Dr. Steven Hedgeley sighed in frustration, his eyes scanning the letter he held in his hands. He had run to the letter box and torn it open as soon as it arrived.
Another rejection.
The letter was longer than some of the others, at least, but once again they had failed to take his idea seriously.
It said:
Dear Dr. Hedgeley,
We have considered your research carefully, but it is the feeling of the directors of the Institute for Advanced Research in Warfare that, were we to link ourselves to your work, we would unfortunately take on excessive moral hazard.
We greatly appreciate the innovative nature of your research and wish you the very best of luck.
Sincerely,
J. Potridge-Smythe, S.P Prince, Aubrey Fife-Edgerton
What did it even mean? Excessive moral hazard? He tore the letter up in frustration, then sank to his knees, weeping. Not only had he sunk all of his money into the project, he had also taken on enormous debts, all with the hope of helping humanity, and this was how the world repaid him.
For ten whole minutes he sat on the floor in the hall, leaning against the wall, crying. Then he went to the bathroom, where he took a bottle of sedatives from the cabinet and swallowed three of them. The prescribed dose had long since ceased to be effective.
This enabled Dr. Hedgeley to get a grip on himself, and he calmly went down to the cellar to remind himself of the extent of his own genius.
The transgenic mice flung themselves against the perspex fronts of their boxes. The boxes were stacked on top of each other in sturdy frames, lining the sides of the room. All around him, balding, angry mice with protruding teeth flung themselves at the perspex, desperate to get at him. Many of them were covered in blood from biting themselves and each other, but all had expressions of pure rage on their little faces.
For these mice, eating was only a distraction, and they could not be persuaded to mate. They lived only to attack; to kill and to maim.
Released onto any battlefield, they would cause chaos among enemy soldiers. Many grown men would surely flee in terror from these loathsome creatures. And yet, the leaders of the world’s military institutes seemed blind to their capabilities. They treated him as if he were a low-grade fool.
Dr. Hedgeley could feel the anger and bitterness rising within him again, in spite of the tablets.
He ascended the stairs to the bathroom once more, and took another four tablets.
His behaviour wasn’t normal; he knew that. He wondered vaguely if the medication he had been taking to lower his testosterone was affecting his emotional stability. Perhaps it was interacting badly with the sedatives, he thought. He hadn’t told his doctor about the testosterone-lowering medication. It was an unfortunate secret necessity.
Gradually a strange optimism descended upon him, displacing his depressed and angry mood. Clearly, he had been taking the wrong approach. There were other ways to show the world the power of his work.
He went back down to the cellar, staggering slightly with dizziness. There he began to flip a series of switches on a panel, arranged in a grid. One by one, a grid of green lights turned red.
Finally he pulled a lever, and the little perspex doors all sprung open.
Almost instantly he was covered in a furry blanket of screeching, ravenous mice. One by one they slowly fell away, scurrying off into dark corners, gnawing at the brickwork, disappearing into holes where the cement had crumbled.
“Let’s see what you can do, my little ones.” he murmured.
He ascended the cellar steps and locked the cellar door behind him. Then he got in his car and drove to the bridge over Tenley River, throwing the key out of the window and into the river below as he did so.
Unfortunately, the act of hurling the key in his precarious state, certainly unfit for driving, caused him to swerve into the path of oncoming traffic. His car hit the side of a van and bounced spectacularly, smashing through the barriers at the edge of the bridge. Dr. Hedgeley had been driving well over the speed limit.
His car plummeted into the river below.
When they retrieved his body and performed an autopsy, they discovered sedatives in his bloodstream at a concentration that represented three times the safe dose.
Alan Tetchley pulled up outside his office in his rusty Citroen. He began to transfer the boxes of coins from the boot to his office safe. Perhaps it would have been better to take them directly to the bank, as people had frequently told him, but nothing beat the satisfaction of having a safe full of one- and two-pound coins. Besides, by arriving at the bank carrying all those little boxes, he would make himself a target of potential criminals. No, this was much safer.
Later on that week the security people would arrive and take the contents of the safe to the bank. He was happy with the arrangement.
After locking up the coins, he got back in the Citroen and drove home.
Sarah Tetchley was at home, waiting for him. They hugged, kissed, and then she asked him, smiling, “How’s it gone today? People still playing your retro arcade games, Mr. Tetchley?”
“They certainly are, Mrs. Tetchley. Over two hundred quid today. Not bad.”
“You can give me a hand with the baby room later.” she said, hanging onto his neck and laughing.
“It’d be a pleasure. Later. I’m starving.”
She abruptly let go of him and headed for the kitchen.
“I’ve been working on a new recipe. Kind of an experiment.”
He crossed himself theatrically.
“Protect me, merciful Lord.” he said.
“You ungrateful brute!” she said.
At that very moment, Pete, Dave and Rob were driving towards the Tetchley’s house in a battered old white van. As Pete drove, Dave and Rob pulled on black ski masks, then they helped Pete put his on.
It was dark by the time they stopped outside the Tetchley’s door.
“He’s got company.” said Pete.
“It’s just his wife.” said Dave. “We’ll tie her up or something.”
“Or something.” said Rob, laughing darkly, picking up a hatchet.
They smashed the door down with a steel battering ram and ran inside.
They found Alan and Sarah finishing their pasta on the sofa, glasses of wine standing on the table in front of them along with a candle for atmosphere.
“What the …?” shouted Alan, startled.
Sarah screamed.
“Get down on the floor!” shouted Dave, and they dragged the couple off the sofa and threw them roughly to the ground.
“Please!” shouted Alan. “You can take anything you want! Don’t hurt us!”
“That’s the right attitude.” said Dave.
Then Dave gestured with his head to Pete and Rob.
“Get her out of here.” he said. “I don’t want any distractions.”
The two men yanked Sarah to her feet and led her out of the living room.
“Please don’t hurt her!” shouted Alan.
“Shut it.” said Dave.
“What we supposed to do with her?” said Pete, as they dragged the terrified Sarah through the hallway.
“Stash her in the bathroom?” said Rob.
“Hey, hang on.” said Pete. “Let’s stick her in here.”
They were passing the door to the cellar, which had remained locked since Alan and Sarah had purchased the house, since they had been unable to find the key and other priorities had taken precedence.
“It’s locked.” said Rob, trying the door.
Pete tried to break the door in with his shoulder, while Rob restrained Sarah, but he was a tall, thin man, and lacked sufficient weight and strength to manage the task, even though the cellar door was relatively flimsy.
“Take her for a second.” said Rob, and Pete twisted Sarah’s arms behind her back.
“Why are you doing this?” sobbed Sarah.
“Silence!” said Rob, and he gave the cellar door an enormous kick. It broke open, slamming noisily against the wall, revealing a flight of steps.
“Give me the cable ties.” said Rob to Pete, taking hold of Sarah, and Pete fished around in his pocket and produce a handful of zip ties.
They used the ties to secure Sarah’s wrists and ankles, then they dragged her to the stop of the cellar steps.
“Try not to die.” said Rob.
Sarah screamed as they threw her down the steps.
Meanwhile, Dave had been working on Alan. Via a combination of threats and physical torture, he had extracted the safe combination from him. In fact, Alan had given it up the moment he had grasped what was wanted, contrary to Dave’s expectations, and causing Dave some degree of disappointment since he had carefully planned out a strategy for causing Alan maximum pain and distress, and the strategy now appeared useless and unnecessary.
Rob and Pete reemerged into the room.
“So?” said Pete.
“Got it.” said Dave.
“Let’s go, then.” said Rob.
They yanked Alan to his feet, Dave having already secured his hands behind his back with a zip tie.
“Where are you taking me?” said Alan wildly.
“Are you a moron or what?” said Dave. “Do you think we’re just going to trust you? We’re going to your office to open the safe. If you’ve lied to us, we’re coming back here to kill your wife, after we’ve cut you into pieces.”
“Please don’t hurt Sarah!” said Alan.
Dave punched him in the stomach.
“Shut your trap.” he said.
They dragged him to the door. Pete opened the door and immediately closed it again, his face turning pale.
“What?” said Rob.
“There’s police outside.” said Pete. “Looking at the van.”
Dave cursed.
“You bloody idiot!” he said. “I told you the van was hot.”
“It’s not my fault!” said Pete. “Pivo said it was legit!”
“Pivo’s a moron like you!” said Dave. “Bring him back to the living room. We’ll wait till they’ve gone.”
They began to drag Alan back to the living room.
“What if they don’t go?” said Rob.
“Then we’ll leg it out the back.” said Dave.
Rob and Dave settled down on the sofa, throwing Alan over the table face down in front of them, the candle still burning incongruously, supplying the only light in the room, while Pete nervously peered at the police through a crack in the curtains.
The table was of an unusual design. Alan had made it himself. It consisted of four steel legs which met at a point, then splayed out again to support a glass top. It was surprisingly robust, and its ornate design was soon about to save Alan’s life.
Years of yoga had stood Sarah in good stead. She had managed to fall down the cellar steps with a surprisingly degree of agility and elegance, and had landed at the bottom with only minor bruises. Unfortunately, once the cellar door had been slammed shut, she was stuck in total darkness.
She managed to get on her feet and began to feel around for a light switch with her face, suppressing her revulsion at the numerous spider webs she intercepted. Finally she found a switch, and she pressed it firmly with her forehead.
The ancient bulb flashed on and then immediately burned out. As its glow faded, she saw dozens of pairs of bright green eyes peering at her from cracks in the wall and from on top of and underneath every surface.
She screamed as they ran towards her, screeching.
“I think they’ve gone.” said Pete, letting the curtain fall back into place.
“You think?” said Dave.
“They’ve definitely gone.” said Pete.
The men exchanged glances through their ski masks.
“Let’s go, then.” said Dave, and he yanked Alan up from the table by the back of his sweater. “Don’t try anything.” he told Alan. “You try to run, or you attract attention in any way, and we’ll butcher you.”
“Please …” Alan whispered hoarsely, the front of the neck of his sweater constricting his breathing, “what have you done with Sarah?”
“Don’t worry about her, mate.” said Dave. “She’ll be fine, as long as you’ve given us the right combination.”
At that moment the living room door was flung open.
Standing there, covered in hideously abnormal mice, was Sarah.
The mice had chewed through the zip ties and had eaten patches of her clothes, but Sarah herself appeared untouched.
Sarah ran towards Alan, sobbing hysterically. The mice jumped and fell off her, running at the three men with a hideous collective screeching. Sarah nimbly jumped up onto the table with Alan. Alan, wide-eyed with terror, and Sarah, crying uncontrollably, watched by the light of the candle as the men attempted ineffectually to throw the mice off themselves, eventually sinking to the ground, bleeding heavily, and then lying still as the mice consumed them.
Some of the mice attempted to climb onto the table, but found the glass top supported by the four steel legs that tapered to a point underneath, an insurmountable obstacle.
Eventually, against Alan’s recommendations and pleading, Sarah jumped down and called for help. As before, the mice ignored her.
By this time, the three men were already beyond saving, and it was another two hours before paramedics were able to get close enough to administer medical intervention. The mice had to be pulled off the men one by one by an expert animal handler wearing full-body protection.
Further experts were soon called in to trap any mice that hadn’t escaped the cellar, and the house was soon given the all-clear, but Sarah and Alan were left without any real explanation as to what, exactly had happened.
It was noted that a homeless man had been found partially eaten in a nearby street a year previously, suggesting that the mice had not remained entirely confined to the cellar.
Then, almost a year later, they came across a bundle of papers in the attic.
Alan excitedly read out several key extracts to Sarah.
I have been able to successfully modify the mice at the genetic level, in a way that causes them to express extreme aggression. The creatures particularly attack soft vulnerable body parts, such as the eyes.
And later:
The aggression system is activated by subtle odours characteristic of the breakdown of testosterone. I have cautiously carried out certain experiments, and I am absolutely convinced the mice will attack neither women nor children. In fact, they have an aversion to all flesh other than that of male mammals. They are the perfect weapon; they are capable of vigorously attacking an army of men, while leaving women and children entirely alone.
“The man was absolutely insane.” said Sarah.
“Well,” said Alan, inhaling deeply in order to calm himself after reading the unnerving text, “let’s not speak ill of the dead.”
