Read Online Flower of Scotland by William Meikle - Free Book Online
Authors: William Meikle
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Oily colours flowed across her body, the protoplasm gripping her tight.
She struggled hard to no avail.
Their eyes met, just once. Her mouth opened as if she was trying to speak, and that was when the swirling blob engulfed her head and the noises from her throat ceased to sound human.
The protoplasm surged again, and suddenly the window of the cab was coated with slime.
The cop gagged and fought hard to keep down the bile as a human foot, still trailing bloody threads behind it, floated across his view.
She was the second victim.
The cop spent the next fifteen minutes persuading his superiors that there was a problem in the tower block. In that time the plasma ate the little old lady in number 621 who played her radio too loud, the three kids jamming on electric guitars in 437 and the family in 223 who had been watching the latest Disney animation on their 60 inch TV screen.
By the time the cop’s backup team arrived it had already filled the whole of the ground floor public area. The cop made sure he was first back through the door, but what met him made his step back immediately.
The floor was covered by a shimmering rainbow blob nearly four feet thick. There were things embedded in it - blood and hair and bones and eyes, all jumbled like a manic jigsaw, fused and running in to one another as if assembled by a demented sculptor. And in the middle of the floor something rose up out of the mass, a forearm stripped to the bone, skeletal fingers reaching for the roof. On each fingertip a grey, opaque eyeball stared blindly out at him.
That wasn’t the worst thing though. The worst thing was the way the bones of the wrist cracked and groaned as the hand turned, the fingers flexing and bending as all five eyes rolled in bony sockets and stared straight at him. The mocking cacophony of high fluting crashed discordantly over him.
He raised his gun and fired.
The noise echoed loudly in the hallway.
The plasma surged again, enfolding the cop until he fell into it, like a drowning man going down for the last time. The plasma rolled forward forcing its way out onto the sidewalk beyond.
The backup team saw what happened to the cop. They started in with their own weapons.
The air filled with the noise of gunfire.
The plasma surged and took them.
Sirens blared as the squad cars of more backup teams arrived in the street.
The plasma surged and took them too.
The Mayor got involved ten minutes later. Assembled in his room were the chief of police, the Mayor’s press officer and the chief of the fire service.
"So what is it doing now?" the Mayor asked.
"Still growing," the chief of police answered. "And still feeding." The policeman was white as a sheet, and visibly trembling.
"How many casualties?" the Mayor whispered.
"Too many to count," the press officer said. "It has covered three blocks… and we don’t know if anybody is still alive in the area."
"That’s it," the Mayor said. "Call in the National Guard… and somebody close that window!"
Outside, the crazed fluting of Rickman’s plasma filled the air.
People screamed.
The plasma surged.
It took thirty minutes to muster the National Guard. In that time, the plasma spread by five blocks in every direction.
If there was a noise, it consumed whatever made it. Trucks, people, dogs and subway cars, all fell under the surging protoplasm, and all served to feed its exponential growth.
The National Guard brought in jeeps.
The plasma ate them.
They brought in choppers.
The plasma ate them… protoplasmic tendrils shooting skyward to suck the machines out of the air.
The Guard used bazookas.
The plasma surged, and suddenly, the Guard were gone.
The city was full of noise.
The plasma fed.
The President got involved twenty minutes later. Assembled in his room were the chief of staff, the head of Homeland Security and the Director of the FBI.
"So what is it doing now?" the President asked.
"Still growing," the head of Homeland Security answered. "And
She struggled hard to no avail.
Their eyes met, just once. Her mouth opened as if she was trying to speak, and that was when the swirling blob engulfed her head and the noises from her throat ceased to sound human.
The protoplasm surged again, and suddenly the window of the cab was coated with slime.
The cop gagged and fought hard to keep down the bile as a human foot, still trailing bloody threads behind it, floated across his view.
She was the second victim.
The cop spent the next fifteen minutes persuading his superiors that there was a problem in the tower block. In that time the plasma ate the little old lady in number 621 who played her radio too loud, the three kids jamming on electric guitars in 437 and the family in 223 who had been watching the latest Disney animation on their 60 inch TV screen.
By the time the cop’s backup team arrived it had already filled the whole of the ground floor public area. The cop made sure he was first back through the door, but what met him made his step back immediately.
The floor was covered by a shimmering rainbow blob nearly four feet thick. There were things embedded in it - blood and hair and bones and eyes, all jumbled like a manic jigsaw, fused and running in to one another as if assembled by a demented sculptor. And in the middle of the floor something rose up out of the mass, a forearm stripped to the bone, skeletal fingers reaching for the roof. On each fingertip a grey, opaque eyeball stared blindly out at him.
That wasn’t the worst thing though. The worst thing was the way the bones of the wrist cracked and groaned as the hand turned, the fingers flexing and bending as all five eyes rolled in bony sockets and stared straight at him. The mocking cacophony of high fluting crashed discordantly over him.
He raised his gun and fired.
The noise echoed loudly in the hallway.
The plasma surged again, enfolding the cop until he fell into it, like a drowning man going down for the last time. The plasma rolled forward forcing its way out onto the sidewalk beyond.
The backup team saw what happened to the cop. They started in with their own weapons.
The air filled with the noise of gunfire.
The plasma surged and took them.
Sirens blared as the squad cars of more backup teams arrived in the street.
The plasma surged and took them too.
The Mayor got involved ten minutes later. Assembled in his room were the chief of police, the Mayor’s press officer and the chief of the fire service.
"So what is it doing now?" the Mayor asked.
"Still growing," the chief of police answered. "And still feeding." The policeman was white as a sheet, and visibly trembling.
"How many casualties?" the Mayor whispered.
"Too many to count," the press officer said. "It has covered three blocks… and we don’t know if anybody is still alive in the area."
"That’s it," the Mayor said. "Call in the National Guard… and somebody close that window!"
Outside, the crazed fluting of Rickman’s plasma filled the air.
People screamed.
The plasma surged.
It took thirty minutes to muster the National Guard. In that time, the plasma spread by five blocks in every direction.
If there was a noise, it consumed whatever made it. Trucks, people, dogs and subway cars, all fell under the surging protoplasm, and all served to feed its exponential growth.
The National Guard brought in jeeps.
The plasma ate them.
They brought in choppers.
The plasma ate them… protoplasmic tendrils shooting skyward to suck the machines out of the air.
The Guard used bazookas.
The plasma surged, and suddenly, the Guard were gone.
The city was full of noise.
The plasma fed.
The President got involved twenty minutes later. Assembled in his room were the chief of staff, the head of Homeland Security and the Director of the FBI.
"So what is it doing now?" the President asked.
"Still growing," the head of Homeland Security answered. "And
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