Creepers
Page 27
The creeper had clawed through her throat to her backbone where it entered the cranial cavity. There was a lot of muscle here, and cartilage, as well as sinewy veins and arteries that fed the brain. It was a soft part of the body, but surrounded by toughness, like a chicken gizzard. It also made good eating. The creeper yanked its hand back slightly to secure the fingers, then began a systematic wrenching, twisting and turning as it pulled back. Gradually Marcie’s entire throat pulled loose from her body. Her eyes, which were wide with abject terror, clouded, fluttered, then closed. She fell back onto the sidewalk with the creeper still holding tight. And when her body came to rest, her killer sucked the wad of bloody flesh into its mouth, expanding its floppy cheeks like a squirrel hording nuts, and scampered off down the sidewalk.
Ringo dropped to his knees beside Marcie. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He didn’t believe what he’d seen. But the proof lay in front of him. He started to cry, gradually becoming conscious that the screaming around him was increasing. He looked from Marcie’s mutilated body to the entrance of the subway. The doorway was crowded with the same creatures that had killed his woman. They fought, crawled over each other, clawing and scratching to get out onto the street. It seemed there were hundreds of them, all moving forward.
“You sons-of-bitches,” Ringo shouted at them. “You killed my wife.” He rose unsteadily to his feet and planted his legs wide apart. “You jes’ ain’t foolin’ with a nobody. You foolin’ with Ringo LaMarr and you done killed my wife.”
Without another word, Ringo pulled a switchblade knife from his hip pocket, lowered his left shoulder, flicked the wicked blade open, and ran straight into the pack of creepers, slashing at them with the knife in a last desperate attempt to avenge Marcie’s death. He disappeared into the roiling mass of creepers and, a minute later, what remained of his body surfaced above the turmoil and was discarded against the front of the newsstand.
At that very moment, the same scene was being reenacted up and down Forty-second Street in the vicinity of every subway exit. Hundreds of creepers, driven toward the killing grounds by the advancing National Guardsmen, fought their way up to the street to the very world they had forsaken. Most of the creepers had never seen the light of day except as it filtered down through the subway grates into their lairs. Because of some inborn predisposition, and the memory passed down through Theodore Alden and his descendants, the creatures “remembered” what it was like to live in die world of the sun, though they had never seen it. But to be thrown so suddenly into the world was terrifying for them.
They poured into the aboveground world along Forty-second Street from Eighth Avenue to Third Avenue, scattering like bedbugs under the glare of an unexpected light. They flowed out of the subway stations, quickly destroying the police stationed there as guards. The creepers weren’t hungry, they were crazed, more crazed than they were when they searched for food. A combination of fear and the proliferation of the deadly mutant virus that coursed through their veins reduced the last vestiges of their humanity to rubble. They bubbled out of the subway into the cool night air, stopping traffic, attacking pedestrians, overrunning everything that stood in their way.
The creepers, caught between the advancing armies of Guardsmen that moved east-west toward a central point, attacked everything in sight. Those civilians who could, ran into shops, buildings, and hotels and locked the doors behind them to keep the monsters out. Those who couldn’t, died. The newspapers later reported that there were between four and six hundred creepers counted dead on Forty-second Street alone when it was all over.
By the time they emerged into the night, the National Guard was being assisted by the NYPD and several truck-loads of men from a nearby Army base in New Jersey. The military cordoned off an area stretching from Twelfth Avenue to First Avenue and from Fiftieth Street to Twenty-eighth Street. But by then it was too late, the damage had been done, the creepers had broken loose and were on the rampage.
The battle between the creepers and the armies lasted five hours. In the end there were forty civilians dead, twenty-five men from the combined official forces, and hundreds of wounded. During the cleanup that followed the next morning as the sun rose shimmery and grainy over the battle scene, a media blackout was enacted. Despite the angry protestations of station managers, network executives, and newspaper editors, the remaining police stood their ground.
The truth, however, was that no television station would have, could have, dared broadcast the scenes captured so vividly on videotape. The carnage along Forty-second Street was appalling. No slaughterhouse would have begun to compare its daily quotas to the death that spilled every gutter and across every pavement on that most famous of all New York streets. The air was filled until midmorning with the plaintive shrieks of ambulances, and the crumpled, twisted bodies of the creepers lay piled four and five deep like dead mice after a fumigation.
The rabies vaccine proved effective in all cases, and a follow-up of survivors a year later showed no unexpected side effects. The subway was completely cleaned up and the number of transit cops was tripled. The new safety precautions for New Yorkers rivaled those of London during the blitz. Subway crime became almost nonexistent, more passengers rode the system, and the TA actually started to show a monetary surplus, a surplus that could be plowed back into the system.
A federal investigating commission set up to study the creeper phenomenon publicly praised Mayor Russ Matthews for his quick thinking in handling such a “strange and unusual” situation. Privately it chastised him for ignoring Dolchik’s repeated warnings and for allowing the situation to deteriorate to the point where dealing with it had proved so costly both in money and in human life. Frank Corelli’s name never appeared in any of the dispositions and, in the end, the committee decided that no one person was at fault for the creeper disaster. It recommended that a monthly spot check of the subway tunnels be made to avert a recurrence.
Russ Matthews was defeated that November by a man who promised “law and order.” Though the word “creeper” was never once mentioned by either side, insiders clearly saw that they were the issue that tipped the election away from the incumbent. Matthews went back to private law practice and left New York for good.
Stan Dolchik retired from the city government a couple of years early and moved to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, with his wife, Marsha, where he opened a private-detective agency that specialized in following errant husbands. Dolchik was fond of saying that he’d traded the creepers of New York for the creeps of south Florida. And, all other things being equal, he preferred the subway variety.
And the people of New York continued their lives as if nothing had ever happened. They clucked their tongues at the bloodbath, shivered momentarily at the thought of riding the subway, and once again thanked God it wasn’t they who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time-this time, at least. For a few months, “I survived New York’s Creeper Caper” T-shirts and buttons were popular, but with time, people forgot and settled back to their daily lives, confident that such a terror could happen only once.
The creepers were dead.
December 24, Christmas Eve
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17
“Frank, the tree is perfect,” Louise cooed as she brought him a cup of heavily brandied eggnog. “It’s going to be the best Christmas ever.”
“It’s the first of the best Christmases ever.” Corelli scooped her into his arms and playfully nibbled her ear.
She raised her glass in a toast: “To us, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Corelli, now…and forever.”
They linked arms and sipped from each other’s glass, savoring the fiery alcohol tempered by the rich coolness of eggs and cream.
“Where’s Lisa?” Frank asked. “She should be celebrating, too.”
“She said she wanted to wait and surprise you,” Louise purred. “I promised I wouldn’t tell…but she has a new dress to show her daddy.”
“Aha,” Corelli
said understandingly. “Well, I hope she doesn’t wait too long. I’m starved.”
“I’ll bring out the hors d’oeuvres if you promise not to eat them all and spoil your dinner.”
“I promise,” he lied.
While Louise was out in the kitchen, Frank made a few final adjustments to the Christmas tree. It was perfect, and it had cost him only fifty bucks! Jesus, what a ripoff. But Louise liked it, and, more important, Lisa had fallen in love with the lofty Norwegian pine. He reset a string of lights and thought about Lisa, shaking his head in wonder that she-all of them-had made it through that nightmare alive and unscarred.
Lisa had almost died at New York Mercy Hospital that night. The doctors had said a few more hours and they’d have lost her. The concussion that kept her unconscious for nearly a week was bad enough, but nothing compared to the malnutrition and dehydration from not eating or drinking anything. Malnutrition. Corelli shuddered. If Lisa had been conscious, what would she have eaten? It was a thought he was sure had plagued Louise, too, but they never discussed it; never would. In a way, Lisa’s perilous condition saved her, and the whole family, from a greater danger-the crippling psychological effects of being held captive by the creepers. Lisa remembered nothing of what had happened to her after waiting for the subway to SoHo that hot, hot Labor Day.
Frank straightened the star on the treetop and stepped off the ladder to admire his work. Yessir, this was some tree. They’d told Lisa she’d contracted a mysterious virus that had put her in a coma for a week. She’d hear the truth much later, when she was old enough to handle it In the meantime, Louise enrolled her in a private school where she was just another student. Lisa had already been through enough. There was no point subjecting her to an onslaught of publicity or the prying questions of well-meaning friends. Lisa Hill deserved better than to be made a freak to satisfy the curious.
Frank and Louise never talked of the creepers anymore. Never talked of the horror that had brought them together. There was nothing more to say. It was over. The creepers were dead. The subways were safe again. Lisa was safe. They could end that chapter of their lives once and forever.
Now they were just another New York family: Frank, Louise… Lisa. Never in his life had Corelli known a child so loving and so giving. But then, Lisa was the perfect reflection of her mother. He loved to watch the two of them together-laughing, bickering happily, or working on some school project. For the first time in his life Frank Corelli felt really a part of something outside himself..He felt loved and wanted… and needed. And that meant a great deal to him, particularly when it came from the child.
Becoming Lisa’s second father wasn’t an easy step. Lisa was used to monopolizing her mother; now she had to share her. It could have been a problem. The chances of resentment seemed better than fifty-fifty. But at the wedding, Lisa slipped Frank a small package containing a handmade clay picture frame containing a seventy-five-cent photo-booth portrait of herself. The little card with it said simply: “I love you, my new Daddy.”
Louise returned, all smiles, and a moment later Lisa walked regally down the hall to the living room. Being a boisterous child, she usually ran and screamed and got into everything. This demure new persona was something entirely different.
“What’s she up to?” Frank whispered to Louise.
“She’s being grown-up. You’ll see.”
Lisa walked into the living room like a duchess at a tea party. She was decked out in a new party dress the color of grapefruit sherbet, pale yellow shoes to match. An amethyst ribbon caught up her black hair. Lisa’s manner was definitely regal, but there was mischief in her eyes.
“And who, might I ask, is this lovely lady?” Frank asked Louise very loudly.
“I’ve never seen her before. Who could she be?”
When Frank shook his head, Lisa strolled casually over to him and stood solemnly in front of his chair. She batted her eyes seductively; then the faintest of smiles appeared on her lips. “Don’t you recognize me? Really?”
“Can’t say that I do, miss,” Corelli said seriously. “You remind me of someone named Lisa Corelli I once knew, but she was a little girl…you’re a young lady.”
Lisa flew into a fit of laughter. “I am Lisa,” she burst out, and as if to prove she was still a little girl, she leaped up into Corelli’s lap and covered his cheek with kisses.
“So it is you, after all,” he joked. “My, my.”
“Oh, Daddy, you knew all along it was me,” she complained.
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. But one thing I do know, Santa Claus brought Lisa Corelli lots of presents. Maybe we can convince your mother to let you open one now.” He turned to Louise. “What say, Mom?”
“Of course,” she agreed. “Well all open one now.”
Half an hour later they sat down to dinner. And as Lisa recited grace, Corelli bowed his head and, too, thanked God for bringing him the love of Louise and Lisa. And he also prayed, as he did each night, that whatever had happened to Willie Hoyte had been swift and painless. For Frank, Willie’s unexplained disappearance was the most painful thing about the creepers. He knew one day he’d get over the loss of his friend, but right now thinking about Willie still hurt.
And finally Frank prayed that God keep and protect his little family from all forms of danger. And that He keep His eye out that something as terrible as the creepers never, ever happened again.
Epilogue
Marvin Lord was drunk as a lord. He’d promised himself to have only two glasses of Christmas cheer, and look what he’d gone and done! Three glasses of rum punch, wine with dinner, and a rainbow of cordials after. He was shit-faced! Three sheets to the wind. Soused. But, after all, it was Christmas Eve. What better excuse to have a few drinks too many? Now all he had to do was get home and he’d be all right.
He waited on goddamned Lexington Avenue for a good half-hour, trying to flag down a cab in the bitter cold, to no avail. The cabs that were out-and they were damned few-were always occupied. Well, what else could he expect at two o’clock in the morning on…Christmas Day now. Finally, shaking with cold and beginning to sober up, Marvin Lord chose the subway.
He hated the underground, but it was a damn sight better then freezing to death on the street. He overpaid the token clerk, took only one of the four tokens offered him, then staggered downstairs onto the Sixty-eighth Street platform. It was the Hunter College stop and usually the station was hustling and bustling with students. Tonight he was alone.
“There’s absolutely no one here,” he mumbled to himself as he rested unsteadily against the wall. Next time he’d be more careful of his drinking. He lit a cigarette, knowing full well that it was forbidden, but also remembering that no cop cared enough to enforce the law. He’d have to stop smoking, too. Maybe tomorrow.
Marvin walked unsteadily to the edge of the platform and looked up and down the tracks. Nothing. No one on the platform. Nothing on the tracks. Nothing at all. He’d started back toward the steadfast security of the wall when he heard something. At least he thought he heard something. It sounded like a train far off down the tracks in the tunnel. The sound was a whooshing actually, as if something were blowing down the tracks or rubbing up against the tunnel wall.
He looked up and down the platform again. Nothing. Yet, there was still that sound. Lord had grown accustomed to the noise, when it suddenly stopped directly in front of him. Right under his feet. He looked down, and quickly, without warning, two gnarled hands shot over the edge of the platform and grabbed him by the ankles. With one quick pull he was toppled. He fell backward and cracked his skull against the hard floor; the impact knocked him out momentarily. When he came to, his legs were already over the edge of the platform-he was being dragged down onto the tracks!
“My God! Someone help me!” he shouted, but his voice was empty and lonely in the cavernous station.
The thing that held him down on the roadbed leaped onto his chest and slid one hand behind his neck. With the other it pushed
Lord’s forehead back to expose the soft vulnerability of his throat. He stared up as the thing’s eyes widened and its lips curled back over gleaming canine teeth. Its mouth opened, and the last thing Marvin Lord saw before his throat was ripped out was the small gold cross that hung suspended from a chain around the creature’s neck.
The End
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Table of Contents
-Contents-
Prologue - August 29, Wednesday
1:55 - 2:27 A.M.
September 3, Labor Day
1
2
September 4, Tuesday
3
September 5, Wednesday
4
5
September 6, Thursday
6
7
8
9
10
September 7, Friday
11
12
13
14
September 8, Saturday
15
16
December 24, Christmas Eve
17
Epilogue