His flashlight almost missed it… a dark shape in the angle where the floor joined the wall… Condon moved the beam of light back and… yes… there it was!…
It sat there on the concrete, deathly still, held by the bright gleam of the flashlight. Dark in color, the hard shell of the body reflected the light. Condon realized that it resembled the dry husks he’d stepped on. Only this one was different - this one had legs and a flexible tail that curved up over its back, pincered arms raised in a defensive shield in front of it. Condon stared at the creature, a thought stirring in his mind. He’d read about these things in the paper a few weeks ago. There’d been a bit of a scare about them - and then it had all been denied.
Scorpions! That was what they’d all been talking about. He peered at the creature again. He’d only ever seen the things in photographs before, but that was what this thing looked like. The only thing was it looked a damn sight bigger than he would have expected it to be!
Revulsion swept over him. There was something in the way the bloody thing just sat there staring at him! Condon stepped forward and drove his foot at the scorpion. His shoe scraped the rough wall. Condon grunted and drew his foot back. The thing had gone. Something dragged against his shoe; he swore in annoyance as the scorpion climbed into sight over the toe. Condon grinned suddenly - got you! He swung his foot at the wall again, hoping to crush the thing against the rough concrete. But the scorpion scuttled up on to the top of his shoe and reared its body back, flexing the pincered arms. With slight panic replacing his anger, Condon shook his foot, trying to dislodge the scorpion. It still clung on. He bent forward and swiped at it with his hand…
The scorpion snapped its pincers together, gripping the soft flesh of his hand. The sudden sharp pain made him cry out. He shook his hand wildly but the scorpion had too strong a grip. Condon could feel the blood running from the gouged flesh where the tips of the pincers were dug in. Ignoring the pain he slammed his hand against the wall in desperation. It was useless. The scorpion clung to his bloody hand undisturbed. In the bobbing glare of the flashlight Condon saw it lift its body, arch the jointed tail over its head, then strike at the exposed flesh of his hand.
His scream was like the howl of a soul in torment. He lashed out at the scorpion with the flashlight, hitting himself on the hand at the first attempt. His next swing struck the creature and knocked it from his hand. Shreds of raw flesh hung down from where the keen-edged pincers had ripped his hand, blood oozing in thick globules from the wounds. As the scorpion fell, Condon lost his grip on the torch and it dropped to the floor, bouncing and sending its beam of light dancing across the concrete.
And in that moving pool of light Condon saw something that tore another scream from his aching throat.
Scorpions! Hundreds of them - maybe even thousands - it was impossible to count them as they scuttled across the concrete floor. A surging, rippling, dark tide flooding towards him. They created a harsh whispery rattle of sound as they moved, pincers opening and closing, eyes glittering in the bright light.
Condon, his stomach jerking from fear and pain, snatched up the flashlight from the floor. As his fingers touched the case he sensed dark shapes lunging at him, and felt the sharp slice of keen pincers gouging his flesh… blood spattered on to the hard shells of the jostling insects. He grasped the flashlight and turned, running across the floor towards the stairs. Hard bodies squashed under his shoes, crunched to pulp, smearing the concrete. He slipped and fell to his knees, felt the hot stabs of pain as unseen pincers tore at his flesh, was aware of the feathery touch of many legs scrambling over the sleeves of his coat, his trousers… The things were all over him! He stumbled upright, lurching towards the steps, slapping wildly at his clothing.
He was almost at the top of the steps when he felt a movement on his neck. He yelled in terror and slapped at the scorpion clinging at his face. A sudden and agonizing stab of pain burned into his flesh. Blood spurted thickly from the lacerated cheek, spilling over his collar. Condon forced himself to reach up and take hold of the scorpion, pulling it free from the side of his neck. He could feel it trying to squirm out of his grasp; its writhing body made him feel sick. He crunched it against the wall as he reached the top of the stairs. Thick pulp spewed out, dribbling between Condon’s Angers.
He fled along the dark passages., searching for breath, moaning and screaming as the scorpions clinging to him tore and gouged his flesh. Somehow he worked his way back up to the entrance level. He staggered and fell, his body jerking and writhing as he struggled to his feet again. He located the door that led to the outside and staggered blindly into the rain. When he looked down he saw that his body was covered in wriggling dark insects. He flailed at them with his shredded, mutilated hands, blood still spilling from the ugly gouges.
He ran towards his car, groping open the door, and fell across the driver’s seat. Where his hand had touched the door there were glistening streaks of blood on the paintwork. Condon jammed the key in the ignition and started the car. He freed the handbrake and rammed his foot hard down on the clutch. Knocking it into gear he released the clutch. The car leapt forward. Condon fought the twisting wheel as the car bounced its way across the bumpy ground. He yanked the wheel round as the car cleared the grass verge and slammed hard down on the road. Tires howled in protest, smoke streaming from the hot rubber as the car gathered speed. Condon clung to the steering wheel with one hand, the other clawing at the scorpions. Some of them, dislodged, began to crawl around on the floor of the car. Others, trapped between his body and the back of the seat, wriggled and fought to free themselves.
Condon drove in a haze of pain and terror. Saliva frothed from his mouth. In his fear he had lost control of his bladder and a spreading wetness marked the front of his trousers. Though he didn’t know it yet he was already dying, his body pumped full of venom. If he had been in control of his responses he would have noticed that a numbness was starting to flow along his arms, to deaden his legs. His heart was racing. The road before him blurred, wavered. The car slewed drunkenly from side to side. Peering through the windscreen, he saw the looming shape of the plant. He sagged forward over the wheel, almost passing out, but by some surge of inner strength he pulled himself upright. The high fencing of the plant whipped by the car. Condon mumbled something and jerked violently on the wheel. The car almost rolled over as it slithered towards the gates. A crooked smile passed over Condon’s blood-streaked face, and he thrust his foot hard down on the throttle. Gathering speed, the car smashed through the gates. The impact crumpled the front of the car bodywork, pushing a section of the left front wing into the tire. It shredded rubber as Condon forced the ailing vehicle along the access road leading up to the plant’s reception area.
Professor Meacham had just stepped out of the building and was making for his own car when he heard the rending crash from the direction of the main gates. He glanced up and saw a car racing along the access road. The car was swerving from side to side, tires howling in protest. It skidded round towards the parking area, only yards from Meacham himself. The driver’s door swung open and Meacham, hurrying forward, could see Condon’s squirming figure on the front seat.
‘For God’s sake, Condon, what’s wrong?’ Meacham neared the car.
He stopped dead in his tracks, his face paling as Vic Condon half fell out of the car, holding on to the door to keep himself on his feet. Condon’s body was crawling with moving, living things. Blood streamed from countless open gashes. Condon reached out towards Meacham with a hand that was already turning black.
‘Please… ‘ he croaked. ‘Help me… Meacham… ‘
Meacham stood transfixed, fascinated, repulsed by the loathsome sight.
In his agony and desperation, Condon lurched forward, his arms raised in a gesture of suppliance.
Meacham seemed to suddenly become aware of his surroundings. He took one look at Condon and threw out a hand.
‘No… stay away from me!’
Meacham, trying to
back away, slipped on the wet concrete. Condon stumbled over his crouching body, pushing Meacham down beneath him. A startled cry burst from Meacham’s lips. He brutally pushed Condon aside, dragging his legs free, and scrambled to his feet. Shuddering at his narrow escape he brushed angrily at the wet patches on his coat, hoping he hadn’t stained it. His hand passed over something hard clinging to his coat sleeve, something that seemed to be moving. Meacham glanced down. A scorpion was clinging to his coat, moving swiftly up his sleeve in the direction of his neck. Meacham held his arm away from his body and tried to dislodge the creature. The scorpion flattened itself against his coat. Meacham struck at it a second time; his hand brushed over the back, catching the curved sting. The scorpion reared up on its front legs, seeming to regard Meacham coldly with its glittering eyes, then it scuttled up his sleeve and across his shoulder.
‘Oh God!’ he moaned. ‘Oh God! Somebody help… somebody… ‘
His cries were cut off as the scorpion laid its legs against the side of his face. Meacham felt the alien touch against his flesh. He brought up his hand to grasp the thing and tear it away from him. The moment the shadow of his hand fell across the scorpion’s head it reacted instantly. The pincered arms reached out, snapping at his flesh. As it dug into the soft flesh of his lower lip, drawing a sudden spurt of bright blood, the scorpion pulled its tail over its head and sank the curving sting deep into Meacham’s right cheek. He screamed loudly as pain erupted across his face. He raised both hands to his injured face, nudging the tensed scorpion. The creature twisted its body, nicking the curved tail in a swift strike against Meacham’s hand.
The powerful venom began its irreversible process of destruction. Meacham managed half a dozen steps before his legs developed a spreading paralysis and he collapsed on the ground. He lay motionless watching the scorpion crawl away from him. Dimly he could hear the thud of approaching footsteps as help arrived. But there was no help for Meacham or Condon. By the time the first members of staff reached them Vic Condon, his body still covered in scorpions, was dead. Professor Meacham had already lapsed into a state of complete paralysis, from which he never recovered. His swollen tongue thrust obscenely from between lips beginning to turn blue and then black; his eyes bulged from their sockets, fixed and unseeing. A few minutes later he too was dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘No doubt about it, Allan. What we have here is a mutation!’
‘Obvious question - but what caused it?’
Miles Ranleigh removed his glasses, rubbing his tired eyes.
‘Give me a few more hours and I might be able to tell you.’ Ranleigh, a big, bearded man, put his glasses back on.
‘And the mutation is responsible for the odd behavior?’
‘From what you’ve told me these scorpions are doing things that scorpions have never done before. This grouping together is completely out of character. The scorpion is a loner, not particularly given to socializing with his own kind. The herd instinct doesn’t fit the normal pattern.’ Ranleigh grimaced. ‘But then, your damn scorpions are far from normal.’
‘My knowledge about scorpions is pretty basic,’ Allan said, ‘but what I have read certainly doesn’t tally with these beggars. This last incident, however you look at it, points to a deliberate attack. They forced their way into that motor caravan - apparently they chewed their way through the rubber seals around the bottom of the foot pedals - then they simply crawled inside and waited for someone to open that communicating door. After that it was a purely hostile attack. That couple died ten times over - stung and clawed. If the venom hadn’t done it they would have bled to death.’
Ranleigh gazed at the dissected scorpion.
‘The answer’s there,’ he said. ‘Probably staring me in the face.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s been a long night, Allan, and it’ll be light soon. Let’s get a cup of coffee.’
They left the lab which was situated in the basement of Ranleigh’s large house.
‘Mind if I make a call?’ Allan asked as they crossed the hall.
‘Help yourself,’ Ranleigh said, continuing on towards the kitchen.
Allan dialed Chris’s number. He let it keep on ringing, realizing she might still be in bed. Eventually the phone was picked up at the other end and a sleepy voice reached Allan.
‘Chris?’
‘Allan? Oh, I’m so glad you called.’
Allan frowned at the urgent tone in her voice.
‘I’ve been trying to contact you,’ Chris went on. ‘Allan - it’s happened again!’
‘The scorpions?’
‘Yes. Two deaths. Professor Meacham, the head of the Long Point Nuclear Plant, and Vic Condon, his security chief.’
‘Damn!’ Allan exclaimed.
‘Listen,’ Chris said, ‘I think I may have stumbled on to something important. I ran across Vic Condon yesterday - a short while before he died. I was doing some research for the article, and I’d located an abandoned building near the plant - apparently the military used it at one time. Before I could take a look inside Condon appeared. We had words and I left. The last I saw of him he was going into the place.’
‘You think this could be where the scorpions are nesting?’
‘It’s possible.’
A vague thought intruded, breaking Allan’s concentration.
‘Chris, what made you go to that place?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Just tell me,’ Allan insisted - while in his mind a single word nagged at him. Mutation! It was the description Miles Ranleigh had used to describe the condition of the dead scorpion. A mutation!
‘Well, I found that the pipeline from the plant ran under the building. The excess heat was used to warm the place… ‘
Allan lowered the receiver and called for Ranleigh. When the entomologist appeared Allan turned excitedly.
‘In theory, Miles, would it be possible for the scorpion mutations to have been brought about by exposure to low-level, but constant radiation?’
‘It’s possible, yes,’ Ranleigh said. ‘The effect of low-level radiation on living cells isn’t fully understood yet, but radiation could cause an imbalance in the genetic pattern, so that subsequent generations might be born with defects - or so radically altered that survival became impossible.’
‘But couldn’t the cell structure be changed in such a way that there could be a forward development?’ Allan persisted.
Ranleigh nodded. ‘Certainly. It would be - in simple terms - an acceleration of the evolutionary process. Bringing about change much sooner than it would normally occur.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Allan said. He returned to the phone. ‘Chris? Sorry, love, but it was important. Look, I’ll be coming back later on. In the meantime there’s something I want you to do. Contact Inspector Duncan. Tell him to get that abandoned building cordoned off right away. And tell him that no one is to go inside the place under any circumstances. Got that?’
‘Yes. Allan, what’s going on?’
‘I’ll explain later. Just make sure that building is isolated.’
He put the phone down and turned to Ranleigh.
‘Come on, Allan, talk,’ Ranleigh said. He led the way into the kitchen and poured hot coffee into china mugs.
‘About eighteen months ago there was a low-level leak from the Long Point Nuclear Plant. It went undetected for around six months. Water used to cool the reactor had become contaminated. The whole thing was hushed up and quietly forgotten. What I’ve just heard over the phone seems to indicate that the contaminated water may have seeped into an abandoned building near the plant, which looks as though it may also have been the scorpions’ nest. I’m almost ready to bet that our mutated scorpion is a victim of that radiation leak.’
‘It might be the answer,’ Ranleigh mused. ‘Once the DNA pattern is altered almost anything can happen - a retarded cripple, or a superior species. If this is what has happened to your scorpions then you’ve the superior type of mutation.’
; Allan emptied his mug. ‘Can you follow this up with tests on the one we’ve got down there?’
Ranleigh nodded.
They returned to the lab. Allan sat to one side and watched Ranleigh go to work. The entomologist worked steadily for the next hour, testing samples of tissue, comparing his results with evaluations from his own previous dealings with the scorpion species. Ranleigh finally called Allan over, swinging round on his stool.
‘I think you were right, Allan,’ he said. ‘There are traces of radioactivity in the tissue. Your harmless, naturalized scorpion has been mutated into a condition far removed from its original makeup. But I think I’ve got the species pinned down. This chap was originally Androctonus Australis, a native of North Africa. It has one of the most powerful venoms of the scorpion family, practically on a level with that of the cobra.’
‘No wonder it had me confused when I did blood tests after the first attack.’ Allan pondered for a moment. ‘But all the stingings haven’t been fatal. A young couple were attacked. They’re unconscious but still alive. And a man was stung on the arm. He suffered some pain and localized swelling, but that was all. I was told over the phone that since I left Long Point two more people have been attacked - both are dead.’
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