Smiling Is Contagious

By Edward M. Grant

Tired of healing wounded soldiers on the borders of the British Empire, Silas Cane returns to the heartlands of Victorian England as a rural doctor. The quiet Oxfordshire village is a welcome break from the chaos of war, until a smiling madman dies of a disease never seen before.

After watching so many men die, Cane will do whatever it takes to keep the villagers alive.

If they don't kill him first.

A 14,000 word science fiction horror novelette.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Banchixi Media
• Release date: Feb 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781927549278

Edward M. Grant

Edward M. Grant is a physicist and software developer turned SF and horror writer. He lives in the frozen wastes of Canada, but was born in England, where he wrote for a science and technology magazine and worked on numerous indie movies in and around London. He has traveled the world, been a VIP at several space shuttle launches, survived earthquakes and a tsunami, climbed Mt Fuji, assisted the search for the MH370 airliner, and visits nuclear explosion sites as a hobby.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Oxfordshire, 1886

The crowd gawked and muttered outside the cottage in the English summer rain. Doctor Cane strode along the lane toward them. What could Sergeant Morton want with him?

A boy crouched in the mud by the stone wall, playing with his tin soldier. Jimmy, the Anderton's son. He still dreamed of joining the army when he grew up, no matter how much Cane advised against.

Jimmy looked up as Cane approached. What's going on?

If only Cane knew. He shook his head. I have no idea.

The others turned at the sound of his voice.

It's old sourpuss, a girl said. She was half Cane's age, and a cape protected her green dress from the rain. He had seen her a few times before. Usually entertaining a man, behind the inn.

Police business, Morton said. Let us through.

Morton pushed through the crowd to the gate, and stepped into the front garden. A black cat stared at him from a window sill, hiding out of the rain. The postman glanced toward them as he cycled past. Mr Eaton, the butcher, watched from the door of his shop across the lane. A pig, already skinned, hung by its legs from the door frame as Eaton and his assistant sawed it in half from tail to head.

Cane followed Morton as closely as he could, dodging the thorns of the roses by the gate. Why had Morton called him there? He might be the village doctor, but a sick man was rarely a matter for the police.

You think this is a tropical disease?

I don't know what to think right now, sir. You must have seen all kinds of diseases and wounds in your travels?

Cane shivered. As an army doctor, he'd seen soldiers die of diseases no-one had even named, one day in perfect health, the next cold in a coffin. That was almost as bad as those shattered and slashed by musket balls, swords, and cannon balls. He had grown sick of repairing men, only to see them sent off to be wounded again, or worse. In his early days, he could imagine he was saving them, but twenty years was enough to realize he was only patching them up so the army could kill them.

More than I ever wanted to.

Then you are definitely the man for this job, sir. Constable Green will show you the way.

Cane stepped into the hall, and propped his umbrella against the bare wall. There was no furniture in the hall, but dust on the floor traced lines where some had once stood. No pictures on the walls, but squares of bright paint showed where they had once hung, protecting it from fading. The house stank of fresh mildew, and dark spots coated the plaster.

Good God, does no-one ever clean this place?

Constable Green stood at the bottom of the stairs, and looked barely older than the soldiers Cane had known. Green raised a hand, and pointed up. You should see the bedroom, sir.

The wooden stairs creaked as Cane climbed to the top floor, with Green close behind. The mildew grew worse, until the walls were almost black, and the smell of rotten meat filled the air. Cane had seen enough bodies on the battlefields of the Far East to recognize the stench of death.

A door on the landing was open, and he glanced inside. A cylindrical mass of fungus lay on the bed, more lumps scattered across the sheets around it, or growing on the walls.

What the hell was that?

Cane covered his face with a handkerchief. The rounded shape of the mound was decidedly human. Green peered into the room over his shoulder, smirking.

You ever seen anything like it, sir?

Cover your face, man. I don’t know what this is, but I’m absolutely sure we don't want to breathe in the spores.

Green’s smile faded, and he nodded. I think I'll just wait downstairs, if that's all right.

Green's boots trudged along the landing, then creaked down the stairs. Cane crept into the room, and approached the body. A pool of dried blood covered the pillow, and matted the unkempt hair beneath the fungus. The back of the man's head bulged out, and lay on a pile