William Meikle - The Creeping Kelp

The beast will reveal its secrets.

I will begin again as soon as the irons are hot.

It is our command that on this day of our Lord, the twenty and eighth of August, that such parts of Father Juan Fernando that can be safely transported ,shall be taken to the place of the auto-de-fe and burned at the stake alongside the blasphemy which has afflicted him with its heresy.

It is further commanded that if the Santa Angelo is found in Spanish waters, it should be set aflame and sunk with all hands and that no man is to touch any part of it under pain of himself being subjected to ordeal by fire.

Any persons found spreading the sedition of the dreaming god shall be subjected to the full force of the Inquisition.

Let this be the end of the matter.

The Lord wills it .

The Minister had looked increasingly confused during Suzie’s reading.

“Is this some kind of joke? If it is, it is in very poor taste.”

“No joke,” Suzie said. “I double checked. The journal is authentic and exists in the Vatican’s library. I believe what we’re dealing with is some kind of intelligent protoplasm, one with a rudimentary degree of telepathy. And it may be contagious.”

The Minister sat back and ran his hands through his hair. He stared into the distance for so long that Noble thought there was to be no reply to Suzie’s readings. When an answer did come, it was a political rather than a practical one.

“Contagious, mind-reading slime? That’ll go down well with the PM,” the Minister said, and Noble saw a look in his eyes he recognised.

We’ve blown it.

Suzie hadn’t seen it and kept trying to press her case.

“If I can get back to my lab and just study it further, I may be able to come up with a preventative measure…”

The Minister stood and put out a hand for Suzie to shake.

“That sounds like a good course of action,” he said, but his eyes betrayed him.

He just wants rid of us as fast as possible.

He had one parting shot for them.

“I don’t believe you should tell anyone else your theory of MOD collusion in this thing’s creation,” he said, and suddenly Noble saw the shark behind the smile. “Official Secrets and all that, you know? We wouldn’t like to have to lock you up.”

His eyes said differently. Noble half-dragged Suzie away before the man changed his mind. They were escorted out of the building by the armed troops again and left in a cool, early morning in an empty Horse Guard Parade. There was no sign of any chopper.

“We need to get back to the lab,” Suzie said. “We need to give them something to work with.”

Noble took her hand.

“They’re not looking to us for help. We blew it Suzie. We just got the brush off.”

She shook her head.

“No. He said…”

“He’s a politician, Suzie. Lying is second nature to him. He just wanted rid of us. Look around. Do you see a chopper waiting to rush us back?”

He saw the anger rise up inside her and had to hold her back as she turned away towards the office buildings.

“The stupid bastard. Sticking your head in the sand is only going to get you your arse bitten.”

“I know,” Noble said. “But you have to admit that theory you started to push is pretty far out there.”

She laughed bitterly.

“Killer seaweed is choking the English Channel. I think we’ve already entered the Twilight Zone.”

She looked around again.

“So how are we expected to get back?”

“I doubt anyone cares. It’ll have to be the train, I think.”

“But that’ll take hours… hours we don’t have.”

“Then we’d best get moving.”

Still hand in hand, he walked her out towards Trafalgar Square.

John Spalding pulled his cab over at the South Side of the bridge and let the three Japanese out. He left the meter running. There was already nearly two hundred pounds clocked up there and he expected at least two hundred more before this jaunt was over. He sat and made plans for the evening—his wife deserved a night out. A few beers, a nice Italian meal, and maybe he’d even get lucky later. All thanks to the Japanese tourists’ unquenchable thirst for pictures of London landmarks.

They were at it again, taking turns posing with the bridge in the background and grinning from ear to ear. John tuned them out and turned on the radio. He’d kept it off during the trip so far—tourists, especially big spending ones, didn’t need scaring off by reports of death and destruction.

Things hadn’t gotten any better since the earlier reports. They were now calling it a “National Emergency” but if it was truly national, there was no sign of it having any effect here in the capital city. The bridge was as busy with traffic as ever and tourists from many countries were out in force. Just from where John sat he could see three coaches waiting for their loads to take pictures and a small fleet of taxi cabs continued to dart to and fro across the famous bridge, depositing more camera-laden groups along the footpaths on either side.

He’d missed a bit on the radio and turned it up to hear properly.

“As yet, unconfirmed reports are coming in of sporadic attacks in the Medway towns and along the North Kent coast. A child has gone missing in Ramsgate and a family reported seeing a seething mass just offshore in Greenwich. If these reports are indeed true, it is feared that London itself may be next. Troops are being called in and…”

He’d heard enough. He leaned out of the window and shouted.

“Time to go,” he called out. His fare paid no attention and kept snapping pictures. He leaned on his horn until they got the message. They got into the back, glaring at him all the way. He’d probably lost all chance of a tip, but the news report had him spooked and all he wanted to do now was get away from the river.

Maybe they’d like to see Regent’s Park Zoo?

That was his last coherent thought, for just as he put the cab in gear to pull away, he felt the wheels lurch beneath him. He pushed hard on the accelerator, but the wheels just spun uselessly underneath.

“What the fu…”

He opened the cab door and slammed it shut straight away. The road below the cab had become a seething mass of green and brown fronds. The tourists had already turned in their seats and were excitedly photographing the phenomenon, but John’s attention was taken by the view to the front. A line of tourists had been making their way towards a coach. They were never going to make it. The creeping kelp poured over the passenger rails like water and seethed among ankles and heels. At first, the tourists seemed to think it was something put on for their benefit; part of the tour. They giggled nervously, danced gingerly among the weed and started to take pictures. It was only when first one, then two more, found that they were unable to walk due to the kelp taking hold of them, that panic started to spread. By then, it was too late.

John watched, open mouthed, as the kelp smothered the screaming, writhing bodies. It was only when the mass of weed rose and started to advance down the bridge that he thought to try to escape.

He hit the accelerator, but the wheels just squealed and spun. Reverse was no better, bringing only a sudden lurch and a stop that threw his passengers around in the back.

I’ve definitely blown that tip.

The tourists started shouting at him, but even if he could have understood a word of it, there was nothing he could do. The cab was stuck firm and there was no way he was opening the door to have a look, not after seeing what had happened –was still happening—outside. The kelp was spreading all across the bridge and crawling, with increasing speed, up the twin towers that defined the landmark.