I whipped round to find a triffid towering only a few feet behind me.
In one automatic movement I had my hands over my eyes. I heard the sting whistle as it lashed out at me—but there was no knockout, no agonized burning, even. One’s mind can move like lightning at such a moment: nevertheless, it was more instinct than reason which sent me leaping at it before it had time to strike again. I collided with it, overturning it, and even as I went down with it my hands were on the upper part of its stem, trying to pull off the cup and the sting. Triffid stems do not snap—but they can be mangled. This one was mangled thoroughly before I stood up.
Josella was standing in the same spot, transfixed.
‘Come here,’ I told her. ‘There’s another in the bushes behind you.’
She glanced fearfully over
