Not even realizing he was doing it, Rick turned off to avoid a checkpoint and squeezed the car down a narrow inner city alley. The tires splashed through deep puddles, spraying more water up onto the windows.
“So what’s your story?” Rick finally asked. “I’ve told you mine. You don’t seem like a carjacker.”
“I’m not.” Tim checked his leg and saw that the bleeding had stopped. Groaning with pain, he leaned forward. “I’m a systems analyst at the Harley Davidson plant. I just…had a bad evening.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Want to put the gun down? I mean, is it really necessary? Like I said, I’m on the run, too.”
“Just keep driving, Rick.”
They exited the alley and turned onto a side street that led out of the city and into rural farmland.
“Anywhere in particular you want to go yet? We can’t just keep driving around, or we’re going to get caught.”
As if to punctuate his point, they saw the flash of red police lights in the rearview mirror. Tim immediately grew agitated. Rick pressed down on the accelerator. The lights faded, and then vanished.
“Are they gone?”
Tim turned around. “Yeah, looks like it. They must have been after somebody else.”
“Well, we might not be so lucky next time. So you really should come up with somewhere to hide.”
Tim paused. “Yeah. I know just the place. Take me there and I’ll let you go.”
“Where is it?”
“A little bed and breakfast in Shrewsbury, just above the Maryland border. My wife…my ex-wife and I stayed there once, but it’s been closed down for the last six months. Sits way back in the woods. Totally deserted. I’ll ride the storm out there.”
“And you’ll let me go?”
“Sure.”
“So how do I get there?”
“Take the next left. That will take us to the Susquehanna Trail. It runs alongside Interstate 83 the whole way down into Maryland.”
“Susquehanna? As in river?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I just don’t like water is all.”
After a moment, Tim laughed. “Yeah, I guess I can see why.”
He leaned back in the seat, giggling to himself.
Rick was not laughing. Thunder split the sky overhead, and lightening flashed, bathing the countryside in blue-white light. Then the darkness returned.
They drove on into the night and the storm rocketed towards them, leaving death and destruction in its wake—and bringing something else with it as well.
The sound of clicking claws echoed across the central Pennsylvanian landscape.
Chapter Eight
National Aquarium
Inner Harbor
Baltimore, Maryland
9:30 PM
They’d escaped from the bathroom and holed up temporarily inside an office.
Duncan glanced back at Jennifer and Richard. “Are you guys ready?”
“Of course we’re not ready,” Richard whispered. “Please reconsider this. It’s a suicide run.”
“You said it yourself, Doctor. If we stay here, they’ve got us trapped. No way we can barricade the office door against them. Our best bet is to flee on foot. Find another, more secure hiding spot.”
“It’s quiet out there,” Jennifer observed. “Maybe they’ve left.”
“Yes,” Richard flicked his sweaty hair out of his eyes, “or maybe they’re just waiting for us. I’ve seen them up close. They’re much smarter than we give them credit for.”
Jennifer frowned. “Then maybe we should stay here after all.”
“I concur.” Richard nodded. “It appears as if you’ve been outvoted, Duncan.”
“Look,” the technician sighed, “you two do what you want. I’m getting the hell out of here while I have the chance. Those things are probably busy with the tanks and displays. Hell, this entire building is one big captive smorgasbord as far as the Clickers are concerned. While they’re busy with the fish, I’m getting out. It’s my daughter’s birthday. She’s seven. No way I’m gonna miss it. I’ve got to get home. If you’re coming, then stick close to me and keep quiet. If not, good luck to you both.”
“Where do you live?” Jennifer asked.
“White Marsh. Why?”
“Do you have a basement? Somewhere your family can take shelter from the storm? A place they can hide?”
“No.” Duncan’s bottom lip trembled. “That’s why I need to make sure they’re okay.”
They both stared at the wounded technician. It was obvious that there would be no talking him out of this course of action. So instead, they steeled themselves. Richard and Duncan were both armed with makeshift clubs—legs they’d unscrewed from a desk. Jennifer wielded a long, pointed letter opener. It was shaped like a dagger and had a pewter crab on the hilt. Beneath the crab was the slogan, I GOT CRABS AT PHILLIPS SEAFOOD IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND. The irony was not lost on her.
“Get ready,” Duncan whispered.
Jennifer and Richard nodded. Jennifer’s pulse raced in her chest. Richard’s mouth went dry.
Duncan crept to the door. Slowly, he grasped the doorknob. With his other hand, he raised the desk leg over his head. Then, he opened the door.
A massive stinger punched into Duncan’s stomach and erupted from his lower back. The crab-thing’s appendage spurted long arcs of venom all over the floor, and the carpet began to smoke and burn. Impaled,
Duncan squirmed, and then slid down the tail a few inches, trailing viscera like a slug trailed slime. The club slipped from Duncan’s fingers and bounced off the monstrous Clicker’s hard shell. Duncan opened his mouth to scream and vomited blood instead. Jennifer and Richard screamed for him. Duncan’s hands closed around the base of the stinger jutting from his abdomen. Slicked with his own gore, he couldn’t hold onto it.
The Clicker thrashed its segmented tail high into the air, and Duncan’s head smashed through the drop ceiling. Shattered tiles rained down upon them all. The creature lowered its tail and whipped it back and forth. Duncan slid off the appendage with a wet sound. The hole in his mid-section bubbled and steamed. Parts of his insides still clung to the stinger. The creature raised its claws and charged. The pincers reminded Jennifer of a pair of maracas.
Click-click…Click-click…
The crab-thing made it halfway through the door before becoming stuck. Its shell gouged and scraped at the wooden doorframe. The creature hissed with anger. Duncan moaned once, and then lay still. Jennifer and Richard cowered against the office’s far wall. The Clicker tried to force its way into the room, but couldn’t. Held fast, it began ripping at the frame with its claws, tearing away chunks of wood and plaster.
“He’ll be free in a minute,” Richard said. “Get behind me. I’ll try to—”
“Save the chivalry for later,” Jennifer said. Her attention was focused on the ceiling. A ragged hole had been left behind in the tiles by Duncan’s head. It revealed an air duct burrowing deeper into the facility. She followed the duct backward, and saw that it ran directly over their heads. All they’d have to do is remove the tiles and somehow get the duct open.
“Help me move the desk.”
Richard blinked. “The desk?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Slide it over here. Even without the legs, we can stand on top of it and reach the ceiling. We can crawl through the ductwork. That thing isn’t tall enough to reach us up there.”
As if sensing her urgency, the Clicker’s thrashings increased. It tore at the doorframe with frenzied rage.
Without another word, Richard shoved the desk over to where they stood. He grunted with the effort and his face grew red. Meanwhile, Jennifer glanced around for something to open the duct with. Her search was fruitless.
“Now what?” Richard asked.
Out in the hallway, they heard more Clickers arriving, attracted by their fellow crab-thing’s struggle.
Jennifer clambe
red up onto the wobbly desk and studied the duct. There was no door or hatch on it, and no screw or vent—just a solid metal surface, smooth and seamless.
“Shit!”
“It’s almost free,” Richard exclaimed, keeping his eyes on the doorway. “Get it open.”
“I don’t know how,” she admitted. “It always works in the movies.”
Jennifer stabbed at the duct with her letter opener, and succeeded only in making a small dent.
“Come on.” Richard grabbed her leg and urged her down. Then he led her to the closet. He shoved her inside and then slammed the door behind them. The emergency lights were still on throughout the aquarium, and a dim glow filtered through the crack at the bottom of the door.
“This is no good,” Jennifer whispered. “It saw us come in here.”
Richard didn’t reply. Jennifer realized that he was crying.
She put her hand on his shoulder and moved closer to him. Then they embraced. She felt him tremble against her. Jennifer squeezed him tightly. He squeezed her back.
“When our daughter Susan died,” Richard said, “Sarah didn’t want to have any more children. I don’t think she could handle the fear of losing another one. But in the time you’ve worked for me, I’ve come to think of you as a daughter, as well. I’m sorry, Jen. Sorry I couldn’t save us.”
Outside, they heard the loud splintering of wood, followed by a crash. The Clicker scuttled into the room. They heard its legs tapping on the floor. It paused, and they both wondered what it was doing. Then they heard the sounds of feeding and realized it had stopped to feast on Duncan’s remains. A moment later, they heard more of the creatures enter the office.
“I guess this is it.” Richard’s voice rang with defeat.
Blinking tears away, Jennifer looked upward; making one last terrified plea to a God she didn’t believe in.
An open grating on a ventilation shaft stared back at her.
Jennifer laughed. “Now that’s how it happens in the movies!”
She removed her shoes and held them in one hand. Then she slipped the letter opener in her jeans. Quickly, Richard boosted her up. Jennifer crawled into the shaft. Then she tossed her shoes aside and reached for her boss. A tremendous blow rattled the closet door. Richard turned around, panicked.
“Hurry!”
The door shook again. The wood cracked. Richard turned back to Jennifer. She grabbed his outstretched hand and pulled. He was heavier than she’d imagined.
“Jen—forget about it. I’m too heavy.”
“Richard, with all due respect, shut up and push!”
The door splintered. A crimson pincer thrust into the closet, grabbed a raincoat, and pulled it out. The creature hissed with annoyance. Richard let out a frightened squawk.
“One,” Jennifer counted. “Two…THREE!”
Richard braced his feet against the wall and pushed, as Jennifer pulled his arm. The desk leg slipped from Richard’s hand. Jennifer cried out. It felt like her arm was going to come out of its socket. But then Richard’s head and shoulder were through the narrow opening. He grabbed the sides of the shaft and pulled himself upward. Below them, the door buckled, then gave way completely and a Clicker forced its way into the closet, shredding everything in sight—coats, galoshes, a broom, and boxes of paper for the copy machine down the hall. The beast snatched at Richard’s dangling feet, but he pulled them up into the duct just in time.
* * *
Camden Yards
Baltimore, Maryland
9:35 PM
Destruction rained down on the troops. The wind tore the roof off a nearby bar and dropped it on their heads. Livingston ignored the falling debris. He stepped forward, brought up his pistol and fired at an onrushing Clicker. The rain obscured his vision and the shot went wild. One of his men fried the creature with a flamethrower. Livingston wished for more firepower.
“Incoming,” a soldier shouted into the com-link on his helmet. Before he could follow it up, a telephone pole snapped at its base and toppled over, crushing the unfortunate man.
Livingston grimaced. The kid was only twenty.
Another soldier rushed to help his fallen comrade, screamed for a medic, and then backed away as a Clicker emerged from behind a hot dog stand and tottered towards them. The soldier opened fire, forgetting all about the man pinned beneath the telephone pole.
“How far to the aquarium?” Livingston yelled over the cacophony of howling winds, gunfire, screaming men, and clicking claws—always that damned clicking.
“About eight city blocks, sir.”
“Any word on our ground forces already in the area?”
“Delayed, Colonel. Sounds like they’re taking heavy casualties.”
“Squad leaders,” Livingston shouted. “Move out!”
“But sir, these things are everywhere!”
“I SAID MOVE OUT!”
The young soldier was right, though. The Clickers were everywhere. Downtown Baltimore was far worse than Phillipsport had ever been. The creatures rushed from the stadium and lunged out of alleyways. They clambered over abandoned cars, crushing them like aluminum cans. The squad fought bravely. They did not buckle or back down. Instead, they took up positions and fought back against the onslaught. Regular bullets seemed to have no effect, but the flamethrowers worked magic. Within minutes, the air was filled with the smell of burnt meat.
“Steamed crabs, boys,” a Sergeant yelled. “All we need is some butter and Old Bay seasoning.”
“And a cold beer,” another soldier agreed.
The Sergeant’s laughter turned into a high, keening wail as a Clicker crept up behind him and sliced him in half at the waist. Men screamed.
Despite the pain from his arthritis, Livingston plowed ahead. He had the radioman call for Humvees, a tank, Jeep—any kind of motorized transport. He was told that none was forthcoming.
“We’ll just have to commandeer something then,” Livingston grumbled.
After another two blocks, they came to a desperate halt. An overturned light rail train blocked their passage. Several cars lay on their side. The metal had been peeled back like the lid of a tuna can, and several large Clickers were perched atop the cars, leisurely pulling out the frantic commuters. Livingston safely guided his men around the wreck, and then called in an artillery strike. Minutes later, explosive shells detonated nearby—falling too short of the target. The radioman called in an adjustment to the coordinates. The whistle of the artillery shells was lost beneath the gale.
The explosions seemed only to draw more of the creatures onto their location. They began a running battle, desperately trying to reach the aquarium before their numbers dwindled to zero. All around him, Colonel Livingston watched brave soldiers fall, watched them get beheaded, disemboweled, watched severed limbs fall to the pavement, heard men screaming. Dying.
“Ought to just nuke the whole damned harbor,” a soldier next to Livingston grumbled.
“Don’t tempt me, son.” Livingston fired at another Clicker. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Sir,” the radioman reported, “estimated time of arrival for reinforcements is fifteen minutes. They’ll meet us at the aquarium.”
Fifteen minutes, Livingston thought. If we live that long…
* * *
Magog Bunker
The White House
Washington D.C.
9:40 PM
Clark Arroyo had been with the Secret Service for over thirty years. He’d received numerous commendations and awards, and had served many Presidents. Currently, he was assigned to President Jeffrey Tyler’s personal security detail. That meant he was with Tyler seven days a week, ten hours per day—and longer if they were traveling or if his relief called in sick. Arroyo had seen his fair share of danger in his time with the Secret Service, but he’d never been scared. Frightened. Uneasy. But he’d never known fear in the line of duty. He’d told his wife once, when they’d gone camping in the Shenandoah Mountains for their tenth anniversary, that he sometime
s worried there was something wrong with him. He didn’t know fear—not even when facing an assassin. But he did now.
Special Agent Clark Arroyo was terrified.
From behind the closed door, the President was singing an off-key hymn. Clark had never heard anything more disturbing.
“What a friend we have in Jesus…”
He was familiar with the song. His great-grandmother had sung the very same hymn when he was young. He remembered sitting in her living room, watching her play the auto-harp with her frail, thin hands. Her body had been fading, but her voice remained strong. It had always made him feel good. Filled him with comfort. Now, hearing the President’s rendition, the hymn had the opposite effect.
Arroyo began to cry. He wept for his wife, her whereabouts unknown. He hadn’t talked to her since the hurricane changed course. He wept for his daughters, both grown and married to husbands of their own. One of them lived in Nevada and was safe. The other lived on North Carolina’s outer banks—and probably wasn’t safe. He wept for the American civilians caught between the storm and these creatures from the sea. He’d seen the footage, just like everyone else.
But mostly, he wept for the nation. He loved his country. In this time of national crisis, America needed a leader more than ever.
The President continued singing, and Clark Arroyo’s fear threatened to overwhelm him. Without realizing it, he reached for his sidearm.
* * *
National Aquarium
Inner Harbor
Baltimore, Maryland
9:50 PM
“Okay.” Jennifer whispered as quietly as possible. She was worried that sound might travel through the ducts and somehow be magnified. “That’s the fire stairs below us. All we have to do is get inside the stairwell and follow them down to the first floor.
Clickers II: The Next Wave Page 14