Savage

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  The silvery covering on its eye was evident, as she suspected it would be.

  The mob of angry animal life was increasing as she stood there, hurling their bodies unmercifully against the glass that separated them from their prey.

  Doc Martin stepped back, retreating into the front lobby, and was surprised to see the assault upon the door stop, the animals ceasing their attack, now that she was no longer visible. They continued to peer inside though, their heads tilted in such a way that their right eyes were the ones doing the searching.

  She remembered the odd sensation she’d experienced when examining the right eyes of the animals from the kennel, like she was being watched—observed.

  Returning to the back area, she was even more resolute that she needed to get out of there and get to a person of authority to explain what she had discovered. But in order to do that she needed to escape the building and get to her car without getting killed.

  She had to somehow keep the animals away from her.

  Remembering the number of beasts that she’d encountered out in the parking lot earlier, she wasn’t feeling optimistic about her chances.

  But she had to try something.

  Walking around the back room, her eyes looked to every surface, every item. Her objective was to get to her car, but she had to keep the critters at bay.

  On one of the shelves she saw a few plastic bottles of isopropyl alcohol. The liquid was extremely flammable and maybe just what the doctor ordered. She grabbed a bottle from the shelf, giving it a casual shake as she thought about how to use it.

  “A torch,” she said out loud, the sound of her own voice in the empty office actually startling her. “I’ll make a torch.”

  She turned from the shelf, looking for what she could use to pull this off. In the far corner of the room there was a bucket and mop, and she set the alcohol bottle down on the counter as she went to it. As it was, the mop handle was too long, and she leaned it against the counter, lifted her good leg, and brought it down upon the wooden body with a loud snap.

  “This should do it,” she muttered beneath her breath, the mop handle now half the length. From the bottom drawer of a cabinet she found a stack of towels and pulled them out. Going for her scissors, she brought them back and proceeded to cut the towels into strips, and when she felt there were enough, started to wrap the end of the mop handle, layering the thickness. When she was satisfied with what would be the torch head, she grabbed the bottles of alcohol and proceeded to fill the mop bucket, placing the rag-covered head down into the strong-smelling liquid. The fumes were nearly overwhelming, and she stepped back from the bucket. She wanted to be sure that the torch head was completely saturated, so she left it soaking as she scoured the area for other items to help her.

  In the corner was a pair of heavy work boots that had been left from the particularly rough winter. She kicked off her sneakers and slipped into the boots, tucking her pants legs into the tops before tightly lacing them.

  She then retrieved a pair of thick work gloves that they’d sometimes used when dealing with uncooperative cats and slipped them on over her hands. It wasn’t much, but at least there would be some parts of her that would be protected.

  It was now or never, and Doc Martin decided that now was the only option. She thought about the best way to leave the building, deciding that the back would be closest to her vehicle.

  The gears inside her head were clicking again, and they locked into place as she went to retrieve her torch. The wheeled plastic bucket was still partially filled with isopropyl alcohol and still incredibly flammable. Resting the torch against the counter, she found a roll of gauze and made sure that she had her lighter and proceeded to roll the mop bucket to the front lobby, being sure to stay out of sight the best she could. From what she could observe through the windows, the lot appeared partially empty. She was sure that the beasts were waiting just beyond the periphery of light, waiting for her to try and escape.

  They would be right about her plans, but not from where.

  Stealthily, or at least as stealthily as a sixty-one-year-old woman could be, Doc Martin made her way toward the front door, pushing the alcohol-filled bucket in front of her.

  Standing at the door, she reached up to the lock and clicked it open. Looking out over the front lot, she was amazed to see that the sound had actually drawn the attention of some of the beasts. A flood of muskrats—or were they possums?—swarmed from the darkness toward the door.

  Quickly she fished the roll of gauze from her pocket and lit it with her lighter. Then she opened the door to the howling wind, and before anything could make its way in, she dropped the burning gauze into the bucket with explosive results. The alcohol immediately caught fire with a burst of blue flame, and she kicked the wheeled bucket out the door, where it rolled, burning, into the lot.

  As she quickly shut the door, she saw that the animals were drawn to the still-moving bucket. Without another look, she raced to the back of the clinic, where she retrieved her torch. She stood at the back door, lifted her lighter to the head of the torch, lighting it with a rush of high flame. She tensed, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. The lot seemed to be clear, and she rushed out into the rain, eyes searching for signs of animals. It had been quite some time since Doc Martin had gotten this much exercise, but she gave it her best shot, legs pumping as she held the torch out in front of her, eyes fixed on her car. The bite wounds on her leg hurt like hell, but she ignored them.

  She had crossed half of the lot when she chanced a quick look over her shoulder. She could see the front of the building, where the bucket had stopped burning, and the crowd of beasts surrounding it was beginning to disperse . . .

  Beginning to notice her.

  “Shit,” she hissed as her heart thumped wildly in her chest. Wouldn’t it be her luck to have a heart attack right then? She continued to push herself toward her car at the far end of the lot. She was close, but so were the sounds of animal claws clicking on the pavement behind her.

  Doc Martin spun around, waving the torch at the pack of dogs that had just about reached her. “Yaaah!” she screamed at the beasts as she continued to back toward her car. The flame of the torch seemed to slow them, but it was raining heavily and she knew the torch wouldn’t last much longer.

  She backed right into the side of her car, nearly dropping the torch. Sliding along the side, she made her way to the driver’s-side door. She shoved her free hand into her pocket, fumbling for her keys, only to have them fall from her gloved hand as she pulled them free.

  “Son of a bitch,” she snarled. Keys just weren’t her thing today. Still holding the torch in front of her, seeing its flame in the glint of silvery right eyes, she bent to retrieve the keys. And just as her fingers closed around them, the animals surged.

  It was an odd sight, and Doc Martin found herself pausing for a moment to watch. They seemed to move as one, flowing toward her very much like an ocean wave. Then she shoved the torch into the body of the mass, hoping that it would give her enough time to get into the car. The single, writhing mass broke apart as the flame touched them, but Doc Martin was already turning, pressing the button to unlock the Subaru wagon. She opened the car door and dove into the front seat, managing to pull the door closed again just as the first animal slammed into it.

  Doc Martin’s breathing came in labored gasps, her heart racing a million miles a second as she realized that she’d actually survived—for now.

  The windshield and side windows were spattered with blood and the life stuff of insects attempting to breach the barrier that separated them from their prey. The beasts were relentless in their attack, the car rocking with their onslaught.

  She put the key in the ignition and turned the engine over, stepping on the gas and revving the engine in a roar of victory. Putting the car in reverse, she hit the gas and backed up as quickly as she could. The car bumped and rolled as her tires ran over multiple obstacles attempting to thwart her progress. Doc Marti
n didn’t want to think of what was beneath her wheels as she stepped on the brake and put the car in drive. The car shot forward but quickly shuddered to a stop. She stepped on the gas and could feel the Subaru fighting to go forward, but something was stopping it.

  Something was preventing the vehicle’s tires from turning. It was almost as if she was stuck in thick mud.

  “Don’t do this,” she screamed, putting the car in reverse and attempting to go backward before trying to go forward again. “I beat you fair and square, you sons of bitches.”

  The tires spun and whined, furiously fighting for traction. She imagined the wheel wells jammed tightly with the bodies of crushed animals. The car made it a few feet forward but was stopped again. She could actually feel them moving beneath the wagon, the bodies of multiple animal and insect life forms thumping and banging off the undercarriage.

  Again she put the car in reverse, stepping on the gas, making her tires spin across the slippery surface of the parking lot, before slamming on the brakes, putting the car in drive once more, and hitting the gas. The Subaru went farther this time, but swerved to one side as the all-wheel drive became clogged, allowing only three of the wheels to turn.

  “You bastards,” she hissed, putting it in reverse. “You’re not going to get me—not like this.” She was practically crushing the accelerator when she noticed the first of the flying insects inside the car with her. It started with something no bigger than a gnat, and then a cloud of the annoying flying insects followed. It took her a minute to realize that they were coming in through her vents. She reached down to close the openings as quickly as she could, but it was already too late. The flies were next, and then she noticed the yellow-and-black-striped bodies of the wasps.

  Doc Martin swatted crazily as the bugs came at her face, flying into her mouth, eyes, and ears. The wasps were aggressive in their savagery, sinking their stingers repeatedly into the flesh of her face and neck.

  She screamed but almost immediately began to cough and gag. The gnats had found their way up into her nose, coating the back of her throat, choking her on their tiny bodies. Unable to breathe, she found her vision failing and dizziness making it impossible for her to drive.

  The inside of the car was filled with the buzzing of thousands of insect wings. They were in her eyes and mouth and down the front of her clothes, and she just couldn’t stand it anymore.

  Knowing that it was likely her end, but not wanting to die this way—stung to death while choking on the bodies of flies—the veterinarian opened the door and threw herself out onto the ground, coughing and gagging and throwing up what little her stomach contained. Her eyes were tightly closed against the insect onslaught, but she could hear the sounds of the larger animals as they approached. The insects had gotten her out of the vehicle, and now the warm-blooded beasts would finish her off.

  She was sad that she hadn’t gotten away, sad that she would be unable to warn the island—the world—of the strange threat besieging them, but she believed that she’d put up a good fight.

  And that was going to have to do.

  She felt the rush of intense heat on the flesh of her face and opened her eyes to the hellish vision of the animals that had been closing in on her to attack being eaten up and dispersed by tongues of angry fire.

  Doc Martin recoiled from the flames, throwing herself back against the side of her car.

  Her eyes had swollen partially shut from the yellow-jacket stings, but she managed to force the flesh apart enough to see. She climbed up from beside her car and looked across the parking lot to see a kind of transport vehicle. It looked military. And there were men—heavily garbed men, their faces and bodies covered in protective gear—wielding flamethrowers, burning away the attacking animals.

  What in the name of all that’s holy is going on? the old veterinarian wondered, feeling herself growing faint as she leaned heavily against the side of her car.

  The men advanced across the lot, still firing their weapons, and she found it incredibly disturbing that even as they were burned alive, the animals—the dogs and cats and foxes—did not cry out in pain.

  All they did was burn.

  Doc Martin pushed off from her car, avoiding the burning animal bodies. The men with the flamethrowers turned toward her defensively, and she thought that they might burn her as well. Throwing up her hands in surrender, she stared at them through swollen eyes.

  “Who are you?” she croaked.

  A figure emerged from the transport vehicle and carefully approached. She noticed that he was a handsome, dark-skinned man, and he looked at the carnage with a kind of grim disbelief.

  “I’m Dr. Gregory Sayid,” he said, still not looking at her, his gaze fixed on the burning animal corpses. “And we’re here to help.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Unasked questions about Dale Moore and what he had done hung in the air like a bad smell. Sidney could feel her friends’ eyes glancing at her as she silently sat between them, staring through the windshield at the road ahead .

  “Sid, I . . . ,” Cody began, but she didn’t want to discuss it.

  “Stop,” she said flatly.

  “Believe me, I understand what you’re . . .”

  “I said stop.”

  And he did, continuing to drive in silence down Benediction’s small, winding streets. There were cars scattered here and there, doors open wide, their former occupants having fled, but in some cases . . .

  She didn’t want to look at them; she didn’t want to see any more death. She just wanted to get to Doc Martin’s place. Things would get better then.

  At least that’s what she hoped.

  “Mr. Moore is dead,” Isaac suddenly announced from the backseat, his voice flat and emotionless.

  Sidney felt the muscles in her neck and back tighten up as the words hit her. The pronouncement of her father’s death.

  “Hey, knock it off with that!” Rich yelled, turning around in the seat.

  “It’s all right,” she said. She felt the hot tears well up in her eyes, threatening to spill out over the edges, to cascade down her filthy face. She reached over and popped the glove box open, grabbing some napkins from inside. A flat bag slipped out and fell to the floor.

  Rich bent down to get it, ready to put it back, but she was curious.

  “What’s that?”

  “A bag,” Rich said, showing it to her.

  She took it and peeked inside and began to sob as the walls around her emotions collapsed.

  “Sid, what is it?” Rich asked, obviously uncomfortable with her crying. She couldn’t answer him, giving the bag back to him as she brought the wrinkled paper napkin up to her face to try and stem the flow of tears.

  She could see him looking into the bag and partially removing the greeting card. It was a graduation card, something her father was likely planning on giving her, but then a stroke got in the way. She cried all the harder with the thought of the effort it must have taken for him to get the card. He never remembered stuff like that, and the fact that he had just went to show her how important he thought her achievement was.

  Rich slid the card out and read it before putting it back into the bag and returning it to the glove box. “It’s nice,” he said as he closed the glove box with a snap.

  She nodded. “He must’ve forgotten it was in there,” she said through her tears. And then something through the windshield caught her attention. “What is . . . ?” she started to ask, raising her hand to point at the road ahead of them.

  Cody slammed on the brakes.

  The surface of the street ahead moved with life, a living blanket that just lay there, writhing as if . . .

  “What’s it doing?” Cody asked in a whisper.

  “Waiting,” Sidney replied, not knowing why she had answered in such a way, but somehow knowing that she was right.

  “Waiting for what?” Rich asked.

  The layer of living things suddenly surged up from the road, flowing toward the homes al
ong the street—

  Until it saw them.

  The wave stopped and shifted in their direction.

  Sidney could just imagine the thousands of eyes—the thousands of right eyes—fixing on their truck.

  “Back it up!” Rich screamed as the wave reared up, and then threw itself toward them, flowing down the center of the road.

  Cody did as he was told, putting the truck in reverse and stepping on the gas, turning and looking out the rear window as he steered the vehicle backward.

  The mass of life was fast, picking up speed as it gave chase. Sidney stared through the truck’s windshield, taking in all its horrific details as it flowed steadily closer. She could just about make out the individual pieces of life—dogs, rats, raccoons, cats—floating in a sea of what appeared to be insects, hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions.

  The organism—there was no other thing she could think to call it—churned and moved as it propelled itself across the ground, the living bodies of animals briefly appearing before being submerged in a sea of bugs as others rose to the surface.

  And then there were the bones.

  At first she didn’t quite understand what she was seeing. For a moment she believed that they were pieces of wood—limbs of trees picked up by the undulating mass—but when she saw the skull, its jaw hanging open in a silent scream, she understood the horror of what it was.

  The remains of victims were a part of its body, flowing within the multitude that made up its mass.

  It was an awful sight. She tore her gaze from the nightmare steamrolling down the street after them and quickly figured out where they were.

  “Up on your right, Powell Road,” she called out.

  Cody slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel roughly, spinning the car around, pointing it toward what looked to be a rough section of woods.