He felt numb. Shell-shocked.
His mother was dead.
Rick barely noticed the wind outside moaning around the motel’s eaves. He hadn’t bothered to shut the shades. The lights in the parking lot were out. The sky was dark, much darker at this hour than it normally was this time of year. It had been bright and sunny earlier. When he’d gone back into the hospital after his brother called him it had been a typical Pennsylvania summer; high eighties, with high humidity. When he came out an hour later the sky was already starting to darken, as if the atmosphere had sensed his general dreary mood.
The hospital…
When Rick arrived back in ICU, his family was in his mom’s room, gathered around her. A nurse was monitoring a bunch of equipment that was hooked up to his mother’s drained and emaciated frame on the bed. His father, his brother and his wife, Leslie, his sister, Patricia, and her husband Tom, were all standing around the bed. Pat was crying; his brother Bill was fighting the tears back. Rick had joined them, unable to take his eyes off his mother’s comatose figure. Patricia was holding their mother’s hand, crying and whispering to her, their father was standing over their mother softly stroking her forehead, and then a sudden sound broke the spell—the steady whine of the machine signifying flat-line.
Flat-line.
And Rick could do nothing but look down in numbing shock at his dead mother.
There’d been quiet tears, consoling words. Rick had retreated away from the group and looked out the window, memories of childhood flashing in his mind. He had no idea how long he was standing there until he felt a hand on his shoulder. “How you doing, little brother?”
And Rick had turned to Bill and before he knew it he was hugging him, letting the tears fall, letting the hurt seep through. He felt his brother’s strong embrace, felt comforted momentarily by his big brother who, when they were kids, was always there for him, was always there to help him learn to ride his bike, always staying at his side to catch him if he fell off it; or who showed him how to bait a hook and go fishing; who taught him how to play baseball; who introduced him to the world of comic books, providing him his first copies of Spiderman and The Man Thing back when he was ten years old. He cried as the memories of their shared childhood rushed past him quickly, like a movie on fast forward. Tom had talked to the hospital administrators and they told everybody outside of the room an hour after Mom died, that the body would be released to Good’s Funeral Home in a few days. If it wasn’t for the impending arrival of Hurricane Gary it would probably be released tomorrow, but they didn’t want to chance it. Bill had suggested everybody reconvene at his house and that’s what they’d done. An hour later they were in Reamstown, gathered in the living room sharing their grief. Rick had been with them all, for once happy to be with his family, but then it had become too much for him and he’d excused himself and gone to his room.
He’d glanced out the window, saw a non-descript black sedan cruise slowly past. Moments later, it went by again.
He’d left within moments, hurriedly saying his good-byes, insisting he had to leave, that his presence in the house was endangering the others. His family had protested, but he’d done his best to explain. Then he drove to the airport, checking the rearview mirror during the entire journey. At the airport, he’d circled around through the parking garage, and then drove back out again, confident that he’d lost any tail he might have had. He’d driven through Lancaster County, passing by Amish farms and inner city projects, and then had crossed the Susquehanna River into York County.
And had ended up stranded here after martial law was declared.
For a long while he’d tried to force himself to cry again, to feel the pain. To grieve. And despite the level of sadness he felt, for some reason the tears wouldn’t come. It was like they were stuck, clogged up.
So he’d watched the wind whip the trees outside, and then sat at the motel room’s desk, plugged in his laptop, and booted his computer up. The television was turned off. They’d warned him the cable was out when he checked in. In the room next to his, Jeanne Pruett had given way to Johnny Russell’s “Rednecks, White Socks and Blue Ribbon Beer.” Rick winced. Whatever the radio station was, it reminded him of where old country music songs went to die.
It was a habit of Rick’s to check his email. He did it anytime he found himself in front of a computer. Sometimes, it took his mind off the still-powerful urge to write. He wondered if that desire would ever leave him. Probably not. Writing was in the blood, and it didn’t leave you just because you were assumed dead and living under a bogus identity. Once or twice in the past few years, Rick had toyed with the idea of writing a new novel and submitting it under a pseudonym, but had ultimately decided it was too risky. Rick’s style, while not literary, was distinctive, and he couldn’t chance someone recognizing it.
He went through the tasks of logging into his internet account mindlessly, barely aware of what he was doing. There weren’t many pressing messages to deal with. There was one from his current girlfriend, Janet, asking if he was okay. She’d seen the news coverage, obviously. And there was one from Ashley telling him their daughter was asking for him and telling him business at the bookstore was going good, and wondering if he was anywhere near the beach. Rick answered both of them, telling them Mom had passed away earlier that afternoon and that he was safe and that he’d call them tomorrow, as soon as the hurricane passed. Then he’d signed out of his email account and was now just blindly surfing the web.
Of course, he couldn’t help but be drawn into what was going on. The net service was sporadic and slow. He couldn’t get into CNN.com or Foxnews.com, so he tried alternate news sites.
The storm was coming. Water was coming. Rick didn’t care. He should have. He was terrified of such things now, but it barely registered with him. Even the news that the Clickers had moved inland and were still on their onslaught didn’t bother him or set him to absolute terror the way he thought it would.
His mother was dead.
Rick read a few of the online news stories of unrest in major cities due to the chaos, of giant Clickers attacking and devouring people by the dozens. He read about the Army amassing in various parts of the country, he read of the National Guard going in, he read reports that the things were being killed. But that didn’t cure his pain.
He lurked on various message boards and news groups, and observed silently in chat rooms, trying to find something that would move him, make him feel. Rick read accounts of various posters’ personal experiences. Some reported what the major news outlets were already reporting. Others were reporting stuff they were witnessing first-hand. Rick held his breath, spell-bound as he read through these posts. Despite feeling terrified, despite wanting to shut down the computer and retreat, forgetting everything that was happening, he had to see how things were faring.
And it turned out things weren’t faring well.
According to what he gleaned from the net, the Clickers were beaching themselves all along the East Coast, from Martha’s Vineyard to as far south as St. Augustine, Florida. President Tyler had made some bullshit speech at the White House, saying they were calling in troops from across the country. The Clickers had killed hundreds of people, probably thousands, and were moving inland. There were reports of them traveling up rivers. Rick looked for any mention of the Dark Ones and had to resist the urge to warn people about them. He wondered if the government was monitoring the net right now. It seemed unlikely, but he couldn’t chance it.
The wind picked up, howling like a train. The window rattled in its frame. Raindrops pelted the metal awning outside. Rick paused, thinking of Phillipsport briefly, and then turned back to the laptop.
He jumped in his seat as something exploded outside—a power transformer? A gunshot? He didn’t know what it was.
The room went dark. He heard a muffled shout. His laptop blinked out. Next door, the radio stopped midway through a ballad by Stonewall Jackson.
Rick stood up, and carefully ma
de his way through the darkness. Fumbling, he found the light switch and clicked it. Nothing happened. The power was definitely out.
Through the thin walls, he heard a man’s voice in the room next door, speaking in reassuring tones. “Just wait. Just wait…”
Wait? Rick thought. The hell with that…
He could wait to see where the nightmare would take him next, or he could try to escape it. Rick chose the latter. After his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he packed up his belongings and crept outside into the darkness. The wind nearly tore the door from his fingers, and the rain whipped his face, stinging his eyes and skin. He was soaked within seconds, water dripping from his nose and chin and plastering his hair to his scalp.
Shivering, he pulled his keys from his pocket, pointed the remote at the rental car, and pressed the button to unlock the doors. The car chirped. The headlights flashed. Rick stepped off the sidewalk and ran for the car.
From the corner of his eye, he saw another man also running across the lot with a lopsided gait. He seemed to be limping, dragging one leg behind him. He drew alongside Rick.
“How you doing?” Rick shouted, facing the wind.
“Better now,” the man replied.
Rick didn’t notice the gun in the man’s hand until it was shoved in his face.
Chapter Seven
National Aquarium
Inner Harbor
Baltimore, Maryland
8:40 PM
Jennifer wrapped another strip of cloth around the technician’s bleeding arm and urged him to be quiet. They were hunkered down in one of the public restrooms just beyond the lobby, hiding along with Richard inside a dirty toilet stall. The other two technicians and the security guard who’d comprised the emergency staff were now dead.
Jennifer supposed it was just a matter of time before they joined them.
It had all happened so suddenly. One moment, she’d been researching the species and waiting for Hurricane Gary, and then, over the intercom, she’d heard Richard screaming to get back inside the building.
Richard had tried walking back to the aquarium after the highways had become hopelessly snarled with traffic. He’d reached the waterfront just as the Clickers had crawled from the harbor and launched their attack. He’d made it inside the aquarium, but the creatures pursued him. Now they were inside, too. Claws clicked outside the door as the crab-things ransacked the lobby and gift shop. They could also hear the increasing fury of Hurricane Gary. Jennifer thought it might blow them further inland, maybe even as far as a hundred miles upstream.
“Keep pressure on this,” she told the wounded technician.
He nodded, his eyes wide with fear.
Jennifer tried to calm him. “What’s your name?”
“Duncan. Duncan Potter.”
“We’re going to be okay, Duncan.”
“Think so?”
She nodded, afraid that if she spoke, her voice would betray her.
“You’re Doctor Wasco, right?”
“Yep.”
“Got a family?”
Her face clouded. “My parents. They’re in Hunt Valley.”
“Hope my wife and daughter are okay,” Duncan whispered.
Jennifer tried to smile, and found she couldn’t. Then, she sat back and waited. The space inside the stall was cramped, and her leg muscles grew taught with tension. She wished she could stretch them out, but in doing so, she would have kicked Richard.
“What was the extent of Dr. Ian Sinclair’s research on Homarus Tyrannous?” she asked her boss. “Was he approaching it from a cryptozoological standpoint or as a paleontological one?”
“Paleontology, I would assume,” Richard responded. “Why?”
“I just wonder how much he knew. How much he’d figured out about these things before his death.”
“You think those things out there are Homarus Tyrannous?”
“Don’t you? It seems obvious. I spent the evening researching them. Most of what I found comes from the archeological record. The reason I think this species is Homarus Tyrannous is due to rare reported sightings as well as other events which are commonly chalked up to urban legend. There were others, in addition to Dr. Sinclair, who seemed to know about them. A horror novelist and a waitress from Phillipsport. They died, too, supposedly in Phillipsport, although some say it was under mysterious circumstances.”
“A horror writer,” Richard snorted. “Well, isn’t that fitting? Let me guess—he penned some of those cheap killer crab paperbacks from the Eighties?”
“I don’t know what his books were about,” Jennifer said sharply. “I don’t read that stuff. But I’m telling you Richard, it all makes sense. Don’t you see it?”
“Perhaps.” Richard shrugged. “In truth, Jen, I haven’t really thought about it. I was too occupied not ending up getting killed by one of them.”
“You were outside?” Duncan asked. “How bad is the storm?”
“Pretty bad. The outer bands of Hurricane Gary were just starting to come ashore and already the damage is being done. We’re safe where we’re at, but I imagine the rest of the city is in a panic. It was heading that way when I arrived here. Clearly sliding into anarchy. And with those things…what Jennifer thinks is Homarus Tyrannous outside hunting people down and killing them…”
He shuddered.
“Were there a lot of them out there?”
Richard nodded.
“And now they’re inside the aquarium,” Duncan whispered. “With us. How, exactly do you think we’re safe?”
“We’re secure as long as we remain in this stall and stay quiet. There are no windows and only the one door. The creatures will go after easier prey—all of our attractions and exhibits. Indeed, if they stay inside, they’ll move away from this area and into the aquarium itself, towards the tanks.”
“And then the storm will rip the roof off and they’ll find us anyway.”
“Trust me; we’re in a secure spot of the building. We’ve weathered a hurricane or two in here before. We just need to stay inside. Stay in this spot.”
Duncan kneaded his injured arm. “Do we have weapons?”
“Weapons?” Richard looked surprised.
“Yeah. Weapons. Guns, knives—stuff like that?”
Richard shuddered again. “Outside, I saw a man fire several shots point blank into one of those things with no discernable damage. No, we don’t have any weapons. And if we did, I don’t think they’d do us any good.”
“I think we’re better off finding another place to hide,” Duncan said.
“Don’t you understand?” Richard whispered. “There is no place to hide. We’re inside. The Clickers are inside. This place is like a buffet restaurant for them.”
Duncan lowered his head. “And I guess the feeding frenzy has begun.”
Richard didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. All of them knew that the young technician was absolutely correct. The hurricane raged outside, but at that moment, it was more dangerous inside the aquarium.
* * *
York, Pennsylvania
8:54 PM
“Where are we going?” Rick asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.
The Asian man lying in the backseat waved the gun at him. “Just shut up and drive.”
“Okay,” Rick said. “It’s cool. I’m not arguing with you. You’re in charge.”
“That’s right. I’m in charge.”
“I’ll cooperate.” Rick blinked the sweat from his eyes.
“Damn straight you will.”
“But I need to know where to go, right?”
The gunman sighed in exasperation. His forehead creased. He glanced down at his bleeding leg and cringed. Closing his eyes, he lay back in the seat.
“Just anywhere. I don’t care. Somewhere away from here.”
Rick watched him in the rearview mirror. His eyes were still closed. If they stayed that way, maybe he could find a military checkpoint and they could help him. Then again, maybe the carjacker w
ould shoot him before the military could do anything. Or worse yet, they’d rescue Rick only to learn his real identity.
“What’s your name?” The man’s eyes were still shut and the gun, while still in his hand and still pointed at the back of Rick’s seat, rested beside him.
“William,” Rick said, sticking to his false identity even during a moment of crisis. “William Mark. What’s yours?”
His captor gritted his teeth, obviously in pain. “T…tim.”
“Your leg doesn’t look too good, Tim. You want me to take you to a hospital? I promise I won’t tell anybody what you did.”
Tim shook his head. “No hospitals. No cops. And no more talking, man. Just drive.”
Rick obeyed, focusing on the road. He had no idea where they were. Tim had forced him into the car at gunpoint and ordered him to drive down various back roads and side streets rather than taking Route 30, which was crawling with emergency services and National Guardsmen. Located approximately seventy miles north of Baltimore, York, Pennsylvania stood in the path of the hurricane as it came inland. However, despite that, an evacuation order had not been issued. It was believed the storm’s strength would diminish before it made it that far. Heavy rains were expected, and flash flood and severe thunderstorm warnings had been issued, but no calls for mandatory evacuation. Still, between the steadily worsening weather and the fact that martial law had been declared, the streets were empty and York resembled a ghost town.
Clickers II: The Next Wave Page 12