The Memoirs of Cultivating Immortals

Chapter 173 The Plague
Hell's Kitchen, Hell'Kitchen.

The name might be some cheesy food show elsewhere, but to the residents of the island of Manhattan, the name means dirty, run-down, backward slums.

Hell's Kitchen is located on the west bank of Manhattan Island. It is a rectangular area bounded by 59th Street and 24th Street in the north and south, [-]th Avenue in the east, and the Hudson River in the west.
The area is mainly inhabited by working-class Irish immigrants and is known for its messy and backward living quality, serious ethnic conflicts and high crime rate.

As night falls, the sky is colored by brilliant neon lights, tall buildings cast huge shadows, covering the sparse crowd in twos and threes on the street.

pat.

A pair of boots crushed the puddles on the road, and the sewage that refused to be received by the sewer pipes splashed all over the ground.

The owner of the boots was a young woman with long black hair.

Her face is exquisite and small, but the heavy bags under her eyes make her look rather haggard, and the pupils that drift away and cannot focus make it even more doubtful whether she has just been drinking too much.

The girl's footsteps were a little faltering, she stretched out her hand to support the wall, and pressed her white palm against the dilapidated wall full of street graffiti, stained with dust.

At the end of the alley, a few Irish young men in loose sweatpants were leaning against a corner and puffing. From the transparent plastic bags stuffed in their trouser pockets, it could be seen that they were not cigarettes, but some kind of dicotyledonous tobacco. Prohibited consumer products of the plant class Urtica.

There was a turbid breathing sound from the girl's throat. She stood up unsteadily, stepped on the mud accumulated on the mud surface, kicked loudly, and slowly moved towards the end of the alley.

Those Irish youths whistled, stared at the girl's curves and laughed maliciously, and stood up lazily and casually leaning against the wall, sealing the exit of the alley.

This is Hell's Kitchen, a slum with the worst law and order environment, so whether it is robbery of wealth or sex, it is a matter of course.

The surveillance cameras on the street corner have already been dealt with, and even the NYPD cops don't want to spend more time in Hell's Kitchen to install more surveillance cameras—anyway, those cameras will be stolen and sold within a few days.

"Hey girl, do you need help?"

The leading Irish youth straightened his thin body, smiled dissolutely, and stroked the blue stubble with his gangster tattooed palm.

His eyes flicked over the delicate face of the girl, as if examining a delicious lamb that was about to step into a desperate trap.

"."

The girl raised her head in bewilderment, her fair and moist neck like jade made the young Irish swallow involuntarily.

"People." She said, "I want to find someone."

"...Who do you want to find? We can help you find it." The Irish youths smiled at each other and slowly surrounded them. It was either a switchblade or a pistol.

"Do not bother."

The girl laughed happily, and pushed her long black hair behind her ears, "I've found it."

Confusion among the Irish youth quickly turned to fear.

I saw the girl raised her head high, the angle formed by the upper and lower jaws was far more than 90°, her mouth was completely grinning to the base of her ears, and her mouth was exposed to the air.

With the sound of "呵呵" leaking air, countless slender tendrils spread and grow from the girl's throat, overflowing the mouth.

These entangled fleshy whiskers are densely packed and coiled like tree roots.

Its top can also bloom into four petals like a rose, revealing the hollow tubular groove inside the whiskers, and the serrated fangs inside and outside the groove.

Fear seized the hearts of the Irish youths at the first moment. They had never seen such a horrific scene, their backs were sweating, their scalps were numb, and their legs were trembling.

Fortunately, the prohibited drugs that they took just now ensured the last sliver of clarity, making these young people choose to turn around, use their hands and feet together, and flee in a panic, screaming with unknown meaning from their mouths.

However, the fleshy whiskers extending from the girl's throat moved faster than they imagined.

Like a chameleon puffing out a powerful tongue full of muscle fibers, the tendrils compressed, contracted, then stretched and relaxed, wrapping around the necks of the young people like a long whip.

Like the strong strangulation of a python, the Irish youths could not break free.

They exerted all their strength and used their fingertips to try to squeeze into the gap between the whiskers and necks. However, their bodies, which had been drained of alcohol and drugs, had no explosive power at all. They could only watch the whiskers slowly prying themselves open. Jaw closed, undoubtedly stuffed into the throat.

The tactile sensation of a foreign body intrusion induces the urge to vomit, but what scares the youth even more is what those whiskers do.

If a gastroscope can be inserted into their stomachs at this time, it can be clearly seen that the top "petals" of the fleshy whiskers have been opened, and countless pale and tiny eggs like rice grains are injected into the stomach.
After a few seconds, or even half a century, the fleshy mustache finally let go of its restraint and was pulled out from the throat.

The Irish youths fell to the ground helplessly, their stomachs swollen abnormally, reminiscent of those children in black Africa who were bulging due to malnutrition.

"vomit"

The leading Irish youth clutched his throat, but found nothing but puddles of clear water.

"Monster, monster!"

Someone pulled out a pistol, pointed the muzzle at the girl's raised head, and the trigger was pulled in a row.

However, those pistol bullets whose initial speed exceeded the speed of sound were intercepted by the flesh whiskers in mid-air, and none of them fell.

bang bang bang.

The flesh must let go of the bullet, and the copper bullet hit the ground with a loud sound.

The girl leisurely retracted these tentacles into her throat, stretched out her green fingers, and wiped away the transparent mucus from her lips.

She lifted her cuffs, looked at her watch, and said casually, "You still have .20 seconds."

What 20 seconds?

No one really asked, so the girl added calmly: "In 20 seconds, you will complete the transformation, like me, and become God's apostles."

Obviously, this is not a good thing.The Irish youths with swollen bellies used their hands and feet together, dragging their bloated bodies with difficulty, and moved towards the end of the alley.

One step, two steps, one step, two steps.

20 seconds, here we go.

Those Irish youths who barely reached the end of the alley stopped. Their bellies have returned to normal, and they are almost the same as ordinary people except for the occasional worm eggs gushing from the eye sockets, nostrils, and ear canals.

These transformed youths turned around and half-kneeled on the ground in unison, offering their loyalty to the girl.

And that gorgeous and graceful girl whispered her will: "In the name of the apocalypse, let's spread the plague."

(End of this chapter)