The Fungal Angels 18

A faint smell of incense tickled the grizzled man’s nostrils.

“I know you don’t want things to be easy or comfortable. Would you prefer I move the mattress, or would you like to do it yourself?” The priest asked, lifting one of the mattress’s corners.

Malcolm thought about it. Most abandoned houses would surely still have mattresses in them, right? So by that logic, there’d be no harm in sleeping on one in the church’s basement.

“Errr, you can just leave it.”

The priest obeyed, letting the mattress fall back onto the bedframe. Malcolm approached and gratefully fell atop it. The pain that had been building up in his knee slowly began to dissolve.

“I don’t understand you.” The priest said with a coy smile.

“There’s a lot about humans you don’t get.” Malcolm snapped.

“No, humans I understand. I don’t get you. You won’t accept a meal or donated food, but you will break into an abandoned house to steal something to eat. You keep making these deals with yourself, asking whether or not something would exist were it not for us.”

“Yeah…So?”

“Well without us your old society would still exist!” The priest laughed. “Without us your life would be an easy, modern, Western life. You’d rely on others in a world like that, so why not do the same here and now? If we’ve changed things in ways that force you into undue hardships, you should, in the same vein, accept any assistance we can give.”

“No.” Malcolm spat.

“Why not?”

“Because I…” He thought about his sister. He thought about his parents. He thought about his childhood friend. They’d taken the easy path out. “…Just because.”

“Because you don’t think you’re able to stop the call of the void.” The priest finished. “You think that if you begin accepting little favors here and there, you won’t be able to draw the line. You’ve spent so much time carefully avoiding any help we might offer that you’re afraid we’ll give you too much. You’ve spent so much time fearing convenience that you haven’t really let yourself live.”

“That’s not true. I have a happy life, a wife, a daughter…I have a good life.”

“But you don’t see yourself as a father and a husband. No. You see yourself as some sort of vanguard against us. You feel you must continuously protect them against our influences.”

“No I don’t.”

“Don’t you? Your daughter was starving, and rather than eat any of the redweed that grew bountifully near your cabin, you chose instead to forage in the city. Someone who primarily sees themselves as a dad first would have given their child anything they needed to keep them healthy and strong.”

Malcolm wanted to argue, but there weren’t any words to back up the emotions he felt were true.

“Even you, my child, care little for your own existence. A father would do nearly anything they could to ensure their own survival that they may better aid their child through life.”

“And how would you know?” Malcolm spat.

The priest gently tapped his own temple. “We’re all connected. I may be celibate, but I am still a Father. There are a billion fathers alive in the fungal colony, living within the spongy walls. They all have similar compulsions. Very few would act as you are.”

“It’s because I’m stronger.”

“No. It’s because you chose to divert your efforts to other pursuits; pursuits others would recognize as futile. Every day for you is a battle, not for survival, but rather a battle against us.”

A silence overcame them both, and after a few long moments the priest stood.

“Alas, it is not my place to argue. However, I think some part of you wanted to hear what I said.”

The silence continued, and the priest left the grizzled man alone with his thoughts.

…

Malcolm stretched. It had been one of the best night’s sleeps he’d had in a long time. Were it not for the turbulent dreams that plagued his mind, it would have been perfect.

It took a moment for him to remember where he was. Pale light filtered down through the ground-level windows, illuminating stacks of boxes and piles of seasonal decorations.

He rose and felt a small throbbing pain in his knee. It wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it reminded him of his own frailty. He grabbed his pack and slumped past the clutter. A glittering angel, presumably one intended for Christmas, smiled up at him. He paused momentarily in front of it before shaking his head.

“A fungal Christmas.” He said, shaking his head. For some reason the idea struck him as being almost funny.

He trudged up the stairs, thinking. He knew the Mycelloids claimed to experience every aspect of humanity, yet he couldn’t get himself to believe it true. He wanted there to be some special spark of Divinity in humans, but it seemed that spark now existed elsewhere. Humans, it had been said, were rising apes meeting fallen angels.

…But the angels had moved on.

“Morning!” The priest smiled at him, raising a steaming cup of coffee.

“Hmmm…” Malcolm grunted.

“I know you haven’t had coffee in a while, and I know I probably won’t be able to tempt you with a fresh brew, but I think I remember seeing some old cans of it in the closet…Some that’ve been there for years. I think you can probably scavenge it.” He winked in an obvious and knowing way.

Malcolm grunted yet again. He walked to the coffee maker, grabbed a cup, and poured himself a generous portion of the steaming liquid.

The priest regarded him with surprise.

Malcolm tipped the mug back and let a large gulp of warmth pass down his throat and invigorate his body.

“I missed this.” He said to the cup.

“I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about things?” The priest asked.

“Eh.” In truth, despite the good night’s sleep, Malcolm felt mentally and emotionally exhausted. What was the harm in lowering his defenses for a few hours and taking advantage of a few small luxuries?

The two remained silent, but Malcolm felt as if he’d just conceded some valuable piece of the battlefield.

“How’s your knee?” The priest asked.

Malcolm moved it slightly. “Still a bit stiff.” He grunted.

“I suppose if you’re still searching for abandoned houses, you’ll want to set out soon. A leg like that’ll slow you down.”

Malcolm took another sip of coffee.

It tasted so good and felt so energizing.

His knee notwithstanding, his body felt extremely relaxed…It had been an exceptional night’s sleep.

And then he thought of his wife and daughter… Bereft of coffee… On lumpy, hay-stuffed mattresses… Starving and cold.

There was struggle, then there was needless struggle.

“I think…” Malcolm started, staring into his coffee cup. He couldn’t bare to look into the priest’s eyes. He took a deep breath. “I think I might just catch a ride.”

The priest’s warm, natural smile widened slightly. It wasn’t a condescending smile, but rather one of pride; like a family member sharing in another’s hard-fought sobriety.

“Clyde can be here in about twenty minutes.”

“I’d be there sooner, but I gotta bring the truck.” Clyde said.

Malcolm whipped around, slightly surprised. The friendly truck driver was half-manifested from the mold-covered wall.

“Still not used to that.” Malcolm mumbled.

“There’s a lot of benefits to the mycelium network.” The priest nodded. “Your form being instantaneously reconstituted nearly any place in the world, for example. Why, we have people who spend the mornings in Beijing, the afternoons in Kenya, their evenings in Paris. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

“-Slow it down there, Father.” Malcolm grumbled. “I said I’d take a ride, not surrender my autonomy.” He took a seat on a nearby chair, and the priest followed suit.

Malcolm took a long draft of the coffee. Neurons that hadn’t seen action in years were suddenly firing on all cylinders.

“How’s my family holding up?” Malcolm asked.

The priest gave a thoughtful nod. “Not too bad. They’re still hungry, of course. I’m worried that your daughter isn’t getting enough Vitamin C. When you go out, see if you can scavenge some canned fruit.”

“Can you give my wife a message, and tell her I’ll be home in the next day or so?”

“Of course.”

Malcolm swirled his cup. He’d accomplished so much without even standing up. Perhaps if he stopped seeing the Mycelloids as adversaries and instead perceived them as tools…

…He looked at a nearby wall where a shining cross hung above a recently-dusted image of Jesus.

“So you really believe in God?” For some reason Malcolm considered faith to be one of the few fronts where humanity could remain unique.

“Of course.”

“But on some level you must know that you’re simply replicating the person you took over for, and that the faith you have is just a chemically-created copy.”

Malcolm was surprised to see the priest frown. “Copy.” He said with a sigh. “Copy…You keep using that word.”

“Yeah, because that’s what you are…A copy.”

“We are copies-“ The priest began, carefully choosing every word. “And we recognize that…But it’s a touchy subject.”

“What do you mean?”

“On some level each of us knows we’re taking over for a unique human-”

“-You’re copies-” Malcolm interjected, happy to press the weakness.

“-Copies…Yes. But that means each of us lives in that human’s shadow. Every decision we make must be one the original would’ve made. Even with bolstered mental capabilities and heightened physical prowess, we’re still forced to color in the lines, so to speak.”

“You have no identities.” Malcolm felt a small amber of victory burning within his chest. This was it! This was what separated humanity from the fungal rot below!

The priest nodded. “And now there are new Mycelloids being created with no human to mimic. They’re useful to the colony, but they look to us who do possess identities and feel as if they’re missing something. Perhaps they are. Maybe in becoming an individual, we’re able to indulge in experiences that a hivemind is incapable of experiencing.”

“A human experience.” Malcolm nodded. “So in some ways you do need us.”

The priest gave a small nod and an even smaller smile. “Ironic, right? This whole time humans believed they needed our help, but it turns out we needed you more.”

A silence fell in the room, but Malcolm’s internal joy was practically audible. So that was it! The Mycelloids were weak! Humans were the dominant creatures!

“I do believe your ride’s here.” The priest said after a while. He stood and extended a hand toward Malcolm. Without thinking, the grizzled man accepted the help.

“May you go with God.” The priest nodded.

Malcolm waved. “And you the same.”

…

Clyde stood beside his truck, holding the passenger door open.

“Alright, alright.” Malcolm hissed. “I said I’d accept the help, but you’re pushing it.”

“Sorry.” Clyde smiled sheepishly.

Despite this, Malcolm hobbled into the passenger seat, holding his pack in his hands. While toying with the zipper he saw something shining and white inside. He opened the bag and found a few packs of instant rice that had ‘mysteriously’ found their way into his possession.

He closed his eyes and silently cursed the priest’s kindness. Even with his newfound understanding of the Mycelloids’ feelings of inadequacy, he still wasn’t used to accepting favors.

“When I get back, I’m not accepting any more help.” He told himself.

“Why not?” Clyde asked, climbing into the vehicle and shutting the door behind him.

“Because I opened the gates an inch and you’re just flooding inside.” He sighed and rubbed a hand through his beard. “Given an inch, you take a mile.”

“We just want to help.” Clyde said. He started the truck. “I just don’t understand why you’d want to struggle.”

“Because without struggle, there’s no point in success. What if very time you played the lottery you won?”

“Then you’d quickly become very rich.”

“And then what?”

“You’d be able to buy anything you ever wanted.”

“And what would I want?”

Clyde shrugged. “Anything.”

Malcolm sighed. “Maybe that’s the real difference between you and me. Forget the fact you’re fungal based and I’m a mammal, and forget the hivemind intelligence… You don’t seem to really understand what makes people happy.”

“Fulfillment.” Clyde answered.

“Fulfillment after a struggle. Think about it: Everything a person could ever want is an off-shoot of some struggle they’re facing. People want big houses and nice cars because most are too poor to afford them. Precious metals are sought out because they’re rare. People used to want to see distant lands because they’re distant and difficult to access. If I was given everything I could ever want when I wanted, then I’d grow bored with what I’ve got and have no more reason to want anything…You get it?’

Clyde shook his head. “No.”

“What of the people you’ve replaced. Are they happy?”

“They’re encased in nutrient-rich pods and fed a steady supply of serotonin.”

“So they’re happy, but artificially so.”

“Artificial, real…What’s the difference?”

“The difference is real-world accomplishment. Serotonin is supposed to be the reward for overcoming some obstacle, but you’ve flipped the script. Now it’s just all reward.”

Clyde shook his head once more. “You’re really overthinking this. In the tunnels below there is pure happiness, whereas up here you’re forced to work for it. Why work? Why struggle?”

“Because that’s the only way a person gets better.”

“Better? Seems to me that struggle has, if anything, cost you the full use of your left knee.”

Malcolm subconsciously rubbed his leg, doing his best to massage his nerves or muscles or whatever affliction had settled in his joint.

“If you’re given pure nutrients and the right electric stimulation, you can become the best version of yourself without risk of injury. If you wanted, we could remove your leg and-”

“-No.” Malcolm said flatly.

“No?”

Malcolm shook his head. “No.” He repeated.

“But you want to become a better version of yourself? The best version?”

Silence fell over the pair for a while.

“Even if you manage to make me physically fit, there are other ways of bettering a person you couldn’t possibly fix.”

“Like what?”

Malcolm didn’t answer. Instead he pointed to a large house that looked as if it had been emptied decades prior. The redweed that carpeted most of the world was suspiciously absent from the mansion’s lawn, as if it had been recently rolled away. Clyde understood and pulled into the driveway.

“Struggle makes a person better…Maybe not physically, but it teaches us to make do with scarcity and handle adversity. If the people you’ve trapped were ever released into the real world, they’d fall catatonic at the simplest inconvenience.”

Clyde didn’t argue. Instead, he simply watched with pity as Malcolm hobbled from the truck and toward the house’s entrance.

The grizzled man knocked on the door and listened as the hollow sound traveled inside.

He tried the doorknob, and as expected, it had been locked. It couldn’t be too easy… Malcolm would’ve been suspicious if it had.

He tried opening an adjacent window and was surprised when the frame slid upward. It was a struggle, but one he could overcome. Chips of old paint fell around him and splinters tried embedding themselves in his calloused hands, but he managed to fight gravity and the window’s friction enough to create a small enough opening he could squeeze through.

It was painful, but Malcolm focused his mind away from the searing agony pulsing from his leg.

He thought about his family and how happy they’d be when he brought them food.

He thought about capturing some animals in the Spring and raising them in a domestic setting…He’d have to build a fence and large enclosed area. Fish would be easier: A pond could be dug with relative ease, and there’d surely be far more fish available on the Earth’s surface than other animals.

But that was for the future. For now, He needed to brace for the coming winter, and that meant scavenging enough food…

The air inside the house felt cool and dry, but it did little to quell the red-hot pain that had flared up in his knee. He rubbed the afflicted area, trying to visualize the lava-like heat dissipating through his body. After a few agonizing minutes, the pain subsided somewhat, and he was able to hobble forward on his throbbing limb.

He moved forward carefully. The dried wood planks creaked beneath his feet, but despite the floor’s obvious age, it felt sturdy.

He turned a corner and found the kitchen. Light filtered through dusty windows and bathed the room in a dim beige light. Counters lined the walls and an old fridge had been pulled toward the center of the room. An old table with chairs had been stacked nearby.

…And sitting in the center of the room was a pile of nonperishable foods.

Pastas…

Canned goods…

Preserved fruit advertising the vitamin C it contained.

“Son of a…” Malcolm cursed.

A sizable pile of groceries; just enough to carry in his bag.

…As if they had been hand-picked for him specifically.

…Placed in an easy location.

He wanted to get mad and wanted to rebel against the Mycelloids and wanted to throw the food against the walls and out the windows and at passersby.

…But he lacked the energy. Without packing anything, he turned and walked to the front door. A deadbolt had been used to lock it, and it was easy to unlock from the inside…Almost as if someone had given consideration as to how much of a struggle it would be to leave the house burdened with a bag full of food.

As he reached for the doorknob, he stopped. A thought crossed his mind… A terrible thought.

He was beginning to accept the Mycelloids’ help. Why? Because of what the priest had said, and how it gave Malcolm a slight sense of superiority. Knowing he was in some way better than the fungal clones had allowed him to view them as lesser…

…But what if the priest had lied? True, Mycelloids seemed honest to a fault… But maybe he’d stretched the truth? Maybe he had chosen his words carefully so that a lie was never actually spoken, but he, Malcolm, would come away from the conversation with the wrong impression.

He tried thinking back to what had been said, but the specifics of the discussion had dissolved into general, vague memories. He remembered how he’d felt… The victory that had flooded through him upon learning that the Mycelloids needed humanity more than humanity had needed them.

He’d been too excited by that revelation to question what had been said… Too mentally and emotionally elated to fight back.

And because of that he was accepting their help. There he was, a remnant of the old world, being given food by Earth’s conquerors.

He considered turning to run. He thought about committing violence against the creatures.

…But he was a tired, aging man.

He hobbled to Clyde’s truck, entered, and closed the door in defeat.

“Where’s your food?” He asked.

Tired, Malcolm turned to his host. “And how did you know there was food in there?”

Clyde turned back to the front, somewhat taken off guard. He tried steeling his face to conceal his nerves, but his expression gave him away.

“Lucky guess?” Clyde shrugged.

But Malcolm knew better.

“Take me home.” He said. “You can drive me to my front door. I don’t care anymore.”

“Your cabin is located pretty deep in the woods. I don’t know if I can take you-”

“Then remove the trees and flatten the terrain before we get there. I know you’re capable. Figure it out.”

Malcolm closed his eyes and folded his arms as the engine roared to life.

“You seem upset.” Clyde said after some time.

“Not upset…Just finally accepting things. I realize now there is no escape.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s obvious those groceries were left in that house specifically for me to find. Why else would that place have been spared the red weeds that grow everywhere else? Why else would there be such a specific amount and assortment?”

“Maybe the previous homeowners left them there before entering the tunnels.” Clyde suggested.

Malcolm eyed him. “The human you copied wasn’t a good liar, was he?”

The driver shook his head. “No. But we as a whole are also not that great at lies.” He shrugged. “We’re trying, but many of us haven’t quite gotten the hang of them yet.”

Malcolm closed his eyes once more with a grunt and a nod.

“So what’s the point? Let’s say I refused the food and insisted you take me to another abandoned house…I have no doubt that we would have ‘found one’”, He added overly-hostile air-quotes with his fingers, “and maybe that house required a bit more work for me to find the food…But I know that there most assuredly would be food, and it’d be the exact food I need given my family’s nutrient deficiencies…Isn’t that right?”

“Well…I mean…It’s hard to say.”

“Honesty, Clyde, now’s the time for honesty.”

His host sighed. “Yes.”

Without opening his eyes, Malcolm nodded. “Maybe I would have seen through that ploy too and insisted you take me to a third house…Or a fourth…Or a fifth…Eventually I’d get too desperate and too tired, and your tricks would get too clever, and I’d wind up taking the bait back to my family. I’d be feeding them on your charity, and all the struggles I encountered would have been an unnecessary ruse.”

“So why didn’t you take the food that was left to you?” Clyde asked hesitantly.

Malcolm said nothing for the longest time. “That redweed shit…You say it’s healthy?”

He could practically hear Clyde’s smile in the response. “Incredibly nutritious.”

…

Malcolm walked around the perimeter of the woods… His woods. A well-worn path was beginning to form from his daily trek. Every once in a while, his leg sent a small jolt up to his femur, but the gauze, which was seemingly made of a fungal-paste wrapped in a living bandage, had done wonders to quell the pain. From what he was told, he’d only need to wear it for another year or so before he’d be almost entirely free of knee pain forever.

He was lost in thought. He still wondered if the priest had told him the truth. The small emotional victory he felt at hearing the holy man’s confession had been what had allowed him to finally accept Mycelloid help. He waffled back and forth on it, but never settled on any definitive answer. Presumably he could simply ask, and the mycelium network would gift him an instant answer… But even if they were completely intellectual, he still needed some struggles in life, right?

He stared out at the world around him. Beyond the trees he could see a tangled matt of red vines carpeting the Earth and coiling around the trees. Deep, dark mushrooms the color of twilight towered dozens of feet above. Those were newly sprouted, and yet they’d grown so quickly. He was told that drinking a tea made from their caps would extend a human’s lifespan.

Because of the rapidly changing biome, a heavy mist had permanently settled on the Earth, and within the mist he could sometimes detect movement… Big things…Formless things… Things that were inhuman… He could sometimes sense eyes, or things similar to eyes, staring at him from the distance. He’d turn to return the gaze, but the haze would once more obfuscate the figures and he’d only see the natural, fungal world.

It was now an alien Earth, but by the fungus’ good graces he was permitted to live with his family in a secure section of woodland. He tried to see the mycelium creatures as neighbors, but he couldn’t shake the thought that their relationship was more akin to an animal and zookeeper. He wondered if they could experience awe. If so, did they experience it while looking in at him? He and his family were some of the last free humans left on Earth.

“Hey dad.”

The grizzled man’s thoughts dissolved as his daughter ran up to him. He let his focus swivel away from fungus-land and back to his forested patch of paradise.

“Hey sweetheart.”

Lori was looking positively radiant. Over the last few months she’d filled out, perhaps a bit too much, but there was no arguing that she looked far healthier than she once had.

“Mom says it’s your turn to watch James.”

“Can’t she just get one of the Mycelloids to do it?”

“Okay.” Lori said. She began to take off toward the house.

“Wait, no! Hold on!” Malcolm called. His daughter stopped and turned toward him.

“What’s wrong?”

The grizzled man had almost sacrificed precious time with his newborn son in favor of a small personal convenience, and had done so without even thinking about it… Things were becoming easy… Too easy… But what could he do?

“I think I’ll watch him.” Malcolm answered.

He followed his daughter slowly to the cabin. As per his requests there weren’t any red vines growing on the trees or on the forest floor…The only place they could be found was in the garden, where they emanated and spread out from a single large, bottomless pit…A pit just wide enough to allow a human to pass through. He couldn’t help but think that size had been purposely chosen; an ever-present temptation he’d see every day…but what could he do?

He entered the cabin, which had been greatly improved over the last few months and looked as if a professional had built it, which, when he thought about it, was exactly what had happened. He regarded the renovations warmly, then turned and smiled at his wife. She too had plumped up thanks to the benefits of redweed and looked as lively as ever.

So much had changed, and so quickly.

“Your son said he missed his daddy.” Becky grinned.

“Is that right?” Malcolm asked the sleeping infant. He doubted his son was even capable of seeing, much less utilizing his vocal cords to demand the presence of a specific parent. Nevertheless, he happily accepted the child, drawing him close to his chest.

As soon as he did the young child opened his eyes. He didn’t whine or cry, but instead gave a great big smile.

“He’s the perfect baby.” Becky beamed.

“Yeah…” Malcolm agreed. “Perfect.” A memory flashed through his mind…The night of his son’s birth… Complications… His son and wife in great jeopardy… But thankfully the Mycelloids were there to help… Took them away to heal and recover… Brought them back…

The perfect son…The perfect wife.

“Yeah.” He repeated.

Physically he was happy. Emotionally he felt fulfilled. But mentally… Mentally…

He let his thoughts dissolve as he stared at his child’s smiling face. Yes, HIS child. He refused to think otherwise. If he must struggle to be happy, then the struggle would be purely internal.

And struggle he would.