Breeding ground, p.1
Breeding Ground, page 1
Table of Contents
Breeding Ground
Acknowledgements
BREEDING GROUND
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Epilogue
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Further Reading: Chase
Also By Shaun Hutson
BREEDING GROUND
One of the largest slugs slithered up the dog’s back, resisting all attempts to dislodge it until finally it reached the exposed ear. The monstrous creature fixed its mouth parts firmly inside Prince’s ear and began feeding, boring deeper. Towards the brain.
The dog at last tried to run but the sheer weight of his attackers slowed his flight and he could only crawl as more and more slugs found their way onto his body and set to work with their teeth, sucking his warm blood which filled their bodies, pumping them up like leeches until it seemed they would burst.
From the pipe in the floor yet more slugs emerged. A never-ending black torrent of death...
CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING
SHAUN HUTSON
BREEDING GROUND
Fiction to die for...
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2019
Copyright © Shaun Hutson 2019
First published in Great Britain by Sphere in 1985
Shaun Hutson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work
CONDITIONS OF SALE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental
Published in Great Britain by
Caffeine Nights Publishing
4 Eton Close
Walderslade
Chatham
Kent
ME5 9AT
Also available as a paperback
caffeinenights.com
caffeinenightsbooks.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-913200-03-9
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
Acknowledgements
BREEDING GROUND
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Epilogue
‘Close the city and tell the people that something is coming to call...’
- Ronnie James Dio
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Mr Greg Teckover of the Metropolitan Water Authority for his help. Also, thank you to Mr Paul Hayers. Special thanks, as ever, to everyone at W.H. Allen. Also, for different reasons, thank you to Niki (the only lady I know who managed to turn watering house plants into a health hazard). To Chris and Kim at Ripple Records; to Dave Risby (it’s a fair cop); to Belinda (who really ought to be careful where she stubs her cigarettes out) but, most of all thanks to YOU, the reader. To everyone who’s ever parted with some of their cash to buy one of my books, I thank you.
Shaun Hutson
ASSASSIN
BODY COUNT
BREEDING GROUND
CAPTIVES
CHASE
COMPULSION
DEADHEAD
DEATHDAY
DYING WORDS
EPITAPH
EREBUS
EXIT WOUNDS
HEATHEN
HELL TO PAY
HYBRID
KNIFE EDGE
LAST RITES
LUCY'S CHILD
MONOLITH
NECESSARY EVIL
NEMESIS
PURITY
RELICS
RENEGADES
SHADOWS
SLUGS
SPAWN
STOLEN ANGELS
TESTAMENT
THE SKULL
TWISTED SOULS
UNMARKED GRAVES
VICTIMS
WARHOL'S PROPHECY
WHITE GHOST
Hammer Novelizations
TWINS OF EVIL
X THE UNKNOWN
THE REVENGE OF FRANKENSTEIN
BREEDING GROUND
When I wrote Slugs, I was told by my agent and publisher that five years later I would do the sequel and five years after that I'd do part Three.
My agent and my publisher at the time was a fine gentleman called Bob Tanner who was also M.D at W.H. Allen publishers. Bob had the most remarkable eye for spotting talent I think I've ever come across. He'd been the boss at New English Library where he discovered James Herbert, was the first British publisher to publish Stephen King and Dean Koontz and he also worked extensively with Graham Masterton back then. I think he also published Ramsey Campbell. I certainly remember some early Star paperbacks editions of his stuff. In addition to those revered names in the horror world, Bob also discovered me (stop laughing!). Younger readers will now be wondering who the hell W.H. Allen and New English Library are or were but there were so many more publishers in those days before the huge conglomerates just swallowed everyone up. Also, every publisher had a horror list. NEL and Hamlyn were almost built on the success of their horror books and Star (the paperback imprint of W.H. Allen) would become the same. Back in the 80's horror ruled, just like rock and metal ruled the music business (ah, those were the days, excuse me while I go all wistful). But, Silence of the Lambs arrived to fuck over the horror business (people read it and thought they were reading a horror book. They weren't, they were reading a thriller with horrific scenes) and Nirvana crawled into view to fuck the rock music scene into oblivion (people seemed to prefer the less complex music of Nirvana to the brilliant musicianship of so many rock bands) Shit happens.
Mind you, that ingestion of so many publishing houses by monolithic companies did lead to the growth of independent publishers, many of who (like Caffeine Nights, thank God) realized they had readers who wanted something other than the generic, soul-less crap spewed out by the so-called “big boys.”
Anyway, I won't let this turn into a lament for the passing of the publishing industry and instead get on with talking about Breeding Ground.
The reason I was told that I'd do a sequel to Slugs five years after its publication wasn't just that it was incredibly successful commercially (Breeding Ground was too, thankfully). Obviously when the film rights to Slugs were sold and it was actually made (despite the end result) then the idea of a sequel became even more inviting. Right up to this day there are still enquiries about the rights to Breeding Ground as well. My fingers are crossed.
Bob Tanner had done the same thing with James Herbert when James wrote The Rats. He followed it with Lair a few years later and then Domain. I never got around to doing part three of the Slugs saga but some of you may be glad to discover that I have never ever discounted that possibility. In fact, the chance of completing the trilogy is quite an enticing one, even now. I would be interested to hear from readers if they'd be up for this third part by the way. It's always good to get feedback like that and I would be interested to know if you lot think it's merited or whether you've had enough of slugs.
The reason I never did part three at the time was that I just drifted into writing other things. I was more interested in doing books about counter terrorism a nd ancient evil, the Hell fire club, psychotic ghosts and other kinds of horror rather than pursuing the activities of slithering little monstrosities like slugs. I also changed agents and publishers which might have had something to do with it.
But Breeding Ground was one of the most fun experiences I ever had. I wrote it fast (about 3 months) and it flowed pretty easily as I remember. I wanted to shift it to London instead of a small town, that was the first thing I knew I had to do. There was more scope and I also wanted to enlarge on the disease spread by the slugs to give an additional threat as well as the slimy little bastards themselves. Had there been a third in the trilogy it would have focussed almost entirely on the disease (probably with the entire world being wiped out, knowing me!) and the slugs would have become very much a background threat. What did happen is that I seem to have become momentarily possessed while writing Breeding Ground and it contains two or three of my most famous revolting scenes, including one that even Bruce Dickinson, (Iron Maiden's lead singer) found vile enough to mention in his recent autobiography! Thanks, Bruce.
It might also interest you to know that another British horror writer accused me of taking horror into the sewer when Breeding Ground was published (his name is in that list at the beginning of this piece). When I heard that I said I wasn't taking it into the gutter, I was dragging it into the sewer. No pleasing some people is there?
Those of you who've already experienced Breeding Ground will probably know the scene I mean. Those of you coming to it for the first time have that delight ahead of you.
I hope you enjoy reading or re-reading the book. If you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it then we'll all be happy.
And just remember, Part Three may well appear at some time. You haven't got away with it that easily.
Shaun Hutson 2019
This new edition is dedicated
to Matt Shaw.
And he's probably
still wondering why.
Thanks, mate.
Prologue
The farmer watched impatiently as the crates of lettuce were unloaded from the back of his lorry. He chewed the end of his pipe, which, as ever, remained unlit.
All around him the place was alive with the sounds of crashing boxes, raised voices and laughter. The usual cacophony which accompanied the early-morning proceedings at Covent Garden.
The summer sun was already high in the sky above London, pouring its unrelenting heat down over the capital. The day promised to be another scorcher.
The farmer disliked the city. He’d lived in the country all his life and the frenzied hustle and bustle which characterised the sprawling metropolis unsettled him. He shifted the unlit pipe to the other side of his mouth, watching as his produce was inspected. The buyer moved from crate to crate, swiftly but expertly checking the contents. Occasionally he would remove one of the lettuces, tossing it onto a nearby pile of other discarded vegetables.
‘Good crop again,’ said the farmer.
‘Yeah, only a few bad ones,’ murmured the buyer, picking up another lettuce.
Noticing something inside the inner leaves, he threw it onto the pile with the other rejects.
After fifteen minutes he was finished. The deal was concluded and the farmer climbed thankfully back into the lorry. He waved farewell to the buyer and set off to battle his way through the traffic, anxious to get home to the relative peace of his farm.
As the day progressed, the pile of discarded vegetables grew higher until it was almost as tall as a man. The heat of the sun caused the green stuff to wilt and a powerful smell began to rise from it, but those nearby ignored the stench.
Stallholders shouted out their prices and bickered with their rivals. It was a normal day.
No one noticed the lettuce which lay near the bottom of the pile, rejected because of the strange cylindrical objects inside its inner leaves. The transparent mucoid tubes with the black centres.
Despite the searing heat of the sun the tiny shapes glistened as if perpetually wet and, slowly, as if triggered by some secret, silent alarm, they began to split open. One by one the liquescent tubes disgorged their contents.
The slugs were less than one centimetre long, almost transparent and already covered by a thin film of slime. Against the dark, rotting vegetation they were barely visible and they remained in one gently moving cluster no bigger than a matchbox.
They grew swiftly. Much more swiftly than normal, and with that growth came another change.
At first almost invisible, they began to darken in colour. A pale, pus-coloured yellow first, then a light brown. They remained clotted together, hidden within the wrinkled folds of the lettuce.
And they grew.
Though still smaller than a fingernail, by noon they had doubled in size.
Tuesday - the 11th
One
The half-eaten hamburger was still warm and Tommy Price smiled to himself as he stuffed it into his mouth, oblivious to the revolted stares of a passing woman who had seen him plunge his hand into the waste bin and retrieve the food. He chewed quickly, wiped his hands on his jacket and then peered into the bin once more, rummaging around in the rubbish in search of something else to satisfy his raging hunger. He found nothing, however. Muttering to himself, he moved on to the next bin and dug his hand in like a child at a lucky dip. The search yielded a half-full carton of milkshake, but when Tommy removed the plastic lid he saw that the thick liquid was covered by a rancid sheath of grey-green mould. Flies buzzed around him, one settling on the rim of the carton, savouring the sweet curdled fluid. Tommy dropped the milkshake back into the bin.
In the cloudless blue sky, the sun hung like a ball of fire, baking all below it with fierce rays. As Tommy walked, the pavement felt hot beneath his feet, the warmth having little difficulty reaching his bare soles through shoes which were nearly worn through. As he made his way along the Strand he paused at each waste bin and performed his familiar ritual, hunting through the rubbish for anything vaguely edible. During the last four or five weeks he had discovered that the human digestive system was capable of absorbing almost anything. Especially if its owner was nearly starving.
Even though he had not eaten a good meal for nearly two months, Tommy did not seem to have lost much weight. He was a powerfully-built individual, standing around six feet, the jacket he wore stretched almost to breaking point across his broad back and shoulders. The cuffs were frayed, the elbows shiny and it bore numerous stains. His trousers, once part of a suit, were too short and the unfashionably wide bottoms could not conceal his filthy socks which puckered round his ankles like surgical stockings.
Tommy Price walked on up the road, sometimes bumping into tourists and shoppers, although they did their best to avoid him. Tommy didn’t smell very good, especially in such hot weather. He ran a hand through his hair which hadn’t been washed for weeks, wincing as his fingers touched a large spot just below his hairline. He caught sight of his reflection in a shop window and paused for a moment, taken aback by the sight which greeted him. It was like looking at another person, someone alien to him. He wondered if the apparition would vanish if he blinked. He tried and it didn’t. The same unkempt reflection continued to stare back at him.
He had been in London for the last two months since leaving Newcastle, and it had been eight weeks of misery. The pit where he had worked since he was sixteen had closed down over a year ago, and at the age of forty-seven he had found himself on the scrap heap, like so many of his generation. He remembered the stories his father had told him of the great march from Jarrow in 1926. Now he, like his father, had come to London but for different reasons.
Tommy did not, like many misinformed youngsters, believe that he would find a fortune in the country’s capital, but he had at least expected some work. He didn’t care what it was. Nothing had come his way, however. His savings had dwindled and, within two weeks of arriving, he had found himself seeking shelter in Salvation Army hostels. And now he could not even find solace there any longer.
Tommy liked his drink. If he had to steal it then that was fair enough, but he needed it. He’d been caught trying to liberate a bottle of Haig from an off-licence, and owing to his circumstances the judge had dismissed the case. But Tommy had been desperate, and the sight of two five-pound notes in the pocket of another man at the hostel that night had been too much of a temptation. He’d been banned after being caught. Now he walked the streets every day, carrying his belongings in a battered holdall and searching dustbins and hotel rubbish skips and pub yards for what meagre pickings there were.
