by Hunter Shea
“Away from here,” Jason said.
“Keep away from any other vessels and see if you can make it to the sound. Especially avoid the Coast Guard. Whatever you do, don’t turn on any lights. You have enough fuel to make it to the Connecticut coast?”
He looked at the gas gauge. They had three-quarters of a tank. “We should.”
The waterlogged trio lay at the bottom of the small boat. Can Man said, “You do what the officer says.”
The boat rode up and down the swells. With the added weight, it was harder to control. Jason white-knuckled the wheel.
“What happened?” he asked. They were cops, they should know exactly what was going on.
The woman cop said with an air of total exhaustion, “The monsters are real, and no one knows how to stop them.”
The monsters are real.
He thought of the beach, and Tom, stuck in the quicksand, unable to free himself before those animals—the monsters—got to him.
The wheel jerked out of his hands. He fought desperately to regain his grip. Something smacked into the underside of the boat. It pitched dangerously to the side.
One of the monsters pulled itself up, salt water sluicing from its scarred, cerulean body, leaping into the boat.
The boy shrieked.
Chaos took over. The first war machine was followed by another.
They were trapped.
Dalton looked for anything that could be used as a weapon.
The war machines were hairless, their skin blue-red and raw. They must have been the ones set on fire when he tossed the grenades into the car.
The woman plucked an oar from the hull, ramming it into the open mouth of one of the creatures. Her eyes were wild, boiling with madness. She yowled, pushing the oar as deep as it could go.
The other creature snapped at the kid piloting the boat. He tried to jump high enough to avoid its jaws. A hunk of his calf disappeared down its throat.
Can Man grabbed it behind its ears, pulling it away. It snatched at him, trying to wriggle its body around and free itself from his grip.
Meredith shielded the boy with her body. Dalton found another oar, jabbing it into the war machine’s snout. Something snapped, and shards of teeth bounced off the hull. Can Man pulled so hard, the creature’s ears came right off. He tumbled backward and out of the boat, still clutching the ears.
Blood spurted all over the kid at the wheel. He made an unfortunate turn of his head, catching a mouthful. He screamed, “It burns!” His hands jerked from the wheel, leaving the boat at the mercy of the waves.
The war machine skidded over the side of the boat with a tremendous splash.
Meredith had joined the woman, both of them keeping the second creature at bay, wedging the oar until its jaw cracked.
Dalton grabbed the end of the oar with them.
“Toss it over the side,” he said.
They heaved as hard as they could, sending the creature sprawling back into the Atlantic.
The kid had stopped piloting the boat. He thrashed around, yowling in agony.
“Dalton, don’t let him get near the boy!” Meredith shouted.
“Sit still,” he commanded, but the kid’s senses were on overload. There was no way he could comprehend what he was saying.
Now, he was more of a danger than the war machines.
“Get away from me!” the woman exclaimed, kicking him to the rear of the boat. Blood leaked from his eyes and bubbled from his mouth.
“Take the wheel,” Dalton said to Meredith. The boy scrambled with her.
He pinned the kid’s chest with the oar, keeping him in place.
The boat suddenly lurched to the side. Can Man’s head popped over the hull, followed by his arm, then legs as he pulled himself back on board. His head swiveled between Dalton and the kid.
“Was he bit?”
“Yes, and he got its blood all over him.”
“I saw what that did to those soldiers back there. No man should have to go through that.”
“What do you suggest I do? Kill him?” Dalton snapped. They’d lost so many people. He couldn’t conceive of losing one more.
With surprising speed and strength, Can Man pulled the oar from his hands and raised it high.
“Can Man, no!” the kid yelled, holding up his hands.
Thwack!
The oar came down on his head, splitting the skull in two. With another quick motion, he used the oar to ease his body over the side.
“Are you crazy?” Dalton screamed.
Can Man shook his head. “Crazy would be keeping him on board when we have ladies and a child. You don’t worry. That one’s for my conscience to live with, not yours.”
Meredith looked back at him, her face ashen.
The woman lay on her rump, staring blankly out at sea.
“Can you get us to Connecticut?” he asked Meredith.
“If no one stops us, yes.”
The east end of the island was in flames. Montauk had become a crematorium.
Heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars. The fires of larger vessels dotted the black water. It was if they’d been dropped into a war zone. Thanks to the diminutive size of the boat and the oncoming storm that brought visibility down to zero, they slipped past the patrol ships and out into the open waters.
CHAPTER 44
Just before the light of day, under a steady downpour, they pulled into a deserted marina in Fairfield, Connecticut. This time around, Meredith safely tucked the boat into a vacated slip. Exhausted, they got off the boat, their legs no better than those of a marathoner at the finish line.
Dalton found an old storage shed, climbed through the unlocked window and let everyone inside. It was cluttered with old traps, nets, poles and smelled of grease, but it was safe and dry and would keep them from prying eyes until they figured out their next step.
He lay against one of the clapboard walls, Meredith resting her head on his chest. Can Man and the woman, who in the light of day looked awfully familiar, huddled in the opposite corner. The boy, thumb firmly in his mouth, curled against Meredith. Dalton was the last to close his eyes, and when sleep came, it was mercifully devoid of dreams.
When he woke several hours later, he listened for the sounds of typical morning activity at a marina.
The silence was deafening.
Slipping out from under Meredith, he crept out of the shed.
Gunmetal clouds sat low and heavy in the sky. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
The marina was empty.
His stomach growled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He wasn’t sure what he wanted more, breakfast or a cigarette. After what he’d been through, he didn’t think it greedy to find a way to have both. His wallet was still soggy, but he had forty dollars cash and a credit card. It was a short walk to the small convenience store just outside the marina parking lot. The owner, an older, rail-thin man who wore a jet-black toupee, barely looked his way as he rang him up. An earbud was plugged into his ear, whatever he had on capturing all of his attention.
Dalton left with a bag filled with buttered rolls, snack cakes, beef jerky, coffee, a pack of Marlboro and bottles of orange juice.
He forgot to get a paper.
What will they say happened in Montauk? There’s no way they can sweep this under the rug. Who can I get in touch with to tell the world the truth? Who can I even trust beyond my parents and the folks back in the storage shed?
There were so many questions alongside too many painful truths. Ripping off the cellophane, he pinched a cigarette out of the pack, lit it after three matches and inhaled deeply. It burned his lungs but also quieted the noise in his head as effectively as Sister Veronica, his trollish third grade teacher could shush a classroom of rambunctious kids.
He turned back to the store and picked up a Daily News, New York Times and New York Post.
The headlines made his heart stop.
TERROR STRIKES AGAIN
HAMPTONS-MONTAUK WIP
ED OUT BY DIRTY BOMB
His hands shook too much to leaf through the soft pages. When he returned to the store for the third time, he finally got the owner’s full attention. The man eyed his uniform.
“You going out there, son?”
Dalton couldn’t get his mouth to work.
“I heard they were evacuating the coast here this afternoon. Storm winds might blow that toxic waste our way.”
The man continued to talk while he read the paper.
It’s all wrong! They’re lying!
“I knew things wouldn’t stop at 9/11. We just got deeper and deeper into that mess out there. The only way to stop those fuckers is to kill every one of them.” The man’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I mean it. We either do it right this time and end it, or we should just give them the keys to the damn country and let them have at it.”
It was apparent there was more he wanted to say, but he was too choked up to speak his mind. He pulled the earbud from his ear and went through a door in the back.
Dalton left the store in a daze. He wasn’t even sure how he made it back to the storage shed. Everyone was still asleep.
He knelt by Meredith, resting his hand on her knee. She stirred, eyes fluttering open.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s all gone . . .” The words trailed off. She reached her hand around his neck, pulling him close. The boy shifted in his sleep between them.
He lost parents, too. He watched them die.
Dalton placed a trembling hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Oh shit!”
Can Man’s exclamation made them jump. He scampered to his feet, backing away from the woman. Through the pale light streaming through the window, Dalton saw blood and foam flowing from the woman’s mouth, eyes and ears. Her skin looked as if it had been removed, stretched, and draped over her bones like an ill-fitting dress.
Somehow, in the struggle last night, she’d been infected.
Can Man kicked the door open to let more light inside. He checked his hands and clothes.
“Did I get any on me?” he asked, his voice rippling with anxiety.
Dalton saw the mass of bloody foam caked in his hair. A finger of it oozed down the man’s cheek.
“Oh no,” Meredith huffed.
“You did,” Dalton said, pointing at the diseased plasma.
Tears sprang to Can Man’s eyes. He winced as the infected blood burned his skin. He wavered in the doorway, gripping the frame with both hands to remain upright.
“I don’t want to die like them,” he said.
Metal slid against concrete as Dalton reached for one of the gaffing poles. He looked over at Meredith and the boy. He took a deep breath. The boy, who had awoken, saw Can Man and the pile of flesh that was the woman. He instinctively closed his eyes.
“Please, help me.” Can Man eyed the pole, closed his eyes and nodded his head.
“I’m sorry,” Dalton said.
He thrust the pole into Can Man’s chest. Can Man lurched backward, gripping the pole. He took a few stumbling steps before tripping over his own feet. When he landed, blood spewed from his mouth, coating the dock.
Dalton grabbed Meredith’s and the boy’s hands, leading them out of the shed, careful to avoid the spreading pool of blood flowing from Can Man’s still chest. They walked down the deserted dock until he found a boat with an interior galley. Using the butt of his empty Glock, he broke the lock on the door and ushered them inside.
There were cushioned seats long enough to lie down on. “I’ll be back,” he said. Meredith started to protest.
He came back with the bag of food and drinks as well as the paper. No one, despite their gnawing hunger, was up to eating.
“You’ll want to read that,” he said. “Best work of fiction of all time.”
Meredith held a bottle of orange juice to the boy’s lips. He took a small sip, then lay on his side, closing his eyes. “What do we do now?” she said.
“We wait. If none of us are infected, we’ll have to find someone we can trust.”
Meredith asked, “And if we are infected?”
He reached out to hold her hand in his.
“We’ll have to find a way to tell everyone the truth.”
The boat rocked gently, lulling them to a sleep so deep, they didn’t even stir when the evacuation sirens sounded, emptying the entire county.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are a few people I want to thank for making this possible. First, huge thanks to Gary Goldstein, a fantastic editor and one of the funniest guys I’ve ever met. Thank you, Carolyn Wolstencroft and Erin Al Mehairi, for making this a far better book than I could have done on my own. Also to top cop Dale Hughes, for his technical expertise, and Woody Woodward, for providing a home away from home to work on the book during a very difficult time—I miss Maine every day. Thank you to my superagent, Louise Fury, and her constant encouragement, and last but not least, to the skunk apes of the Everglades. Without them, this whole thing may never have happened.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2014 Hunter Shea
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3475-8
First electronic edition: June 2014
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3476-5
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3476-9