by Mark Wheaton
• • •
In Pearland, Brandon Pool had just made love to his wife of six months, Jessica, when he’d heard something splashing into the bath tub. He’d made it off the bed and had taken two steps towards the bathroom door when he was thrown across the room. He landed against the window, shattering it. Jessica sat up in bed, only to be yanked into the bathroom, where her jaw was displaced and four teeth chipped out when she smashed into toilet. They were dead and consumed by the tendrils of black liquid within seconds.
At an ironworks in Baytown that was waiting until the very last minute to shut down, a crew of seventeen were threading rebar. The elaborate network of pipes overhead were antiquated but still checked out every time the city sent a fire inspector down to make sure everything was up to code. When they began drizzling water now, the workers figured it was a malfunction having to do with the storm. As the drops of liquid burned into their skin like acid, tearing through down to bone, they raced out into the driving rain to try to wash it off. Once there, they found themselves confronted by even greater concentrations of the black oil, slithering through the flooded parking lot. The attendant poltergeist-like force flattened them to the ground, where they were quickly torn apart by tentacles swimming in from every angle.
At a gas station in Friendswood, an armed robbery was in progress when a loud bang was heard from the walk-in freezer. The robber, a junkie named Leonard, shot the clerk behind the counter dead for lying to him about there being no one else in the store. As he cleaned out the already open cash register, Leonard saw an expanding pool of black liquid coursing over the floor of the store, emanating from the dairy locker. He paid it no mind until, a few seconds later, it had climbed over the counter and was devouring his fingers even as they gathered the last remaining bills.
A one-time navy man who’d retired to Texas City and had taken to photographing meteorological extremes was just setting up his camera to capture lightning flashes within the storm wall when he felt a burning sensation in his feet. He had been standing on his back porch and immediately wondered if there had been a lighting strike nearby that had electrified the air around him. When the pain increased, he looked down and saw the black, sludge-like liquid boiling up his ankles.
Like a defense mechanism, he angled his camera down and fired off a couple of shots, capturing the very first images of the phenomenon. But then his bones were completely burned through, amputating his legs at the mid-calf and sending him sprawling forward. The navy man died befuddled, still unsure if he was having some sort of hallucination associated with stroke.
Most people died in their beds. Some in their cars. Some in their places of business. Few understood what was happening and even fewer managed a hapless attempt at escape before being chased down. The one constant was that there were no survivors, with the oily tendrils of black able to locate anyone near water. Whether that meant a flooded road, a water main, or a sewer line mattered little or naught.
Before the storm wall had even reached the Houston city limits, hundreds of thousands of souls had already been consumed by that which hid within it.
• • •
When Big Time had headed out that morning, his youngest, Bobby, was already up and sitting in the kitchen with Erna.
“Dad, the Petersons left,” Bobby had said, pointing across the street.
“Is that right?”
“They’ve got people up in Dallas,” Erna said. “Talked to the oldest daughter yesterday. They got scared when the storm got bumped up to a Category 5.”
“We’re going to be fine.”
By the time Big Time made it through the morning’s downpour up to the highway exit to Deltech, he wasn’t so sure. At the bottom of the ramp, what appeared to be a good foot to foot and a half of water had pooled. Big Time knew his truck could take standing water, but this looked like it was on the move.
Currents could play tricks.
“Shit,” Big Time whispered as he saw a car coming off the highway behind him, forcing his hand.
He eased his foot off the brake and rolled the pickup down into the water. He wanted the inertia to carry it as far as possible to avoid gunning the engine and likely vacuuming water up into the undercarriage. The vehicle entered the water slowly, as if delicately lowering itself into a too-hot bath, and Big Time realized his foot-and-a-half estimate was off by at least another twelve inches. Once all four wheels were completely immersed in the water, he goaded the accelerator, pushing the vehicle through the water like a kid softly shoving a toy sailboat into a fountain but trying hard not to sink the thing.
It was only a couple of seconds before Big Time was out of the deepest part of the water and onto the main drag that led to the Deltech campus. The streets were flooded along the way, but no more than a few inches.
There were no jungle drums sounding when Big Time entered Building Four a couple of minutes after parking in a mostly empty garage. Only two lines had been up the night before, and, just glancing at the boards, Big Time could tell that they didn’t move many units.
With the terrifying clatter of wind and rain filling the factory building, Big Time didn’t blame them. When the buzzer sounded for the changeover, the night-shifters nervously came off the line.
“Guess they didn’t think they’d be leaving right when the ‘cane hit,” Elmer said, sidling up to Big Time.
Big Time nodded to one of the men who walked by in a “Fuck Katrina” T-shirt and had to agree. A number of the other night-shifters were wearing similar New Orleans-themed gear—Saints jerseys, Mardi Gras beads, a hat from Jazz Fest, etc. It was the first hurricane “after” for a lot of them.
Big Time eavesdropped and heard that some were planning to head over to the twenty-four-hour Super Wal-Mart across the street to ride out the outer rain bands there. Others discussed carpooling with whoever had the best four-wheel-drive vehicle and leaving their cars in the parking garage.
“Think we’ll be towed?” someone asked.
“We’re not calling anybody, and there’s not a truck out on the street,” Big Time called after them.
The night-shifter nodded idly and headed out.
“All right,” Dennis said, glancing up to the lines. “I’m not expecting you guys to go crazy, but if you kick out a couple hundred units per line, I don’t think anyone will complain.”
“What if the power goes?” Beverly, who had showed up despite suggesting she absolutely would not, asked.
“Deltech is on its own grid, and it has back-up generators. For this place to go out would require some kind of disaster.”
“Like a Category 5 hurricane?” Big Time asked.
Dennis blanched.
“Just kidding,” Big Time quickly added. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
A couple of people nodded, but most just looked scared. The pounding of the rain, amplified by the absence of bodies or spinning assembly lines, made many believe it could be only moments before the roof itself was torn away, leaving them to the mercy of the elements.
• • •
It had been lying dormant for a century, spread out under the sea floor.
The storm did two things: aroused it from its slumber and drove it inland with the rising tide. So many things could have prevented this from happening. It was truly a one-in-a-million chance. To say it was taking its revenge would be to ascribe human emotion and motivation to something that hadn’t been human for a very long time.
Except for that one thing that, at one time, made it most human on a cellular level. The need to reproduce, the need to grow and replace, the need to pass on its most evolved form continued on even in its current state, as did the need to consume and convert raw organic material to keep going.
An almost magnetic-like attraction to these materials—in this case, live human flesh—sent it in thousands of different directions at once. It had the ability to send out as many tentacles as necessary to accomplish its goal, these tendrils splitting off further and further as they advanced a
head of the hurricane. That which was consumed merely became part of the new whole.
With every attack, it grew larger and more powerful. A perfect killing machine cloaked by a monstrous storm that had just reached the heart of the city.
Chapter 12
Breakfast was a joke that morning at County. Two of the ten cooks showed up, so a handful of prisoners were pressed into service. Naturally, they just goofed off in the kitchen. By the time Alan claimed his tray, he received only a heaping tablespoon of inedible scrambled eggs and two semi-frozen pancakes.
“Are we supposed to eat this?” one of the prisoners barked at a guard.
“It’s all you’re going to get.”
Alan was starving, so he wolfed down what was given him and would’ve gone back for more if they had allowed it.
Fifteen minutes later, his group was being walked back to the cells when their enforced silence was broken by the squawk of a radio in a nearby office.
“We’re looking at bodies, lots of them,” came a frantic voice. “We’ve got a lot of partials, too. A foot here, arm there, skulls, torso. It looks like all the animals in the zoo got loose and took apart a whole Metro station.”
The prisoners in line, twenty in all, realized at the same time as the guards that they shouldn’t be hearing this.
“What the hell was that?”
“Storm’s causing some major damage,” one of the shotgun-wielding guards said. “You keep your eye on your business.”
“It’s nothing,” added a sergeant, who turned off the radio.
“Didn’t sound like nothing,” a skinny Latino prisoner yelled back, much to the amusement of his comrades.
“Prisoner, step out of line,” the guard bellowed, striding over to the group. “You just earned dishwashing duty.”
But before he could make it over the man, the sound of screams echoed down from the cells on the floor above.
“Oh, shit,” the sergeant said, reaching for his gun.
“You men—against the wall, now!” the shotgun guard roared.
He raised a hand and indicated for the prisoners to stand behind the strips of blue tape Alan had found himself guarded by the day before. Two other guards came running out of a room full of security monitors, unholstering their pistols.
“What’s the situation?” called out the sergeant.
“There’s a fight in the cells,” the guard yelled.
A couple of the prisoners in Alan’s line cheered, while others groaned. This was the kind of thing they were hoping to avoid.
The shotgun guard, who wore a badge giving his name as “Richards,” kept the prisoners covered with his weapon even as he shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. A second shotgun-carrying guard hurried over from the cafeteria, a questioning look on his face.
“Keep these guys against the wall,” Richards said.
Alan looked over at the gangbangers next to him. He could practically read their glances back and forth as they sized up the odds. Two guards against twenty prisoners? They could take them.
Magnetic locks clanged open, followed by shouts, more screams, and, finally, an unholy banging that Alan imagined as metal on bone. The entire building shuddered, almost knocking the prisoners off their feet. It sounded like a basketball game was being played out on the floor above.
The two guards looked anxiously as each other. The sergeant ran for the steps.
“Get anybody you can up here. Now!”
As the sergeant disappeared up the stairs, Alan waited for the guards to comply. When they didn’t move, he realized they were as terrified as the prisoners.
“What’s going on up there, man?” a prisoner barked.
The second guard, who Alan could see was named Vining, shook his head.
“You stay behind that line, prisoner. That’s all you need to know.”
Suddenly, an unearthly howl echoed down the stairs. There were further cries in English, some in Spanish, and some in a language Alan couldn’t identify. This was followed by more banging and higher-pitched screams. Gunshots reverberated through the building as well, causing both Richards and Vining to twitch their fingers across the shotgun triggers.
Then silence.
Alan felt his whole body go ice cold as if going into some kind of arrest. His heart was beating a mile a minute. Something was going to be coming down those stairs in the next few seconds, and he didn’t want be around to see it. His eyes flitted back towards the cafeteria and over to the locked doors he knew led down to the garage.
“Don’t even think about it, prisoner,” Richards said.
He aimed his shotgun at Alan’s head. Richards’ face had gone completely white, and beads of perspiration hung over his brow. Alan knew that if he twitched so much as a muscle, his brains were going to be blown all over the wall.
“We just need to be calm,” Richards demanded, sounding as if he was trying to explain this to himself as much as the prisoners.
It was at that moment that the power went out, plunging the entire office into darkness.
“Oh, Jesus,” choked Vining, as if he might cry.
Seizing the opportunity, two of the gangbangers in Alan’s line launched themselves at Vining. One grabbed his shotgun away, while the other, a sleepy-eyed fellow who didn’t look capable of such violence, punched him straight in the nose. It exploded in a geyser of blood. The shotgun-wielding prisoner turned the gun on Richards and pulled trigger.
Alan held his breath, but nothing happened.
The prisoner pulled the trigger again, but the gun refused to fire.
“Never heard of a Smart Gun?” Richards asked, indicating a metal ring around his index finger.
He pulled the trigger on his shotgun and shot the gangbanger in the torso. The force of the blast almost cut the man in half. Richards ejected the spent shell and chambered a second one before turning the gun on the dead man’s companion.
“On your knees! Hands behind your head!”
The gangbanger stared at his dead friend without comprehension. One moment alive, the next dead. It seemed like too much for him to fathom.
“You all right, man?” Richards called to Vining.
But then he looked over and saw that his partner had been knocked cold. Blood dribbled out of his eye socket and nose. Richards turned back to Alan.
“Get my partner’s cuffs,” he ordered. “Put them around the prisoner’s wrists. Now.”
As he moved over to Vining, Alan prayed that the gangbanger was too rattled to attempt another breakout. Nodding to Richards, Alan moved from behind the blue tape and over to the fallen officer, feeling the other cop’s shotgun aimed at the side of his head the whole way.
When he reached the officer, he pulled the handcuffs from a pouch on the man’s belt and got behind the gangbanger. The prisoner had done exactly what he was told and was on his knees, fingers interlaced at the back of his skull. Alan wrapped the first metal bracelet around the man’s wrist, closing it tightly. He was just about to place the second one on the man’s other wrist when he and everybody else in the room heard the sound of water splashing down the steps from upstairs.
The thick liquid pooled at the base of the stairs. In the dim light, Alan thought it looked black but flecked with a reddish sheen. That’s when he felt the handcuffs torn from his hand by the gangbanger.
Capitalizing on the distraction, the second gangbanger lifted Vining’s shotgun, clicked the cuff’s second bracelet around the officer’s wrist, and raised it next to the trigger. The dull “click” of the shotgun’s Smart Gun lock being unlatched entered Alan’s ears before he fully grasped what was happening.
“Never heard of a Smart Gun?” the gangbanger sneered at Richards as he pulled the trigger.
The gun had been aimed directly at the guard’s face, so the pellets immediately flayed off the man’s face, sending brains, bits of skull, and swatches of skin in every direction as the man’s body flew backwards. The gangbanger turned the gun on the still unconscious Vining a
nd chambered another round.
“Fuck you, too.”
The blast took off Vining’s head as well, smearing it across the floor like a watermelon hit by the business end of a sledgehammer.
With the two men dead, the gangbanger went quiet. The prisoners against the wall glanced furtively around, unsure what to do next. It was hard to tell what they were more frightened of: the man who had just shotgunned a pair of guards or the mysterious goings-on up the stairs.
For his part, Alan tried not to make a sound. He hoped the gangbanger had forgotten all about him.
But then, the sleepy-eyed man turned around with the shotgun aimed at his face.
“Keys.”
Alan nodded, knowing what the man wanted. He crept over to Vining’s body to search his pockets for the handcuff keys but saw that the liquid from the stairs had oozed around the fallen officer’s corpse. He tried not to look at it as he tried to figure out where the man would keep his keys.
That’s when he noticed that the water was also moving towards Richards’ body. It didn’t pool around the desks, trash cans, chairs, or anything else, only the dead men. As a puddle formed around the chunks of Richards’ ruined head, Alan watched the pieces dissolve into the black.
“What the hell is that?” the sleepy-eyed gangbanger asked.
“I don’t know,” Alan whispered, shaking his head.
The oozing liquid quickly dissolved the loose pieces and then slid over to the body proper. It rose up and over Richards’ broken skull like an amoeba absorbing its microbiotic lunch.
By now, a couple of the other prisoners were staring at this as well and were equally awed. It was an otherworldly sight, the oily liquid seeming to have a mind of its own.
“Keys, motherfucker,” the gangbanger hissed.
Alan nodded. He dove back over to Vining’s body. The keys had to be in his pants pocket, but even as he searched, he saw the liquid crawling up Vining’s torso from his feet.
“Come on!”
Alan knew what was going to happen next. The ooze consumed Vining’s body as quickly as the other tendril dissolved Richards and was now moving towards the gangbanger attached at the wrist. Suddenly, his quick-thinking move to access the Smart Gun seemed like suicide.