Ken White had protested. “But sir…there’s a Hurricane outside!”
“President Tyler wants him removed now!” Secretary Barker had growled at him.
And that’s how Clark Arroyo came to be here, in the parking structure trying to take cover from the Hurricane in the most secure spot of the structure he could find— the men’s room. Ken had waited while Clark gathered his things and then he and Barker had escorted him to the door. Clark was sure if Barker hadn’t been present, Ken would have spirited him away to the East Wing for the night. But no, that asshole had accompanied them to make sure Clark was physically out of the building.
Now he was here. Afraid for his life.
Clark still felt the sting of embarrassment as he remembered begging Ken White and Secretary Barker to stay indoors while the Hurricane was raging. The howling of the wind was great, and Clark had been afraid that the moment he stepped outside the wind would carry him away. “Are you out of your mind?” He’d raged at Barker. “Look at it out there! I’ll get killed!”
And the look on Barker’s face. There was something there that told Clark that the Secretary of Defense was acting on orders, that he was finally buckling down under orders from President Fuckwad himself. For the past year, Clark had secretly been monitoring Barker’s behavior and it had looked like the Secretary of Defense was still trying to retain some of his sense of honor and duty. All of President Tyler’s Cabinet members had been that way. They’d been gung ho the first month or two of the administration, then their spirits had started to lag, probably when they began to realize what a bona fide lunatic the guy was. Clark had felt the same way, but had kept a stiff upper lip. Part of him actually hoped he was imagining things, that the so-called liberal media was wrong about their assessment of President Tyler. Tyler’s advisor though, Donald Miller…that guy was creepy as shit. So were some of the other key cabinet members. The Attorney General, the guy who ran the Department of Agriculture, a few others. They were religious zealots, and they were scarier than those nutty Scientology whackos Clark sometimes ran into in Florida when he was on vacation. Everybody else had been blindsided by these people, Barker included. And now that push was finally coming to shove, he was seeing who was going to fall in line and who wasn’t. Clark was one of the guys who was refusing to toe the party line, hence his expulsion. Barker didn’t want to wind up out on the street, cast aside like garbage, so he was swallowing his honor and pride and doing whatever Tyler told him to do, even if it went against his personal ethics.
Even if it meant harm to the country.
Clark had put up a struggle, so much so that Ken had to bodily shove him out the door. Clark had caught a glimpse of Ken’s face behind the double glass doors when he did this, and Ken had looked ashamed and scared. He also looked like he was sorry he was doing this. Clark knew that if Ken had stood his ground he would have been thrown out too, stripped of his job immediately. Ken had more to lose than Clark, especially financially. Ken and his wife, Sarah, had just lost a civil suit brought on to them by the parents of a man who was killed in a car crash that involved their son, who’d been the driver. Their son, Robert White, was drunk when the accident occurred. He was now confined to a prison hospital; medical bills were piling up. Robert White had been underage when the accident occurred, in a vehicle registered to his parents. They’d had to mortgage their house to pay for legal representation in the civil suit. Ken had told Clark that they were going to sell the house and their cabin in the West Virginia mountains to help pay for the damages incurred in the suit. Ken had even talked about cashing out his 401k. They were losing everything they’d worked for, and Clark knew that Ken was merely trying to hold onto the only thing he could now—his employment, which was his financial lifeline.
Clark didn’t blame Ken White. If he were in his superior’s shoes, he probably would have done the same thing.
Clark had clung to the outer wall of the White House for a few minutes as the wind buffeted him around, the rain lashing his face. Then he’d staggered along the east side of the building toward the parking structure when he remembered he could get there via a pathway that was somewhat protected from the elements. He struggled against the wind and rain, most of it blocked off from a roof that covered the walkway that led to the parking structure and then he was finally safe.
He’d made it up to the fifth level where his car was, planning to hunker in the backseat but then he thought, suppose something happens and the car gets blown out and I fall five stories down? That had driven him out of the car to seek more secure shelter in the men’s room, which was in the middle of the parking structure. Surely being surrounded by four solid concrete walls within a massive parking structure would provide some protection, wouldn’t it?
Before he left his car, though, he’d retrieved a handgun he kept stashed beneath his driver’s seat. It was a Sig Sauer 9mm with a full magazine. Three spare mags were stashed in the glove compartment. He took those, too.
Taking the weapon and mags with him had been done on pure instinct.
And now as he sat shivering in the men’s room, thinking of his wife and daughters, hoping they were okay, he began to focus on President Tyler again and how dangerous a man he was, and he wondered for the first time ever in his life what it would be like to assassinate a high-ranking political figure.
* * *
Shrewsbury, PA
11:59 PM
Before Rick could run, a bright spotlight flashed towards him. He felt naked in the beam. As if the soldiers in the lead Humvee could see inside him, see everything about him. He felt like they knew his real name and identity, his fugitive status—and the fact that he’d just been raped. The wind ruffled his clothing and rain beat at his skin.
Rick put his hands up and sighed in defeat. He was tired. Tired of running. Tired of this life. And as the convoy ground to a halt, and a soldier stepped forward, he felt a strange sense of relief.
Hope they just shoot me right here on the spot, he thought.
“Rick?”
The speaker was hidden behind the spotlight. Rick couldn’t see him, but the voice sounded familiar. But it couldn’t be him…
“My name is William,” Rick said. “William Mark. I need…help.”
The soldier stepped around the spotlight and walked towards him. “Rick. It’s me.”
Rick’s eyes widened.
“Colonel? Colonel Livingston?”
The Colonel responded but Rick couldn’t understand him. He suddenly felt like he was hurtling down a long, narrow tunnel. Something roared in the background. His mouth went dry. It was hard to swallow. Hard to breath. His ears rang and his skin felt hot and prickly.
“Rick?” Colonel Livingston ran towards him. “Are you okay?”
“I…”
The Colonel caught him as he passed out.
“Get a medic over here, now!”
The rain pelted them all. A few miles behind them, the storm unleashed its full fury. In the darkness beyond the edges of the highway, they heard a chilling sound.
CLICK-CLICK…CLICK-CLICK…CLICKCLICK…CLICK-CLICK…
“Oh Jesus,” Richard gasped. “They’re all around us.”
Jennifer closed her eyes as the sounds got louder. As a result, she didn’t see the first Clicker waddle out onto the highway’s shoulder. The rest of the group was not so lucky. It was a massive beast, fifteen feet in circumference, with pincers the size of canoes. It smashed through the guardrail and rushed them. The rest of the creatures swarmed from the woods and charged. The soldiers opened fire and the battle began in earnest.
Deep inside the tree line and hidden from view, the real enemy watched with inhuman eyes.
Part Two:
The Next Wave
Chapter Twelve
July 4th, 2006
Rural Virginia
12:30 AM
When it was all over, after the Clickers had moved on and Hurricane Gary had hurtled farther north towards Pennsylvania, the survivors ca
me outside to survey the damage to their properties.
The Dark Ones were there to greet them.
Justin Ramsey had retired from NASA two years before. He and his wife, Winnie, had bought a little place out in the country; a “Gentlemen’s Farm” was what their friends called it. He had a chicken house and two female goats (named Thelma and Louise) and next year he hoped to raise bunnies as well. When he and Winnie emerged from their root cellar, the first thing Justin noticed was that the old oak tree which had stood in the center of their yard was now uprooted and splintered. It lay on its side, and had gouged a huge trench in the dirt. But what made Justin gasp out loud was what the tree had fallen on. The massive trunk had crushed one of the crab monsters that had run amok during the storm. He and Winnie had heard reports about them on their battery-operated radio, but in truth, Justin had only half-believed it. The whole thing reminded him of Orson Welles infamous War of the Worlds broadcast, and he wondered if this could be the same thing. If it was, the joke was in bad taste.
Now, staring at the squashed crustacean, he knew better.
“Oh,” Winnie groaned, “the tree! That’s a shame. I wanted you to fix up a tire swing for the grandkids.”
The rain had turned into a light mist. It felt good on their skin.
“Could be worse,” Justin said. “River could have flooded over the banks and run right into the cellar. Then where would we be? Good thing we’ve got this elevated yard and high banks. Bet our neighbors didn’t fare as well.”
“You don’t think that crab thing is still alive do you?”
“Yes,” he gasped in mock fear. “It’s going to get you!”
“Justin Ramsey, you stop it right now!”
“Sorry, hon.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s dead. See? Its guts are spilling out. Look how bad the tree cracked its shell.”
Winnie’s nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Looks like the house is okay,” Justin said. “A few broken windows. I see some tiles are missing from the roof. Gutters are hanging off. But it’s still standing.”
“Just like us.”
Silently, they reached out and clasped hands. Then they began to walk towards the dead Clicker. The stench was horrendous; a coagulating miasma of rotten fish and brine and blood.
“Wish we had a camera,” Justin muttered.
Winnie’s grip tightened around her husband’s hand. Justin winced.
“Who’s that over there?” Winnie pointed towards the chicken house. It was then that Justin heard frightened squawking from within the coop.
“Hey, are you okay,” he called. “You need some help?”
The figure did not move. It was hidden in shadow, and Justin couldn’t make out any features. Whoever it was, he was tall and beefy. The figure had a full two feet over Justin—maybe more—and probably close to one hundred pounds.
The frenzied cries of the chickens increased. Justin felt a surge of apprehension.
“Hey,” he tried again, “you okay, buddy? Come on out.”
This time the figure complied. Slowly, it walked into the moonlight. Winnie screamed. So did Justin. Because it wasn’t a man at all. It was a lizard, walking erect on two legs, its green body covered with scales, its hands clawed, its chest a mass of muscle, and its eyes—the eyes were the worst; yellow and unblinking and intelligent. Justin had no doubt. There was a deep, malevolent intelligence in those eyes.
The door to the chicken house swung wide, the rusty hinges creaking, and another lizard-man stepped out. Its face and chest was slick with blood and feathers. A dead rooster hung from one clawed hand. A long, forked tongue snaked from its mouth and licked the blood from its lips. It straightened its posture and rose to its full height. The creature was almost ten feet tall. Justin was reminded of Komodo dragons.
“Winnie, get back down in the root cellar!”
But even as they ran, the creatures fell upon them. The Dark Ones crossed the distance between them and their prey in a few quick strides. They seized the Ramsey’s from behind and tore into them without mercy.
The flesh was flayed from Winnie’s face. Justin’s spine was ripped out, and the creature then whipped him with it as he collapsed.
First came the storm—and the Clickers. Now, there was something far worse. The Dark Ones proceeded up the river, which led to the seat of power according to their reconnaissance.
Justin and Winnie Ramsey were the first human casualties of the second wave.
They were not the last.
* * *
Peachbottom Nuclear Plant
12:35 AM
Moving Rick into the Humvee was easy—he’d fainted, and with the help of several enlisted men, as well as Richard Linnenberg, Colonel Livingston had gotten him into the back of the vehicle. They were only three miles away from Peachbottom when they came across him, and Rick remained unconscious until they were safe inside.
Escaping the storm had been fairly easy, too—if somewhat harrowing. They just needed to keep moving and stay ahead of the worst of it. Escaping the Clickers was a little tougher, but they’d accomplished that as well. They’d lost several more men during the battle, but the creatures could not stand against the flamethrowers and armor-piercing bullets. The Interstate was littered with dead crustaceans as the group sped away.
Gaining access to the plant was no problem. They’d called ahead, and the facility’s supervisor knew they were coming. Livingston flashed his identification at the armed guard who was stationed in the tiny security booth at the gates. The storm was gaining strength and right behind them.
So were the Clickers.
Livingston shouted at the guard, “Get inside! It’s going to get worse!”
Havoc ensued. The guard who secured their entry met with his superiors, who appeared disgruntled at the arrival of the visitors despite the advance warning. They grumbled about military intervention and the proper chain of command. Livingston quickly met with the evening’s shift supervisor and once again went through the rigmarole of identifying himself and explaining his mission. He could have pulled rank—or a gun—easily enough; could have been a real asshole about things, but he wanted cooperation from the Peachbottom staff. The shift supervisor had two armed guards with him; both appeared ready to draw their weapons at the drop of a command. The shift supervisor’s name was Jeremiah Brown. He looked pretty young to have such an important, high clearance position. He also appeared scared.
“If you require additional verification I will be perfectly willing to radio in to my superiors in DC,” Livingston said. His First Lieutenant, a thirty-ish officer named Tranning, flanked his immediate left.
Jeremiah examined the identification. He was a tall, wiry, African-American man. “That won’t be necessary. We’ve been monitoring the police and military frequencies all afternoon.” He handed the papers back to Livingston. “It’s a good thing you made it here.”
“Listen carefully,” Livingston said. “I know this place can withstand the hurricane, but the enemy was snapping at our heels as well. How prepared are you for an assault?”
Jeremiah smiled. “If they come by land, the security fence is electrified. All we have to do is turn it on— provided the storm doesn’t damage it.”
“Good. They don’t like electricity. What about the river?”
“We have thick concrete buffers, plus the dams and turbines, and our security measures. I won’t say its one-hundred percent foolproof, but unless they brought heavy explosives, we should be able to withstand them.”
“Let’s hope so.” Livingston turned to one of his troops. “I want men spread out all over this place. Soon as the storm passes over, take up positions along the perimeter. Let us know as soon as they try to attack.”
The young soldier snapped a salute. “Yes, sir.”
“Why would they attack?” Jeremiah looked confused. “Wouldn’t they just move off in search of easier prey?”
Livingston shook his head. “Not necessarily. They’re unpredictable. That’
s what makes the ugly fuckers so hard to exterminate. The storm will slow them down, but believe me, they’ll be here.”
One of the guards spoke up. “You brought a wounded man in; was he attacked by one of those things?”
“No, he just fainted. We ran into him a mile or two from your facility.” Livingston said. “Some of my men have minor injuries as well. Is there someplace secluded where they can rest?”
Jeremiah directed one of his guards—his name was Bernie Coverdale—to assist Livingston. Within minutes, Bernie had directed Livingston’s group to a lounge-like area deep in the bowels of the Plant. Rick was beginning to regain consciousness. He’d been kept separate from the rest of the wounded soldiers. Jennifer Wasco had cleaned the blood that stained his hands and, as Richard helped him up, she leaned close to Livingston. “He’s not injured,” she whispered. “And he won’t tell me where the blood came from.”
Livingston nodded. Jennifer was barely able to contain her excitement that this was Rick Sychek. He’d told her and Richard to keep it to themselves.
Once in the lounge, Rick began coming out of it. Livingston noted the stark change in his physical appearance since the last time he saw him. Twelve years ago Rick had been a good-looking, somewhat muscular man. The man sitting before him on the lounge sofa looked twenty years older, was rail thin, almost sickly-looking. The only give-away was his eyes. Livingston would never forget Rick’s haunted, brown eyes.
Those eyes stared back at him now afraid. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Nothing,” Colonel Livingston said. He nodded at Jennifer and Richard. “I need to be alone with him for a moment.”
“Sure.” Jennifer said. She and Richard left the room.
When they were gone, Colonel Livingston sat down on the coffee table by the sofa. His arthritic knees cracked and he grimaced slightly. “Okay, now that the formalities are out of the way—”
Clickers II: The Next Wave Page 19