Clickers

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Omigod what am I gonna do now? She backed away from the door and tried to think. Downstairs she could hear one of the creatures crashing through the living room and down the hall toward the stairs. She backed toward the window and stole another quick glance to check the status of the creatures outside. The backyard looked deserted now. Maybe she could edge out on the roof, climb down the trellis and escape across the beach.

  A heavy crash thundered downstairs. It sounded like the creatures below were making progress in their search for her. Their fishy odor was already seeping under the locked door, assaulting her nostrils. She opened the window all the way and was about to scamper onto the roof when she saw three more of the hulking beasts make their way to the backyard.

  One had torn down the fence connecting to Mrs. Caulder’s yard. Stacy had never liked Mrs. Caulder; the old lady always complained about the music being too loud, and the kind of people she had at her house, and all the men coming and going, and she thought she could smell them smoking pot over there. This is a peaceful town and no place for hooligans to run rampant, she was fond of saying. Stacy wondered what Mrs. Caulder would think of these hooligans.

  Speaking of Mrs. Caulder, one of the creatures was clambering over the demolished fence dragging a bloody corpse behind it. Stacy knew it was Mrs. Caulder before she got a glimpse of her. One look was enough. The elderly woman had been savagely mauled, several large bites taken out of her body. The creature stopped, lifted the body up to its face, probing and sniffing it. Its jaws opened and it tore a massive chunk out of the dead woman’s head. Thick gray matter oozed down into the muddy puddle that covered most of Stacy’s backyard. The Dark One gulped and the flesh slid down its gullet, smearing the scaly face with dark crimson gore.

  Stacy backed away from the open window, gagging loudly. She would never be able to erase the picture of Mrs. Caulder’s brains sliding out of her skull. No matter how much acid she took to dissolve the image.

  She backed away and gagged again, almost throwing up. Downstairs she could hear the creatures crashing and blundering their way up the steps. Her heart beat wildly in her chest and she was about to scream again when her mind flashed—the closet! There was a small crawl space above this room, and the entrance was through the top of the closet. If she could just get up there she could hide until the monsters got tired and went away.

  She dashed to the closet, opened the door and tugged at the chain of the lightbulb. When it did not go on, she realized the power was still out. “Fuck,” she muttered. She began pushing aside clothes on their hangers. The small closet was nearly filled to the brim with old clothing, a vacuum cleaner, boxes of science fiction magazines, paperbacks, old bedsheets, a battered Les Paul imitation electric guitar, a crate of old porn magazines and assorted videos. She heaped the clothes down to the floor, moved a box over that contained some stereo equipment and stood on top of it, feeling along the ceiling for the panel. She felt it yield at her pushing hand, and she pushed harder until it plopped over. She scrambled up through the opening, wriggling her legs through and then hurriedly replacing the panel into the slot just as she heard them tear into the upstairs hallway.

  Once inside, she held her breath and tried to keep still. It was pitch dark and cold in the crawl space. The roof of the house was only three feet above where she sat, so she couldn’t stand up. She scooted down the crawl space over what she assumed was the center of her bedroom. The fishy smell became stronger as the things hammered at the door and walls of the bedroom. She thought maybe if she crept along the attic crawl space, she would reach the other opening into the guest room. She knew the things probably couldn’t hear very well (what little she knew about reptiles and amphibians, which she assumed they were, stemmed from two snakes she used to have; a Boa Constrictor and a Burmese Python that an old boyfriend helped himself to when he left her). Even then, she was still careful to evenly distribute her weight on the plasterboard so it wouldn’t come crashing down through the ceiling. Every time she shifted her weight, tiny creaks and bumps echoed through the enclosed space, but these were muffled by the sounds of the destruction below. She got no farther than the center of the space when she heard the door crash open.

  She froze. They began moving through her bedroom, tearing apart furniture in their search for her. She remained frozen as the skin on her face prickled; she recognized the sensation of a spiderweb across her face. She bit her lip, a tear rolling down her check. She hated spiders, and the thought of not being able to move because those things might sense it made the ordeal even more frightening because what if the spider in question was one of those large garden spiders that she detested and it was now crawling around in her hair?

  Don’t think about that!

  She remained motionless, trying to quell her fear as the crashing below suddenly evaporated into total silence.

  * * *

  The creatures had destroyed everything in the room and were now silent, sniffing at the air. The scent of blood was in the room, and it was strong. The squealing prey was still somewhere in this space, and they could sense it. The scent of it was strong, its blood scent was strong, its—

  One of them raised its webbed, scaly hand and pointed at the open closet. The others followed it to the small opening.

  * * *

  Stacy heard the creatures move below her toward the closet door. She shivered, her brain telling her to move now. She obeyed, crawling again toward the inner reaches of the attic.

  * * *

  The creatures hissed at the bloodstains dotting the floor and clothing in the closet. They tore through the clothes in search of the squealing prey, knowing that nourishment was there somewhere. One of the creatures carried a rusted whaling harpoon it had carried from the ocean floor, and used the sharp instrument as a prod, poking it into the boxes and clothes, tearing the contents to ribbons. The squealing prey wasn’t hiding amid the rubble.

  The creatures turned to each other and bleated, their communication strong and singular. The one clutching the harpoon looked toward the ceiling and spied smears of blood around the square panel. Its olfactory senses picked it up even keener, the taste of the blood on its Jacobinson organ creating a mad blood lust. It reached up and touched the panel, pushing it up. It opened and fell into the crawl space. A grunting of what appeared to be satisfaction welled from the rest of the creatures and they surged forward…

  * * *

  Stacy was almost where she thought her bedroom ended when she heard a sound behind her. She stopped and turned around. The door to the panel had been flung aside and she gasped in horror as she saw a green-scaled hand clawing at the edges of the tiny trapdoor. She squealed and scrambled frantically down the crawl space, heading into the farther recesses of the attic.

  * * *

  The Dark Ones sniffed at the cold air, grimacing at the open space in the ceiling. They could sense the blood stains around the opening, but their heat sensors weren’t picking up the prey. It had moved elsewhere.

  The Dark One that thrust its arm up eased itself down and grunted. The creature with the harpoon jammed the instrument through the hole, stabbing at the air. There was nothing up there. The prey had moved away from the opening. They moved away from the closet, eyes trained on the ceiling, trying to get a read on any heat that may be radiating out, as well as the taste of blood…

  * * *

  Stacy saw the harpoon poke through the attic entrance and she whimpered. She scuttled along the attic, her back aching from the confinement of the crawlspace. The splintered wood from the crawlspace floor barely registered in her brain as she crawled along her stomach. The dripping blood from her leg wounds mingled with the dust and cobwebs underneath her. A small drop of blood found a tiny crack and seeped in.

  * * *

  The creature with the harpoon sensed it first. Tiny dots of blood, barely discernible to the naked eye, were sensed by the Dark One’s immense olfactory nerves. The trail was faint and led away from the bedroom. They followed it, and the c
reature with the harpoon stopped and stood underneath the scent, staring up.

  Nostrils dilated and gills slapped like wet leather. They could sense that the prey was right above them. A chorus of eager croaks and hisses rose in the air.

  The Dark One with the harpoon hissed and thrust the weapon up into the plasterboard ceiling. Chips of paint and plaster dust rained down on the pack of slithery beings.

  As well as something warm and wet.

  * * *

  Stacy didn’t have time to react as the sharp end of the harpoon came punching up through the floor of the crawl space and into her stomach.

  She started, trying to crawl away. There was no pain, but she felt paralyzed. She couldn’t move. She tried to scream but no sound issued from her throat. She felt her mid-section grow numb, as well as the slight sensation that her mid-section had been snagged on something sharp. The taste of bile rose in her throat and her energy was momentarily zapped as she tried to move away…

  * * *

  The Dark One yanked the harpoon down violently and was rewarded by a red-hot shower of delicious human body fluid. The creatures crowded around, webbed claws scrabbling up, lapping up the blood that poured down. The creature with the harpoon moved the tool around as if it was stirring a vat of food and tugged. A smidgen of blood-crusted pink emerged from the hole the harpoon had punched through, and the Dark Ones emitted a throaty chorus of approval.

  The creature with the harpoon noticed it and tugged again, revealing the object to be a piece of intestine. Webbed claws shot out and gripped the hanging morsel tightly. The creatures tugged and fought over the intestine, pulling it down as they scrambled for it, some yanking pieces off and stuffing them into their mouths.

  The largest one looked up at the quivering rope. More of the organ came spilling through the ragged six-inch hole with each tug. The Dark Ones bleated and croaked in frenzy. The large creature pulled again. More intestine slithered down like a bloody, skinned snake.

  * * *

  Stacy screamed as her guts were yanked painfully from the wound in her belly; the numb sensation had now turned into a fiery burn that was hot and painful.

  She managed to get up on her hands and knees, looking down in horror as more of her came sliding out and down the hole. It looked like a huge piece of spaghetti going down a drain.

  Razor-sharp pain exploded in her body. Her senses fought for control with the residue of the many acid trips she’d taken over the years. It was as if her synapses were exploding in bright ranges of colors and sensations all at once, only to be overruled by the here and now. She wanted the acid side to win, wanted to retreat into the nice, colorful world that the drug created. She wanted to nestle in the electric fields with the dancing pumpkins and friendly clockwork animals.

  Unfortunately, the other side won.

  Stacy felt each rip and tug with crystal clarity. Each jolt of pain shot through her like a bullet. The coppery taste of her blood filled her mouth as the overpowering stench of rotted fish, seaweed, and excrement invaded her nose.

  In a final desperate attempt, Stacy grabbed onto the rope of intestine with both hands. The gushing blood made her fingers too slick, and the organ wiggled through her fingers like a soaped-up eel.

  A few agonizing seconds later, the last few feet of her small intestine left her body. She felt empty, the pain becoming white hot, then blossoming into another feeling, one of numbness again. She marveled at the amount of guts tucked into her small frame and wondered if a doctor would be able to pack it back in. An involuntary giggle died as blood spilled from her mouth.

  The connecting tissues in her body pulled taut. Stacy felt her body lurch forward, and then she was abruptly jerked face-first into the dust. A moment later there was a snap as the tissue broke.

  Her senses began to dim. She heard the plasterboard under her crack and give way. Another pull. Her spine snapped as her body folded in backwards. She felt herself falling, and the muffled feeling that was coming over her blossomed with bright flashes and colors and muted sounds. A face swirled in the fog that was rapidly swirling around her, enveloping her like a blanket.

  Kirk.

  He was smiling.

  She smiled back.

  The shadows from the fog engulfed her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  At some point he must have fallen asleep.

  Rick awoke with a start, eyes blinking rapidly as he took in his surroundings: the gray walls of the cell, the grimy bars that kept him from the outside world, the huddled figures outside the cell…

  He lurched up, swung his legs over the cot and rose to a wobbly stance. The air was still and cold. It was still dark outside and he had no idea what time it was. How long had he been asleep? He rubbed his eyes and made his way to the bars. Janice and Bobby lay huddled together on the floor on the other side of the bars. Rick checked them out, fear rising sharply as he realized that they could be dead. He’d fallen asleep and the Dark Ones had broken into the office and slaughtered Janice and Bobby. They’d tried to burst through the bars of the cell to get at him, but the stainless steel bars thwarted them. That’s why he was still alive and Janice and Bobby were—

  Lightly dozing.

  Janice sensed Rick standing there and got to her feet. She rubbed her sleep-crusted eyes. Her features were heavy with fatigue, yet she offered him a smile. “I must’ve dozed off.”

  Rick returned her smile. “Guess we all did. I didn’t think that was possible, but…”

  Neither of them thought it possible they would sleep last night. They’d remained huddled on the floor of the jail, Rick inside the cell, Janice and Bobby on the other side as the Dark Ones pillaged and plundered through the town. Every once in a while screams arose from somewhere outside, sometimes gunfire, but for the most part the noises were coming from the Dark Ones as they destroyed.

  And fed.

  Luckily Bobby had gotten to sleep. He remained at the rear of the hallway, bundled up in some spare jackets Janice had found in the office. His sleep had been deep, too; not once had he woken in fear of the noises and screams from outside. Those sounds contributed to Janice and Rick remaining awake, sitting next to each other on the floor of the cell, holding hands through the bars, talking through the night about what they could do to escape. What they should do to escape. Whether anybody was going to recognize their plight and send somebody to rescue them—the army, the National Guard, anybody with enough guns and firepower to blow these green, scaly creatures back to whatever water-logged hell they had come from.

  After a while, that end of the conversation meandered onto other subjects. It was hard to tell how much time passed, especially with the storm raging outside and the night so dark and brooding. The sounds of destruction retreated farther inland for a while, and they relaxed slightly, still on alert status. Janice slid a nine-millimeter pistol and several boxes of shells through the bars of Rick’s cell should they suddenly be embroiled in a war; she kept a large cache of the weapons she’d snagged by her side, like a camper guarding provisions. Fortunately the creatures outside didn’t seem to sense that they were inside the sheriff’s station. They were pretty much left alone.

  So they talked more. Rick found himself continuing the conversation he’d begun with her earlier that afternoon when he first ran into her on the pier, back when things were innocent, when the future seemed brighter. When it seemed that he might have the extreme hots for her and was anticipating a future with her. He remembered that she seemed to share his attraction and they had played off it at the pier, flirting like they were teenagers. And then that had been broken by Bobby’s screams—

  Rick found himself intrigued by Janice’s background as she spun the tale. She’d grown up in Phillipsport an only child. When her parents divorced she remained in town with her father, who succumbed to lung cancer five years later, the year she graduated high school. With no one in town left that she could call family, she left and headed to Bangor where she eventually drifted into college. Sh
e stuck with it, getting a degree in Liberal Arts five years later. Midway through she met Kevin Murphy, Bobby’s father and her future husband. Kevin was an economics major. They married a year later and settled in Bangor and for once Janice thought she would be happy. She had a husband who loved her, a job she liked—she had gotten a job as a secretary at a securities firm—and she was pregnant with Bobby. She couldn’t have asked for more.

  The first five years were great, but she began to sense that Kevin was drifting. The hours at the office grew later, the business trips grew longer, became more frequent. He began spending less time with her and Bobby and worse, became less interested in raising their son. She forged on and the truth slapped her face brutally one Sunday morning when she was doing the laundry. She was putting Kevin’s shirts in the wash for a cold cycle when she lifted one of them up and examined it closely. She checked out the collar. There was a smudge of red lipstick on the tip of the collar.

  She confronted Kevin with it. He denied knowing anything about it at first, but after she nagged him about it, he broke down and confessed. She hadn’t expected a confession. She expected he would deny it all along and the confession caught her off guard despite the fact that she had already convinced herself that he was having an affair. Hearing it from his own lips seemed to confirm the suspicions. The woman was a secretary at the firm he worked at. It was nothing serious, but—