His brother, Bob, had bought the airline tickets for him and got him out here. Thank God Bob had pestered him; otherwise Rick might not have bothered. The mere thought of boarding a plane was bad enough; knowing he’d be just miles away from the Delaware River, which fed into the Atlantic, flipped him out. No way was he ever going anywhere within one hundred miles from an ocean ever again. That’s why he eventually wound up in North Dakota. The only thing in North Dakota was plenty of open prairies sprinkled here and there with people who talked funny, like in that movie Fargo. It drove Rick absolutely bat-shit for the first year. Now he was used to it.
The only good thing about North Dakota: there was no large body of water anywhere near where he lived. He was smack dab in the middle of flyover country. Nothing could get him out there. No Dark Ones, no Clickers, not even a goddamned sea gull.
A mild breeze lifted his hair from his shoulders, blew it around. The day was warm, the air humid. Rick’s hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Everybody in the family commented last night that he still wore his hair long. It was rapidly receding from his forehead so he felt he had to compensate. Shortly after he and Melissa went underground, he’d cut it all off and worn it short for several years. He looked nothing like his former self now; his black hair was graying rapidly, his face had more age lines in it than he ever thought he’d have at this age, and he favored glasses now instead of the contact lenses he used to wear. Where before he’d been somewhat muscular, now he was rail-thin. And then there was the mustache and goatee, which gave him the appearance of a bespectacled college professor.
He felt sweaty beneath the white T-shirt he was wearing. He checked his watch. Five after four. The urge to call Colonel Livingston had hit him the minute he started seeing what was going on in the news that was flashing on the television in the waiting room. Everybody had been glued to it, and Rick had almost screamed in terror and bolted from the hospital. He’d had to fight his nerves not to make a scene, had to bite back the words that wanted to blurt forth in response to everybody in the waiting room wondering, “Oh my God, what are those things?”
(They’re Clickers and they’re going to eat your flabby asses if you don’t get up now and get the hell out of here!)
“They look like some kind of weird-looking crab…and are those things stingers?”
(Fuck yes, they’re stingers, what are you, blind?)
“They’re huge!”
(Yes they are—much fucking bigger than the ones I saw before.)
“This can’t be happening, this has to be one of those Ashton Kutcher-things…you know, that show Punked? That’s what this is, a joke, right?”
(This is CNN, you shit-for-brains worthless piece of shit who should be in my mother’s place, this is not a fucking joke, and if you don’t shut the fuck up now, I’m going to drive you down there myself and feed you to those goddamn things!)
And it had went on until Rick finally walked out of the waiting room, telling his brother that “he had to get a breath of fresh air,” and made it outside before he could vomit.
He’d started to go back inside and that was when his relatives arrived, so he’d remained outside. He’d caught his breath, fighting the nausea down, and then he’d called Colonel Livingston.
Then he’d sat on the bench for the next five minutes, contemplating his next call.
I’ve got to tell Melissa, he’d thought. I’ve got to warn her, hell, she’s probably seeing this shit now on the news, it’s all over now, CNN is broadcasting and I bet Fox and MSNBC are reporting on it, it has to be nationwide by now, so yeah, she probably knows, besides, she’s not going to want to hear from me after all the bullshit that’s been happening, she could care less what happens to me anyway, she—
The chiming of his cellular phone startled him. His stomach fluttered and he pulled his phone out and flipped it open.
Jessica Barron. Melissa’s new name, post-Phillipsport.
He pressed the connect button and put it to his ear. “Hey.”
“Rick?”
He cringed. “No, this is William.”
“Right.” She paused. “Sorry about that. I’m upset.”
“What’s wrong…? Jessica?” He stumbled over the false name, but Rick had a feeling he knew why she was upset.
“Are you watching the news?”
“Yeah,” Rick said. “I see what’s happening.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s happening again.” He could hear Melissa’s son, Jacob, in the background, chortling with other children. Jacob was probably five by now. Melissa had married a guy named Thomas Barron in 1998 and they had two kids, Jacob and a little girl named Stephanie. “This is unreal, this is—”
“I talked to our friend. The old man.”
Melissa fell silent. “What did he say?”
“They called him back to active duty. He was just leaving when I called him.”
“You didn’t—”
“Stay on the phone long? Hell no. You know me better than that.”
He could hear her shuffling stuff in the background; she was probably doing housework or dishes or something. Her husband made good money in his job, enabling Melissa to play housewife. “So he knows this is the real deal…that this is everything you warned him about?”
“I don’t know,” Rick said. A wave of paranoia came over him. He casually looked around, checked out his surroundings. A couple of people were walking to and from the hospital. Everything seemed normal. “I’d like to think so.”
“I just can’t believe it,” Melissa went on. She was babbling, and while Rick shared her fear he couldn’t deal with it. Mom was ten stories above him in the hospital, dying, and he was a thousand miles away from home, near the Atlantic Ocean where all this shit was happening again. “This is just unreal, this is just—”
“Listen, I gotta go.”
“—oh…okay—”
Tell her, he thought. “Mel…Jessica, my mom has cancer. She’s dying, and I’m in Philly now.”
Stone silence for a minute. Then, “I’m so sorry.”
He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I got in last night. I…I can hardly stand being here, being so close to the ocean. I mean, I know it’s a good two or three hour drive to the nearest beach, but that’s too close for me and—”
“I understand,” Melissa said, and he immediately knew this to be the truth. In the years that had passed since Phillipsport they’d talked about this fear often. Melissa had developed a fear of the ocean too, but hers wasn’t as pervasive as his. Rick couldn’t even stand looking at a picture of the ocean. And forget ocean documentaries on TV. Every time he thought of or saw the ocean, he thought of what really lurked beneath it. “If there’s anything I can do, please…”
“I know…and thank you.” For a minute, Rick felt a pang of loss. Melissa was too good for him. Sometimes he wondered why she still put up with him. Eight years after they broke up and she was still putting up with his bullshit dramas, still wanting to help him. Melissa had adapted quite well after they’d gone into hiding.
“How long are you going to be in Philly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well…if you need anything…call me.”
“I will.”
“It’s a good thing this is on the news,” Melissa said. Jacob’s voice faded from the background; it sounded like Melissa went into a more quiet part of the house. “You can monitor things better. You’ll know when to cut and run if you have to.”
“Exactly. Listen, I gotta go.”
“Okay. Call me.”
“I will.” They ended the call and Rick sat on the bench, fighting back tears from his eyes as he wondered how his life could spiral into such a mess.
First Phillipsport and its horrors...then the loss of his identity, which resulted in the eventual loss of his writing career when he’d been forced to give it up after finishing the novel he had started in Maine in order to keep the feds off his tail…then the loss of Melissa
when their romance, which started shortly after they went on the lam and went into hiding together, disintegrated. What followed were feelings of inadequacy, failure, loss, and fear, and he sought to numb it with a constant flow of alcohol and various affairs with women. The only positive thing in his life the past eight years was his bookstore, which he ran out of a small strip mall in Fargo, and his daughter, Melanie, who was now five and who he had with his ex-girlfriend, Ashley. Naturally, he’d fucked things up with Ashley and she’d left him. If he wasn’t such a neurotic freak-show about things like flying and being near water, he’d be fine.
He was seeing a woman named Janet Ellwood now. Janet worked some corporate job in a high rise building in downtown Fargo. She made good money and was very into her career, which suited Rick fine. He considered her a fuck buddy more than anything, while he secretly pined for Ashley.
God he was such a fuck-up!
His cell phone rang. The display lit up, showing that it was his brother, Bob, calling.
Rick flipped the phone open, put it to his ear. “Yeah.”
“You better come up,” Bob said. His brother sounded awfully numb, like he couldn’t believe he was dealing with this. “She’s…she’s…the doctor’s say…”
“Uncle Ted? Aunt Rita?”
“Gone already. They said…they said their good-byes already.”
“I’m coming.” Rick got up, disconnected the call and headed back to the hospital, wondering how he was going to get through this nightmare.
Chapter Five
St. Augustine, Florida
6:05 PM
“Hurricane? What hurricane?”
Gary Tucker walked along the beach, enjoying himself. He was completely and totally alone. As far as he knew, everyone else had heeded the evacuation order and bugged out of town. Idiots. Now the storm had changed course, heading farther north. They’d fled for nothing. But not him. No sir. Gary Tucker didn’t jump just because The Man said so. He’d been here twenty-two years, operating his kite shop, and he wasn’t leaving for nothing.
Besides, the hurricane was called Gary. That had to count for something.
He looked up into the sky again. The wind was calm, and the air was heavy with moisture from humidity. Earlier in the day, the sky had been obsidian, the clouds pregnant and swollen. But not now. Now, the sky was clear. The hurricane had changed course, gone north.
“Good riddance.”
St. Augustine was a ghost town. The boardwalk was lonely and sparse. There were still a few people in the water, renegade surfers and beach outlaws, ignoring the National Guardsmen just as he was. He liked it when the beach was deserted like this. Even without the evacuation order, it was like this most evenings. The stragglers would eventually tear themselves away and head off to the bars or back to their hotel rooms to change, leaving the beach momentarily deserted until the teenagers showed up for their impromptu parties. They would arrive by the carload and build bonfires at the campsites and sneak cases of beer in. There would be drunken reveling, loud music, and a couple of lucky people might wander off in pairs to get it on in the dark, away from the bonfires. It would be exciting again. Gary liked excitement, and that’s why he lived near the beach. It’s why he came out to enjoy himself and feel the essence of the community.
The hurricane would have promised excitement, too, and Gary was mildly disappointed that it hadn’t shown.
He’d seated himself at an abandoned snack food stand and was watching the surfers when he saw the giant crab lunge out of a wave. It grasped the surfer, clinging to his back like a misshapen lover. Both man and monster vanished into the surf. More of the creatures scuttled onto the sand.
Gary perked up, heart racing, fear surging through his veins. Of course he’d heard the news. It was all everybody was talking about—these giant crabs or lobsters or scorpions or some weird things that were coming out of the ocean attacking people. It was happening from Myrtle Beach all the way to Boston. They weren’t supposed to be this far south, though. He hadn’t heard about any attacks in Florida at all.
But now they were coming, and Gary had only twenty seconds to get up to scramble away from the boardwalk and try making a run for it to his car when he was overtaken. The creatures’ size belied their speed. Something heavy landed on his back, bringing him to the ground hard, and something sharp jabbed his neck. Both the pain and the pressure were incredible. Gary screamed as his fingers, lips and other appendages began to swell. The weight on his back crushed the air from his lungs. His skin began to sizzle and sloughed off.
Soon, the beach was deserted again.
* * *
Fort Detrick
Fredrick, Maryland
7:33 PM
The world was going to hell.
Colonel Livingston stood in a control room half a mile beneath the base golf course. The command center had been carved into solid bedrock during the heyday of the Cold War, and was totally self-sufficient. It had its own power plant, air filtration system, communications network—including radio, phone, internet, and satellite—water and food supplies, and a peacetime skeleton staff that had just been tripled over the last few hours. Along with similar underground bunkers in nearby Camp David and Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, it provided a complete support network and shelter for government leaders in case the unthinkable happened.
Like now, for instance.
The corridors echoed with footsteps and voices, ringing phones and barked orders and grim reports, but no laughter or whispered conversations. This was a moment of national crisis, and Fort Detrick was the center of the storm.
Massive flat screens lined the command center’s walls, each one tuned to a different news source—CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, BBC, and local affiliates out of Maryland, Virginia, New Jersey, Delaware, and elsewhere along the Eastern Seaboard. Much like the rest of the world, the military got much of its real time intelligence from media sources on the ground. Other screens broadcast raw data from the National Weather Service, National Hurricane Center, and maritime sources, all keyed in on Hurricane Gary’s bizarre change of course. Several monitors displayed websites and internet news feeds, and monitored real time online chats and communications.
None of the news was good and with each passing moment it grew steadily worse.
“So big,” he muttered. “Bigger than the ones before…”
The official death toll was thirty-five. That was the number being parroted by the media. The Pentagon and the Office of Homeland Security had both been quick in putting a lid on press reports and suppressing news coverage now, anxious for their own public relations people to put a spin on things. But the leaks were already starting to pop up, mostly via the internet. Even those leaks were far from the mark in the death toll.
The unofficial death toll was three thousand and rising by the hour.
The National Guard had been called in at every major city on the East Coast and the mayors of New York City, Boston, Washington D.C., Baltimore, and Norfolk had put their city’s police forces on tactical alert. Soon after, the governors of New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina had declared a state of emergency, adding to the states of emergency already declared in the southern states when Hurricane Gary had been hurtling towards them. All the major news outlets were on the story and it had eclipsed the last minute course change and imminent arrival of Hurricane Gary. The Secretary of Defense, Joint Chiefs, and every available cabinet member were in a closed door meeting with the President at the White House, and the promised press conference had now been postponed three times.
Military and a handful of civilian personnel buzzed around the room monitoring radios and computers. More phones rang. The shrill noise was incessant. In a glass-paneled office, a General was shouting orders over the phone.
Livingston closed his eyes for a second and let the symphony of well-organized chaos wash over him. He felt strangely calm. He had entered this world a soldier; he had a feeling he was going to go out a soldier. This was going
to be his last battle. He was sure of it.
He opened his eyes again. A pale-faced corporal thrust a clipboard in his hands. Livingston signed the paperwork without reading it. The frightened soldier hurried off.
Livingston turned his attention back to the screens. The news seemed to have grown worse in the few brief moments his attention had wavered. The creatures had already made their way inland in the major cities they’d washed ashore at and there were more reports of massive casualties and injuries. It was like the Los Angeles Riots, the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks, and World War II all rolled up in one. Most of Martha’s Vineyard was on fire. Police had opened fire on a crowd in Washington. The bottom two floors of Donald Trump’s casino in Atlantic City were burning out of control, and many of the other establishments were being looted. Inland areas were no safer. Not only were there the problems associated with an influx of coastal evacuees, but civilians were shooting at neighbors, strangers—anything that moved, convinced they were Clickers. And the latest news from the National Weather Service was that Hurricane Gary had gained strength to a Category 5 storm and was barreling straight for the Chesapeake Bay. That put it on a collision course with Baltimore. It was expected to make landfall by midnight.
Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and downtown district were a grid-locked nightmare, and nobody could get in or out, except on foot. Likewise, evacuations had now been ordered for DC, Roanoke, Virginia, and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The Mayor of New York City hadn’t ordered an evacuation yet, but all the major tunnels were clogged with traffic heading out. In short, it was a goddamned mess. Add to that the continuing chaos in the south, as residents of the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida now tried to get back into their abandoned cities—positive that the danger had passed. Livingston had quickly convinced his superiors to put a stop to that. The coastal areas of the south were still dangerous, even without the threat of the hurricane. They were nothing more than oceanfront smorgasbords for the invading Clickers.
Clickers II: The Next Wave Page 7