Operation: Mongolia

- 18 -

The glow from the copper wires flared, blazing as bright as the fire at the room’s center. Outside the door, the entrance was packed with worms attempting to thrust through, blue lightning crashing against the gold of the protective field. Above Donnie’s head something cracked, loud as a gunshot. More debris fell from above.

“The bloody rafters are going,” Davies shouted.

Donnie felt something grip at his left arm and looked ‘round to see the professor, wide-eyed and obviously terrified, looking up at the hole in the roof. Donnie followed his gaze in time to see a four-foot-long worm slither through the hole and tumble down, right on top of the fire, raising sparks that scattered above their heads before descending to burn at their shoulders and scalps.

“Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” Wiggins shouted. “Davies, you’re with me. Let’s see these fuckers off once and for all.”

Donnie covered his ears again as Wiggins and Davies moved to the doorway and began firing out into the night. He was so intent on watching them that his heart almost stopped when Wilkins fired three shots upward to the roof, only six feet from Donnie and enough to temporarily deafen him with the thunderous roar. He looked up just as the ceiling collapsed in a downpour of foliage and split timber. Among the wreckage was what was left of one of the large worms it having been burst and split under Wilkins’ shots. What fell was pink and wet and it flooded down on top of Professor Gillings like a waterfall, soaking him in oozing gore.

The man immediately started to scream. Donnie only heard it faintly but the man’s terror was plain to see. He was covered in pink ooze that writhed and boiled, full of tiny, two-inch long, pencil-thick worms. The professor was frantically trying to brush them off his body but seemed to be having problems with that and Donnie soon saw why. The worms had already started to chew on hands and face and some of them showed only the last of their tails as they burrowed, eating into flesh with a rapidity that brought fresh screams of terror from the stricken man. The professor screamed again; three of the worms found his tongue and chewed. His mouth filled with blood, choking the screams.

When Donnie went to move to the professor’s aid, he found the floor covered with more of the squirming worms, all of which seemed intent on heading for the professor for easy food. Donnie stomped down, hard, feeling them squish, greasy and wet underfoot. The professor was frantically trying to drag his legs from where they were caught up in the sleeping bag. He put a hand on the ground to try to get some balance and a swarm of the tiny worms covered it, blood flowing as they chewed and burrowed. Two more went in through Gillings’ left cheek, leaving dark, wet holes as they went in deeper. Worms seethed and roiled at Gillings’ neck where a clump of them had been trapped between his flesh and the collar of his shirt. Blood spurted. The professor screamed again, spraying blood from his wounded tongue and threw himself onto his back, rolling around as if trying to squash the attacking worms. More of them seethed over the sleeping bag itself, material and inner fleece flying as they attacked it like miniature buzz saws.

“Need some help here,” Donnie shouted, still stomping furiously in a St. Vitus dance of rage and worry for the older man, but the soldiers had their own problems; Wiggins and Davies with defending the doorway and Wilkins firing again and again up towards the new emptiness above them.

Donnie waded through the ooze, still stomping, cursing loudly yet only hearing a dull echo of his voice above the ringing in his ears. The professor was only four feet away but by the time Donnie reached him, he’d lost his left eye—Donnie was dismayed to see two tiny red tails disappear inside as the things continued to burrow—and apart from a tremor in his right arm was lying still.

“Davies,” Donnie shouted. “We’ve got a man down.”

Davies finally left Wiggins and ran over but Donnie already knew it was too late; Gillings’ remaining eye stared sightlessly upward and the only movement in his body was an artificial one provided by the myriad of worms that coursed through him, still burrowing, still eating.

“Give me a hand here,” Davies shouted, bending to lift the professor. “We’ve got to burn the body, right now.”

Donnie stepped back, squashing more of the worms underfoot but not noticing, only having eyes for the dead man. He shook his head.

“I can’t…”

Davies didn’t have time to argue. Having fed, worms were already beginning to eat their way back out of the body. They were larger now and still hungry.

“Wilkins, give me a hand,” Davies said. “Get him on the fire—fast now.”

Donnie finally managed to move when Wilkins and Davies hauled the dead man up and helped them to throw it over the hearth, into the center of the fire pit. The sleeping bag blazed. Worms popped like tiny firecrackers in the heat and the professor was quickly ablaze. Donnie was aware that both Davies and Wilkins were now stomping on the ground in the same manic dance he’d been doing seconds before but Donnie was rooted to the spot, staring into the flames as the fire took what remained of Professor Gillings away. His gaze followed the smoke up through the hole in the roof.

Cold stars looked back down at him.

The room fell completely quiet, the ringing in Donnie’s ears slowly fading away, the only sound now the crack and hiss from the fire.

Davies was looking down at a mess of pink ooze on the floor, already hardening into waxy furrows.

“Did we get all the wee fuckers?” he said.

Wilkins stomped hard on one last squirming worm, wincing at the obvious pain that had shot up his leg.

“I think so,” he replied.

“They’ve fucked off out here too,” Wiggins said from the doorway.

Donnie hardly heard them. He felt bile rise in his throat and made for the doorway, reaching it just in time to step over the copper wire, lean outside, and lose a mess of coffee and partially digested biscuits onto the steps outside.

The next ten minutes were a blank spot in his mind. He was vaguely aware of Davies checking him all over for bite marks or signs of burrowing. Wilkins made a pot of coffee, Wiggins guarded the door, and the fire kept crackling, although none of them ever looked at it.

Donnie came out of his fugue when Davies gave him a steaming mug of coffee and a cigarette. It was only then that Donnie looked towards the fire. Little remained of the professor bar the outline of a rib cage and even that collapsed when Wilkins tossed more wood on the flames.

“There was nothing else we could do,” Davies said softly. “If we’d let those things finish what they were doing, it would have been us next.”

Donnie nodded, not yet ready to speak, taking a hit of smoke and a mouthful of coffee, knowing that neither would do anything to fill the emptiness he felt gnawing at his insides. He realized that Wiggins had asked a question. He’d missed it.

“What did you say?” he replied, his voice still sounding echoing and far off in his damaged ears.

“I said, I’ve been wondering. I think it’s breeding season for yon worms—the rain and water gets them going, they swell up, produce the wee fuckers, and then they’re ready, like big water balloons, to go pop?”

“Hardly scientific,” Davies replied, “but I think that’s close enough.”

“Okay, new rule,” Wiggins said. “Don’t shoot any fuckers if they’re above our heads.”

Donnie didn’t have the energy to reply and even the sound of an engine approaching outside wasn’t enough to get him to drag his gaze away from the fire.