Part 14 (2/2)

Janice finished knotting his left sneaker and moved to the right. ”Nothing is coming to get you.”

”Then what is that noise?”

”What noise?”

”The one downstairs.” That sarcastic tone of voice again. G.o.d, but kids could be such little s.h.i.+ts.

She finished knotting his sneaker and put her hands on both his knees, her green eyes locking onto his. ”Everything is going to be all right. Okay?” Her tone of voice told him otherwise. It said, don't argue with me. Do exactly what I say and don't argue. She hated to be so stern with him when he was so tuned into things, but she was dealing with the situation as things were occurring.

Bobby got the message and nodded. He stood up as Janice rummaged through his closet and took out his parka. He put it on while Janice double checked everything; gloves, painkillers, keys, wallet. Everything was in place. Now for the escape.

She went to the window and opened it. A gust of cold air blew in through the screen, blowing rain through the sill to splash on the floor. The cold air and fresh atmosphere began evaporating the mist that had fogged up the windows from the heat of the room. Janice threw her weight into the window and heaved it all the way up. She looked out the window, her body blocking the view from Bobby for his sake.

It was now fully dark outside but she could see surprisingly well. There were scattered flashlights waving back and forth in the distance; people in the streets were a.s.sessing the situation. She could also make out beams of light coming from darkened houses. The street directly below appeared deserted. Through the heavy rain and wind, she could make out the clatter of people running amok, car engines revving, and what sounded like gunfire to the north. A dozen men in hunting gear ran down the street, rifles in hand, shouting excitedly to one another. It was true then. Something was definitely up.

The men turned the corner and began running down the street, rifles ready. Janice leaned forward till her face was kissing the screen and screamed at the top of her lungs. ”Hey guys! Up here! Hey guys! Hey!”

Lightning flashed amid the downpour, briefly illuminating the street below. She screamed again. ”Heeeyyy!” It was drowned out by the booming thunder.

She winced as the thunder rolled. She turned back to look at Bobby. He was still sitting on the bed, his expression grave. His brown eyes looked up at her, seeming to say don't let them get me, Mommy. Please don't let them get me.

She gave him a smile that she hoped was enough to put his mind at rest. ”Everything's gonna be okay, sport.”

He smiled back.

She turned back to the window. The men with the rifles were out of sight, but now another pair was in sight. And they were moving toward her house.

”Hey!” She yelled. ”Heeeyyy out there!”

The figures were closer and grew familiar. Janice felt a sense of relief pour through her as recognition set in. One was tall and gangly, the other of medium height, long, dark hair flapping behind him. Rick and Jack...

”Hey, guys! Rick! Jack! I'm up here!”

And as they picked up their stride and dashed up her street to her house, she felt a strange sense of relief despite the fact that she felt like it was the end of the world.

Chapter Nineteen.

”They're at the front door!” Janice shouted down as Rick and Jack ran up to the house. ”They're trying to get inside-”

They stopped in their tracks, catching sight of the creatures tearing apart the front door of her house. Rick only paid them a glance before he darted up the lawn to the side of the house beneath the second story window of Bobby's bedroom. He held his arms out. ”Come on, let's get you out of there.”

Janice reached for Bobby and lifted him up onto the window sill. She gently prodded him. ”Go on, honey, it's okay.”

”Come on, big guy, I'm right here,” Rick said, his heart pounding. The rain was drenching them. He held his arms out to the frightened, injured boy. ”Just climb out onto the ledge and I'll catch you.”

Janice swung herself out the window and edged down the s.h.i.+ngled ledge. Bobby scooted farther, his face blank, as if his system was blocking the fear out and he was on auto-pilot, doing what he needed to do to survive. He swung his legs over the sill and Rick held his arms out. ”Come on!”

Bobby jumped. Rick caught him, the boy's sudden weight slamming into him and giving the pain in his right leg an added burst, only to be replaced by the rush of adrenaline that pumped through his system at the reaction of the act. He swung the boy down on the ground and Jack hustled him off to the sidewalk. Rick stole a glance around the side of the house; those things were still occupied at the front door, but should they catch wind of what was going on here, on the other side of the house- He turned back to Janice who was now perched on the ledge. He motioned for her to jump. She jumped.

She landed in a forward roll and was on her feet in a flash, moving toward Bobby who was standing at Jack's side. ”You okay, baby?” Bobby nodded.

Rick grabbed Janice's arm. ”We've gotta get out of here!”

She nodded and together, in a closely-knit pack, they headed down the street, away from the Clickers at Janice's front door.

They hit the corner of Sycamore and Elm and made a left. Janice held Bobby's hand as they darted down the street. It was deserted and dark with no signs of the Clickers anywhere.

Rick stopped and motioned to Jack. ”What now?”

”We gotta find the Sheriff,” Jack said, panting. The rain had let up slightly but it was still drizzling. He wiped his wet brow with a large, bony hand. ”There's a radio at the station, one with a stronger signal, and somebody should be back by now. If they are, they've no doubt radioed in for help. Plus, we can get flashlights there.”

Janice winced. ”I had a flashlight upstairs I was using. I forgot it.”

”That's okay,” Rick said. While it was fully dark now, they could still see fairly well. Up ahead of them, bobbing lights moved urgently. The streetlights themselves were dark.

”It won't be like this for long,” Jack said. He motioned toward the sky where the clouds were moving at a fast pace with help from the wind. What little light they had from the moon was soon going to be obscured by more heavy clouds.

Rick nodded. ”Then let's go.”

They headed down the street, past silent houses settled back in comfy lawns. They reached the end of Elm, turned left on Spruce, and zigzagged their way through the residential section of Phillipsport, braced for any sign of a Clicker. Bobby kept up with the spirit of a trooper; he held onto Janice's hand with a firm grip and an equally grim determination.

At the town center and along the beachfront shops and pier, the town was out en ma.s.se. Those who lived close to the beach who'd witnessed the initial uproar had either gathered their firearms and ammunition to begin the battle from windows, or braved the rainy weather and fought on the front lines. They lined up like soldiers in battle, guns cradled in their arms, ammunition ready for reloading, lanterns and flashlights illuminating the darkness. Gunfire sounded even as Rick and Jack rescued Janice and Bobby, and its faint echo was a constant reminder of the threat they faced as they threaded their way to the center of town. Along the way those that saw what the uproar was about either beat a hasty retreat- some scrambling into their cars and making a beeline for farther points inland-or gathered their own firearms and held down the fort to protect their respective homes and families. Many Clickers that managed to make it past the front wave of people shooting them were killed by those that lived farther inland. However, quite a few managed to survive and do what they came to do: breed and forage for food.

And eat they did. Most of what went down their gullets were hapless pets that got caught up in the ruckus: dogs, cats, some pot-bellied pigs, the occasional hamster or guinea pig. A pair of Rotweillers chased down several Clickers, attacking them with their jaws, and were quickly swarmed and overrun by more. The cats were usually able to escape, but some weren't so lucky; a mother cat nursing her nine kittens underneath the porch of one house was ravaged by a pair of Clickers, her meows of pain reduced to sizzling fur and flesh. For the most part, however, those cats that were outside were able to escape where most cats escaped to-up the nearest tree. Local wildlife was infected as well: a group of foxes nestling in a burrow were torn apart and devoured; squirrels and other rodents made small appetizers. One Clicker invaded the den of a hibernating rattlesnake and began chowing down before the slumbering reptile could gather its senses. By the time it did it was too late.

There were human casualties as well, but these numbered less than the animals and pets of the area. A dozen Clickers invaded a home and descended on the owner, a portly woman of fifty-five and her thirty-seven cats. They left the house ten minutes later, leaving a ma.s.s of goo, fur, and bubbling flesh. A handicapped man who had been rendered paralyzed from the waist down in an automobile accident fifteen years before in Atlanta, Georgia, was attacked as he tried to hoist himself up the stairs of his home; the Clickers swarmed through the pet door he'd installed for his dog and they found him halfway up the stairs. He screamed, trying to scoot up the stairs faster, but he was no match for their numbers. Five minutes later what was left of him sizzled on the green s.h.a.g carpet of his steps. They left his dog in the same condition on the back porch.

The Clickers that beached themselves by burrowing into the sand were forgotten as others scuttled up the sh.o.r.e, heading toward the townspeople now lining the pier with rifles, shotguns and semi-automatic rifles. Billy Ray Wilkeson, the town tough who hung out at Juke's Bar on the outskirts of the city-and was a frequent lover of Stacy Robinson when her boyfriend was slaving away at work, and who sometimes accompanied Sheriff Conklin on rides through back-roads on the lawman's off time to beat up n.i.g.g.e.rs and f.a.ggots-let out a bloodcurdling scream and dropped the rifle he was firing at the Clickers. A large one had snuck up on him right below his line of fire and clamped down on his ankle with one blood-red pincer. Billy Ray screamed again and stepped back as the Clicker's segmented tail rose and jabbed. The stinger plunged through the paunch of his stomach and Billy Ray promptly fell down on his a.s.s. The Clicker lunged, tore out a chunk of his face with a mandible and began eating even as Billy Ray's stomach expanded and sizzled.

But for the most part, the people were winning.

Glen Jorgensen was watching the action from his third floor attic, viewing it all through his telescope as his opinion became clear. He stepped back from the telescope as the realization dawned on him: he was in a relatively safe place, so long as they didn't go by human scent. He had three guns in the house-a Luger semiautomatic with a ten round clip, a .45 Magnum Long Barrel, and a Winchester thirty-ought six hunting rifle with a scope-and he had several hundred rounds of ammunition. All the guns except for the Luger were kept in the attic; the Luger was kept in his bedroom, in the top drawer of his nightstand. An old habit he'd never broken when he was completing his residency at St. Mary's in Yonkers, New York. His one room apartment had been a five minute walk from the hospital, and he often pa.s.sed by patients he worked on who had come into the hospital after having been stabbed, shot, or beaten up in domestic disputes, gang turf wars, or Sat.u.r.day evening barroom brawls. And more often than not, he was accosted at the hospital itself for his cash by some gun-toting junkie who would snake through the busy hospital corridors, shaking down anybody and everybody. He was glad when the residency was over; he didn't know if he'd eventually face the barrel of some hood breaking into his apartment, or if he would go crazy himself from the eighteen-plus hour days.

Now he gathered the weapons together, breaking open the rifle. He sat on his desk loading the rifle, all the while keeping his attention to the window and what lurked out in the rainy darkness. He could hear the sound of gunfire and from the sounds of yells and jubilant screams it sounded like the citizens of Phillipsport were going to be mounting some strange-looking trophies over fireplace mantels in the weeks to come-not to mention bringing the scientific community down on this little seaport haven in droves. But that wasn't what worried Glen.

It wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

He finished loading the rifle and turned his attention to the Magnum. He opened the chamber and began loading it. He was lucky to find a window between two trees on the north east corner of his home where he could train his telescope. Once there he had a great view of the beach, and he'd been watching the action on the sh.o.r.eline for the past two hours. Those crabs weren't just hurtling themselves en ma.s.se to wreak havoc on the town; they weren't just beaching themselves to forage for food. Glen witnessed the intensity of their scramble to sh.o.r.e and their haste to breed in the sand. He noticed as the last wave hit the beach that they were more frantic, more concerned about scuttling up the beach and away from the sand, than with mating. They barely even noticed the threat of the men on the sh.o.r.e blasting them away with their guns. They continued to scurry up the beach even as others were blown to mush. They were scuttling inland as fast as they could.

It almost looked like they were fleeing from something.

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