Don't Move

by James S. Murray

  “For fuck’s sake,” he replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, it’s not every day you lose half a million dollars.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  Vargas looked lost in thought for a moment.

  “Well,” he said, “I can’t ever go back to New York or I’m a dead man. Something tells me the people those drugs belong to won’t buy my story.”

  Megan took in the gravity of his situation.

  In the distance, the beat of search-and-rescue helicopters grew louder, as did the approaching sirens.

  “Thank you for coming back to save me,” Megan finally said, resting her head on his shoulder.

  He leaned his head on hers. “And thanks for saving me, boss.”

  Chapter

  Thirty-

  Seven

  eight hours later

  Megan sat in Cumberland Hospital’s waiting room, surrounded by several people who had managed to escape the inferno. Everyone exchanged sorrowful glances. Some had bandaged wounds, blackened faces, torn clothing. A few fired off texts and browsed the net on their phones, looking at the latest news.

  She was willing to bet that none of them knew the actual cause of the fire.

  Did we get anyone killed? Did we really cause all this?

  She quickly dismissed the thought. This was all the arachnid’s fault. It alone caused this destruction. Still, seeing campers from far away being rushed into the ER disturbed her.

  Megan had already seen the triage nurse. Only scrapes and bruises, but they wanted to keep her overnight for observation. But coming to terms with all that had happened would have to wait for another day. She heaved a deep sigh and stared at some of the posters on the wall.

  It was hard to focus on the words. Now that the scientifically inexplicable threat had vanished and the adrenaline had abated, the only thing keeping her eyes open was the train of mental images from the past two days. Crazy chases. Gruesome scenes. Horror that was once beyond her imagination.

  The creature.

  “Jesus Christ,” she murmured.

  Visions from inside the cave would stay with her for the rest of her life, joining the horror show of the state fair. The only consolation was that she and Vargas were alive.

  Megan bowed her head at the thought of Pastor Rizzo and Emma, the Johnsons, DeLuca, and Ryan. All had met a horrible end. Maybe it was survivor’s guilt taking over, but she questioned why she had been allowed to live and tell the tale.

  If she should ever feel like telling it. Who would even believe her?

  A set of double doors opened, and a nurse stood in the corridor with his hands on a wheelchair. In it sat Vargas, dressed in a light-green surgical gown, pulling an EKG machine alongside him. They had stitched up his leg, patched his ribs, and cleaned him up.

  They broke into a wide grin at the same time.

  Megan took comfort from his presence, and he seemed to do the same. Circumstances had brought together two people who appeared to have nothing in common. They had similarities that no one would have guessed based on appearances. And they had survived experiences they both would take to their graves.

  “Don’t suppose you grabbed me some smokes?” he asked Megan, smiling.

  “Mr. Vargas,” the nurse admonished.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  The nurse ignored him and looked to Megan. “Mrs. Forrester?”

  “That’s me.”

  The nurse scanned the ID bracelet on her wrist. “Now, Megan, if you’d please come this way. Since Ricky has requested your presence as his advocate and since your injuries are minor, you can stay in the same room for observation overnight.”

  Megan got up from the plastic chair, grabbed the backpack, and headed through the door.

  The wheelchair’s wheels squeaked on the polished floor as the nurse pushed Vargas forward. They entered a long ward with private rooms on either side. Most had their drapes drawn. A few doors stood ajar, with patients inside attached to monitoring equipment.

  The distinctive smell of iodoform hung in the air, giving this place the typical hospital smell. Regardless, the air-conditioned environment was paradise compared to frigid white water or a burning forest.

  A hiss broke the quiet. Megan’s heart jumped, and her head whipped to the left.

  A teenager lay in one of the rooms with a big bottle of soda in his hands. He was easing the cap open so it didn’t spray all over.

  “It’s gonna be like this for a while,” Vargas said.

  Megan nodded as they continued through the ward.

  So far, the rooms in the final third of the ward were empty. She had requested privacy if possible, though she wasn’t expecting much, what with other patients bound to show up soon. The forest fire was still nowhere close to being under control.

  The nurse wheeled Vargas inside a room with two single beds separated by a privacy curtain. The room was surprisingly well spaced, with a TV on the opposite wall. He helped Vargas out of the chair and into the bed, moving the EKG machine beside him.

  “Is this really necessary?” Vargas protested. “I’m gonna live.”

  “And we’re going to make sure of that,” the nurse replied. He looked at the readouts for a moment, then pointed to a panel above the bedside cabinet. “Pull that cord in an emergency. Is there anything you both need?”

  “You got any tequila?”

  “I wish,” the nurse replied. “Try and get some rest. You guys won’t get disturbed down here. I’ll make sure the other nurses give you some peace and quiet until the shift change at six a.m.”

  Megan breathed a sigh of relief. Being woken up every two hours to get her vital signs checked would have been a drag.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  The nurse left the room.

  Megan placed Emma’s backpack on the floor in the opposite corner of the room. It wasn’t much, but maybe returning it to Emma’s mother back in New York might give some solace in her grief. Megan could relate all too well to losing one’s spouse and child at the same time.

  She hobbled back to the bed and lay down. Her limbs felt heavy, and she gave a long, tired sigh as she stared at the ceiling.

  Vargas grabbed the TV remote and hit the power button. The overhead screen flashed to life. He flipped through the channels. All news stations were broadcasting footage of the immense forest fire raging in West Virginia, and the hundreds of firefighters struggling to contain the blaze.

  “I’d rather not see it,” Megan said.

  “Me neither,” Vargas said, turning off the television.

  With a groan, he repositioned himself on the bed. She could tell he was still in pain, though he would never admit it.

  “What you thinking about?” he asked.

  “What we tell the police tomorrow,” Megan replied. “And what we tell the families of everyone who died.”

  “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Together.”

  She was surprised by his reply.

  “I thought you’d be disappearing soon.”

  “Oh, I will. After we do the right thing first.”

  She smiled fondly at him. Maybe this experience had changed Vargas. Instilled some personal responsibility that she suspected had always been in hiding.

  Megan stifled a yawn. “I’m beat.”

  “I think I could sleep for a week,” Vargas said. “But for now . . .” He checked the clock on the wall: just after eleven p.m. “I’ll settle for seven hours.”

  He switched off the light, casting the room into near darkness except for the regular dim-blue flashes from the EKG machine he was connected to.

  “See you in the morning, boss.”

  “Good night, Ricky.”

  Megan slipped off her pants and crawled under the warm sheets. The soft pillow felt like paradise. She closed her eyes and
thanked God that they were alive. Her eyelids grew heavy.

  Megan’s eyelids flew open.

  A quiet hissing filled the room. Faint, but familiar in a bone-

  chilling way.

  It can’t be. Not here.

  Her eyes tracked the source of the sound to the corner of the room. Emma’s backpack was on the floor, torn open from the inside.

  She followed the sound upward to the ceiling in the corner . . . and gasped.

  There, dozens of fist-sized arachnids waited, hissing, motionless. Tiny versions of the monster that had wreaked such carnage in the national forest.

  Vargas’s EKG machine flashed its blinking blue light, illuminating, for a fleeting moment, hundreds of cobwebs. They festooned the ceiling, the cabinets, the TV, the trays, the floors. The threads stretched across both their beds, crisscrossing less than an inch above their faces, arms, legs—surrounding them everywhere, attuned to detect the slightest vibration in the room.

  All the webs led back to the ceiling in the corner, where the little creatures perched, motionless. Waiting. Hungry.

  The EKG’s light blinked off, and Megan was plunged into darkness again. Her breathing grew rapid and shallow as the fear overwhelmed her.

  The light blinked back on. The webs were spun right above her eyes and head. She dare not move an inch.

  There was no way of getting off the bed or reaching the call button without disturbing a web. The same for Vargas.

  Megan shifted her eyes to the extreme right, pushing the edges of her vision, trying to look at Vargas without moving her head. Trying to see if he was awake.

  The pulse rate on his EKG machine read 130 beats per minute. And rising.

  She shifted her eyes to the clock: 1:21 a.m.

  No shift change until six . . . almost five more hours to go.

  “Ricky,” Megan whispered, tears filling her eyes. “don’t move.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  james murray

  Firstly, thanks to my devilishly handsome cowriter and friend Darren Wearmouth. There’s no one I’d rather spend Valentine’s Day with than you . . . besides our wives, of course.

  Thanks to Vikki Warner, Jeffrey Yamaguchi, Michael Carr, Kathryn Zentgraf, and the entire Blackstone team for their hard work and dedication to this project. Thanks to my colleagues and friends Joseph, Carsen, Nicole, Susan, Chá, and Ethan for their imagination and support. Thanks to Jack Rovner and Dexter Scott from Vector Management, Nick Nuciforo and Brandi Bowles from UTA, Danny Passman from GTRB, Phil Sarna and Mitch Pearlstein from PSBM, and Elena Stokes and team from Wunderkind PR. And special thanks to Brad Meltzer, R. L. Stine, and James Rollins for your continued guidance and support on this journey.

  Mom and Dad and my entire family, I love you all. Spear—I’ll kill Liander in the next book, promise. And special thanks to my wife, Melyssa—by time you read this book, we’ll be married, and I cannot imagine a better life than this.

  And finally, thanks to all our amazing Impractical Jokers fans around the world for always believing in a few guys from Staten Island!

  darren wearmouth

  James and I usually do a lot of our writing together. These are great times when we have lots of fun. He’s a great host and a special guy. Unfortunately, all of our lives changed following the global pandemic. My family wasn’t spared from its reach, and I know James has had family and friends affected as well. My heart goes out to any victim, family and friends, or those who have had their livelihoods taken. My faith in humanity convinces me that we’ll bounce back stronger.

  In light of the above, please forgive me for making personal acknowledgments. Thankfully, during lockdown, I’ve been with my great wife, Jennifer, and our beautiful daughter, Maple. We’ve stayed with her mother and father, Joe and Faye, and they’ve always been fantastic. I’d like to thank the staff at Blackstone who have been a pleasure to work with. Vikki Warner, our acquisitions editor and manager of the project. Michael Carr, our super helpful content editor. Kathryn Zentgraf, our eagle-eyed copy editor, and Jeffrey Yamaguchi, the head of marketing. Finally, a huge thank you to anyone who made it to this page of Don’t Move. It’s a story we loved creating and we are grateful that you’ve taken the time to read our work.