‘I think given time we’ll be able to view the matter in a more realistic light, Professor Meacham,’ she said.
‘And I hope we can receive some consideration in respect of the not-ungenerous concession,’ Meacham suggested gently.
Oh you’ll get your consideration all right, Chris thought.
‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ she told him.
‘Fine,’ Meacham said. ‘Now if you will give me a few more minutes I’ll explain the shut-down procedure in detail…’
***
That evening she went round to Allan’s flat for a meal.
‘So what’s your next step?’ Allan asked.
Chris helped herself to another slice of pizza.
‘First I have to get the article finished, then show it to Harry Farnum.’
‘There’ll be one hell of a stink when it comes out,’ Allan said.
Chris shrugged. ‘I hope there is. Too much time has gone by while that radiation leak has been hushed up. It has to be exposed!’
Allan smiled, leaning across the low coffee table. He reached out and gently slid the thin caftan she was wearing down off one shoulder, baring her rounded, firm breast.
‘And talking about exposure… ‘he murmured, fingers tenderly tracing the outline of her rising nipple.
‘Next time you’re in that lab of yours,’ Chris suggested as they sprawled across the rug in front of the fire, ‘why not do an analysis on that thing you call a brain. I’m damn sure you’ll find it’s one track.’
‘You talk too much!’
‘Do I? So what are you going to do about it?’
Allan bent over her, his mouth sliding across hers, while his free hand searched between the loose folds of the caftan, bringing a sharp and pleased sigh from her lips…
***
The inclement weather continued. It took away the hot, muggy climate in which the scorpions had found something close to contentment. They disliked the cold… it made them restless, unsettled… it made them irritable…
PART 3
INVASION
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Honey, come on - breakfast is on the table!’
Larry Murcheson checked the percolator and satisfied himself that the coffee was brewing correctly. He peered out through the side window of the expansive, luxury motor home.
Another goddamn rainy day! He sighed, shaking his head - the only consistent thing in the damn country was rain! It was beginning to spoil the Murchesons’ tour of the UK, and for once there wasn’t a thing even he, Larry Murcheson, could do about it - not even with his limitless wealth. The Murcheson Millions - as his fortune was known back in the States - came from a vast combine that had been created by Larry’s father back in the thirties. Hubbel Murcheson, an ambitious man, had possessed the knack of being able to foresee business trends and technological breakthroughs. When he died in 1971 his various enterprises covered the spectrum from publishing to manufacturing to electronics. He had oil interests, a movie and TV production company - in short if it could be invested in and made money, then Murcheson Inc would be involved somewhere along the line. Larry Murcheson, at thirty-nine, became the head of the family empire - but he was not molded in his father’s image; Larry preferred spending money; he left the making of it to others. From the day he fell heir to the Murcheson Millions, Larry set out to prove that money could buy happiness. He did everything and went everywhere, managing to gain and lose three wives along the way.
Right now he was honeymooning with wife number four, a twenty-year-old blonde ex-actress named Casey. He had met her at a Hollywood party when he was feeling slightly jaded and she was fast realizing that all the starry-eyed dreaming she’d been doing wasn’t going to help her career in the movies.
Casey Blair - real name Velma Stanislau - had been in Hollywood for almost three years, acting her heart out but getting nowhere. It would have been no good telling Casey that her beauty, her talent, and her natural personality amounted to practically nothing. She was merely one of a thousand other young, talented, beautiful hopefuls; each of them believing she was the one - the new star about to blaze forth. Casey lived with her dream - yet she did begin to admit, though only to herself, that stardom seemed always at a distance, tangible yet increasingly just out of reach. She had small parts in unimportant movies and a lead role in a TV series that ran for six shows before it was axed. Her best chance came when she landed a small but significant part in a big-budget movie: Casey played a girl involved with the main character and the greater part of her appearance was centered around an explicit sex scene - seeing an opportunity to get herself noticed Casey gave the performance of a lifetime. The completed scene was the most erotic piece of screen sex to come out of Hollywood for years, and everyone said Casey had it made. That was before the movie was played in selected theatres on a short pre-release run; the next thing Casey knew was that her big scene was edited down to a mere shadow of its original substance; her performance had been too good, too hot to handle. The production company were more concerned with their movie as a whole to worry over a small scene. It was three weeks after that shattering moment in her life that Casey literally bumped into Larry Murcheson at a party. For some reason they clicked, started talking, and a little while later, without anyone noticing, they slipped away from the party, got into Larry’s car and drove the 300 miles from LA, up the coast highway to Carmel where Larry had a luxurious split-level house overlooking Monterey Bay, the soft peaks of the Santa Lucia Mountains rising at the rear. They had arrived in Carmel just as the sun rose on a new day… and a new beginning for both of them. Two weeks later they were married… and set out on a honeymoon that had no time limit. They sailed the Greek islands, lingered in Venice, wandered the boulevards of Paris and discovered the intimate delights of the Seine when viewed from a floating restaurant at night. On an impulse Larry hired a big Dodge motor home and they toured down through France to the Riviera, then back across eastern France and over to the coast. A ferry across to England and southwest to Cornwall and Devon where they had long, glorious weeks of endless sun. A slow return along the south coast, stopping on a whim, moving on again. Then the weather started to change, rain replacing the brilliant sunshine, the blue skies retreating before the grey clouds. The previous night they had parked the motor home just off the road. To their right the green landscape sloped down to the edge of high cliffs overlooking the grey sea. A few miles further on lay a town. According to the road map it was called Long Point…‘Hey, Casey? Move it, honey!’ A pair of long, shapely, tanned legs appeared as Casey climbed down from the double-bunk situated over the cab of the motor home. She was an extremely attractive young woman. The archetypal California girl: blonde, blue-eyed, willowy; always superbly tanned; possessing the supple grace of youth coupled with the ripely developed body of a mature woman. Casey was wearing tiny white shorts and a clinging T-shirt that did nothing but emphasize the taut, high breasts that moved disturbingly with every breath.
‘Hi’ she said, moist lips parting to reveal even white teeth. ‘Larry, I was supposed to fix breakfast this morning.’
Larry glanced up from pouring coffee into big, squat cups.
‘You were asleep,’ he said.
Casey perched herself on a stool by the breakfast bar. She reached out to stroke Larry’s arm. ‘I know I was asleep,’ she said teasingly. ‘Who kept me awake half the night?’
Larry chuckled softly. ‘Any complaints?’
Casey pouted. ‘Only that morning comes around too quick!’
Reaching into the oven Larry drew out two plates of bacon, eggs and mushrooms.
‘Smells great!’ Casey said. ‘Hey, baby, what’re we going to do today?’
‘Motor on down to this place called Long Point, I guess. Have a look round.’
‘Sounds fine.’
They ate slowly, relishing the food and each other’s company.
‘More coffee, honey?’ Larry asked.
Casey began to nod, th
en hesitated. Her blonde head half-turned as she glanced over her shoulder.
‘Something wrong?’ Larry asked.
Casey silenced him with a flick of her slim hand.
‘Casey?’
Her brow was furrowed as she glanced across at him. ‘I’m sure I heard something from up front. In the cab.’
‘What was it?’
‘I’m not sure - something kind of scratching - rattling.’
Larry slid off his stool and crossed to the sliding door that closed off the cab from the living quarters.
‘Hey… ‘ Casey said. ‘Careful!’
Larry grinned. ‘Hell, honey, this is Kent, England - not New York!’
He grabbed the handle of the door and tugged. The door held for a moment, then slid fully open with a jerk.
A dark, rippling, expanding mass burst through the opening. It spread out across the floor, around Larry Murcheson’s feet. For long seconds he stared down at the surging mass, his shocked mind failing to register the image transmitted by his eyes. And then Casey began to scream - a high, shrill cry of terror ripped from her taut throat - as the spreading mass began to splinter, break off into hundreds - thousands - of black, scuttling insects. Large insects, some of them reaching five inches in length, and made to look even bigger because of the quivering, curving tails they held arched over their backs and the pincered arms splayed out on either side of their flat heads.
Casey’s screams broke Larry Murcheson’s trance. He lunged away from the doorway as more and more of the insects poured through from the cab. He realized that the creatures were clinging to his feet, his legs, and he became aware of the rough legs digging into his flesh beneath his trousers. With each step he took, brittle bodies crunched beneath his shoes. The floor of the motor home was almost obscured by the loathsome things.
‘For God’s sake, Larry! Help me!’ Casey screamed. She had tried to draw her legs up on top of the stool and her sudden move had unsteadied it. She slumped back against the side of the motor home, balanced on the edge of the stool. Throwing out a hand to grab hold of something - anything - she touched the bubbling coffee percolator. The flesh of her hand blistered against the hot glass. Casey jerked her hand back - the stool slipped - and she fell to the floor.
The scorpions surged towards her, sensing her warmth, the promise of food. As the first ones reached her, Casey brushed them from her body. But as one was knocked aside there were dozens more to replace it. The scorpions advanced from every direction, scuttling swiftly across the floor. A few became entangled in the long, silky blonde hair, and in their frantic efforts to free themselves began to lash out with their stings. Venom, injected into the soft flesh of Casey’s neck, spread swiftly into the bloodstream. Numbing agony exploded inside Casey’s body and she jerked helplessly as tortured nerves emitted spasms. The pain of the stings helped to alleviate the pain caused by the ripping, tearing pincers as other scorpions shredded warm flesh from her bare legs. Blood began to stream from the countless wounds, streaking the tanned flesh, pooling on the floor beneath her body. Casey was barely aware of the scorpions clawing at her firm breasts. The yellow cotton of the T-shirt began to blossom with red flowers of bright blood. Soon her faintly twitching body was covered by a flowing blanket of hungry scorpions…
Larry Murcheson had fared little better than his wife. Casey had slipped to the floor before he could reach her, and in his haste he had fallen to his knees. Pain was already flowing through him as countless stings were thrust into his flesh. He could feel the insects crawling up his thighs, pincers stabbing cruelly at his flesh. He felt a startling pain in his hands, and when he looked down he saw that they were alive with insects. Too late he raised them from the floor. The scorpions scuttled quickly up his arms. He flailed his arms about, trying to dislodge them. Some fell, but most of them simply caught hold of his flesh with their pincers. Larry cringed as he felt the feather touch of scaly legs against the side of his neck. He screamed out loud as the insect crawled up the side of his face. The scorpion dug in its pincers as he tried shaking his head. He slapped at it, and must have hurt it, because it reared back abruptly. One pincer waved in the air for a moment, then darted forward. The hard, sharp tips sank into the soft ball of the eye. Blood and watery fluid spurted out. Pain flared like a red flash of heat, swelling so that it seemed to fill the cavity of Larry’s skull. Ignoring the pain, the spreading numbness, he staggered to his feet, hands clutched over his ruined face. He had no thoughts as to where he was going; he was simply obeying an animal instinct that told him to try and get away from the source of his pain. But the scorpions were still with him, crawling back and forth over his body, under his clothing, seeking the warmth of his living flesh.
He crashed violently against the side of the motor home, sliding weakly to the floor. His hands, already beginning to blacken along the ringers and the wrists, reached out and scrabbled in desperation at the smooth, unyielding, plastic-coated aluminum. He rolled heavily on to his back, legs splayed out across the floor. Blood began to ooze slowly through his trousers on the inside of his right thigh; the probing pincers of a scorpion had penetrated the flesh deep enough to expose and sever the right femoral artery. The blood jetted out fiercely, a rich, warm flow that attracted other scorpions…
The interior of the motor home seethed with jostling scorpions. They surged over the now inert figures, the only sound the brittle rasp of their hard bodies as they scuttled back and forth about their terrible business.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The police car slowed as it approached the roadblock that had been set up on the coast road. Peering out through the rain-streaked window Allan Brady saw that there were a number of vehicles, including an ambulance, parked close to the tall canvas screen erected around what he presumed to be a large vehicle. The police car edged off the road, bumping slowly across the grass. As it halted Allan opened the door and stepped out. He shivered as a chilly wind slapped at his body and pulled his coat open. Fine drizzle slipped down out of a grey sky, damping his dark hair against his skull.
A uniformed figure stepped out from the screen. Allan recognized the man who followed the policeman across the grass. Doctor Renshaw looked tired and shocked, his shoulders hunched against the cold.
‘Doctor Brady?’ asked the uniformed policeman. Allan nodded. ‘Inspector Duncan would like a word, sir.’
‘We’ll be right there,’ Renshaw said. He waited until the policeman had moved away. ‘Have you informed Camperly?’
Allan smiled. ‘Yes. He’s bloody angry. Today’s his day off and he doesn’t appreciate being disturbed.’
‘But he is coming?’
‘He’s coming. When I told him the police had requested his presence you could almost hear his ego doing handstands!’
Renshaw smiled. ‘I shouldn’t allow such disrespect.’ He glanced in the direction of the screen. ‘I couldn’t say much over the phone, Allan, but I expect you know why I sent for you.’
Allan nodded. Renshaw led the way behind the screen. Allan saw a long, sleek motor caravan. As they neared it the side door opened and a tall man wearing a tan weatherproof jacket over a dark suit stepped to the ground.
‘Doctor Brady?’
Allan nodded, taking Peter Duncan’s outstretched hand. ‘I won’t say I’m glad to be here, Inspector. It only confirms something we thought might be over.’
‘If this is anything to go by, Doctor Brady, it’s only just starting!’ Duncan said. He re-opened the door. ‘It’s messy inside.’
The word was utterly inadequate. The interior of the motor home was like a slaughterhouse. Dried streaks of blood marked the smooth sides, dappled the fittings. The floor was pooled with thick patches of congealed blood. Against one wall lay the body of a woman. At the far end of the compartment a man, curled over in a pose of frozen agony, sat against the side of the motor home, legs thrust straight out. Both corpses were covered in blood, the shredded clothing soaked with it. All the exposed flesh bore countless punctu
re marks and jagged tears. Allan crouched beside the woman’s body. A number of areas had turned black. He couldn’t help noticing, despite the mutilations, that she had been young and very attractive. As he stood up, stepping away from the corpse, something hard crunched beneath his heel. He glanced down and saw a squashed, pulpy mess by his foot.
‘There are quite a few of them about, Allan,’ Renshaw said. He reached for an object wrapped in plastic and laid it on the breakfast bar. ‘A number of them were killed by the victims during the attack. Most of them were squashed out of all recognition. But this one is reasonably intact… ‘
He drew away the layer of plastic.
‘Christ!’ Allan exclaimed softly.
There on the Formica top of the breakfast bar was the largest scorpion Allan had ever seen. He estimated it to be at least five inches in length, with that much again in the tail that curved up over the back. Its flattish body was dark and shiny, almost black. Allan took a pen from his pocket and tapped the shell. It was hard. He used the pen to lift the dead scorpion and look underneath. The mouth was open, showing the rows of sharp teeth. The underside of the body had been split open, exposing the pulpy interior of the scorpion. He laid it down again and touched the pincers with the pen.
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