him to use the revolver. Three others were scrambling up his body and his knees were beginning to sag with the load.

Fender ran to him and began tugging at the bristling bodies, ignoring another creature that had attached itself to his leg. He pulled and the thing he had been dreading happened: as the rat came away, its teeth firmly clamped into the suit, the material tore. It was a small rent, but it proved the suits could be penetrated. Under the onslaught all the suits would soon be in tatters. He grabbed the rodent's snout, avoiding the teeth, and twisted with all his strength. The neck broke and he dropped the twitching body. Then he grabbed the gun from the officer's hand, hoping there were still enough bullets in the chamber.

He had never handled a gun before, but pulling a trigger seemed an uncomplicated operation. Regardless of the two rats that were now nipping at his legs, he carefully took aim and shot the relentless vermin clinging to the soldier. He groaned aloud when he turned the weapon on his own aggressors and found that now it was empty. Instead he used it as a club, beating down on their exposed heads until they dropped away senseless.

He almost went under the wheels of the heavy army truck as it ploughed its way through the bracken and juddered to a halt beside him. It was Captain Mather who pulled him aside in time. From the window above came automatic fire, the driver and his mate firing into the melee.

"Into the truck, Fender!" he heard Captain Mather command.

We've got to help the others," he gasped, but a hard shove sent him reeling towards the back of the truck.

Well see to them! Grab a rifle if you can and get onto the tailboard.

You can use it from there!"

Fender scrambled along the side of the vehicle, kicking out at vermin as they threw themselves at him. With each blow they would stagger back, then advance on him again. Someone fell at his feet, his body almost invisible beneath the covering of bristling vermin. His cries were terrible to hear and Fender saw the red gushing liquid that sprayed over the backs of the frenzied rats. The man's suit had given and now the vermin were driven on by the smell of blood. He knew the man was beyond help, his mind cold to the fact, and he staggered around the struggling heap, the rats now bypassing him for more easy prey.

Fender saw the weapon lying only yards away from the truck, its black-metal surface soiled with mud. He lumbered towards it, clumsy in his suit, for the moment ignored by the vermin. He went down on one knee to retrieve the fallen weapon. Just in time he saw a rat launch itself into the air at him and he rose to meet it, grabbing the automatic by the barrel and swinging it like a club. The butt met the leaping animal in mid-air with a sickening crunch and the rat fell limply to the ground.

Without further thought, Fender reversed the weapon and began pumping a spray of bullets into the nearest vermin, avoiding the figures of his companions but well aware of his lack of marksmanship. He began to back away towards the rear of the truck, staggering under the impact of the rats that managed to escape the hail of bullets, but determinedly keeping his feet. His back bumped something solid and he was surprised when he felt himself rising, two hands gripped under his shoulders. Two soldiers pulled him into the truck, while three others fired down into the glade. One of the two who had lifted him quickly and efficiently dealt with a rat that had refused to let go of its quarry, using the edge of a bayonet to slice the mutant's throat. He kicked the body down among its thronging companions.

Fender pulled himself to his feet, realizing these men had been lucky enough to make it to the truck, and were now using it as a fort from which to strike back. The two that had rescued him were guarding the entrance, hitting out with bayonets at the vermin trying to scramble up into the cavernous interior, while the other three killed as many as possible with gunfire. Captain Mather suddenly appeared below, extending a hand to be pulled up. Miraculously, he was free of clinging rats as Fender reached down and grabbed his wrist. The rat catcher heaved and Mather came up into the interior.

"Help's on the way!" the officer shouted over the din. The men in the truck radioed HQ as soon as they saw us in trouble."

We've got to help the others," Fender shouted back. Those suits won't hold out much longer. The rats are too strong!"

"Right! We'll get them! I've told the driver to reverse slowly. He'll stop and start at my signal." Captain Mather suddenly thumped his hand against the side of the truck and it began to trundle slowly backwards, bumping over sudden rises, jolting down into small dips. The army officer banged twice again as they neared two struggling figures slightly to the right. The truck stopped.

"You and you!" He patted two soldiers on the back. "Get them up here, help one at a time! The rest of you use concentrated covering fire!

Go!"

Without hesitation, the two assigned soldiers leapt from the tailboard, bayonets grasped in their fists. They launched themselves at the first man, mercilessly using their weapons against the vermin, the soldiers in the truck keeping them reasonably protected with well-aimed fire-power. The relieved man was hauled back to the vehicle where others dragged him into shelter. The two soldiers dashed back to the other man and the process was repeated, again successfully. Captain Mather struck the side of the truck again as the two soldiers clambered up, their bayonets thick with blood.

"You two next!" Mather ordered, slapping the backs of two different soldiers as another figure was reached, this one rolling over an dover on the ground. They disappeared over the side, but this time yet another soldier had to be sent out as a rescuer and was almost overcome by black bodies. They made it back to the truck and virtually threw their companion into it, quickly climbing up behind him.

Mather ran deeper into the interior and, lifting his visor, shouted at the soldiers in the cab. "Bring your wheel down hard left! There's a group of men about ten yards in that direction."

The vehicle lurched forward, the wheels churning up mud, bouncing over the prostrate forms of dead or wounded vermin. Mather banged the side again as they approached a figure lying ominously still in the undergrowth. Fender turned his head away in shock.

The man's helmet had either been knocked accidentally or pulled from his head. Five rats squatted around the exposed face and gorged themselves. Others systematically tore at his suit, gnawing at the material, wearing it thin.

In a rage the soldiers began firing into them, regardless of the human body, knowing the man was dead.

"Leave them!" Captain Mather ordered dispassionately. We can't help the poor sod now, and at least his body is keeping them occupied!" He kicked at the side of the truck and it drove on.

Fender was horrified at the officer's cold logic, but he knew Mather was right. The living had to be their main concern. He leaned against the side of the truck, grasping an iron support to keep balanced. It wasn't the scratching sound that attracted his attention, for the noise of the rifle fire was deafening: it was the furious indents that were appearing all over the thick canvas covering.

"Mather!" he yelled. They're trying to get through the roof."

Mather glanced up. "Shit," he said. Then "Forget them. If we shoot through the canvas we'll only make holes that the others can use to their advantage. We'll keep an eye on them and shoot only when it's necessary." With that, he turned his attention back to the action below.

Fender raised the automatic rifle to his shoulder, spotted a rat wriggling its way into the vehicle at one corner, kicked out with venom, sending it toppling back, then began firing at random. It felt good to kill.

The next man to be hauled in was Vie Whittaker. He lay on his back on the floor of the truck, his chest heaving with exhaustion. His suit had held, but Fender could see several places where the material had begun to give. The tutor had been rescued just in time.

Fender knelt beside him for a moment. "Are you okay?" he yelled.

Whittaker reached for his visor, intending to push it up, and Fender grabbed a wrist.

"I can't breathe," Whittaker moaned. "I must have air."

"Just for a moment, then!" Fender shouted, lifting the plastic face-mask with his gloved fingers. The tutor gratefully sucked in air.

"Where was Apercello?" Fender asked. "Did you see him?"

Whittaker shook his head from side to side. "No ... no ... he went down ... then I lost sight of ... him. I think ... his helmet... came off as he ... fell."

Fender rose, his face white and drawn. He now knew whose face it was the vermin had been eating. He began firing into the scuttling bodies again.

They managed to rescue one more man before the first rat broke through the canvas roof. There were at least a dozen men inside, seven including Fender, crowded into the opening, firing down at the rats.

The others, those that had been rescued, lay on the floor groaning, clutching their bruised and, for some, torn flesh. It was these the rat dropped down onto.

Fender and Mather wheeled round at the sudden outburst of cries and saw the injured man kicking out at the Black rat which ran among them, confused and frightened.

The roof!" Mather shouted as another black shape dropped through the gaping hole. "Quickly! Shoot them!" He shot the second rat as it fell, its body jerking in mid-air.

Fender and another soldier began spraying the canvas ceiling with bullets, tearing it to shreds, but instantly killing the rats that were clawing their way through. The bodies plummeted into the truck and the men drew themselves away, not sure if the creatures were dead.

The interior was suddenly bright as daylight broke through the tattered roof and Fender saw one of the injured men struggling in the far corner with what presumably had been the first mutant to gain access. The man's visor was up and Fender saw it was Whittaker.

The rat catcher scooped up a bloodied bayonet which lay at the feet of a soldier now using his automatic rifle, and stumbled over the recumbent figures and dead vermin towards Whittaker, knowing it would be too dangerous to use the rifle in the confined space.

There was a nasty gash in the tutor's cheek where the giant rat had slashed him either with teeth or claws. He was desperately trying to hold the rat's gnashing teeth away from his face, his hands around the creature's neck. The rat's eyes bulged as Whittaker squeezed and its hind legs raked the tutor's body in a demented motion.

Fender fell to his knees before the struggling tutor, locked an arm beneath the rat's lower jaw and began pulling it away from Whittaker's exposed face. He raised the bayonet and carefully, deliberately, slid the tip to a point beneath the rat's ribcage. Then he struck deep, twisting the blade and drawing it down.

Dark blood poured from the creature's abdomen, flooding over the tutor, soaking him. The rat twitched spasmodically, trying to turn its head and strike at the man who had inflicted the mortal injury. But it was no use; Fender held it tight until the twitching had stopped and life had gone.

"Oh my God, oh my God," was all Whittaker could say.

Fender looked up as a shadow was cast over him. Captain Mather banged three times on the back of the driver's cabin and the vehicle suddenly lurched to a halt. It then began to move forward, gathering speed as it went.

Mather turned towards Fender. That was the signal to get us out of here," he explained. There's nothing we can do for the others without all of us being killed. It's regrettable, but that's how it is."

Fender felt the shock again. Leaving men to die in that way.

"As far as I could ascertain," the officer said apologetically, 'there were only two men still alive, and they looked pretty much done in.

There was blood on them. These useless bloody suits..." he left the sentence unfinished. "I'm sure the others were dead."

He rose and made his way to the rear of the truck where the soldiers, relieved to retreat, were firing back at the creatures in the forest glade. Fender joined them and saw the vermin were making no attempt to pursue but, for the briefest of seconds, he found himself staring directly into the eyes of a mutant which stood apart from the others, a curious white streak running the length of its head. He was thrown to one side as the vehicle jolted into a dip and when he looked again, the rat was gone. He closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer.

Soon the soldiers stopped firing, for their targets were out of sight.

None felt like cheering as the truck jolted its way back to the road, not even when other army vehicles came racing towards them. They were too exhausted. And they felt too defeated.

FIFTEEN

He found Stephen Howard in the lecture hall, a large map of Epping Forest before him, with Mike Lehmann and Antony Thoraton seated on either side. There were others present at the long table, but Fender strode briskly towards the research director without looking at their faces. The Centre itself was alive with activity which increased considerably on the arrival of the recently besieged men. The injured had been able to walk, albeit painfully, to the classroom set up as a makeshift medical room, although one or two had to be half-supported.

All their companions wanted to do was to calm their jangled nerves with a quiet smoke.

Howard looked up as Fender approached the table.

"Luke. The radio message said you were under attack..."

We were." Fender began to remove the heavy gloves, his plastic-visored helmet already discarded and lying somewhere in the reception area.

There were rats on the outside, in the trees."

"But we thought they were all in the sewers," said Lehmann.

They've either got an exit we haven't discovered yet, or ... they were outside all the time."

"Our patrols would have spotted them."

Fender turned to regard Major Cormack who was seated at the table, his back to the rat catcher "I don't think so.

They've remained hidden for a long time now. Besides, who would think of looking up into the trees?" He turned his attention back to the research director. We've got to use the gas immediately, while we've got the majority trapped."

"But we don't know that all the exits have been blocked yet," said Thornton.

"We have to take that chance; we can't waste any more time. If they suddenly make up their minds that they want out, nothing will stop them."

"I agree with Luke," said Lehmann. "It appears to be too dangerous to send out small groups to seal the holes anyway."

"How many of these groups are out at the moment?" asked Thornton.

"Seven," Howard answered promptly. "Roughly in these areas." His fingers stabbed seven times at the map before him.

"Call them in," said Thornton, firmly. "No point in risking further lives. We'll do as Mr. Fender requests: use the gas immediately."

"But if they should break free? If they can't be contained ... ?"

Fender recognized the voice and turned towards Edward Whitney-Evans.

The cyanide gas will work within seconds and the pumps are powerful enough to penetrate deeply. They shouldn't have a chance to escape."

Major Cormack tapped the map thoughtfully. I think we have enough men to cover any area above the sewers we think particularly vulnerable. We could cover the whole blessed network if necessary, although that would mean thinning our perimeter considerably. Flame-throwers and machine-gun fire should take care of any beggars breaking loose, provided we keep a sharp lookout."

Stephen Howard leaned forward. You realize we can't provide your men with protective suits. There just aren't enough."

Fender smiled grimly. "I'm afraid the suits don't give enough protection. We left six or seven men back there in the forest who would testify to that if they were still alive."

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, which was eventually broken by Thornton. "How many rats attacked you? Have you any idea?"

Fender shook his head. "It seemed like thousands they were everywhere but in reality I don't think there were more than a couple of hundred."

"Good God, that many? We imagined they were a small isolated group."

"Hopefully, there's even less now. We ran into your reinforcements on the way up. They should have destroyed quite a few."

"I'm afraid not." Captain Mather had appeared at the rat catcher side.

We've just had word by radio. When the troops got to the area, there were no rats in evidence. Plenty of dead ones those we killed but no living rats. Apart from what was left of our men, and the vermin corpses, the area was deserted."

Fender made his way towards the improvised medical room at the end of the corridor the same room where Jan Wimbush had been attacked only two nights before. He glanced into a classroom to his right as he passed, surprised at its dramatic transformation. It now had the total appearance of a military operations room, banks of radio equipment stretched along one wall, blocking out half the light from the picture windows, an enlarged, mounted map displaying numerous coloured pointers spread out on the joined tables in the centre of the room, and machinery some looking like television monitoring sets, others like radar scanners that Fender could not hope to recognize. A constant hubbub came from the room and he wondered how anyone could think, let alone direct operations from there. Mingling with the brown uniforms of the military were the dark blue uniforms of the police. A joint operation. He hoped they wouldn't get in each other's way.

He passed on and entered the last classroom where the injured soldiers were being treated. It wasn't meant to cope with any serious crisis, for there were enough proper hospitals in the surrounding suburban areas; it was only a place to attend to minor injuries, cuts and bruises. The Warden's wife, Tessa Milton, was busy organizing tea and coffee for the soldiers who were good-humouredly asking for whisky and gin, while the medical officers were dabbing at their wounds with treated pads. He saw Vie Whittaker near a window, Jenny clearing the blood from the gash in his face, and he headed towards them.

Tessa Milton caught him lightly by the arm as he passed. "Oh, Mr.

Fender. Is there any news of the other groups?"

They're being called back in," the rat catcher told her, realizing she was concerned about her husband who was with one of the search-parties.

They haven't run into any trouble yet they'd have radioed in if they had. We were just unlucky, that's all."

She smiled up at him, the anxiety still in her eyes. "I'm sure you're right. Did you get hurt?"

"A few flesh pinches, bruises. No cuts." He was suddenly aware of just how painful those 'pinches' were.

"Jolly good," she said brightly. Would you like some tea? Or coffee?"

"No thanks. I've got to get back out there. We're going to gas the sewers."

Tessa frowned and was about to ask another question, but Fender excused himself and walked over to Jenny and Whittaker.

Jenny's smile was radiant when she saw him. "Are you okay, Luke? I've been so worried about you ... all."

"I'm fine," he assured her. He looked down at Whittaker and studied the deep wound on his face. You'll have a handsome scar there," he told him.

"It's the rest of my body that really hurts," said Whittaker. "I feel as though every inch of skin has been bitten."

We had a lucky escape. If it hadn't been for Captain Mather keeping a cool head, we'd have been finished."

Whittaker looked down and studied his hand which was red and raw with teeth marks. "I want to thank you for helping me back there, Pend ...

Luke. I don't think I could have held that bastard away from my face much longer."

Fender said nothing.

"You're going to need stitches, Vie," said Jenny, 'so I'll let the experts take care of that. Let's have your shirt off and I'll treat the bruises."

As the senior tutor peeled off his shirt Jenny turned to Fender, concern in her eyes.

"Are you sure you're all right, Luke? Let me have a look at you."

Fender grinned. "Jenny, I've got bruises in places you wouldn't believe; but I haven't got time to let you examine them."

You're not going out there? There's nothing more you ..."

We're going to gas the sewers a little earlier than planned."

"But they don't need you for that."

"I'm going to be there." Any warmth had left his face and she knew it was pointless to argue.

What if they get out?" Whittaker said and both Jenny and Fender winced as they saw the red patches and teeth indents all over his torso. Large areas of skin were already turning a yellowish purple. By tomorrow, he would hardly be able to move.

The troops are moving in," said Fender. "It's something we should have done in the first place. Instead of sealing any exits with cement, they'll keep them blocked with fire and bullets."

"And the rats that are already outside those that attacked us?"

"Disappeared. When the other soldiers got there, the rats had all gone. Hopefully, they found their way back into the sewers."

"And if there are others running free?"

We'll deal with them later. Our first concern is to eliminate the main force and they're in the sewers. The rest should be just a tidying-up exercise."

"I hope you're right."

Fender pulled the sleeve of his protective suit up, tugging at the elasticated wristband to examine his watch. The soldiers should be in position within the hour. In the meantime, I'll do a quick tour of the main pumping sites to make sure they're ready. I'll see you both later." He turned and headed for the door.

"Luke?" Jenny's voice made him pause, and he was surprised at her hurt tone. "I'll come with you to your car," she said, catching up with him.

They walked out into the busy corridor leaving the senior tutor staring after them.

"I won't be using my car, Jenny," Fender said, "I'll be under armed escort. There's no way I'm going back into the forest on my own."

Then I'll walk you to your escort," she replied. "Luke, do you really have to go? Haven't you done enough for one day?"

He stopped and placed his hands on her shoulders, looking intently into her face. "Jenny, I won't stop until those bastards have been wiped from the face of the earth."

The venom in his words frightened her and she dropped her eyes from his. His grip slackened and his hands fell away. Jenny kept up with him as he strode towards the reception area.

Once there he stooped to retrieve his fallen helmet, then pulled the tutor to one side, away from the figures that bustled to and fro. He smiled down at her, the old warmth returning.

"Stop worrying. Everything will be under control after we've used the cyanide, you'll see." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

Jenny responded by clasping a hand around his waist, but drew it back hastily when he winced.

"Luke, you really are hurt." She looked anxiously down at his side.

He drew in a deep breath, smiling. That doesn't help."

"Please, let the medical officer look at you."

Fender shook his head. "It's nothing serious. Just bruises. Hey, you didn't tell me how Jan Wimbush and Will are doing."

"Jan is still under sedation. Oh, Luke, her injuries are terrible. Her face ... The wound at the back of her neck is the one the doctors are really worried about. Fortunately, the spine was undamaged, but the wound beside it is so deep. It was touch-and-go for the first twenty-four hours. They think she'll pull through, though."

The coldness had crept back into Fender's features. "And Will?" he asked.

"He should be out tomorrow. He's got a nasty wound in his leg where the rat bit him, but no muscles or tendons were torn. They're only keeping him in to make sure there isn't any infection. Or disease.

He's terribly upset about poor Jan..."

"Ready, Mr. Fender?" Captain Mather stood two yards from them, Mike Lehmann at his side.

You're going back for more, Captain?" said Fender, surprised.

Why not?" came the reply. Then, with a grin, They're only rats."

Mike Lehmann rolled his eyes heavenwards, but seemed in good humour now that the gassing was underway.

"Okay, Luke. Check the north first, then the southern outlets. There's no way the vermin can get into the surrounding sewer networks every connection is sealed tight. So we won't be getting any complaints from the local authorities saying we've driven monsters on to their patch.

We've got 'em boxed in, Luke, no way out."

"Okay. I'll report back to you from each base. I'll stay with the last one until they've completed pumping."

"Right. Good luck."

Fender looked down at Jenny. "I'll see you later," he said.

"Be sure you do."

Then he was gone, tramping down the path in his awkward suit, Captain Mather striding briskly by his side. They headed for a scout car, two lounging soldiers snapping to attention as they approached.

"Why did he have to go this time?" Jenny said aloud. "He's done his job."

"His job?" Lehmann had joined her at the reception area's long window.

"It's more than just a job to Luke, miss, er ... Jenny, isn't it?"

She nodded, turning towards RatkiU's head biologist. "What do you mean, more than just a job?" she asked curiously.

"With Luke, it's more of a vendetta. He despises the rats."

"But why?"

You didn't know? I thought..." Lehmann left the sentence unfinished, and turned his gaze back to the window, his face expressionless.

"Please tell me," Jenny persisted.

Lehmann let out a deep breath. "Luke's parents and younger brother were killed by Black rats in the London Outbreak, four years ago. He was living in the North at the time because of his work."

Jenny closed her eyes. She had known, sensed instinctively, that there was an underlying seriousness behind Luke's flippant remarks regarding his job.

"It was months after the incident that Luke contacted Ratkill. I suppose it took that long to get himself together. Stephen Howard was an old friend of his. He knew the full story and discussed it with me before he decided to take him on. I must say, I was against the idea, even though we needed as many men as we could get at that time: I didn't want any of my staff taking unnecessary risks, you see. Anyway, Howard overruled me, said Luke was a professional, whatever his motives. When I got to know Luke, I had to agree."

Jenny shook her head. "I didn't realize."

"I'm sorry. I assumed he'd told you. From what I've seen over the last couple of days, you two seem, er ... close? It's not something Luke talks about much, although I think it would be better for him if he did. It might get it out of his system. Maybe he'll tell you in his own time. I wouldn't mention that I..."

Jenny shook her head again. "I won't. At least now I know why he does this godawful job. I'm sorry, I didn't mean ..."

"It's all right," Lehmann said, chuckling. "You're right: it is a godawful job. But thank God some of us are inclined to do it. Now I've got to get back next door and synchronize the gas pumping. We want all the machines to be used at the same time so there's nowhere for the vermin to run to."

Lehmann smiled at the tutor. "Don't worry about Luke, Jenny. This'll be good for him. It'll help purge some of the hate that's been building up inside him for all these years. You can be sure of one thing though, he won't be happy until every last one of them is dead."

They pumped the cyanide into the underground tunnels and prayed. There was no reason why the deadly fumes should not eliminate the vermin completely, for they were trapped, sealed in their own tomb; yet every man felt uneasy, as though they were dealing with more than just animals, but something unknown, something alien to their world. They listened to the sounds from below through earphones, the microphones sunk deep into the earth, penetrating the dark chambers, and heard the cries of the dying creatures, their panic as they fought to free themselves, the frantic scraping against solid walls, their terrified squeals as they scrambled over each others' backs to get clear of the destructive, seeping gas.

Some, just a few, managed to scrabble their way through an undetected opening, close to where Fender's group had been attacked earlier, but the soldiers were waiting for them. The first through were burnt to black ash by the flamethrowers, and those immediately behind had their lungs seared with the heat. Their corpses blocked the narrow passageway as effectively as the cement, for although their companions tried to gnaw their way through the bodies, the creeping fumes stole over them and they quivered in final, painful death-throes.

The men above the ground could not see the carnage that was taking place below, but they could feel the death in the air, they could envisage the desperate struggle inside the black catacombs. Even the forest itself seemed to maintain a respectful silence.

On the faces of the men who listened into the receivers was a mixture of disgust and pity. The cries in their ears seemed to belong to hundreds upon hundreds of children, screaming their panic, wailing as they died. It did not take long for the gas to penetrate every dark hole of the sewer network and soon the radio men at their different points began removing the headphones, feeling no gloating victory, just an ebbing of their spirit. They looked up at the silent men around them and nodded. The rats were dead.

SIXTEEN

"Luke, you look done in. Come and join us in the Warden's office, we'd like to discuss something with you."

Fender wearily tossed the helmet into the corner of the reception area and stared into Stephen Howard's smiling face.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to get back to my hotel and take a long, hot bath. Can't we meet later?"

"Afraid not. I promise you, it won't take long." The research director turned on his heels, still smiling pleasantly, and strode from the reception area, taking the corridor leading to Alex Milton's office. Fender followed, his limbs stiff from the bruising he'd received earlier that day.

The only people in the small room were Mike Lehmann and Antony Thornton. The research director immediately walked over to a cabinet on one side of the office on which stood an assortment of drinks.

The Warden sent these over from his private stock," Howard explained, his smile now beginning to irritate Fender. "Still Scotch, no ice, no water?"

Fender nodded and sank into a straight-backed chair beneath the room's only window. He pulled off the thick gloves and dropped them on the floor, flexing his fingers and examining the red marks on them. Howard handed him the Scotch, his expression one of sympathy.

"I'm sure you must be rather sore in places after that dreadful attack today. Thank God we had these suits reinforced after the Outbreak."

Fender took a long swallow of his drink, momentarily closing his eyes at the liquid warmth. "As I said earlier, they'll need to be made even tougher. They didn't stand up well enough."

"Of course. Now the danger is over, well have time to improve them."

Thornton, seated at the Warden's desk, raised his own glass. "I think congratulations are in order, Stephen. Once again your company has provided an invaluable service to the country. God knows where we'd have been without your expertise."

"It's not all over yet," said Mike Lehmann staring down into his glass.

There may still be others running free on the outside. Those that attacked Luke, for instance."

"I quite agree," said Howard, his smile gone. He sat in a seat facing Thornton and reached for his own drink that had been perched near the edge of the desk. We have to be pessimistic, Antony. You may think us over-cautious, but we can take no chances whatsoever. It is possible the rats that attacked Luke and his group returned to their companions in the sewers after all, the one unblocked exit that was discovered when the gassing started was quite near the spot where the attack took place. But we cannot assume that is the case: the forest has to be searched thoroughly before we can give the all-clear."

"Yes, yes, of course. But the point is, the main force has been dealt with," said Thornton. The rest is surely a "mopping-up" exercise."

We hope so, Antony," said Howard, 'we certainly hope so. However, it will be weeks before we can be absolutely sure. First, we have ..."

"I think it's time we put Luke fully in the picture." Fender's eyes shot towards Mike Lehmann who had just spoken. There was silence in the room for a few moments and the rat catcher gaze shifted to Stephen Howard, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Yes," the research director said, 'it is time." He looked first at the private secretary, then at Fender. "I'm sorry I've never spoken of this to you before, Luke, but it was decided at the time that time being immediately after the London Outbreak

that it should be a matter of secrecy. The less who knew of it, the better."

Fender leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the Scotch held in both hands. His eyes never left Howard's.

"As you know, we discovered the source of the mutant Black rat when London had been cleared of people and the vermin had been successfully gassed. Their original breeding-ground had been in an old disused lock-keeper's house on a canal near the docks in East London. You know how the zoologist Schiller had smuggled a mutant rat into the country from the radiation-affected islands around New Guinea. He mated his mutant with the normal Black rat the area in which he lived, of course, was infested with them. The result

the terrifying result was the giant Black rat, a new strain, stronger, more cunning than any other rodent. They dominated the indigenous Black rat and utilized their strength of numbers."

Lehmann had become impatient. We thought we had killed them all off,"

he said, 'but we hadn't. We didn't discover their nest, you see. We didn't know about the canal-house, the lair of the original mutant."

"It was discovered by a man named Harris, a teacher who knew the area well, and who was helping us at the time." Howard placed his glass back on the desk and swung round to face Fender. "In the cellar of the house, he came upon a monster. From the description he gave, you could hardly call it an animal, let alone a rodent."

Wait a minute," Fender said evenly. Why haven't you told me about this before? Do any of the Ratkill investigators know?"

This time Thornton interrupted. Tour company has been acting under strict government instructions, Mr. Fender. We saw no reason to panic the public any more than it had been. The slightest leak ..." He spread his hands, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"So what happened to this ... monster?" Fender asked impatiently.

Howard exhaled a short, dissatisfied breath. "I'm afraid Harris destroyed it. Chopped it to pieces with an axe."

Fender almost grinned. To Howard and his colleagues, it must have seemed like the vandalization of a valuable work of art.

Lehmann sensed the rat catcher inner amusement. We could have learned a lot from the animal's genetic structure, Luke," he said seriously.

"But you must have had thousands of corpses to study."

"Not like this one."

We know what the creature looked like," said Howard, 'from the description Harris gave us. Also there were many drawings of it in the zoologist's study. The body itself was too mutilated to piece together; it was almost as if it had literally exploded."

"Exploded?" Fender sat straight in his chair.

Yes. The body, you see, was not like that of the mutant rats. It was almost hairless, bloated, pinkish in colour. The skin was so taut the veins could be seen through it. It was like a huge, fat slug, crippled by its own obesity. And the most ghastly thing of all..." He paused, made nervous by his own description. "It had two heads."

Fender stared at him in disbelief.

"It's true, Luke," Lehmann said quietly. "I've seen the drawings myself. And what was left of the animal. According to Harris, it was blind and too heavy to move itself; totally defenceless. It really was a pity he hacked it to bits."

"I don't blame him," said Fender. "I'd have done the same."

Lehmann came straight back at him. "No you wouldn't have. You know the value of such a freak animal. We could have studied it, discovered what had caused the mutation

"Bred your own mutant..."

"Yes, even that. That way we might have stood a chance of controlling them in the future. If we knew more about them..."

Howard held up a hand. "All right, Mike. I think Luke takes your point." He stood, then leaned back against the desk, looking down at the rat catcher We need to know if that particular strain has come through again. After a generation, it's quite possible."

"You mean there might be two kinds of mutant rat."

Howard nodded. "Just that. If there are, we still consider it best that it be kept secret. The giant Black rat on its own is terrifying enough."

A suspicion began to creep into Fender's mind. "So?" he asked warily.

"We've taken you into our confidence, Mr. Fender, because you have been involved in this particular operation from the start," said Thornton. "Indeed, your contribution has been remarkable."

"And, as one of the few people who know of the original mutant's existence, there is something we would like you to do," said Howard.

Fender's eyes widened and he felt his back stiffen as he listened.

He drove with Jenny to his hotel where they ate a dismal meal, mostly in silence. Fender was too fatigued and his body too sore to make light conversation. And his thoughts dwelt too much on the task he was to perform in two or three days' time.

Jenny sensed his mood and she, too, found it difficult to talk of trivial things. She drank her wine, then ran a finger around the rim of the glass.

"Luke," she said, breaking the silence between them. "I don't want to go back to the Centre tonight."

He looked at her in surprise. It's perfectly safe there, Jenny. The whole area's floodlit, it's surrounded by troops. There's no possible danger."

"It's not that. I am afraid, yes, but I know it's safe. I haven't slept too well the last couple of nights, knowing the forest has been infested. It'll never be the same for me again."

"It's over now, Jenny. They're gone."

"Are they? Can we be sure?"

We will be in a couple of weeks' time. That's all it will take to search the area. Then you can go back to your work without any fears."

"I don't think so. The forest used to be a wonderfully pure place to me, somewhere I escaped to; now it's different. It's tainted."

He sighed. "I'm sorry it's been spoiled for you."

She took her eyes away from the glass and looked directly at Fender. "I want to stay with you tonight, Luke," she said.

A strange sensation ran through him: a thrill, but not of the triumphant kind. He realized he was deeply touched.

"Jenny, I..." he began to say.

"Please, Luke."

He reached for her hand. "Jenny, you don't have to say please to me. I should be hopping up and down with lecherous glee, but..."

'... but you're not. I know that, Luke. I know your feelings towards me." Her eyes went back to the glass again. "At least, I think I do,"

she added.

He gripped her hand tightly and smiled. "My feelings are confused just at this moment, Jenny. There's so much going on and I have to admit my nerves are a little frazzled. But one thing's for sure: there's no way I'll let you leave me tonight."

Her eyes lifted and she smiled back at him. His depression evaporated and he felt he could sink into that smile. Her hand trembled in his, just slightly, and he knew she, too, experienced the same confusion of emotions.

"Vie Whittaker, Jenny?" he forced himself to ask.

Her face became serious, her eyes almost earnest. There's been nothing between us, please believe me. Some understanding, some mutual sympathy, but nothing beyond that. If Vie felt there was more, then it was in his own mind."

"And us? Is it just an understanding?"

"No, it's not just that. We're both aware there's more to it. Just how much is something we have to find out."

"Okay," he said. "Let's not try to analyse it. Let's just see what happens."

Now it was her turn to grip his hand tightly. "One thing, Luke," she said. "No games. I'm not playing games."

"Jenny," he replied, and her name felt good to say. "I couldn't be more serious."

They left the dining-room and Fender felt his weariness begin to disappear. They climbed the stairs and he let her into his room, thankful that, at Ratkill's expense, he always booked himself a double room when on field trips. Jenny placed her shoulder-bag on the floor and stood in the centre of the room waiting for him to close the door and switch on the light. Then she was in his arms, looking up at him, examining his face as though for the first time. His lips reached down for hers, but the movement was slow, almost tentative, both of them giving the moment its full meaning. When their lips joined, the kiss was soft, moist. Then it became firm and they felt themselves swimming into each other, seeking but becoming lost, plunging until their probing was done and they had found each other. All in a simple kiss, and Fender was almost afraid of it. Never had he felt so vulnerable.

He was suddenly aware of the crushing tightness with which he held her and the pain in his bruised back told him her grip was just as tight.

She felt the sudden flinching of his muscles and realized she was hurting him.

"I'm sorry, Luke," she said, relaxing her hold.

But he was smiling at her and she wasn't surprised to see the mistiness in his eyes, for she looked at him through her own blurred vision. She rested her head against his chest, conscious of his heartbeat, feeling small in his arms. He kissed her hair and ran a hand beneath it, touching her neck, caressing the skin behind her ears. Her arms encircled his waist and this time he cried out as she squeezed him.

"Oh, Luke, Luke, I'm so sorry."

He laughed and held her away from him. "Me too, Jenny. It looks like I'm going to be a disappointment to you."

We'll see," she said, smiling wickedly. "Let's try and do something about your wounds first, shall we?" She reached down into her bag.

Take off your jacket and shirt and let's have a look at you. I brought some ointment from the medical supplies that should do your bruises some good."

Fender winced as he shed his jacket, slowing the operation down to cause the least movement in his sore limbs. She watched him struggle, concern on her face.

"Here, let me help you." She eased the jacket from his shoulders and laid it over one of the room's two armchairs. Then she began to unbutton his shirt.

"Oh God, Luke. They really did get at you."

His shoulders and back were covered in small, red weals where the rats'

teeth had sunk into the material of the protective clothing and pinched his skin together. Still in evidence, but to a lesser degree, were the long undefined scratch marks where the creatures' claws had raked him.

Much of the skin around his shoulders and upper arms was turning a sickly purplish yellow and there were clear indents made by sharp teeth on either side of his wrist.

"Why didn't you say it was this bad?" Jenny said. "You must have been in agony."

"I didn't realize myself. It's only now it's really beginning to hurt."

"I'm going to run a bath for you. That should stop some of the bruising." She made for the bathroom. "Get out of the rest of your things. I'll rub the ointment in after you've bathed."

"I'll look forward to it," he said, grinning.

He heard the sound of running taps and looked down at himself sheepishly. He shrugged, then whipped off his shoes and trousers. His underpants barely disguised his feelings. Sitting on the bed, he stripped off his socks, then sat there, feeling a little awkward. A towel came sailing from the bathroom.

"Use this if you're feeling bashful," Jenny's voice called out.

He pulled the towel from his head where it had landed and stood, tugging briskly at the last garment as he did so. The towel was round his waist within seconds. Fender looked up to see Jenny smiling at him from the doorway, steam from the hot water billowing over her shoulders.

"My, my, such modesty," she said.

She came towards him and her expression changed to one of concern once again.

Tour poor legs. Lucky you were wearing the protective clothing you'd have been eaten alive if you hadn't."

Jenny touched his shoulders, his arms, his chest, her fingers gentle.

He pulled her close and she said, "Careful, Luke," but her words were smothered under his kiss. When their lips parted, she was breathing sharply, an urgency in her eyes. Her hand reached up to his cheek and he could feel himself pressing into her, the rough towel threatening to loosen and fall at any moment. His lips sought hers again.

She pulled away. "No. Not just yet. Let's see to your wounds first."

Fender drew in a deep breath and tightened the towel at his waist.

"You're the boss for now," he said.

She kissed his chest, quickly and lightly. "Into the bath with you.

I'll be there in a minute."

The splash of water and his muffled groans told her he had immersed himself as she picked up his clothes, folding them and placing them neatly over the arm of the chair. She walked towards the bathroom, unbuttoning the sleeves of her blouse as she went.

Jenny looked down at his naked form in the bath, the still-running water rippling over his body and distorting it. Leaning forward, she turned off the taps, then stirred the water into swirling eddies with her hand, mixing the hot with the cold. When the currents settled down she examined his body, for the moment ignoring the injuries to study his shape. She smiled approvingly.

Jenny began unbuttoning her blouse. She slipped the silk from her shoulders in a fluid movement and hung the garment on a hook behind the bathroom door. She was bra-less and Fender gazed at her breasts, the twin points risen and pink.

She knelt beside the bath and rested her arms on its edge, looking into his face and loving what she saw. He stretched his neck forward and they kissed once, twice, three times. He opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed a finger to his lips, then reached for the flannel and wiped the moisture from his face.

Fender closed his eyes and let Jenny bathe him, her hands soft and caressing, smoothing the soap over his limbs, spending more care and attention than necessary on his aroused penis, leaning over the bath to gently kiss it. He groaned, but in pleasure this time, reaching for her, cupping a breast in his hand. Then he leaned forward, his upper body clear of the water, one arm encircling her naked back, his head bending low, lips seeking a thrusting nipple. He caressed it with his tongue, leaving a trail of moisture across her chest as he sought the other.

Jenny moaned and closed her eyes, wanting him badly now, the muscles in her thighs becoming taut. She pushed him back, gently but firmly, determined to ease his pain first. She sponged the soap from his body in silence, relishing his touch, his fingers running smoothly over her breasts, the insides of her arms, along her neck. Then she drew him from the water, and gently patted him dry, pulling the towel over his aroused organ, then beneath it, squeezing his testicles without force but nevertheless causing him to draw in his breath. Once more she kissed him there, allowing his penis to enter her mouth, drawing the first drops of sticky fluid from it, holding his hips as he moved slowly.

Then he was pulling her up, knowing he was losing control and wanting her fully. He held her against him, pressing her nakedness into his, their kisses no longer tentative, but hard and thrusting, their tongues meeting and tasting each other's sweetness. His hand fell to her waist and he pulled at the zip fastener, the skirt falling away from his grasp. Her tights came next, her shoes already gone, and as he drew the nylon down her thighs, he kissed her stomach causing it to contract as though stung, her hands closing over the back of his head. He allowed his lips to linger, drawing them down to the silky material of her panties, feeling the soft resistance of hair beneath them, pressing into it with his tongue.

He rose and she moved closer into him, saying his name softly. His hand, trembling and nervous, touched the outside of her thigh, then stole inwards, reaching into her panties, smoothing its way through her hair, sinking low and reaching the moist entrance to her body, his fingers piercing gently. She shuddered and leaned her head against his chest.

She reached for him, pressing herself against his hand, wanting more of him.

"Jenny," he said, knowing neither could hold back much longer, and she paid heed, relaxing her grip, desperate now to have him inside her, filling her body with his own, wanting every inch, every nerve-end pressed against his skin.

He led her from the bathroom and laid her on the bed, drawing off the last piece of clothing, standing over her, gazing down at her body, the long, long legs, the smooth flatness of her stomach, the breasts so full, hardly losing their shape now she was lying on her back. She raised a hand towards him and he sank down on to her, finding her lips, and kissing them with a tenderness that overrode desire. Her arms clasped around his shoulders and she pulled him tight, forgetting his bruises. His legs were between hers, her knees raised just slightly on either side, and his penis pressed against her stomach, a thin trickle of fluid leaving a narrow, silver trail as he lowered himself. He reached down and guided himself into her, wanting to be gentle, resisting the screaming desire to thrust himself forward. Her head turned to one side as he entered and her hips rose to meet him, urging him on, demanding him there, deep, penetrating, wanting his whole length, her hands reaching down to his lower back, pulling him in.

Her soft moans turned to a whimper and he paused, raising his head so he could look into her face. She turned her head back to him and her eyes shone, her smile strained, her expression pleading. Then he could hold back no longer: he pulled away and thrust forward again, hard, rigid as iron, but as soft as velvet. She thrust with him, her excitement rising with his, her eyes half-closed, her knees striving to press together, gripping him, silently calling for more, more, more.

His teeth bit into her neck, making her cry out and he couldn't be sure if it was from pleasure or pain. Or both. He felt her limbs stiffening, felt her breath held, felt her silent scream, felt his muscles becoming taut, the liquid beginning to flow, seeming to draw itself from every part of his body, stretching every nerve until he thought they would tear, then the sweet ascending, the bursting through, the tightness of her inner muscles, the relaxing of nerves, the floating fall, the sighs that told him their pleasure had been shared, the sinking against her and the draining contentment.

They held each other for a long, silent time, she softly stroking his back, he with his head tucked into her hair that flowed across the pillow.

You weren't," she said finally.

He raised his head slightly. "Huh?" he murmured.

"A disappointment."

He grinned and allowed his head to slump back into her hair. Twisting his body, Fender withdrew from her and slid an arm beneath her neck. He pulled her close, kissing her cheek, then her lips. Both felt at peace, the traumas of the last few days laid aside for the moment.

After a while, Jenny said, "I wish we never had to go back."

"It will be all over soon."

"It never will be for me. Not now. I thought I'd find something here some respite. It's been shattered in a way I never dreamed of."

"Respite from what?"

She turned her head away from him and became quiet. Fender touched her chin with his hand and drew her face back towards him.

Tell me, Jenny."

She searched his eyes for several moments before speaking. "Coming to the Centre was a kind of retreat for me. I suppose I wanted to get away from life for a while. I thought living there, working with children, helping them understand the simple way of nature would un complicate my own life. It hasn't really worked."

"What were you running away from?"

The obvious; I think you can guess. The ironic part is that I promised myself I'd never get involved with a married man. My father left us years ago under those circumstances. We never even knew he was unhappy until the day he told us he was leaving. I'd always taken his love, his being there, for granted; I think my mother had too. To have that security taken away so suddenly and irrevocably was shattering. I watched what it did to my mother, how it changed her, the bitterness it left in her, and it frightened me. Sixteen years of marriage wiped out as though it had been a trivial affair.

"I still saw my father, I still loved him. But the change was in him.

It was as though his guilt was tearing him up inside -and the full realization of that guilt was when he was with me. I suppose in the end it made us both uncomfortable. We don't see too much of each other now."

Jenny's voice had become distant and Fender turned on his side, pulling her even closer. He was surprised to see there was no emotion in her eyes, just a dull flatness, as though emotions had long since been cried out.

"At fifteen I vowed I would never be like the woman that had caused such grief. God, how I hated that bitch. And then, five years later, I was that woman. Can you explain it, Luke? How can you become the very thing you loathe?"

She looked at him as though he really might provide her with an answer, but he shook his head. Things just happen, Jenny. You can't always control them."

"I tried, oh, how I tried; but he meant too much to me. I just couldn't stop myself, Luke, even though I hated what I was doing.

Please try to understand."

Her body trembled as she closed her eyes, and he could see the moistness creeping through the lashes.

"Jenny, Jenny, you don't have to explain anything. That was in your past; it had nothing to do with me." But it hurt, just the same.

"I want you to know, Luke. Like I said, no games between us." She kissed him, her eyes opening, allowing tiny rivulets to run from each corner. "He was the one that ended it and I guess I didn't put up too much of a struggle. I wanted him more than I could ever say, but I couldn't let myself beg; I couldn't fully become the woman I detested.

I'm over him now, Luke, please believe that. I still ... respect him; I still even like him. But the love has gone." She stared at the ceiling for a few moments. "I just drifted for a while after we broke up, then, when the opportunity came to join the Conservation Centre, I jumped at it. It seemed better than joining a convent."

He smiled at her attempt to make light of it. "And then you met Vie Whittaker," he said.

"I told you, there's nothing between us. He's a nice man, and interesting, but I only ever wanted to share the work with him, nothing else."

"I'm glad, Jenny."

Her head buried itself into his chest, her arms encircling him. "And I'm glad you came to the Centre. It's another irony that something so horrible should bring you there but I'm almost pleased the rats invaded the forest. Luke, don't get me wrong, I'm not putting any responsibility on you; but I feel alive again. The past may not be dead, but it's faded into another time. All I ask is that you be honest with me."

He pressed against her, his leg going between her thighs, and they held on to each other, the touch of their bodies an assurance in itself.

"It would be easy for me to say so much to you now," he whispered, 'but give me a little time. Let me finish this job first. I have to be sure they're really gone."

"You really hate them that much, Luke?"

"So much, I thought at one time I'd never have room for any other true feelings. You're breaking it down, Jenny, and I can't let you. Not until it's over." And then he told her why he despised the vermin, how his mother and father, his younger brother, had been slaughtered by them four years before, their bodies devoured, leaving hardly enough to bury. How he had pleaded with Howard to give him a job so he could fight all vermin not just the mutants to ensure that a disaster of that nature could never happen again.

Jenny cried as he spoke, feeling pity for him and a sad joy that he was speaking to her of things he had kept buried for such a long time. When he had finished, she held him till his body had lost its rigidity, had become relaxed, the tenseness gone. And he knew he loved her then, yet he could not allow himself to say it, fearing that with no barrier left between them, he would not have the courage to face what was still left to be done, knowing she would try to stop him.

It was only later, when he lay stretched out on the bed and she knelt next to him applying ointment to his injuries that he told her of the task he had been asked to perform within the next few days. Her hand stopped its soothing motion and she looked down at him in dismay.

"But surely there's no need?" she said "Surely they can just clear out the sewers with machinery? Why, Luke? Why do you have to go in there first?"

They want me to look for something ... I can't tell you what. I have to search the sewers before anyone else is allowed in. I won't be alone Captain Mather will be with me and there shouldn't be any more danger."

"How can you be sure? How can anyone be sure of anything with these monsters?"

It was a question he had asked himself many times that evening.

They entered the sewers wearing breathing apparatus, the stench of the rotting corpses wafting up from the opened manhole cover and sending their unmasked helpers reeling back. Fender and Captain Mather climbed down the metal ladder into the darkness below, both men fighting against their natural fear, expecting to hear the scurrying of clawed feet and squealing shrieks at any moment. They had waited three days before the final decision to go in was made; three days of pumping in more cyanide, listening for sounds through their receivers, praying it really was the end of the vermin menace. No signs of the creatures had been found above ground, but the soldiers and the operatives were still wary, their eyes continually looking around, searching the trees, the undergrowth, never venturing into the forest alone or unprotected.

Those gathered near that particular sewer entrance on the third day after the initial gassing did not envy the two men now descending into the infested labyrinth. The residue of lingering gas had been suctioned clear by the very machines that had pumped it in, but the thought of wading through the piled-up, decomposing bodies sent shudders through them. The soldiers were relieved that only two men were going down on the first mission, none of them keen to be part of a spearhead.

Both Fender's and Captain Mather's limbs were still stiff from the bruising their bodies had taken in the rat attack and they found their descent awkward, the protective suits and oxygen cylinders on their backs impeding their movements even further. Fender stood at the bottom of the ladder and swung the powerful torch he was carrying in a wide arc. A feeling of revulsion swept over him when he saw the heaped bodies, many with bloated stomachs, the result of a build-up of internal gases, others with jaws wide in silent agony, their legs extended stiffly into the air, their skin flaking and rotting. Mather joined him and regarded the nightmare scene with equal disdain, sweeping his torchlight into both directions of the tunnel.

He shone the torch on the boldly drawn map of the sewer network and a gloved finger pointed to their location. He then indicated the direction they had already agreed upon and Fender gave an exaggerated nod. The rat catcher moved off, Mather following close behind.

Two hours passed, then three. The men gathered around the point of entry began to grow anxious. They knew the two men had a wide circuit to cover, their route eventually leading them back to the starting point, but it was nerve-wracking to stand by completely inactive. Mike Lehmann and Stephen Howard eyed each other nervously. Antony Thornton was, at that moment, reporting personally to the Prime Minister and his Inner Cabinet, assuring them in soothing tones that all was well in Epping Forest, and the situation was under complete control. Jenny Hanmer sat alone in her room at the Conservation Centre and stared at the window. The curtains were drawn together.

Another hour passed.

Mike Lehmann tucked his wristwatch back inside his sleeve and pulled the thick glove back on. He turned to the research director. "I want to go down there with some men," he said firmly.

"Not just yet, Mike," Howard replied. "Give them time. They've got a lot of ground to cover."

They've had time enough. I'm going." He reached for the helmet lying at his feet.

"You know you can't take any soldiers down there just yet!" Howard snapped. "We agreed with Thornton."

To hell with Thornton! Luke may be in trouble."

"Keep your voice down, Mike. Listen, if he ..."

They're coming up!"

Both men wheeled around at the sound of the soldier's voice and looked towards the opening to the sewer. The soldier who had called out, his mouth and nose now covered with a handkerchief, was reaching down with one hand into the hole. An arm appeared over the edge of the opening, then a helmet and shoulders. The figure clambered through followed by another and a cheer rang out among the relieved soldiers. The first figure stood erect and the hands pulled at his helmet, then pulled away the oxygen mask. The only expression on Fender's face was one of weariness.

He spotted Lehmann and Howard and began walking towards them, his strides heavy, awkward. They saw his face was shining with perspiration and steam from his mouth escaped into the cold air in swirling billows. He stopped before them, dropping the torch and helmet onto the grass, and looked at each man in turn.

He shook his head. "Nothing," he said.

SEVENTEEN

Charles Denison smiled to himself as he steered the Land-Rover along the rutted track. It was over. His forest was free. He looked out at the bright sky. Even the weather seemed to acknowledge that all was well. The sun had shone brightly, like an omen, since the sewers had been cleared of dead vermin two weeks before. There was a clean dryness in the air, the brown-gold leaves crisp and brittle on the ground, shattering underfoot into flaky powder, ready to replenish the soil. The animals were more in evidence now, venturing forth from their habitats, still cautious, but becoming bolder by the day. The troop activity had probably frightened them more than anything else, the heavy tanks and army vehicles lumbering through their domain like great metal prehistoric monsters. The constant drone of helicopters searching overhead had not helped, either. The main force was gone now, leaving behind a sufficient number to patrol the woodland, but not enough to intrude unpleasantly on the life there. The residents would be allowed to return soon perhaps in two or three weeks' time when every building, every cellar, had been thoroughly scoured. It had been a mammoth job, for there were more homes and deserted buildings on the vast woodland estate than people realized, but it had been carried out with typical military efficiency. Just a few more and the task would be complete.

Of course, anyone entering the forest still had to wear the damned uncomfortable protective suits, but everyone knew they were now just an unnecessary precaution. The soldiers had complained at first because they had not been kit ted out with the silvery clothing there simply had not been enough to go round but now they laughed at their companions in house-searching parties who had to wear them. Everyone had relaxed. Except Whitney-Evans. His concern was now of a different nature.

It looked as if Epping Forest might lose its financial independence.

The extermination exercise had cost more than the City coffers could afford at that time and the Greater London Council had rubbed their hands in glee at the prospect of becoming joint owners of the green belt area. The battle was on: Whitney-Evans and his City friends were endeavouring to sue the government of the day for the disaster. The local authorities who each owned a slice of the green lands around Epping Forest were screaming for tighter controls in the area, demanding that the government itself should take total responsibility for the woodland's upkeep, and the GLC were claiming that the forest was a natural extension of London itself, therefore it should come under their jurisdiction. The clamour from the public over the scare they had received and, of course, the many deaths that had occurred was being nicely stirred by the main opposing political party, with the smaller antagonists jumping up and biting the government's ankles with furious relish. The media had had a field day, dreaming up a new title for the circulation-stimulating event, their elected title following aptly on the heels of The Outbreak': they called it The Outrage'.

Denison slowed the Land-Rover as a squirrel hopped on to the track ahead, cocked its head at his approach, and darted back into cover.

"You're one vermin I don't mind any more!" Denison called out, chuckling to himself. The vehicle gathered speed and the head keeper began to hum a tune to himself, happy to be carrying out his normal duties in the almost deserted forest. It would be a long time before the day-trippers returned and the thought made him even happier. It also warmed him a little to think of the insufferably pompous Whitney-Evans squirming under the sudden pressures inflicted upon him.

The man undoubtedly loved the Epping Forest, but he had a tendency to regard it as his own domain, his own back garden, and all those employed in its care as his personal gardeners. Denison hoped fervently that the City would retain control of the woodland, but had to smile at the upset now taking place.

He brought the Land-Rover to a halt before a large gate, the entrance to a six-acre enclosure in which the forest deer were kept. They had been herded together and brought here for their own protection years before, because their numbers had depleted rapidly through cars and lorries knocking them down when they wandered across the many roads running through the woodland. Dogs had also been a menace to them, chasing them, savaging their young. They had sustained injuries on fencings, cut themselves on broken glass and choked on plastic bags left by tourists. The occasional poacher had left his mark, too. It was decided that if the deer population were to survive, it could only do so in the safety of a reserve. One of Denison's biggest fears during the rodent invasion was that the deer would be attacked. He had begged for a guard, or at least a patrol, to cover the perimeter, and the army had complied with his wishes until the threat was over. Of all the forest wildlife, he loved these gentle, skittish creatures most.

He pulled the gate open wide, climbed back into the Land Rover, and drove through. He left the engine idling while he closed the gate again. There were no deer immediately in evidence, but that wasn't unusual: they were shy creatures. He drove around the perimeter, checking for breaks in the fencing, ensuring there were no deer strung halfway over the boundary, their efforts to wander free foiled by their inability to clear the wire.

He sensed the presence of the bodies before he saw them. They were scattered over a wide area as though their panic had made them flee in different directions. They lay motionless in the grass, bloody, half-eaten carcasses. He jumped from the Land-Rover, leaving behind the two-way radio that had now become standard equipment, and stumbled towards them, shaking his head as he went, his cheeks glistening wetly.

Five, six, seven, more. Nine in all. Oh God, no. Another, a hundred yards away. One by the fence, another ... He stared at the slumped form, unsure, too much blood to be certain, but the unstained areas light in colour... He moved closer to the particular animal, his grief making him oblivious to any danger that might still be lurking in the vicinity. As he drew nearer, he became more certain. And as he stood above the ravaged body, a raw, gaping hole in its skull beneath the antlers, the blood still viscous as though death had been recent, he knew from what was left untouched of the light, fawn-covered coating, that the rats had slaughtered the white deer.

Whittaker swung the rusted iron gates wide and Fender drove the Audi through. He waited for the senior tutor to close the gates again and stared through his windscreen at the long, straight road ahead, the forest of pine trees providing a high, green wall on either side. In the distance he could just make out the sombre, square shape of Seymour Hall, its chimney stacks a dark silhouette against the clear sky.

The passenger door opened and Whittaker climbed in. The car moved forward at a slow speed, both men looking keenly into the trees, searching for any scarred barks, any sudden movement.

What do you think?" Whittaker asked, his eyes still scanning the forest. We haven't seen any signs for two weeks now, not since the gassing."

Fender shook his head. "I don't know. I'd like to think we got them all, but I still feel uneasy."

"Why? Nearly every inch of the forest has been covered and there's only a few buildings left to search. Even the one ahead has been cleared by the helicopter reconnaissance -the pigs running loose up there all seemed healthy enough."

"I still won't be happy until every building has been crossed off our list."

"Maybe you're right. I'll certainly feel relieved when the whole area has been given a clean bill of health. Even then I think I'll be a little scared of the forest for a few years to come."

Fender brought the car to a halt before the rough wooden gate and cattle-grid that barred the entrance into the rising field leading up to the desolate mansion.

You won't get the car up there," Whittaker said. "It's hard down here, but the pigs have churned the track into a muddy swamp at the other end."

"Okay, we'll walk." Fender quickly ran his eyes over the surrounding fields, studying the wooded fringes. He was glad to be clear of the pine forest, the memory of the mutant rats leaping from the trees still all too vivid. Ahead, to his right, he saw the small round copse that had made him feel uneasy on his last visit to this place. It would have to be searched later. He reached for the two-way radio lying on the back seat and informed the Operations Room at the Centre of their precise location, a strictly adhered-to procedure for any of the search parties in the forest. Then he strapped a gun holster around his waist.

"Okay," he said when he had finished, let's take a look."

Whittaker pushed open the door and clambered out, the sun reflecting sparkles of light in his silver-grey protective suit.

"Hey! Helmet," Fender said reaching down into the front floor-space where the tutor had carelessly thrown the headgear.

"Oh, Christ. Is it still necessary?" Whittaker complained.

"Carry it. You never know."

Whittaker took the plastic-visored helmet and tucked it under his arm.

He gazed around him, fingers scratching his beard.

"It's so bloody peaceful," he said. "It seems impossible that it all happened such a short time ago."

Fender closed the car door, and smiled grimly. "Let's hope it stays this way," he said.

They walked towards the gate, carefully negotiating their way across the metal cattle-grid. Fender released the catch and swung the gate open a few feet, lifting it clear of the rutted earth at its base. The tutor passed through and Fender made sure the entrance was closed properly before catching up with him. They trudged along in silence, the track becoming muddier as they went The rat catcher examined the rough soil on either side.

The pigs don't leave much, do they," he commented.

"No, they eat anything and everything. That's what makes them so cheap to keep. These free-rangers virtually look after themselves."

"I don't see any," said Fender, craning his head round.

They'll be up at the house in the shelter there. We can look in on them to set your mind at rest."

The mud began to pull at their boots now, making walking awkward.

"I'm surprised this hasn't dried up," Fender said, 'with all the bright weather we've been having."

"It's become too water-logged over the years. It'll never dry up now.

It gets worse further on."

Once more there was a silence between them as they plodded through the oozing mud, and Fender felt the tutor's resentment towards him. He'd been conscious of it before, on the other days he and Whittaker had teamed up as a search-party, and had ignored it. The tutor hadn't actually said anything antagonistic towards him, nor indicated his feelings over Jenny and Fender's relationship it was more an underlying animosity tempered by the fact that Fender had pulled the rat from him during the attack, possibly saving his Me, or at least saving him from serious injury. But it was coming, and Fender could sense it.

He almost smiled when Whittaker said, "Look, Luke, about Jenny..."

Fender kept walking, his eyes searching the empty windows of the building ahead. "What about her?" he said.

"You know she's in a confused state at the moment. This business with the rats has upset her terribly."

Fender remained silent.

"What I'm trying to say is, she's very vulnerable right now ... I don't think she knows her own mind."

"I don't agree. She seems to me to be very clear-minded."

Whittaker reached out a hand and brought the rat catcher to a halt.

"Look, what I mean is, I'd hate to see her taken advantage of when she's in this state."

Fender faced him. "Listen," he said through tight lips. "I understand your problem, but it is your problem. It's nothing to do with Jenny and me. Jenny's neither confused nor being taken advantage of. I could explain to you how we feel about each other, but that has nothing to do with you."