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It seems this research team
from a Federation Exploration vessel was sent down some years back to study
the plants and animals. There were six of them- some old guy, a Professor of
Biology, named, Quinn or Quince, three of his postgrad students and the muscle-
two star fleet marines, second class.
They had one of those metal,
flat-bottomed boats with an outboard prop, but mostly they punted the thing
around, so they wouldn�t scare off the wildlife.
Anyway, the first night they
were out on the lagoons, they realized they�d made a big mistake. The rain was
drumming on the aluminium roof and decking, and nobody could get any sleep, so
they decided to camp ashore on one of the islands. Only the islands were just
clumps of floating moss and they started sinking through them after about an
hour.
So, the marines, putting
their advanced survival skills to use, came up with the idea of slinging
hammocks up in the moss-festooned trees and hanging the tents over them. The
hammocks were inside the tents, if you see what I mean, and then the tents were
suspended separately around them. But all the trees were dying, infested with
mildew and fungi, the branches and trunks rotten, brittle and breaking. So,
they all had to go back on the boat and just put up with the damn drumming
rain, day and night. And the moths that lived under leaves and inside the
decaying hollow tree trunks, which were attracted to the boat lights- the poor
things hated the rain, too. They tried everything- slinging tents over the
cabin, nets, nothing could deaden the sound of the damn drumming rain or stop
the moths getting in. And, remember, the rain on Telas never stops, not even
for one second. After five days, most of the team were going crazy, but the
ship wasn�t coming back to take them off for another two months, so they just
had to shape up.
They all handled the damn
drumming rain differently. The Professor plugged his ears with battle wound
wadding from the first aid kit and read about the local amphibians. One of the
male postgrads wore headphones and listened to the complete works of Richard
Wagner, over and over again. Frankly, I think I would have preferred the damn
drumming rain. One marine started porking the female postgrad, while his buddy
listened to rock music on his cube player, and wished he had got in there first.
But our story primarily
concerns the second male postgrad student of the team, a weirdo by the name of
Nemason. Because, you see, he never once complained about the rain. This dude
actually liked the rain. Showered in it. Drank it. Slept in it. He even swam in
the swamp.
Nobody else in the team swam
in the swamp. That�s because they were scared of worm infestation. The
Professor warned them about a species of worm that lives in those Telas bayous,
a parasitic worm, that�s not particular how it enters the host, if you catch my
drift.
�What does the worm do,
Professor?� asked Ms Buxson, at the time, rubbing insect repellant into her arm
where she had been bitten.
�It attacks the nervous
system and turns the brain to jello, Judy- no, I�m only joking, we don�t really
know. Telas is home to thousands of parasites.�
�Now he tells me,� said the
marine who wasn�t wearing headphones.
But it never stopped
Nemason. He had taken to snorkelling in the lagoons, slithering over the mud
flats to slide into the next one, just like Burt Lancaster in that ancient
movie about the guy who loved swimming pools. Nemason�s bag was crustaceans and
he wanted to study them in their natural habitat. He was from the method school
of biology- become the species.
�Look at that freak go,�
laughed Judy�s marine, taking another long smoke break under the deck awning.
Judy slid off his lap and
sauntered over to the stern rail.
�Tim! For heaven�s sake stay
out of the swamp!� she called.
Nemason, who was too far
away to hear her through the downpour, looked up, waved back and disappeared
behind another clump of floating moss.
Judy ran her fingers back
through her damp blonde hair and then down over her warm soaking clothes, which
were clinging to her slender panting body like wet paint.
�Come back in here out of
the damn rain,� said the marine.
Judy turned and looked back
at him. He was a hunk but he was becoming a little too demanding.
Late that afternoon, Judy�s
boyfriend went missing. And Nemason failed to return. They found a bloodstain on
one of the awning ties and ran a check on it. It was the marine�s.�
The Professor, who was not a
leader of men, asked the remaining marine to take command of the situation and
do what he thought best. He ordered a sweep of the area, by torchlight, and drew
up a grid on one of the Professor�s rough maps, covering about a square mile,
and they motored up and down the lagoons all night. But no trace of either man
was found.
The Professor looked up at
the yellow blot, bleeding through the grey cloud base. It looked like noon. He
must have slept all morning. He heard a door close behind him and looked round
to see Ms Buxson coming out of the other marine�s cabin.
She came and stood next to
him and gazed across the lagoon, sadly watching the colliding circles of the
raindrops for a few moments.
She raked her damp hair back
off her face with her crimson-nailed fingers. A deep sigh swelled her breasts.
�Did you get any sleep, Professor?� she said.
�Did you?� said the
Professor, and went back inside to wake Tramm, the other postgrad student, with
whom he was sharing a cabin.
After brunch, the team met
under the awning to decide what to do. The weather station was approximately
forty miles due north. The Professor thought they should head there.
�Uh-uh. That little bastard
murdered my buddy, and I�m gonna flush him out,� said Judy�s new sleeping
partner.
�We don�t know that,� said
the Professor, slapping his neck to get rid of the little white moth that was
bothering him.
�How much more proof do you
need? He�s still out there, isn�t he?� said the gung-ho marine, slotting a
bullet into the breach of his gun to ram his point home.
�You said yourself those
worms can make people go crazy, Professor,� said Ms Buxson. �Tim has obviously
been infested.�
�I was kidding, Ms Buxson-
the worm may be harmless. We are not the judge and jury here- I say we report
the matter to the authorities and-�
�-Sir,� cut in the marine,
�I am not leaving here till I nail that sonofabitch.�
�Let�s take a vote,� said
the Professor. He looked to Tramm. �Tramm, what do you think?�
�I agree with you,
Professor,� said Tramm, removing his spectacles and giving them a speculative
wipe.
�I agree with you,
Professor,� mimicked Ms Buxson, cadging a cigarette off the marine.
�That�s enough, Ms Buxson!�
said the Professor, sharply.
�Take it easy, Professor,�
said the marine.
Ms Buxson dangled the
cigarette from her lips and let the marine light it for her.
�I say we find Tim,� she
said. �If he didn�t do it, then he has nothing to fear. Who knows, he may have
been attacked, too.�
�Attacked?� said the
Professor. �By what exactly, Ms Buxson?�
�I don�t know. Maybe there�s
something out there, something big, living in the swamp. Tim might need our
help. They both might. We can�t just abandon them,� she said.
�There are no large
predators on Telas,� said the Professor.
�What would you know, sir?�
said the marine.
�I remind you I am the
leader of this expedition and-�
�-You put me in charge-
remember?� said the marine. �What we�ve got here is a military situation.�
Ms Buxson wandered over to
Tramm and leaned alongside him, against the rail. �You heard him, didn�t you,
Tramm?�
The student looked into Ms
Buxson�s limp, heavy-lidded eyes, which were focussed appealingly on his, and
then turned to his Faculty Head. �She�s right, Professor- you did kind of ask
him to take over.�
�That�s settled then,� said
Ms Buxson. �You�re out-voted, Professor. We look for Tim.� She ruffled Tramm�s
hair, ditched her butt over the side and strutted back into her cabin.
�Okay, you two start
punting- we�ll do another sweep- only this time we�ll maintain the element of
surprise,� said the marine.
The Professor and Tramm
climbed up on the port and starboard gunwales and picked up their poles.
After a short while, Ms
Buxson re-emerged from her quarters, wearing a commando knife in her belt and
wielding an automatic pistol. Her hair was tied back and covered up under a
camouflage bandana.
�Wow!� howled the marine,
grabbing her round her narrow waist and kissing her neck. �It�s G.I. Jane! You
look good, baby. Good enough to eat-�
Ms Buxson could see the
Professor looking down disapprovingly at her, over the marine�s shoulder.
�A girl has to protect
herself,� she said, directing her words at the Professor.
Meanwhile,
out in the bayou, they were being watched and their every word overheard. It
was Nemason. He had never been far away, not since they called off the search
in the early hours of the morning. Now he observed them from a mossy island,
which he was pushing along in front of him as he swam. All day that kid had
trailed them through the rainswept lagoons. And although he had been surviving
on nothing more than rainwater and a few shellfish he caught along the way, by
nightfall he felt strong enough to go for some real chow.
The boat was stuck fast on a
mudbank. Tramm and the Professor, too exhausted to push it off, had been stood
down, and eagerly retired to their bunks. Nemason eavesdropped on Ms Buxson and
the marine, as they drank and smoked, and fooled around on the aft deck. He had
to look away when they had sex. And was relieved when they finally stumbled off
into their cabin.
Nemason waited half an hour
after the last giggle subsided, and boarded the craft, over the stern rail. The
big propeller in its safety mesh, with its twin aerofoils on either side, gave
him cover, so that he could hide and take a good look round before he stepped
down barefooted onto the metal decking. The rain was falling steadily. He
ducked under the awning and advanced to the threshold of the cabin door, and
listened, straining to hear a sound through the drumming.
As soon as he opened the
door, he could smell the unmistakable iron odour of fresh blood. His head
recoiled. And then his eyes flared as he peered into the gloom. A figure was
crouching under the blue emergency light, right in the middle of the main
passageway, licking a huge hunting knife.
Nemason didn�t hang around-
he was out of there and leaping off the side of the boat into the soft mud. He
heard someone slosh down behind him and growl. But he didn�t look round- he
just kept sledging his feet through that sucking ooze to get to open water.
And then he was galloping
through the shallows, his legs plunging and splashing to make the safety of the
deep.
But whoever it was behind
him, was gaining with every stride. In blind panic, he dived too soon and
bellyflopped into two feet of water. His fingers clawed into the cold mud to
try and drag himself away. Something hit his foot- which made him kick out and
pull even harder, his arms flailing wildly. With a shock, he realised the
screams he could hear were his own.
And then he was gulping down
mouthfuls of the brackish-tasting water. He had left his snorkel, mask and
flippers on an island somewhere- he didn�t care where- he just dove under and
let the liquid darkness engulf him. His limbs stretched and kicked free. A
strange elation overwhelmed him.
There was a loud boom,
followed by a high-pitched zinging noise, that seemed to oscillate and then
come to a dead stop with a muffled thud. And then another. Then two more. He
noticed a trail of phosphorescent bubbles left by one, pass close to his head,
and realised someone was firing at him. Panic overtook him again. He tried to
go deeper, but his face bumped into the soft lagoon bed. He spun over on his
back and let his head drift up to the surface. He heard voices calling from the
boat, now some hundred metres away.
A shadowy figure, standing
in the shallows turned and waved and then slopped back up the mudbank.
Tramm had been butchered in
his bunk. The Professor said he never heard a thing. Judy confirmed that she
had been disturbed by somebody outside her cabin and when she went to take a
look, found Nemason sneaking about. She said he had a knife, that she�d given
chase, but he got away.
�You fired on him?� said the
Professor, noticing she was wearing the missing marine�s side-arm.
�You bet I did!� she cried.
�I told you- he had a knife- what the hell did you expect me to do?�
The marine put a comforting
arm around her shaking shoulder. �Okay, honey, you did the right thing,� he
soothed.
�Jesus,� she said, �you saw
what he did to Tramm.�
The Professor studied the
macho pair for a few moments, as they stood looking into each other�s eyes, and
then went to attend to Tramm.
They zipped him up in the
foetal position in a specimen bag and buried him in the mud.
Now, you know that kid out
in the swamp was not the killer he was being painted by Ms Buxson. Was Ms
Buxson telling the truth when she said she heard someone outside her door? It
could have been the real killer. She admitted chasing Nemason, but could she
have stabbed her fellow student to death in his bed? It was an act of
cold-blooded murder that would have made Lady Macbeth blush. Somebody on that
boat was lying. Somebody on that boat was a psycho. One thing was for sure-
nobody was getting any sleep.
But that night, in the wee
small hours, the Professor finally succumbed and dozed off. He was awoken by a
wet hand over his mouth.
He started up off his bunk
in a panic and found himself staring into the mad, unblinking eyes of his
research assistant, Nemason.
�It�s Ms Buxson,� he
whispered urgently.
The Professor pulled his
hand away. �Ms Buxson? Are you sure?�
He nodded and dripped swamp
water over the Professor�s face. The Professor rolled over on his side and Nemason
drew back.
��She was shooting at me- we�ve got to get out of here- maybe we
could make it to that weather station. What d�you think, sir?�
�Can you navigate in this
swamp?�
Nemason thought about that.
�Exactly,� said the
Professor, rubbing his chin. �We have to think of something else.�
�Confront her,� said
Nemason.
�Our trigger-happy escort
would take her side,� said the Professor.
Nemason sat on the bed,
dripping. And listened to the drumming rain for a few moments. He heard the
Professor moving around behind him- probably getting dressed, he thought. He
kept looking the other way.
��Well, maybe we could get that gun away from him,� he said, not
really convincing himself, let alone the Professor. �What d�you think,
Profess-?�
The knife struck him precisely
between the shoulder blades, narrowly missing the vertebrae and spinal chord.
If it hadn�t, he would not have been able to spring forward towards the door-
the knife still sticking in his back- and scream for help.
His fingers scrabbled
frantically for the door handle, but he just couldn�t get it open. He felt
hands around his throat, trying to pull him back and shut him up at the same
time. But he kept screaming- screaming for his life.
They lurched around the dark
cabin like two clumsy dancers, bounced off the wall and stumbled over onto the
bunk. Suddenly, the door burst open.
�He tried to kill me!�
shouted the Professor.
The marine hit the light
switch. The Professor released his grip and pushed Nemason off. Nemason rolled
off the bed and fell to his knees. The knife still sticking in his back.
�Tim!� cried Ms Buxson,
rushing to tend her fellow student.
�He- he�s the one,�
stammered Nemason, and collapsed into her arms.
�He- he must have been
infested by one of those worms,� said the Professor, edging off the bed, around
the fallen student.
�I thought you said they
were harmless,� said Ms Buxson, looking accusing up at her Faculty Head. �And
how come he�s been stabbed in the back?�
�There was a struggle, I- I
managed to gain the advantage.�
�Tim was doing the
screaming,� she said, with a morbid smile on her mouth.
�What? Am I under
suspicion?� blustered the Professor. �I�m not listening to anymore of this- I�m
taking this boat to the weather station. You can voice your opinions at the
enquiry, Ms Bux-�
�Stay right where you are,
sir!� snapped the marine, cocking his rifle and levelling it directly at the
Professor�s chest. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. �What d�you want to
do with him, Jude?�
�Lock him up,� said Ms
Buxson.
The Professor opened his
mouth to protest.
�-And if he resists- shoot
him!� she added quickly. �I�ll need a sample of his blood anyway- and I�m not
bothered how we get it.�
Nemason stirred in her arms.
�Ju-dy- I think-�
�Shh. Don�t try to talk,
Tim,� said Ms Buxson.
�The moths,� he croaked.
�They bite.�
He fell unconscious.
�Moths?� said the marine.
�What the hell did he mean?�
The Professor took advantage
of the marine�s momentary lapse of attention and rushed him. The rifle barrel
was pushed up in the air and it went off, blowing a big hole in the aluminium
roof. There was a brief struggle before the burly marine easily overpowered the
elderly Professor and rifle-butted him between the eyes. The blow was delivered with such force that it killed him instantaneously.
�He�s dead,� confirmed Ms
Buxson, feeling for a pulse. �What a mess- we�ll get the blame for this, I
know.�
�We can all back each other
up- they�ll have to believe us,� said the marine.
�We need scientific proof,�
said Ms Buxson. �That�s the only kind they accept. Tim mentioned the moths- he
must have been trying to tell us something. He�s losing a lot of blood- help me
to get him on the bed. I�ve got to sew up that wound.�
Later, with Nemason sleeping
soundly, the Professor in a body bag somewhere in the bayou, Ms Buxson sat down
on the aft deck, under the awning, with her microscope, and began analysing a
slide of the Professor�s blood. Without a centrifuge and more equipment, there
was no way she could be certain, but it did seem that something alien and alive
had contaminated the Professor, something bacterial and malignant. She paused
to give her eye a rest and looked up at a swarm of tiny white moths, hanging in
a cloud near the overhead light. She gave herself a spray with her insect
repellent.
�I wonder,� she thought aloud.
�Vampire moths?� She turned to call to the marine. But he was already standing
directly behind her.
�Oh- there you are!�
He smiled, drew his knife
and grabbed her. But some ancient instinct inside her had sensed it coming and
she ducked away under his arm and ran past him, back into the cabin. He did not
even bother to chase her. He just let her panic and fumble for the door handle
and then wrench it open and lunge inside. He even let her lock it.
She hit the light switch and
saw the rifle, which had been left resting against the wall. She picked it up
and clutched it to her breast, as she turned and pressed her back to the door.
Tim was on the bed, under a
mosquito net. His eyes blinked open.
�Judy?� he rasped.
Suddenly there was a curious
stabbing sound, like someone plunging a can opener blade into tin. Ms Buxson
shuddered and looked down at her stomach. There was a dark red point sticking
out of it. And it was dripping something horrible and dark. A faint cry left
her lips. �Oh.�
Nemason heard a ripping
metallic sound and the red knife tip disappeared. Ms Buxson slumped forward
with a jerk, staggered a few steps and fell across Nemason on the bed. The door
started rattling. Tim reached for the rifle Ms Buxson was still holding, prised
her fingers off it, and pointed it at whoever was going to come through.
The door stopped shaking and
everything went quiet, quiet, that is, except for the drumming rain.
Nemason felt for a pulse in
Judy�s neck. There wasn�t one. Two hot tears welled in the corners of his eyes.
He bit his bottom lip and ruffled her beautiful golden hair. His grip tightened
on the heavy assault rifle. He listened through the drumming rain, straining to hear
a sound or feel any other movement on the boat. He became aware of a warmth
along his left side and realized with a start of horror that it was Judy�s
blood seeping through.
The boat rocked. Nemason
made a sharp intake of breath. He rolled his eyeballs up and fixed them on the
ceiling. Rain was dripping through the bullet hole. Had he only imagined the
slight rocking motion of the boat? His breathing grew shallow and shallower,
until he could only hear the dripping of a single drop of rain on the floor of
the cabin. He swallowed hard and raised the barrel of the gun towards the roof.
A deep fear forced him to squeeze the trigger, even though he had no idea if
anyone was up there. Nothing happened. He checked the breach and saw it was
empty- and yet there was a magazine underneath. He�d seen the marines testing
their guns that first day in the swamp- they had been firing automatically- the
rifle must have two modes- rapid fire and single shot. He felt around for the
catch to switch the gun over. And then he definitely heard something move up on
the roof. That was all the proof he needed- he strafed the ceiling with bullets
and heard a cry and a loud thud. Within moments the marine�s rain-thinned blood
was pouring through every ragged hole.
Suddenly, Nemason heard a
boat engine and raised voices. He felt the boat dip to one side twice and heard
the faintest of footfalls coming onto the deck and up to the cabin door.
�Jesus!� Nemason heard a
hushed voice say.
�Shh!� said another. �On my
count- three!�
The door burst open and two
figures rushed in and sprayed the bed with hot rain. Blood spattered up the
walls. And then the roaring abruptly stopped. As the smoke cleared, the
Commander of the weather station walked in and surveyed the carnage.
�He had a gun, sir,� said
the nearest of his two marine escorts.
The Commander nodded.
�Clean up this mess,� he
said, and walked out.
If Ms Buxson�s lifeless body
hadn�t taken most of those shots, Tim Nemason would never have lived to tell
the tale. Though his story was backed up by the forensic report they
commissioned for the full enquiry that followed.
The End
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