As the Worm Turns

by Matthew Quinn Martin

  “Skkt . . . Watson, come back . . . skkt . . .”

  Watson clicked the mic that was Velcroed to his lapel. “Go ahead.”

  “Skkt . . . Could use a little help. Got a live one here . . . Skkt . . .”

  “Copy that. Coming out.” He tucked away his pad and headed to the door. “Be back in two shakes. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Beth nodded. The door slammed shut. She was alone. She looked down at the wallet still in her hands. Behind a scratched plastic window was a picture of her and Ryan, both of them smiling at her from happier times. She remembered the text chain from Ryan’s friend. Had Ryan gone missing the same as Zoë? What was happening? She shook her head. Maybe she’d finally gone around the bend. Could she really have just seen a man get shot, bleed white, and then liquefy into nothingness—and all because of a box of salt?

  “Get a grip, Becker.” She reached for the nearest bottle, not even sure what was in it, and poured herself a full glass. “You’re seeing things.” She was about to take a sip when she heard the sound of footsteps from the shadows. She turned to spot a faint outline form in the blackness, almost as if it was born from it. It was a man, and the slightest flicker gleamed from his eyes as he moved into the light. Beth’s glass slipped from her grasp, shattering on the floor as she saw just who it was. “Ryan!” she called out, rushing over. “Oh my God, Ryan!”

  But something about him made her stop just shy of the slick spreading out on the floor where the corpse had been lying only minutes before. Something wasn’t right. Ryan’s hair was different, longer, the way he wore it back when they’d first started dating. He was dressed in clothing he’d thrown out years ago. The same clothing he’d had on in the photo in her wallet.

  His gaze landed on her, and in that moment, Beth had never wanted him more. Those eyes—so inviting, so mesmerizing, so . . . hungry. He shifted closer. He had yet to speak a single word.

  “Ryan,” she said. “I was so worried.” But even as she spoke the words—even as she felt that if she’d just let him take her in his arms, all her troubles would disappear—she knew something was terribly wrong. She started to inch backward. “Ryan, why don’t you say something? You’re scaring me.”

  He sniffed the air, almost gulping at it. Then he cocked his head at an angle that didn’t seem natural—or even human. Suddenly, he leaped for her, covering the three yards between them in a single bound.

  She dodged. He missed her by inches. He moved closer, hands grasping for her. Beth ducked around a table and shoved forward with all her strength, crushing him against the wall. Ryan screamed. It was that same high-pitched wail she had heard coming from the man who’d been shot. The one Jack said was “hardly a man.”

  Ryan pawed at the table, sending it flying end over end as if it was made of papier-mâché. Planks splintered against the brick wall. Beth swept up a board. She hit him hard, right across the face. Her hand sang with pain as the board cracked in half with a dull thwack. It did nothing. He simply shook it off and stepped forward, closing the gap between them as he pegged her against the bar. His hands clamped down on her. His grip was like quick-drying cement.

  Beth’s knees began to give out as a heady brew of terror and desire overtook her. She felt the hard press of his hand pushing back her head, exposing her throat. She felt herself giving in. She wanted to go where Ryan had gone, to see what he’d seen, to become whatever it was he’d become.

  Beth went slack; knowing that any moment now, her will would crater. Behind her, she caught a glimpse of Ryan in the bar mirror. In the silvery glass, he had lidless black eyes, and his mouth was a brace of needle-sharp teeth. His head was reared back and curved into an S as if he had no spine. His mouth opened wide. Impossibly wide. More teeth lined the inside of his throat. Row upon circular row of razors stretching down for what seemed like forever.

  Twenty-seven

  The back bench of the police cruiser smelled heavily of Naugahyde, disinfectant, and vomit. Jack had awoken there, cuffed and stuffed. He’d opened his eyes just as the officer in the driver’s seat was about to call in the collar. A couple of quick boot soles to the Plexiglas partition that separated them bought Jack some time, earned him a couple of Taser hits to the ribs.

  The cop had radioed his partner for backup, and now both policemen sat up front, eyeing the gear they’d stripped from him. Jack judged that he had maybe three minutes, probably less.

  “He got any ID?” the first cop asked.

  “You kidding? No ID, no wallet, no cash even. Nothing on him but a Saint Michael’s prayer card and that name stitched on his shirt. Jack.”

  “That’s just great, Richards. We’ll just run ‘Jack’ through the FBI database and see what pops up.”

  “Very funny, Watson. Hey, check out all this weirdo crap.” Richards held up Jack’s tactical belt. Jack wondered if he should warn the man to watch out for the auto-snares or just wait until one of them clipped off a few of his fingers. “Look at all this freakin’ stuff.”

  “Do I have to?”

  Richards set the belt back down. His voice rankled with disappointment. “So, homicide, huh?”

  “Hard to call it a homicide. Not without a body.”

  “No body?”

  “Not one that I saw. Think the girl’s on something. Might end up having to bring her in, too.”

  “Drugs, you think?”

  “You know the way those nightclubs are.” Watson shrugged. “And that place practically qualifies as a pharmacy.”

  They both laughed. That was good. The more they yukked it up, the more time Jack would have. Already, he’d dislocated his right thumb. The cuffs were just slack enough for him to wriggle out. His ligaments screamed as he worked the manacle halfway down.

  “Something scared her, though,” Watson added. “That’s for sure.”

  “No kidding. Who wouldn’t be scared with this freak show pointing that crazy peashooter at them?” Richards tugged Jack’s pistol from the holster.

  Jack took a deep breath as he pulled one hand free of the cuff. Taking on both of the cops at once was going to be tricky. Perhaps lethally tricky. He weighed his options, running every play he could think of as he waited for an opening to present itself.

  “Looks like one of my nephew’s paintball guns,” Watson said.

  “Great. We can book him on carrying a concealed pigment-application device.” Richards leaned in close to his partner, pitched his voice low. “Hey, how much you want to bet this guy’s tied up with the Order of Sormen?”

  “Gimme a break, okay?” Watson rubbed his temples. “It’s too late at night for this X-Files crap.”

  Order of Sormen. This guy obviously fancied himself as one in the know. That might prove advantageous if Jack were to drop a little real intel on the guy.

  “Seriously,” Richards continued. “You know the Order of Sormen runs the University, if not the whole damn country. Don’t try to deny it. They are up to some seriously shady shit, I tell ya.”

  “The University doesn’t need to be shady. The city gives them whatever the hell they want right out in broad daylight. They want to put up some dorms where a housing project is, poof, the people living there get evicted. They want the Occupy protesters off the town green, poof, they send in work crews to ‘reseed’ the lawn and stick up a fence for six months.”

  “You got to admit, though, that something’s going on under that big earth mound on Oak Street.”

  “That’s a particle collider. They spent like half a billion tax-free bucks on it while you and I are dodging bullets in Grey Hill and the Docklands.”

  “Particle collider? That’s what the newspapers want you to think,” Richards scoffed. “Trust me, the Order’s running secret experiments down there. Think it’s an accident that ‘particle collider’s’ just half a block away from their mausoleum headquarters? The Order’s got tunnels that stretch out unde
r the whole university campus.”

  “Come on, give it a rest.”

  “Seriously. I read about it in the Fortean Times.”

  “Oak Street’s a science lab. They win awards all the time for their egghead stuff.”

  “Yeah? What the hell does all this stuff look like to you, then?” Richards shook Jack’s belt in Watson’s face as if it was proof of everything. “For all we know, this guy’s one of theirs gone rogue.”

  Watson rubbed his chin. “Sure is awfully quiet for a guy about to hit central booking.” He rapped his baton against the partition. “Aren’t you?”

  Jack just stared ahead. The timing wasn’t right. He kept his face a mask of indifference. The more of a cipher he was to them, the better things would fare. Behind his back, he clenched and relaxed his fists, readying his hands for combat.

  “See, bet he’s an experiment. Some kind of super-soldier shit.”

  “You’re touched, Richards. Anybody ever tell you that?”

  “Only your wife, after sex.”

  “You manage to talk my wife into getting busy, Richards, more power to you. All right, I’m calling it in.”

  “Hey.” Richards held up one of Jack’s snap vials. “Check this out. Looks like one of those glow sticks the clubbers are always dropping all over the place. Broken capsule inside and everything.”

  “That’s probably what it is, then.”

  “I don’t think so.” Richards tilted the vial in the light. “Egghead stuff, I’m telling you.”

  “Put that thing away. Could be anthrax, for all we know.”

  Richards slid the vial back into the tactical belt’s leather loop and set it down as carefully as he would a carton of eggs. Watson sighed and reached for the transceiver’s hand mic.

  Twenty-eight

  Time was up. Jack gambled on his best bet. “Division serial number WYHIWYG-two-four-two!” he yelled, loud and proud. “Repeat. Division serial number Whiskey, Yankee, Hotel, India—”

  Richards put his hand over Watson’s, stopping the call. “Hold on a second.” He turned to Jack. The bait had been taken. “What did you say?”

  “Division serial number WYHIWYG-two-four-two,” Jack repeated. “Code name: Project Nightfly. Rank: Classified.” If Officer Richards was that obsessed with the machinations of a supposedly secret society like the Order of Sormen, he would, no doubt, have also heard of The Division.

  A smile spread across Richards’s face. He slapped Watson on the shoulder. “Told you there was more to this guy than meets the eye.”

  Jack’s wager had paid off. All he had to do now was get one of them to open up the back door. “Security codes and instructions on how to contact my superior are located in my left boot heel. You will be well compensated for your cooperation and your secrecy.”

  “See?” Richards said, his smile widening to little more than teeth. “You and I just hit the lottery.”

  “This guy’s full of shit.”

  “Can’t hurt to check. He’s cuffed. Now, I’m taking a look. You cover me.” Richards had put his hand on the door handle, just about to open it, when something far more intriguing—and more deadly—caught the eye of Watson.

  “Check it out.” He gave Richards a nudge, and both of them looked out the windshield at what stood not ten feet away, pinned by the cruiser’s headlamps. All thoughts of Jack or the Order of Sormen or The Division had now been lost . . . to one of them.

  Jack averted his eyes. He focused on the cops, watching the bodies of Officers Richards and Watson go slack. He knew all too well what was happening to them—their libidos loosening up, their hearts hammering in anticipation. He wondered what they might be seeing. A hooker in a leather mini and clear heels sporting a spangly bikini top? A club girl with kohl-black Cleopatra eyes, hair in a loose bun, wearing a diaphanous dress? An old high school flame? Did it matter what guise the nightmare wore? It always ended the same. Two men would die tonight. Jack’s only concern now was figuring out how to keep it from becoming three.

  “She’s out late.” Watson opened his door. “Think she needs our attention.”

  “Think you’re right,” Richards said, following.

  The doors slammed shut. Jack had minutes at best. The cops would be collateral damage, but at least the blood wouldn’t be on his hands this time. He peered through the acrylic barrier. Watson and Richards were already in striking distance. Soon it would be all over but the screaming. And then that thing would come for him. He had to get to his weapons, but first he had to get out.

  Jack grabbed the seat belt. He slipped the heavy metal buckle all the way to the end of the strap. From one hazy corner of his eye, he could see that the cops were already down. Richards sat numbed on the curb, a drooling mess, as she—as it—fed on Watson. He swung the buckle, aiming for the cruiser’s back window.

  A faint pattern sketched itself into the safety glass, webbing out from the point of impact until the spokes finally reached the edges of the frame. Jack twisted around in the seat and kicked the window with both boots. The curved glass went skittering across the pavement. As Jack crawled out, he did his best to keep the lacerations to a minimum.

  He squatted low on the far side of the cruiser. Keeping to a crouch, he worked his way to the front passenger side. He needed to get to his weapons before he drew that thing’s attention. He looked up. Too late. It had already covered half the distance between them. Blood dripped from a wide swath across its hungry mouth.

  He instantly slackened his focus, keeping the image just a gauzy blur. But even through the haze, he felt the pull of her—of it . . . no, her. It was a her now. That alabaster skin, those flaxen curls, those pale blue eyes. He couldn’t run. He’d never outpace her at this short a distance. Those things were frighteningly fast in close quarters.

  Jack threw open the cruiser door just as she lunged for him. She went sprawling, buying him mere seconds. He reached inside the car, grabbing blindly for the first thing his hand landed on. It came back with one of the auto-snares. Murphy and his Law had delivered to Jack the one piece of equipment in his arsenal that had yet to be battle-tested. Fate would decide things now. Jack kept his eyes focused just above hers. A single look directly into those eyes would be a death sentence. He steadied his mind, knowing he’d only get the one shot at this. He shook the wire loop loose.

  She leaped, sailing through the air toward him. Jack waited till the last instant to pivot. He let her pass, dangling the wire loop like a matador’s cape, and slipped it over her head. Then he yanked hard on the trigger ring. The pin popped with a hollow ping. The wire drew taut. A line of white trickled from the hollow of her throat where it sawed deepest. She dug at it, clawing and screeching that high-pitched wail that echoed through every one of Jack’s nightmares.

  The scream cut to nothing as milky-white foam erupted from her neck. Her head dropped to the macadam with a wet thud. Jack looked to the two cops. One desiccated, the other in full grip of the neurotoxin, irreversible for someone who hadn’t developed an immunity to it. He’d be dead within minutes.

  Jack would have to dispose of the bodies and ditch the car in the murkiest part of the harbor. Still, two officers of the law missing along with all the rest? Questions were about to be raised in New Harbor. Questions no one would want to hear the answers to, and no one would believe them if they did.

  Twenty-nine

  Beth hammered Ryan in the forehead with the heel of her palm. What she connected with felt soft and squishy, not like skull at all. He reeked of the strangest combination of rotting leaves and old pennies. Whatever had happened to Ryan, he wasn’t human, not anymore. He’d been transformed into something else.

  He crushed her against the bar. Beth felt the bones of her spine begin to separate as she tried to keep away from that mouth that was yawning ever wider. Those endless lamprey teeth that were drawing ever closer. Beth punched him, careful
to avoid the gnashing mouth. Again, what she hit felt yielding and moist, like calf liver. The mouth snapped again. She barely dodged the strike. Her hand flailed against the bar and hit something.

  The carton of salt. She lunged for it. The pads of her fingers just brushed the corner of the cardboard box. It slid an inch out of reach—the inch between life and death. Those teeth snapped shut with a wet clack, grazing her exposed jugular. She strained against all hope, her muscles tearing, her tendons popping, but her sweat-slick fingers could find no purchase.

  Beth let herself slip into that calm place, the one she went to when the hordes of customers would descend on her at the bar. When there was nothing at stake besides her pride and her paycheck. When it was still playtime. She arched her back like a cat, pressed her palm flat against the Ryan-thing’s forehead, and pushed with every ounce of strength she had left. It gained her barely half a foot of space between them. Praying it would be enough, Beth let go.

  And slid to the side. The snapping mouth went straight into the bar, gouging out a chunk of the oak. Beth wasted no time grabbing the salt. Flakes filled the air like snow as she lashed out in a flailing arc, aiming for the face, aiming for those eyes.

  A screeching wail hit her like an ice pick to the eardrum. Corrosive smoke rose from the thing’s skin wherever the salt made contact. An acid sulfuric stench choked the air. Her lungs burned, and tears streamed from both eyes. The thing reared back, face half melted like a Paschal candle. It staggered toward her. She whipped it with the salt again, and again, and again. Its wails grew more frantic and desperate, until it finally bowed in submission and crawled under the broken bar table, curling up into a quivering ball.

  Beth tried to catch her breath, to calm her machine-gun heart, to keep from throwing up as the sick rose in the back of her throat. Did she just kill Ryan? Did she just kill her boyfriend? With salt? Could this all really be happening? No. No. Any moment, she’d wake up back at home. Zoë would be there, ready for brunch and mimosas. She’d still have her job. Ryan would be alive, be himself. It would all be back the way it was.