Clickers II: The Next Wave

by J. F. Gonzalez

Rick closed the first aid kit and stood up. “I’m gonna go put this back.”

  Tim raised the gun. “No. Put it down.”

  Don’t let him see you’re afraid! Rick put the first aid kit down on the floor. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave it here.”

  Tim scooted back on the bed. He motioned to Rick with the gun. “Get in.”

  Rick felt his stomach drop down an elevator shaft. “What?”

  “Get on the bed!”

  There was something different about Tim now. His eyes were dark, his features more menacing.

  “Look man, I brought you here, you said you’d let me go when we got here. We’re cool, okay? I’m just gonna—”

  The sound of a shell being loaded in the gun’s chamber was loud, even amid the fierce storm outside. Tim’s posture was more direct; his once pained features now taking on an element of cunning and evil. “I said, get in the fucking bed!”

  Rick began moving toward the bed, his mind screaming no while his body obeyed the command. He was slowly easing himself into a sitting position when Tim barked another command. “No, no, wait…hold on! No! Stand up. Off!”

  Rick got off the bed, confused and scared. Tim motioned with the gun, keeping the barrel trained on him. “Take off your jeans.”

  “Wh-what?” Fear overtook Rick, completely enveloping him.

  “Get fucking undressed!” Tim screamed.

  “Listen man, why do you want to—”

  “Just shut up and get undressed before I fucking shoot you!” Tim yelled again. His pale features were now slightly red with excitement. Rick saw with newfound horror that Tim had an erection again.

  “Jesus, man!” Rick began to whimper.

  Tim moved forward, grabbed Rick behind the neck with one hand and stuck the barrel of the gun beneath his jaw. His face was inches from Rick’s. “You want to know why I shot my ex-wife? Here it is: I was just about to do her when her boyfriend came back. I had to shoot her to shut her up, and she was lying on the floor, bleeding and whining, and then that nitwit comes in. I had him for a moment, and I knocked him around a little bit. Fucking pussy started crying, so I thought, hey, why not fuck him first, and then I’ll fuck the ex, you know? I’d just gotten his pants down and gotten all nice and hard for him when he pulled this fucking gun out of a bureau drawer by the bed. Can you fucking believe that? Fucker had a piece in the goddamn room! He shot me and I just pulled the trigger on him. Put all nine rounds into his sorry ass, and then I reloaded and finished off the ex. I didn’t know how bad I was shot, so I got the hell out of there. That’s when you came along.”

  Tim’s hand bore down on a nerve in the back of Rick’s neck. Rick was barely aware he was crying as Tim shoved the barrel of the gun into the hollow of his throat.

  “I am going to get myself a piece of ass tonight, you got me? Now take off your fucking pants before I fucking shoot you!”

  And trembling, trying hard to control his fear, Rick began to unbutton his jeans with shaky fingers.

  * * *

  Wrightsville, PA

  11:30 PM

  Tony and Vince eyed the bridge with apprehension. The hurricane had knocked down many trees, and a few minutes earlier they’d seen a barn roof lying smashed across the road. There was no telling what the winds would do to the concrete pylons beneath the bridge.

  “I don’t like it,” Vince said. “Let’s go back.”

  The Greek pounded on the trunk lid again, as if agreeing with his captors.

  “We can’t go back,” Tony said. “That fucking storm is right on our ass. We cross this bridge and we’re in Wrightsville. Cheri lives there. She’s got a cellar. She’ll put us up till the hurricane passes.”

  “Cheri? Is she the one what gave Tommy DiMazzio head on the pool table at the Broadway Café? Got them big, floppy pancake tits?”

  “No. That was Sandy. Cheri dances down at the Foxy Lady.”

  “The one with the little girl that likes Winnie the Pooh?”

  “Yeah.” Tony nodded. “That’s her.”

  “She seems nice. Her kid is cute. Made me sing songs to her once.”

  Chewing his lip, Tony edged the car forward. A sudden gust of wind slammed into the driver’s side like a freight train and pushed them into the ditch. Fighting the wheel, Tony got them back onto the road.

  “Gonna have to gun it if we want to make it across,” Vince advised. “Go slow on that bridge and the wind will pick us right up. We got a need for speed.”

  Tony hated to admit it, but his overweight friend was right. He floored the accelerator and the tires spun on the rain-slicked pavement. The car shot forward. In the back, the Greek let out a muffled, frightened squawk. Tony’s lips moved in silent prayer.

  As they flew across the bridge, he risked a quick glance down. The river churned below them, the foaming waters surging over the banks and flooding the surrounding countryside.

  Vince screamed. Startled, Tony looked up in time to see the deer run out in front of them at the end of the bridge. A Clicker lumbered out of the woods in pursuit of the fleeing animal. He jerked the wheel reflexively, and the car spun out of control. They rammed the Clicker and their front end buckled. The creature’s shell split open, splattering the windshield with gore. Then the car veered off the monster and spun again. Tony had enough time to shout at Vince to hang on, and then they slammed into the guardrail. The impact jarred them both. The airbags deployed with such force that Tony’s cheek was burned. Vince bit through his bottom lip and blood filled his mouth. Metal shrieked. Something groaned. And then, it was over as quickly as it had happened.

  The car teetered on the edge of the bridge. Tony glanced in the back, looking for the briefcase. It wasn’t in sight. Before he could find it, they heard the groaning sound again, and Tony realized that it was the twisted guardrail, buckling under their weight.

  “Fuck.” Vince pushed the passenger’s side airbag out of the way and spat bright red. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Bit my lip.”

  Tony took a deep breath, trying to force himself not to panic.

  “You okay?” Vince asked.

  “I’m fine,” Tony said softly. “Vince, listen to me real carefully. Don’t move. Don’t even breathe heavy.”

  “We hit one of those crab things.”

  “I know. Did you hear me? I said don’t fucking move.”

  Vince cocked his head. “Are my ears ringing, or do I hear a freight train?”

  “That’s the wind. Storm will be on us any minute now.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  Both men grew quiet. Vince mumbled the Lord’s Prayer under his breath. Tony tried to stay calm.

  “Look,” Vince said, his tone changing to amazement. “Still got my Devil Dogs.”

  The big man undid his seatbelt and leaned forward to pluck the snack cake from the floor of the car. The vehicle groaned and slid another inch.

  “Vince,” Tony shouted, “I fucking said don’t fucking move!”

  “You ain’t got to be mean, Tony.”

  Vince dropped the package and sat back in his seat, huffing petulantly. Tony sighed. They were in a bad position, and he wasn’t sure what to do next. One sudden move and they’d splash into the river. If they didn’t get out soon, the storm would push them off the bridge as well. But if they waited for help, their rescuers would find the heroin—and maybe the Greek, too. Or more of those crab things would show up. Tony closed his eyes.

  “I need a fucking drink.”

  “We got a bottle of vodka in the glove compartment,”

  Vince said.

  Before Tony could holler at him, Vince leaned forward again.

  Both men screamed as the car plummeted off the bridge and into the roaring waters below.

  * * *

  Magog Bunker

  The White House

  Washington D.C.

  11:35 PM

  “Mr. President, Secretary Barker wants to—”

  “Mr. President, your
press secretary is—”

  “—advisor says we—”

  “—Mr. President—”

  “—President—”

  President Tyler had been holed up in his private prayer chamber since the press conference, and the Lord had assured him that they would all be delivered to safety. He’d been ignoring his staff’s intercom communications, and had prayed for them to surrender their will to God. It upset him that his staff, his key people who’d professed not only their alliance with him and his initiatives but their Christian faith, would fall away from Him so quickly. It troubled Tyler greatly. When Hurricane Gary was over, there were going to be changes made to his staff. Big sweeping changes. And their key constituencies were going to hear about their behavior. Oh yes they would.

  President Tyler had been on his knees in deep prayer, and now he rose to his feet. His joints creaked in protest. The intercom continued to squawk:

  “—MSNBC is having a field day with this!”

  “—the Prime Minister is very concerned. He’s wondering if—”

  “—the House Leader wants to call a special session tomorrow morning to assess damages made to—”

  “—Livingston requested that I re-deploy troops from border patrol to the East Coast and transfer troops in Afghanistan to the United States to take over the border patrol duties. They can assist efforts here and I’m going to go by his recommendation.”

  Tyler’s head snapped toward the intercom. He was across the room in a second, finger stabbing the button. “Barker, was that you? Barker!”

  The babble of voices stopped, like a multi-vehicle collision. Barker cleared his throat, then said, “Yes, Mr. President. That was me.”

  “What’s this about pulling troops out of Afghanistan?”

  “Colonel Livingston has requested we transfer troops from Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, and elsewhere. He says we need more in the homeland to fight what will be a second wave of—”

  “No! You are to keep our troops where they are! Why do you think—”

  “Um, pardon me, Mr. President, but in the interests of our country—”

  “I am acting on the best interests of our country! And I have been chosen by God to lead this country! You will not go against my orders again, do I make myself clear!”

  “Mr. President, please—”

  “Do I make myself clear?”

  In the background. “My God, he’s insane!” It sounded like Clark Arroyo, one of the secret service agents.

  “Arroyo, was that you?”

  Hushed silence. Then: “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “You dare call me crazy, Mr. Arroyo? You dare call a man of faith, crazy?”

  “I’m sorry Mr. President.”

  “You better be sorry, Mr. Arroyo, because you’re fired!”

  Another voice cut in. Donald Miller, his Political Advisor. “Mr. President, things are changing very rapidly up here. With all due respect, when you’re finished with your prayers we could really use your guidance.”

  That was more like it. Donald Miller was the architect of his political career. Miller worked the kind of miracles only a true man of the Lord could. He’d miraculously turned public opinion around during the election, back toward the Republican Party and, most important of all; he’d strengthened the Christian base. He’d even gotten a high majority of the Catholic vote. Hearing Donald’s voice cut through the din of confused voices strengthened his own faith; thank God Donald was still with him.

  Tyler sighed. “Thank you, Donald. I’ll be up in a moment.”

  The voices began again, swarming over each other: “Mr. President, FEMA is requesting—”

  “Mr. President, as the Secretary of Defense I must insist that we heed Livingston’s advice and—”

  “Mr. President, the American people want to be assured this isn’t going to be another Katrina—”

  “Mr. President the Department of Agriculture wants the authority to examine the specimens captured and—”

  “Stop! Enough!”

  The voices stopped. President Tyler took another breath, collected his thoughts, and continued. “First things first and one at a time. Barker, you still there?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “I will not tolerate you disobeying me. If you do it again, I will see to it that you are removed from office. The only thing I want you to do is to make it clear to this Colonel Livingston, whoever he is, that he is not to override your authority in any way. We are not pulling troops out of Afghanistan or Iraq or anywhere. Our military will use the resources they have here and nothing more. God will see us through this disaster. Do you understand me?”

  Silence.

  “Do you understand me?” More forceful now.

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Barker sounded defeated.

  “Good. Regarding the Department of Agriculture, I want my speechwriter to prepare a statement from me. Donald, you there?”

  “Right here, Mr. President.”

  “Get a hold of Eric as soon as possible. I understand communications are probably down right now, but get to him as soon as you can. Have him prepare a speech stating that the American people are not to trust anything scientists are saying about these so-called creatures.”

  Audible gasps. Among them, Clark Arroyo’s voice. “Jesus, he really is a fucking whacko.”

  “Are there any other secret service agents in the room?” Tyler asked. The more he listened to Arroyo, the more annoyed he was getting with the heathen.

  “Right here, sir. Carl Johnson.”

  “Anybody else?”

  Another voice, more timid. “Here. Ken Bacon.”

  “Bacon and Johnson, I’d like you to disarm Arroyo and escort him out the building.”

  More sputters of protest. Ken Bacon’s voice became shocked. “But Mr. President…we….we can’t just escort him out the building! There’s a hurricane—”

  Clark Arroyo, in a tone of anger and defiance. “Hey, fuck you Jeff, I fucking quit!”

  And at the sound of the dreaded eff word, Tyler became livid. He slammed both fists into the wall near the intercom. “Don’t you speak to me like that again!”

  Amid the excited babble, Barker’s and Miller’s voices urging everybody to “be calm” and “please, settle down,” was Clark Arroyo’s angry, defiant voice. “Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit, fuck you!”

  The intensity of the voices escalated, and now it sounded like there was a struggle going on. Agent Bacon muttered, “Come on man, calm down,” and Barker was saying, “Just get him out of here, and get him the hell out of this goddamn room now!” Arroyo yelled, “Get your fucking hands off me, motherfuckers!” A panicked scream—it sounded like Laura Ashcroft, the Federal Prosecutor. The struggle grew more frenzied briefly and then the more angry voices began receding; it sounded like Arroyo was being led away, still yelling and cursing. Tyler jabbed at the intercom button again. “Barker! Barker! Are you there?”

  Barker, flustered. “Right here, Mr. President. Special Agent Arroyo is being escorted out.”

  “Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vain in my presence again. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. President.”

  “Is Arroyo gone?”

  The sounds of the struggle had now ceased. Tyler could make out a few quiet murmurs, probably of relief, in the background. Then, Donald Miller’s voice came through strong and clear, confident. “Agent Arroyo has been escorted out of the room, Mr. President. I will see to it that he is relieved of his duties.”

  “I want him out of this building now!” Tyler yelled. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Donald said. “It will be taken care of.”

  “Good.” He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down. It always unnerved him whenever he heard somebody so flippantly toss curse words around and mock the Lord, especially with that much anger. Tyler realized that a large portion of his fellow Americans wouldn’t agree with him on this but if he had his way, the
entire country would be run by Biblical law and heathens like Special Agent Clark Arroyo would be executed by stoning—according to the Old Testament—for the kind of crimes he’d just committed. Tyler prayed for the tide to turn for the United States to be run by Biblical law; it was a major reason why he’d run for President in the first place. Very few were aware of his vision, of his yearning to establish Biblical law as the law of the land, and the overwhelming majority of his staff had no clue. Donald Miller was the only one within earshot who was of the select minority who knew of Tyler’s full plans. “I apologize to all of you for blowing up,” he said. “I realize I’m under stress. I didn’t handle that well. I’m sorry.”

  There were calm murmurs of acknowledgement. Tyler sighed, feeling better. Keep it up; keep playing them as you’ve been doing all along. “And now to get back to what we were talking about. The speech I want prepared should address that I do not believe the scientists who are now going on record as saying that these creatures are a previously-thought extinct species, that it is believed they died out millions of years ago. My Christian base will understand where I am coming from, but the rest of the country will obviously be upset. I’m sure the ACLU will scream for my head over it. But what I want Eric to write is that the scientists making these statements are not government scientists. I doubt if any of them have even examined specimens yet. Is that true, Miller?”

  “That is correct, Mr. President. We’ve received no word yet on any testing from the private sector or from government-funded labs.”

  “Then time is of the essence,” Tyler said. “I want Eric to write this as quickly as possible. I want it on record that these scientists haven’t examined specimens, that they are basing their opinions on hearsay, and that we won’t know anything until actual specimens are accounted for and studied. In the meantime, they are to ride this storm out to the best of their abilities.”

  “How about if I write the speech for you, Mr. President?” Donald Miller asked.

  Tyler smiled. Donald was on his wavelength. God praise the man! “Even better, Donald. Even better.”