Creepers

by Robert Craig

  Corelli wanted to complain, but what could he say? “Thanks, anyway,” he finally dismissed the two men. Where the hell was Willie? Shit, he never should have left him alone in such a poor condition. If any of the creepers had come back, with Willie being so weak…

  After deciding that Willie’s fate was out of his hands, Corelli left the subway station to find Louise. At least she was okay. And Lisa. Maybe now they could begin to forget all the terror and horror, all the tears and death. Maybe now they could begin a real life of their own. The thought gladdened Corelli momentarily. Then, again, he thought of Willie. In his gut Frank knew he’d never hear from the leader of Dogs of Hell again; and he knew he’d never have a minute’s peace because of it.

  It was a no-win situation. It wasn’t fair that his new happiness should be overshadowed by Willie’s loss. But where, Corelli wondered as he walked into Lisa’s hospital room an hour later to find Louise waiting for him, where is it written that life is fair? He took Louise in his arms and held her like he used to hold Jean. A new life was about to start for them, and right now that was all that mattered.

  16

  Ringo and Marcie LaMarr sauntered down Forty-second Street like a king and queen. Ringo had staked out his territory on the strip years before; he was one of the regulars who’d found a home in the honky-tonk world of Times Square. The forty-year-old Ringo might have held a regular job, had a real home and a loving family, but he’d decided there was a better way to live. He collected illegal welfare payments, lived out of an SRO-single-room occupancy-hotel on the Upper West Side, and had already helped Marcie get three abortions. She was his woman, and a family might be nice, but hell, that would put her out of commission for too long. Not many Johns wanted to fuck a pregnant whore.

  The Times Square area was a midtown jungle. The dregs of New York drifted into its ever-changing tidal pools on waves of anger, greed, despair, and violence that everywhere else were only undercurrents. Here, along the gaudy, low-life Forty-second Street strip, sex, drugs, and chemical escape were a floodtide that grew after midnight into a raging torrent. While other parts of the city slept, exhausted from a day’s frantic pace, Times Square writhed in the ecstasy of a self-induced nirvana.

  Ringo loved the strip. He loved to saunter with his woman up and down, back and forth, nodding and saying hello, occasionally making a sale of badly cut coke or oregano “marijuana” to the yokels who drifted onto the strip from the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Being recognized on the strip as someone made Ringo feel like a man, for he knew that anywhere else in New York’s career-oriented society he’d be considered no better than any of the stray dogs that are so problematic.

  Marcie was just along for the ride. If she weren’t with Ringo, she’d be with someone else. She needed men almost as much as she needed smack to veil her eyes to the strip’s sordid reality. If her father hadn’t raped her when she was only twelve, then run off leaving her mother with four other kids, life might have turned out differently. But he had done those things, and in her own way, Marcie drifted from man to man looking for the security her father had taken with him. As for the tricking, well, Ringo needed money; he was just down on his luck for the moment. He’d pull his shit together one of these days. In the meantime, the world was full of Johns willing to pay for Marcie to be nice to them-for ten or fifteen minutes. Besides that, Ringo was her husband, and if he wanted her to fuck for money, she’d do it.

  Ringo nodded to three fat cops lolling around near a porno bookstore. They didn’t acknowledge him, but they knew who he was. Everyone on the strip knew Ringo LaMarr. The cops were out-of-place here-this was the people’s land, not the cops’. They stayed because sometimes there was trouble and they had to break it up. Ringo knew that if it’d been up to the cops, they’d just as soon everyone on the strip killed one another. And for that he hated all cops.

  “Where we goin’?” Marcie asked in her petulantly sweet voice.

  “Meeting Bubba in fifteen minutes,” Ringo said after checking out his stolen four-hundred-dollar chronograph watch. “He’s to be at the Greek place on Eighth Avenue. We get something to eat and score some grass.”

  “You gonna work me tonight?” Sometimes Ringo wanted to be alone and he sent her out on the stroll. They kept a shabby room in a nearby hotel for that purpose.

  “Not tonight, baby. I think we gonna party tonight.”

  “What’s up, sugar?” Marcie asked, squeezing his arm.

  “Jes’ feel likes partying, that’s all,” he responded as they reached the corner of Seventh Avenue. Ringo noticed immediately that something was up. He knew the strip as well as he knew the track marks on his left arm. There were too many cops here tonight “’Scuse me, sir,” Ringo said politely to a policeman standing at the entrance to the subway. “Is there some trouble hereabouts?”

  The cop looked Ringo up and down all at once, immediately taking in the purple suit, black shirt with white tie, cherry-colored platform shoes, and oversized white felt fedora. A smile flickered, then died on his lips as he beheld Marcie. She made this dude look like he’d just stepped out of the exclusive Paul Stuart men’s clothing store. “The TA’s doing some work down in the subway. It’ll be closed until six this morning.”

  “That so?” Ringo didn’t believe it for a second, but he was shrewd enough to see the cop did. “Well, good luck, sir.” He pulled Marcie back toward Eighth Avenue, where they were to meet Bubba Leroy in ten minutes.

  “I never heard of the subway being closed before,” Marcie whined.

  “That’s ’cause it ain’t never been closed before. Mark my words, sugar, something big’s up tonight.”

  “What you mean?”

  Ringo shrugged. “It’s a feelin’ I gets in my bones. There’s gonna be trouble on the strip tonight, real big trouble.”

  Marcie shivered. She didn’t like violence the way Ringo did, although she’d been known to beat the shit out of an unruly John on occasion. “Maybe we should get outta here, honey. You wanna party, let’s do it uptown.”

  Ringo roared with laughter. “You shittin’ me, babe? And miss all the fun? No way. Now, come on, I got some wheelin’ and dealin’ to do.”

  As Ringo pulled her back down the street, Marcie looked over her shoulder at the subway entrance, where policemen were gathering like vultures over a fresh corpse. Ringo was happy, but Marcie was just plain scared.

  Dolchik walked out of the TA office into the long, wide corridor that linked the entrances to the subway with the token booth and turnstiles. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, ricocheted off the walls, then sailed back to him. Never had he seen the subway so empty. New York City never slept, and at any hour of the day or night there was always someone waiting for a train. Always. But not this morning.

  The idea of an empty subway system was a fanciful thought that often lulled him to sleep. Now that the dream was a stark reality, Dolchik drew no comfort from it. The subway was empty because of a nightmare, and in the few hours left before dawn, he prayed the nightmare didn’t worsen. He ducked under a turnstile and surveyed the empty station. Tomorrow it would again be full of running people, always running, oblivious of tonight, acting as if nothing had ever happened down here.

  “Captain? Captain!” a distant voice called out to him.

  Dolchik relinquished his daydreaming as one of his creeper team frantically signaled him from the doorway of the TA office. “We’ve got trouble, Captain. They want you on the walkie-talkie.”

  A minute later Dolchik hustled into the office, his face red from exertion and his eyes wide with expectation. He grabbed the proffered microphone and pushed the button. “Dolchik here. What is it?”

  “It’s Larabee, Captain. We seem to be running into a timing snag.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Lieutenant?” Dolchik held his breath. This operation was a first-hopefully a last; there were so many things that could go wrong.

  “It seems it’s taking everyone longer to move these things tha
n expected, Captain. If you remember, the idea was to corral them no farther north than Thirty-fourth Street.”

  “I remember, you shithead,” Dolchik screamed, beginning to sense disaster. “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is the other teams pushed these things north, like planned, but we weren’t able to give them a backup. When they got to Washington Square, they just kept going on up the Eighth Avenue line, and there was no one to stop them. Same up at Thirty-fourth Street. Captain, the creepers are headed for Forty-second Street all across town.”

  Dolchik held the phone tightly, listening to Larabee’s labored breathing. His computerized mind sifted the information, then reassembled it. It had occurred to him to clear the aboveground areas near the killing ground, but he nixed the idea because he was convinced the Guard could keep the problem belowground. But, goddammit, if the creepers were caught in a squeeze at Times Square, they’d head for the streets, sure as shit. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe.

  “Larabee, we’ve been pretty much in the dark up here. What’s the count on these things?”

  “Captain, they’re like cockroaches in a dirty kitchen on a hot August night. They’re coming out of the fucking woodwork.”

  “Jesus,” Dolchik hissed. “You killed any?”

  “Hundred, hundred and fifty, maybe. But that don’t touch it. They run and leap like frogs with a firecracker up their ass. Hell, if it weren’t for the casualties, I’d really laugh.”

  “How many hurt?”

  “One dead, four or five chewed up pretty bad, maybe a dozen or so with superficial wounds.”

  Dolchik sat down in his chair. Why hadn’t he expected to hear it? Why hadn’t he thought the creepers would attack to defend themselves? Had he really allowed himself the dream that the Guard would just skip on down into the subway and rout all these things, killing them and neatly disposing of their bodies? Men were being hurt and killed… and that was only Larabee’s report, from one quadrant of the city; there were three others. Christ!

  “Have the casualties been taken to New York Mercy?” Tom Geary would have his hands full.

  “Yessir. And one more thing, sir. A guy, a kid, and some dame came walking out of the tunnels bigger than life a while back. He said his name was Corelli and that he wanted to talk to you.”

  Dolchik actually smiled. So, despite all odds, Frank Corelli was still alive. Well, well. There was no longer any point trying to keep him quiet. From what Larabee had just said, the news would break of its own accord, Corelli or no Corelli. “Where is he now?”

  “He’s at New York Mercy. The kid with him was pretty badly banged up, near’s I could tell. The woman looked in shock.”

  “Okay, leave it to me. If anything changes, let me know at once.” He signed off and sat back. Woman and child. They could only be Louise Hill and… Was it possible the child was Lisa Hill? Alive? Jesus, what next? A picture of Times Square swarming with creepers filled his mind, and he went straight for the phone.

  The report from the Disease Control Center in Atlanta had come back late yesterday. The blood sample taken from Lester Baker showed a mutated form of rabies capable of reproducing at nearly a thousand times the normal rate. Anyone bitten by a creeper would be dead-or worse, a carrier of the disease-within twenty-four hours if not injected with a megadose of anti-rabies vaccine.

  At least there’s a cure, Dolchik thought while he waited to be connected with the mayor’s office. “Russ, we’ve got a shitload of trouble. There’s a swarm of those things running wild down in the subway and they’ve already taken bites outta some of our men. You’d better send some of your gray-flannel boys to New York Mercy to make sure the victims are quarantined… and to apprise the doctors of the situation.”

  There was a long pause, an ominous silence. Then Matthews spoke. His voice was tight with anger. “Dolchik, this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. I wanted to keep this on the q.t.”

  “In that case, you’d better sit down for this one: there’s an army of creepers heading for Times Square.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Matthews exploded. “Can’t you stop them?”

  “The best I can do is suggest you get as many men in blue up to Forty-second Street and clear the streets within two blocks of any subway entrance. Word is they’re coming up the Eighth Avenue line, but chances are they’ll fan out onto the Seventh Avenue and Lexington Avenue lines, too.”

  “The Lexington Avenue station is in Grand Central Station,” Matthews whispered in awe.

  “It’ll be deserted about now, but it’s still a major subway station. You’d better get talking, Russ. And if you believe in God, you’d better put in a personal call to him right away.”

  “Up yours, Dolchik,” Matthews yelled, then hung up.

  Ringo LaMarr was nicely stoned, nicely mellowed out He knew the feeling; it was like an old friend, a man’s best friend. Hell, wasn’t getting high what life was all about? As far as he was concerned, it was. That and making love to his lovely Marcie, the center of his world-though he’d never tell her that.

  He leaned casually against the wall next to the newsstand just east of the corner of Forty-second Street and Eighth Avenue. This was Ringo’s spot, his little slice of Times Square’s wild kingdom. On any night Ringo LaMarr and his woman, Marcie, could be found standing right there next to the stairs that led down into the subway. That is, if he weren’t too high, or the weather wasn’t too bad, or Marcie wasn’t turning a trick in the shoddy hotel room they jokingly called “the bridal suite.”

  “We gonna sure have some party later on, Marcie, baby,” Ringo cooed in her ear as his hand slipped under her arm to tug at the outer edge of her breast.

  “You the only man’s can make me see sparks.” She giggled. Ringo liked to hear about his sexual prowess; it kinda turned her on, too.

  “That’s ’cause I cares about you, Marcie. That’s ’cause I don’t drive you like so many dudes do with their womens.” His hand moved a bit farther, and he cupped her breast through the pink crocheted top of her garish outfit. “You really turn me on, babe. Really.”

  Marcie was going to counter with some cute remark about his three-hour hard-on driving her wild, when she heard a low, rumbling sound coming from somewhere to her right. She looked down the street to Eighth Avenue, but didn’t see anything unusual. The same old faces were there, talking to the same old faces about the same old things. Yet, she was sure she’d heard something unusual. Or, more accurately, felt something. Involuntarily the muscles at the back of her neck began to tighten. “You hear somethin’, Ringo? Like lots of folks running?”

  “Running? Whatchu talking ’bout, woman?” His voice grew authoritarian like it always did when Marcie said something he couldn’t immediately dismiss as damn-fool women’s talk.

  “I don’t know, honey; it almost sounds like the wind down there in the subway.” She moved away from Ringo out onto the sidewalk a few feet and stopped. Her arms automatically clasped themselves around her body in an unconscious gesture of self-protection.

  “Come back here, Marcie. You beginning to act crazy.”

  “I-” she began, but the words never escaped her mouth. The initial thing that caught her attention was a policeman-a TA cop, actually-running up the stairs from the subway. At first he looked like any other uniformed transit cop, except he wasn’t wearing a cap. Then she looked closer; the left side of his face had been torn away and what was left of his ear dangled down near his chin. The front of his uniform jacket was gone too, his shirt ripped away. Long rivulets of blood streamed over his abdomen and splattered against the concrete stairs with each step.

  The cop stopped near the top of the stairs, his eyes wide with fright and agony. His mouth opened to say something, but no sound came out. He arched his back suddenly and flung his left arm over his shoulder, trying to pull something off his back, but he failed. After a moment’s struggle, he pitched forward and fell, his lifeless eyes staring out into the hustle and bustle of Forty-seco
nd Street.

  It was then Marcie saw the thing attached to the cop’s back. She saw the creature raise its head from a deep wound, spilling blood down its troughlike tongue and over its teeth. It took a moment to grind a hunk of flesh to pulp, swallowed, then stared directly at Marcie. Its eyes opened wider and its hands relaxed its grip on the dead man. The creature rocked back onto its hind legs and sprang.

  Marcie watched in frozen silence as the creeper arced through the air toward her. For a millisecond her eyes darted to Ringo, but he’d be no help. He was watching her like he always did, like she was some overgrown pet. No, Ringo couldn’t help her out of this jam, not this time. When she felt the weight of the creeper’s body against her, she looked from Ringo straight into the rheumy eyes of the creeper. Its breath smelled of death and blood and raw meat, but Marcie didn’t mind, really. It would be over soon. She’d heard Death when she heard the rumbling sound; she’d seen it when she saw the policeman at the top of the stairs. And now, here she was staring it straight in the eyes.

  Ringo craned his head toward Marcie, trying to see what the hell was going on. Looked like some punk was putting the make on her or something. He quickly stepped forward, squinting to clear his wobbly vision. The grass had rounded the edges of everything, and he wasn’t quite sure what was real and what was his imagination. If it was a punk fooling with Marcie, he’d beat the shit out of him. No one fucked with Marcie LaMarr unless he paid Ringo first. When he finally reached her after what seemed a mile-long chase, Ringo was vaguely aware of the sounds of running and screams coming from behind him near the subway entrance. Hadn’t Marcie said something about running? Maybe she was right, after all. He’d tell her soon’s he fixed this punk who had her by the tits. Jesus, what the hell was this world coming to when you weren’t safe even on Forty-second Street?

  “You fucking with my woman, son?” Ringo demanded as he stalked right up to Marcie. The question went unanswered. “You deaf or somethin’?” There was so much shouting he could hardly, hear himself think. “Okay, brother, you asked for it.” Ringo reached out and spun Marcie around.