"Viktor Koman - Captain Anger 1 - The Microbotic Menace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Koman Victor)

grey linoleum squares.
He abruptly sat straight up on the stool, trembling. Suddenly, from
somewhere deep inside him, his voice arose resonant and terrifying.
“I am the Angel of Death!”
The voice silenced instantly as the body of the old man collapsed in on
itself. With a stomach-churning hiss of gasses, his chest collapsed and his
head softened and grew shapeless, like a wax mask melting. The silver
liquid gushed to the floor. His suit fell limp, draping wetly over the stool.
Then, seconds later, it too disintegrated as if eaten by acid.
The customers ran from the diner in terror.
Some—overcome by nausea—fell to the sidewalk, sick at the curb. The
black, muscular cook ran out of the kitchen, mystified at the empty diner
until the waitress pointed in mute terror at the gruesome scene.
The silvery liquid drenched the far end of the diner. Worse, the stool on
which the man once sat leaned perilously to one side, the chromed steel
shaft softening like taffy in the sun. With a squish, the stool fell over into
the glimmering slush.
“What the hell happened?” the husky cook demanded.
The waitress, breathless, whispered, “The Angel of Death.”
 •
The barricade went up around the diner as soon as the police arrived.
The supervising detective put a rookie patrolman in charge of cordoning
off the area with the yellow tape that declared
Police Line—Do Not Cross.
Los Gatos was a sleepy suburb of San Jose, California, some of its
inhabitants wealthy executives in the Silicon Valley computer industry.
Most lived comfortably; a few hung on in desperate straits. Detective R. J.
Fleming figured that the victim came from the last group. He ran a hand
through his blonde hair and peered in through the door.
“Looks like silver paint, don’t it?” the slender, carrot-topped rookie
asked.
“You got that thing tied off?” Fleming demanded, nodding toward the
roll of tape in the kid’s hand.
“Yessir.”
“Wrap it once more around your mouth.” Fleming’s gaze turned to the
service counter. The section coated in silver appeared withered and
sunken. “Baggerly!” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Sir!”
“Get the HazMat team rolling. Tell ‘em we’ve got one dead and another
one contaminated.”
“Any idea what it is?”
Fleming shook his head. Turning away from the diner entrance, he
observed the two paramedics hovering around the construction worker.
He was a big man, black oily hair and brooding black eyes. He sat on
the curb with his left arm in a brace holding it up and out so that the
paramedics could examine it easily.
“What do you make of it?” Fleming asked the male medic.
The woman answered. “We can’t figure out if it’s a liquid or a very finely
divided powder. Whatever it is, it seems to have penetrated his skin. We
can’t wipe it off.”