The Incredible Melting Man by Phil Smith Page B

things. No one need know there’s anything missing.”
    It was macabre enough to be funny on any other occasion, but the events of the past eighteen hours had done nothing for Ted Nelson’s sense of humour.
    “Do medical ethics count for nothing with you, Loring?” he demanded angrily.
    But Loring countered with equal vigour.
    “No, sir,” he replied. “But they do seem to be a trifle superfluous with Steve out there on the rampage carrying God knows what around inside him, and three more men poised to end up in the same way if we don’t come up with something in the next six hours.”
    Nelson apologised. Once more he counted his good fortune at having Loring around at a time like this.
    He rested a friendly hand on the assistant’s shoulder.
    “Come on, Doctor Frankenstein,” he joked grimly. “Let’s go and see what we can rescue from Perry.”
    He led the way to the morgue.
    At the moment they removed the bloodstained sheet from the body of the General, only a quarter of a mile away Fred Zimwell of the Trentham Globe was on the threshold of the most unforgettable journey of his short career.
    The breakdown truck had pulled up at the gatehouse and the driver was leaning out of his cab window having his papers checked by the security officer. From out of the shadows at the roadside a hunched figure crept towards the opposite side of the truck. He hesitated when he realised that the lifting gear filled the rear of the truck and there was no room for him to hide. In the same moment, having obtained clearance, the driver pushed the truck into gear and revved the engine. Fred Zimwell had no choice but to scramble into the back of the Buick as its rear wheels began to roll forward into the centre.
    It took all his self-control to avoid crying out and betraying himself. Everywhere he touched was coated with slime. As he drew back his hands from one patch, they slid into another. He couldn’t see a thing, and when he tried to steady himself on the tilting slippery floor, the vehicle lurched and pitched him headfirst into the back seat. He hadn’t time to protect his face and as it slid across the upholstery it collected a layer of the stuff. He tasted it on his lips, rank and salty, and it blinded and stung his eyes. As he tried to brush it from his mouth he transferred more of it from his hands. He felt like an insect on flypaper. His lungs burst with the effort of keeping out the nauseating stench: it was like being holed up with a rotting corpse.
    By the time the journey was over he lay under the seat, face down in a pool of his own vomit.
    The driver left his cab and it gave the reporter a chance to slither out and stagger into the shadow of the building. Another spasm of retching seized his stomach and nearly gave him away again. He could only crouch miserably in a corner swallowing it down. Release came with the noise of the truck manoeuvring the car into position and drowning the sounds of his distress.
    He had to wait until the truck had gone. By then the impulse to abandon the whole ill-conceived venture had lessened. He felt slightly better and had already made plans to break into the first toilet he could find in order to clean himself up. His physical discomfiture worked one way in his favour: it made him forget the risk he was running snooping about a top security establishment and it spurred him on to get inside the building.
    He moved swiftly towards a row of lighted windows. His attention had been caught by two white-coated figures bending over something that was heaped on to a long table. From a distance it looked like an untidy assortment of coloured rags, grey and red. Only when he’d taken several steps nearer did he realise what it was that was spilling over the edge of the table. It was a human arm, limp and lifeless.
    He crept up to the window and peered over the sill. His well-practised stomach turned again. One of the men was probing about inside the most gruesomely mangled corpse he’d ever