Lot Lizards

by Ray Garton

  A hand touched his shoulder and he jerked around, startled, to see Doug standing beside him. The man's mouth worked silently at first, struggling to find the right thing to say, then he looked away a moment.

  "Look," he said finally, "I just want to say, urn, that I'm sorry about, urn, not taking you seriously before. I thought maybe you were...oh, I don't know what I thought."

  "Forget it. Really." Bill tried to smile. "It's not the kind of thing that's easy to take seriously."

  Hesitantly, Doug took a seat beside him.

  "How're the girls?" Bill asked.

  "Fine. They're over there with Jon." He nodded toward a table where the girls sat with their brother sipping cans of Pepsi. "They talk about you a lot, you know. All three of them. Especially Jon. They've missed you."

  Bill felt as if he were expected to say something, but only nodded, and his silence seemed to embarrass Doug. "What are you going to do for transportation once the freeway's open?" Bill asked.

  Shrugging, Doug said, "Once the freeway's open, we'll be able to get a tow truck out here, I suppose. But if that takes too long, I'll probably rent a car and send Adelle on ahead to her mother's."

  The two of them stared out the window for a while. Patches of the darkness outside moved, seemed to ooze this way and that around the parked cars like black mud, and Bill knew it was them. They were out there, waiting, thinking, deciding what to do, how to get inside the restaurant where a magnificent buffet awaited them, with desserts of children and infants...

  An elderly woman in the far rear corner of the restaurant began to sing "Rock of Ages" in a frail, cracked voice and, a few lines into the hymn, others joined her, until nearly everyone on that side of the restaurant was singing, some with spirit, others in mournful voices that wandered off key.

  Bill turned his eyes to Doug, who was still watching the parking lot. Not a bad looking man. He seemed nice enough. And he appeared to be protective over A.J. and the kids.

  "How did you meet?" Bill asked. "You and A.J."

  Doug hesitated, uncomfortable. "Um, at work. The hospital. I'm a-yum, an X-ray tech." His eyebrows shot up and he looked surprised at his own words, as if he realized he'd just made some horrible gaffe, and added quickly, "But not until, you know, until after you'd left, I mean, there was nothing between us when you two were—"

  Bill closed his eyes and held up a hand. "That's okay. Don't worry about it."

  Doug sighed as if he felt he'd failed to say what he wanted to say.

  Quietly: "Do you love her, Doug?"

  He became fidgety. "Yeah. I love her. Very much. And those kids," he added, looking Bill in the eyes. "They're great kids. But...well, you know, that doesn't mean you couldn't come around and, you know, see them. Like I said, they've missed you."

  Bill ground his teeth and scrubbed his cold face hard with a trembling hand. He didn't want to hear what he thought was coming.

  "In fact," Doug went on, "once this is all over, you could come by once in a while. Spend some time with them. I know it'll be uncomfortable at first, but I think they'd really—"

  Bill averted his eyes, shaking his head vigorously. "No, Doug," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry but no, that's...not gonna happen." He stood and walked away from the counter as...

  ...Jenny stroked Shawna's forehead. She was so pale, her eyes nestled so deep in her dark sockets. Blood had been splattered on her face and in what remained of her hair. Jenny held a cloth to the wound on Shawna's neck, checking now and then to see that the bleeding was continuing to slow. The skin around the bite had turned a mottled purple and yellow and become puffy.

  "They hurt Mrs. Tipton," Shawna whispered tremulously. "I think...maybe they killed her."

  "Don't worry about that now, honey. Just try to hold still and relax and—"

  —stay alive, try to stay alive like you've been doing for the last year, Shawna, please—

  "—think about something nice." The restaurant had grown so cold that her breath wafted from her mouth like a small ghost each time she spoke.

  "It bit me."

  "I know, honey, but that thing is gone now. It's not gonna hurt you anymore." It was such an effort to keep her voice steady, to keep from falling apart in the face of the possibility that Shawna's wound might become infected, which, thanks to the virus, could kill her just as easily as the cancer. She wished the nurse or doctor would come back; it was easier to maintain herself when they were there to help.

  The man named Bill returned to Jenny's side and gave Shawna a little smile. "How's it going?"

  "Okay," Shawna answered flatly.

  Speaking in a soothing voice, Bill asked her if she'd seen anyone else in the trailer where the monster had bitten her. She described a boy and Bill nodded, said that was his son, that he was all right now, and asked if there was anyone else.

  "Just two ladies. They were mean. They hurt Mrs. Tipton and took me from the house. They were real white. Sick-looking, maybe. Like us."

  "Okay." He patted Shawna's shoulder and said, "Don't worry about them. They're not coming in, because we've—"

  Byron came to Bill's side and clutched his arm urgently. "Gotta talk a sec. I got an idea. C'mon over here." He led Bill to the coffee counter where they spoke quietly.

  Jenny watched them, feeling afraid again. Was something else wrong? Had things gotten worse? She reached down absently and took Shawna's hand, squeezing it as she watched the two men, watched their lips moving so quickly, their brows frowning, heads nodding rapidly. Byron pulled something from his coat pocket, a small box; he opened it, reached inside and produced what looked like a bullet. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he gestured with it, still talking fast, then paused, waiting for Bill's response. Suddenly, they turned and looked at her at once and moved toward her as Byron returned the bullet to its box and the box to his pocket. She waited, but they said nothing for a long moment, exchanged hesitant glances, then squatted beside her.

  "Jenny, honey," Byron said, his deep voice soft and uncertain, "we're gonna need your help."

  There was something about the way he said it that made Jenny slide an arm under Shawna's shoulders and hold her closer to her side. "What? I mean, how?"

  Another pause, another reluctant glance between the two men. Then Bill said, "We think the reason that thing died—" With a nod toward the mess on the floor. "—had something to do with your daughter. It bit your daughter, and...she has AIDS."

  Jenny's insides began to shrink with dread. "Yuh-you wanna use my buh-baby for some kind of—"

  "No, no," Byron whispered, squeezing her arm. "It's just a guess, but it's all we got to go on, and in case we're right, and in case all that garlic out there don't work...well, what we need is... we need some of your daughter's blood."

  Jenny's eyes widened and she held Shawna even closer, hissing, "Are you out of your fucking mind, you want me to give you—you think I'll—my God, how can you—" She stopped, took a breath and started to get up, telling Shawna, "You wait just a second, sweetheart, I'll be right buh—"

  The little girl gripped Jenny's hand hard, harder than Jenny thought she could, and said, "They think maybe I killed the monster, Momma? That maybe I can stop the others?"

  "You nevermind, honey, I'm gonna go talk to these men and—"

  "Is that what they think?" Her eyes were brighter than Jenny had seen them in a long time and she sucked her lower lip between her teeth, lifting her head from Jenny's rolled up coat, frowning.

  Jenny glanced at Byron, then Bill. They both nodded. Shawna saw their silent replies and squeezed Jenny's hand again, saying as firmly as she could, 'Then I want to help."

  Bill and Byron sat at the coffee counter with the box of bullets open and the bullets lined up before them. Each wore rubber dishwashing gloves and held a cloth that had been soaked with Shawna Lake's AIDS infected blood. One at a time, they picked up a bullet, held it delicately between thumb and forefinger and squeezed the cloth around it, coating it with the blood; the bloody bullet
was then returned to the counter in another line. As they worked, they watched the window, catching glimpses of figures moving in the darkness outside, watching them.

  "This might not work," Bill muttered.

  "How come?"

  "Well, I don't know how long the virus will last on a bullet out in the open, know what I mean? And it’s being shot through a gun. And a bullet isn't exactly a sponge. A bunch of reasons, know what I mean?"

  "Yeah, yeah, we're grabbin' at straws, I know, but what the hell else we gonna grab at? Tell you what," Byron said, turning to him. "You come up with a fool-proof idea and I'll drop this one like a bad habit."

  Bill nodded in agreement and they continued in silence.

  As the minutes passed, Bill noticed his hands were trembling more and more. A knot grew in his stomach slowly but surely, becoming almost unbearable. It was a feeling he'd had before, a year ago, when he was unfamiliar with his condition. He'd always likened it to watching the most suspenseful scenes in the best of Hitchcock's movies: a gut-tightening feeling that continued to grow worse until the movie's payoff. But this feeling had no payoff. It just became more intense, more painful, and it meant only one thing...

  The sun was rising.

  That was when the screaming began outside in the darkness as...

  ...Phil and Claude Carsey stopped struggling against the ropes that tied them. They sat still and listened to the sounds that were coming from all around outside.

  "The fuck is that?" Claude barked, out of breath.

  Phil just listened, chest heaving.

  It grew even louder and both men felt their scrotums shriveling as they realized what they were hearing.

  "It's them," Claude breathed.

  "Shit... sunrise."

  "What’re they doin' out there? How come they ain't found a place to hide? How come they ain't in the trucks?"

  "The fuck am I s' posed t’ know?"

  They listened as it grew louder still, as if it were coming closer...

  ...closer...

  ...dangerously close, until—

  —it sounded as if it were right outside—

  "The window!" Phil cried in a shrill voice.

  "Holy shit!" Claude shouted, slamming his back against his brother's, struggling against the ropes. "Get us outta here! Somebody get us outta here for the love of Gaawwwd!"

  The brothers fell on their sides and craned their necks to look up at the window, which was completely blocked by a wall of leering faces. They continued screaming for help, begging for rescue, but...

  ...panic was breaking out in the restaurant and, above the voices of the frightened patrons, no one heard the two men in the basement.

  Byron had already loaded his gun with six bloody bullets and was on his feet facing the window shouting, "What the hell's that?"

  Bill rose slowly, his entire body tense and aching. 'The sun's...coming up," he whispered.

  "What's that mean?"

  "Means...if they don't...if we don't...find shelter...we're gonna die."

  Byron spun on him, shouting, "What the hell you mean, we're gonna—" He froze, staring at Bill, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. From the look on Byron's face, Bill thought it was probably best that he couldn't see himself, but he couldn't resist lifting a hand and touching his cheek.

  His skin felt like beef jerky.

  Byron looked as if he were about to speak, but no sound came from his mouth; if it did, Bill couldn't hear it above the voices of the crowd. Bill leaned close to him and rasped, "Calm them down. Tell 'em...it's good...whaf s happening. They're dying out there."

  After a moment, Byron turned and shouted, "Hey! Everybody just quiet down, here! C'mon, no, just—" When he realized it wasn't working, he pointed the gun in the air and fired.

  The voices fell to a murmur.

  "Nobody panic, now, y'hear? What you're hearing out there is good. It means—" He stopped mid-sentence and, along with Bill and everyone else, listened.

  It was quiet outside.

  "What happened?" Byron whispered.

  Just the whining of the wind. And something else, something softer. Voices...muffled, screaming voices...

  Bill frowned and rasped, "Sounds like...like it's coming from... from the base—"

  "Basement!" Byron shouted. "The fuckin' basement! We forgot to cover the window to the fuckin' basement!"

  Byron dashed around Bill toward the hallway that led to the basement door as the crowd's panic began to grow again. Bill fell against the counter and closed his eyes when the realization struck him, his stomach sinking as if it were filled with lead.

  The voices belonged to the Carsey Brothers.

  The lot lizards had gotten into the building.

  Bill knew he wouldn't be the only one who would not see daylight...

  CHAPTER 19

  Momma'd kick my nigger ass to hell and back, she knew I did some dumbfuck thing like that, Byron thought angrily as he ran across the restaurant toward the rear corridor wondering how he could have possibly neglected to see that garlic was placed outside the basement window as well as all the others. He took his flashlight from his jacket pocket, suddenly aware of the fact that his bowels needed to move.

  What had always seemed to be a short, unthreatening corridor seemed to stretch on forever as he moved into deeper and deeper darkness. The closer he got to the basement door, the better he could hear a sound that was coming from the other side, and a few feet from the door, he slowed his pace to a fast walk, listening.

  He couldn't make it out yet, but it was not a voice or footsteps. It sounded more like...sloshing.

  His keys jangled as he found the master and slipped it into the lock.

  The sound continued.

  He turned the key and pushed the door open.

  The sound became more distinct.

  It was wet and thick and came from the darkness below.

  Sucking.

  The flashlight beam pierced the darkness as it swept down the stairs searching for the source of the sound. The saucer of light passed over a few feet of dirty concrete floor, a couple of crates and—

  —a pair of shapely female legs on their knees, then two more, and slender white arms splashed with black-red and a face smeared with it and—

  —Byron tried to gasp but his lungs failed to work as he looked down at the swarm of pale bloody faces that rose quickly from the glistening mess that used to be the Carsey brothers and looked up at him.

  He spent a moment in eternity at the top of those stairs, locked in the gaze of dozens of startled eyes glittering in the beam of his flashlight. Byron thought briefly of his mother's smile as a wet throaty hiss rose from below and the girls moved as one toward the stairs. He made a small pathetic sound—not unlike the sound he used to make as a child when he was afraid-—and raised the gun, firing twice into the mass of bloody grinning faces pushing upward toward him, but the gunshots had no effect and the sound he made grew louder as he dropped the flashlight, backed into the corridor and pulled the door shut, clenching his fist around the knob to keep it from being turned from the other side as he screamed down the dark corridor, "Everybody out! Get out of the building! Everybody get out noowww!"

  A chorus of screams erupted in the restaurant. Running feet stormed over the floor in a rush of movement; glass shattered and men and women shouted incoherently.

  The knob jiggled in Byron's hand and he tightened his grip, pointed the gun and emptied it into the door. It did no good. Fists pounded the door and the collective hiss from the other side became a guttural snarl.

  "Byron!"

  Dropping the gun and clutching the doorknob with both hands, Byron looked to the other end of the corridor and saw Bill leaning against the wall unsteadily, holding one of the hologen lanterns at chest level, his face lost in shadow. Behind him, through the windows, Byron could see the first dull ghost of daylight in the iron sky.

  "Byron! Come outside! Hurry! They won't last long out there! Just run! "Bill lifted the lantern
a bit higher so his face was bathed in its harsh white glow. His pale skin had become dry and flakey, wrinkling deeply around his eyes and mouth. He looked twenty years older.

  Byron opened his mouth to tell Bill to find his wife and kids and go and he would follow, but realized that Bill wouldn't last long out there either and before he could say anything—

  —the door cracked and splintered and a bloodied arm shot through the jagged opening, a hand slapped onto the side of Byron's face and closed hard, digging nails into his flesh and slamming his head against the door.

  He could hear Bill shouting at him pleadingly, but the voice sounded far away as the hand pulled his head against the door again and again and he released the doorknob, pushing with both hands against the door, trying to pull away from the vice-like grip, but—

  —the fingernails had punched through his cheek and the fingers were curled behind his lower teeth, the thumb stabbing upward beneath his jaw, its hold powerful and unrelenting, and—

  —Byron screamed as the door opened and the arms slid out of the darkness, embracing him like tentacles, and hands tore at his clothes, fangs ripped his flesh and tongues lapped at his blood.

  He fought at first, writhing on the floor, flailing and kicking, but the pain became too great, the screams of his attackers too loud, and as his own blood gurgled in his throat and spattered into his eyes, Byron wondered who would mop up the mess as...

  ...Bill backed away from the corridor feeling helpless and angry at both himself and Byron. Unable to watch the blood bath a few yards away, he turned toward the panic in the restaurant.

  People were running in all directions: some from the restaurant toward the front doors, others from the store into the restaurant calling the names of children and spouses.

  Leaning against walls and counters and chairs, Bill walked unsteadily into the chaos holding the lantern up and searching for A.J. and the kids.

  On the floor just a few feet in front of him was Jenny Lake. She was huddled protectively over Shawna screaming to no one in particular, "What's happening my God what's happening what's—"