The Creeping Kelp

July 23rd - Tower Bridge

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.

John turned and spoke softly, hoping to calm his passengers. He had no idea whether they understood him, but just the act of it was something familiar, something to hold on to while things went to shit and worse outside.

“We’re okay in here,” he said. “This cab is built to handle anything. Good British engineering, none of that Japanese rubb…” He stopped short as the kelp crept over the bonnet. The passengers started to scream—John felt like joining them as the windshield view filled with green fronds. The kelp looked moist, slightly oily. It slapped wetly against the glass. When a slit appeared and a white eye looked in on them, John’s screams joined those of the tourists.

He was only vaguely aware that the cab seemed to be floating among the kelp, carried in a flow that was taking vehicles up and over the guard way to the river below. The last thing he saw as they tumbled over the edge was a mass of kelp that spread across the whole of the river Thames and was even now spreading westwards towards the city centre.