“Shit. Hang on.” He pulls the laptop back in front of him and clicks keys, while I practically sit on my hands to calm myself. “Fuck,” he mutters a few times. Then, finally, he looks at me. “We’re shut out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Either our connection was cut, which means someone knew we were in the system and shut everything down. Or the files were suddenly removed.”
“Will he know it was you?”
“Fuck.” Leon keeps doing stuff on his computer, his hands frantic, his face pale as snow.
I sit back and breathe steadily, trying to keep myself as calm as possible.
The waitress stops at our table with her forced smile, asking us if we need anything, and it takes every ounce of energy for me not to tell her to go the fuck away and leave us alone.
When Leon’s phone vibrates, I jump.
He picks it up and reads the text, then hands it to me. It’s from Marcus to Leon: Our server has been hacked. Where the fuck are you???
“That’s good, right?” I ask. “I mean, if he’s telling you to get the fuck back to work, it means he’s not onto you.”
“Or,” counters Leon, “it means he’s slick, and doesn’t want me to know that he knows what’s going on. So he’s pretending he needs me, when really he just wants to know what I know. Or kill me.” He shrugs. “So I guess I’ll just go back to work.”
“You can’t go back.”
“What choice do I have, Thea?”
“Are you at least carrying?” I ask.
“Carrying what? An extra fifty pounds? You bet.”
“No, asshole. Carrying carrying.”
“Like a gun?”
“Not like a gun. An actual gun.”
“No, Thea. I don’t carry a gun to work on a regular basis. Wait. Why. Do you?” He looks at me with widening eyes.
“Do you know how to use a gun?” I ask.
“Do I . . . sort of. Yeah. I mean, I’ve been to the range a few times with my buddies.”
“Here.” I slide the pistol I’m carrying out of its holster and hand it to Leon under the table. “It’s got fifteen rounds. Only aim at something if you’re planning to shoot. Only shoot to kill. The usual. Got it?”
“Fuck. I don’t know, Thea.”
“The proper response is thanks,” I respond.
“Right. Thanks.” He looks at me with bewildered eyes, like he doesn’t quite know what to make of me. But there’s definitely some respect in them too.
“Be the fuck careful, Leon. I’m going to go do some more research on the guy I replaced and talk to Foster. Text me if anything comes up.”
“Yeah.” He shuts his laptop and sticks it back into his messenger bag. “How’d I get mixed up with you?”
I shrug. “Because I’m so cuddly and loveable, of course.”
“Of course,” he mutters, before walking out of the diner.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, hoping hard that he’s not walking into a trap.
Fay texts me as I’m leaving the diner. I need to see you. Can you stop by? It’s kinda urgent.
Fay’s sweet, and she never takes advantage. So the fact that she’s asking for something means it must be important. I decide to head over there before going back to my place to find out as much as I can about Lance O’Bannon’s and Marcus’s history.
Fay answers the door right away, her face pale and devoid of makeup. She’s visibly shaken, her thin shoulders trembling as she peers over my shoulder before opening the door wide enough to let me in.
“What’s going on, Fay? Sit down.” It’s an order, but she looks like she’s about to fall over.
She sits on the couch rigidly, as though she needs to keep her body alert and ready. “Someone attacked me last night, Thea.”
“Last night? Why didn’t you call me then?” I’m livid. Not at her. At the fact that anyone would want to hurt my beautiful, trembling friend.
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Jesus, Fay! Look at me. You can call me any time, any day. Do you understand? I will be there for you.”
She nods, her beautiful blue eyes brimming with tears.
I take a deep breath and focus on being calm. She does not need me yelling at her after everything she’s been through. “Tell me what happened.”
“Well, I was leaving the club last night . . .” She pauses to pull a fluffy pink throw pillow onto her lap and wrap her arms around it. “I was walking home, and I took a short cut through an alley . . .”
“Fay!” I can’t help interrupting her. “You know that’s dangerous, right?”
“I know. I’m sorry. But I always do it, and so far, it’s always been safe.”
I literally bite my tongue.
“Anyway,” she continues, “I was almost out of the alley, and I just got this weird feeling. Like I was being followed?”
I nod. “You should always trust your gut.”
“So I started running, and I heard someone behind me, running, with heavy feet. He—I think it was a guy at least—was getting closer and closer. I knew I had that pepper spray you gave me. You know, the pink one?” She smiles. “I was rummaging in my purse, and trying to run at the same time. And by the time I found it, the guy was there. Like, right behind me. But I checked to make sure the sprayer was lined up, you know, so I didn’t spray myself in the face?”
I gesture for her to continue.
“The guy grabbed me, Thea. Like, his hand had my arm. He was squeezing and reaching out with his other hand, and I sprayed him right in the face. And closed my eyes like you said. He made this growling angry yell and let go, and I just ran away as fast as I could. Got here. Locked myself inside. And cried for hours. Seriously. It was really, really scary.” Her thin shoulders are trembling again.
“Oh, Fay!” I cup her cheek in my hand. “You were so brave, and you did the exact right thing. You got away. I’m really proud of you.”
“I wouldn’t have gotten away if you hadn’t given me the spray. I owe you . . .”
“Nothing, Fay. You don’t owe me anything. You’re my friend, and friends never owe each other. Got that?”
She nods.
“Did you get a good look at the guy? Did you see anything distinguishing about him?”
She thinks for a few seconds, then shakes her head. “No. It all happened so fast, you know?”
“Yeah. That’s okay. But if you remember anything, any detail at all, write it down immediately. Even if it doesn’t seem important. And did you call the police?”
She looks down, shaking her head.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I was afraid they’d think I was stupid. For being in an alley. For being a stripper. Say I deserved it or something.”
“Fay! No! They wouldn’t say that. You have as much right as anyone else to be safe and protected. Do you understand me?”
“Thanks, Thea.”
“And I think you should move in with me. Just for a while.”
“Oh.” Her eyes open wide. “I mean . . . your place . . .”
“What’s wrong with my place?” I feign offense.
“Nothing, Thea! Your place is really great! It’s just . . . I’m used to . . .”
I laugh. “You like things pretty and nice. And I don’t give a shit how things look. It’s okay to say it.”
“You don’t hate me for saying I like my place better than yours?”
“I’d never hate you.” It’s the truth. “Do you want me to stay here for a while?”
“I don’t know.” She tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “I mean, it’s scary, what happened. But I promise no more alleys. And I’ll carry the pepper spray everywhere. And I’ll text you, like, every few hours.”
“Every hour.”
“Fine.” She laughs, and seeing her finally smile makes me happy. “Can you stay for a while? I have whiskey . . .” She raises her eyebrows.
“Sold.” I settle back onto the couch as she heads t
o the kitchen to get us drinks. I grab the remote and turn on the TV, switching channels until I see something interesting. It’s the news, but what sucks me in is the mention of a mysterious creature. I need to know more.
The news reporter, a heavily made up blonde, is talking with heavy sincerity while staring directly into the camera. “These types of attacks, and the growing number of them, is unprecedented. Local authorities are still unsure exactly who—or what—is behind these bizarre incidents, but they’ve called in the help of local zoologists to try to figure out what, exactly, is going on. Let’s go to Marva Bella at Brookfield Zoo for more.”
The view switches to another reporter, this one slightly more casual, standing with a befuddled looking man. The caption on the screen says it’s Dr. Steven Brewer, Zoologist.
“Dr. Brewer, what do you make of these strange sightings—and killings—in the Chicago area?” asks the reporter.
“Well,” he responds, “it’s all speculation right now. But we’ve had an unusually high—I mean, disturbingly high—number of deaths in pets, mostly dogs, in the western suburbs and even within the Chicago city limits. All of them have been situations we’ve never seen before. Bloodless carcasses left on the dry ground, for example.”
“When you say bloodless, what exactly do you mean?”
“Their bodies are completely drained of blood. And they’re lying on ground that isn’t soaked with blood. So they didn’t bleed out. Their blood was . . . removed. Or drained at a different location and moved. But the latter is less likely, since investigation revealed bite marks on the animals’ necks.”
“Are you saying something sucked the blood from the dogs?” The reporter looks stunned.
“As crazy as it sounds . . .” Dr. Brewer runs a hand through his already-messy hair.
“I mean, are you talking about a vampire?” She laughs as she asks it, but it’s a nervous laugh. Clearly, she doesn’t think anything about this situation is funny.
Fay returns, handing me a glass a third filled with whiskey as she sits silently next to me on the couch.
“Well,” responds Dr. Brewer, “obviously that’s ludicrous.” But he doesn’t sound like he means it.
The original reporter breaks back in. “We’ll keep you up to date on the situation and any developments. Let’s go to Troy with sports.”
“Fucking sports,” I mutter. I hate sports.
“What’s going on? Were they talking about the Vampire Killings?”
“Is that what they’re calling it?”
“Yeah! All these pets? In the suburbs? They’re being killed!” Fay takes a sip of her white wine.
It’s the cryptids, coming to the area in bigger numbers than ever before. When Marcus told me about it the other day, he was visibly worried. He didn’t say much about it, but I feel like it must be connected, somehow, to everything else. I don’t know exactly how or why, but my gut says nothing about this is coincidental. And my gut is almost never wrong. Not to mention Foster said the same thing, and I trust Foster. Grudgingly.
A beer commercial starts playing, but suddenly there’s a buzz, and the newscaster is back on again, her face creased with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. “We’re breaking in live to tell you about a new and quickly developing story! Robin is in downtown Chicago right now with this bizarre and terrifying encounter.”
There’s a second of white noise, and then we see another newscaster, obviously inside a vehicle. Her face is pale and sweaty, her eyes open wide in fear. “I’m here right outside Daley Plaza in downtown Chicago, where a . . . creature is attacking people. Everyone’s running for cover, and I have no idea what that thing is!” She’s losing her composure, her newscaster-speak breaking up as her true fear shines through. “Daniel, can you get a shot of that . . . thing?”
The camera leaves her stricken face and quickly—too quickly—moves back and forth, blurry images passing across the TV screen. I can see the Picasso sculpture, and a giant low-to-the-ground form moving beneath it. Then the camera focuses in on what’s moving, and I see it. All too clearly.
“Oh my God,” whispers Fay as I utter, “Holy fucking shit.”
It’s a giant worm, the length, at least, of two cars end to end. And it’s thick too, two or three feet in diameter. It’s sectioned like an earthworm, its skin shiny and moist as it writhes angrily around the plaza. When I see its mouth, I gasp.
I’ve read about these creatures. Seen drawings. But the actual Mongolian Death Worm, right in front of me—or at least on TV—is something entirely different. The front end of its body is a mass of blackness, hairs and feelers that undulate inward constantly, toward the dark hole of a wide mouth. A mouth that opens even more, enough to fit a human being inside. First, it spits deadly venom to immobilize the victim. Then it waits till all movement stops. Then it opens its horrible orifice wide, wider, sliding the food inside.
It’s not eating anything right now, but just seeing it is terrifying.
“Fay?” I set my whiskey on the coffee table. “Lock all your doors. Keep your pepper spray in hand. I need to go. Are you going to be okay?”
The look on her face is pure shock, probably from what happened last night plus the horror unfolding on the TV in front of us. “Yes,” she whispers.
“You’re tough. You got this.” I wish I had another pistol to leave with her, but I gave the one I was carrying to Leon at lunch.
Outside, I consider my options. Most likely, the police will be called, and they’ll shoot the Mongolian Death Worm on the spot. My instinct is to get down there as fast as possible to take it out, but by the time I get there, it will probably already be dead.
As much as I don’t trust Marcus—at all—I send a group text to him and Leon. You guys watching the news? A Mongolian Death Worm downtown Chicago! Any insights? Ideas?
Jesus fucking Christ texts Leon, and I’m momentarily elated that he’s still alive.
I’ll keep in touch. Marcus’s text is quick, the way he usually is when stressed. I imagine he’s calling his crypto buddies around the country, trying to figure out why this beast has appeared here, in Chicago, in broad daylight. Why it isn’t even bothering to try to stay hidden.
It’s early afternoon, and I turn east, heading to the nearest train station to take the L back to my apartment. Screams interrupt my thoughts, and I spin around to the sound and see a group of people, twenty maybe, running toward me.
The panic on their faces is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s visceral. Genuine. Deep.
I back up against the apartment building, crouching low as I watch the people run past. Something’s chasing them, and I have a good feeling I know what it is. Or at least what type of creature it is.
An unusually large number of cryptids in the suburbs. The Mongolian Death Worm downtown. I’m fairly certain there’s something else strange and foreign coming my way. And in a second I see what it is.
This thing? It doesn’t fit into any category with which I’m familiar. Its head and face are human, but only sort of. The two eyes that stare out in anger are hugely different in size, one tiny, the other taking up at least a quarter of its pale face. Its nose is two small, flat circles in the middle of its face. And its mouth nothing more than a gaping hole without lips, strings of flesh hanging from the upper edge of it, bobbing around as it makes its way toward me.
It’s crawling on hands and knees, but unbelievably fast. I notice that the back legs are short, no longer than the arms, making it easy for the creature to propel itself forward quickly.
Long clumps of tangled hair dance around its face and head as it moves, and as it gets closer I hear a chewy snarling sound.
Its eyes—or eye, really, since I can only see the big one—look at me. Make contact. It roars, and now I see teeth, jagged and uneven, as it opens the gape of a mouth wider in my direction.
And me without a pistol. Dammit.
My knife is strapped around my leg, just above the rise of my boots, and I grab it as fast as I c
an, crouching into a defensive position as I hold the knife in my right hand. I’m ready.
The creature and I eye one another, waiting to see who’s going to strike first. I take a few steps to the right, watching it the whole time, and it crouches lower, snarling some more. Spit hangs in long globules from its frothing mouth.
“You’re fucking ugly,” I whisper, raising my knife arm in front of me.
As if it understands, its growling gets louder. Or maybe it’s just responding to my voice. Either way, I can sense an attack is imminent.
It lunges, crossing the distance between us in a split second, and I jump aside so it lands, hard, on the ground. Its growl this time is louder, angrier, as it throws back its head, then shakes it, spittle flying everywhere.
Before it has a chance to attack me again, I fling myself toward it, knife aiming for its eye. The strange skin looks tough, and I’m not certain how deep I can cut, so the eye, that giant horrific eye, is my best chance for a fatal injury. That’s if this thing even has a brain . . .
But a second before I’m on it, it jumps right over me, and this time I fall to the ground—or almost do. I manage to land on my feet in a low crouch and turn quickly, just in time to see it making another move.
It lunges again, its terrible little paw-hands—they’re a strange mix of the two—with all their nails extended ready to slice me to pieces.
“Fucker,” I gasp as I jump and kick at the same time, directly hitting it in the face and sending it flying, then scurrying back a few feet.
The creature emits a barking growl, like a mixture of a dog and a lion, shaking its head in anger. The thing is pissed. But so am I.
I steady myself, keeping low and loose, knife ready. When it jumps my way, instead of darting out of its path, I hold my ground, taking only one step back, then lunging forward, driving my blade hard and fast into its yellowish eye.
The screech pains my ears so all I can hear is buzzing. I’m probably fucking deaf now.
But I don’t step back or retreat. Instead I push the knife in, my hand feeling the wet gel of the damaged eyeball. My other arm circles around its neck, the skin slick and scaly under my fingers, as I pull it toward me while pushing the knife farther in.
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