Rattus New Yorkus

by Hunter Shea

We let the rats have Manhattan.

  The military called in every boat, barge, ferry, and tug to evacuate the city. It was no easy task. Several boats also took on swarms of rats, eventually sinking into the Hudson or East Rivers. There were rumors that the military had deliberately sunk the boats to avoid the rats getting to Jersey or the other boroughs. I’d seen our soldiers risking their lives to save people. I choose not to believe that they would intentionally murder civilians.

  Every road, bridge, and tunnel with access to the city was blown to hell.

  We watched in openmouthed horror as Manhattan was cut off from the rest of the world.

  The once-mightiest city in the western world was reduced to an enormous rat’s nest in a matter of days. The economy spiraled out of control with the closure of the Stock Exchange. CEOs of major institutions were among the thousands of missing and presumed dead. No one was spared, no matter how great or small.

  I heard the front door open upstairs. The stairs creaked.

  “Marvin’s up and about,” Benny said. “I visited him at St. Phillips.”

  “He just got the new hip three days ago.”

  “Modern science,” she said.

  We were living in her sister’s basement for now.

  She plopped onto the couch next to me, laying her head on my shoulder.

  I pointed at the TV. It showed an aerial shot of a dormant Manhattan at night. There were no lights on. I could only imagine what was happening in the dark.

  “We see what modern science is capable of,” I said, turning the TV off.

  “Do you really think they’ll bomb the whole island?” Benny said. Her hand slipped into mine easily, comfortably.

  “I can’t see how they can avoid it. Sooner or later, the rats going to run out of food. And they’re damn good swimmers.”

  We both knew what kind of food the rats had been feasting on. Benny shivered.

  “Hold me.”

  I held her tight, kissing the top of her head.

  I jolted when I heard something skittering along the drop-ceiling tiles.

  Maybe it was a squirrel.

  And maybe man had been knocked off the top of the food chain for good.

  Jurassic Florida

  Keep reading for more grizzly good fun from Hunter Shea.

  FLORIDA. IT’S WHERE YOU GO TO DIE.

  Welcome to Polo Springs, a sleepy little town on Florida’s Gulf Coast. It’s a great place to live—if you don’t mind the hurricanes. Or the flooding. Or the unusual wildlife . . .

  IGUANAS. THEY’RE EVERYWHERE.

  Maybe it’s the weather. But the whole town is overrun with the little green bastards this year. They’re causing a lot of damage. They’re eating everything in sight. And they’re just the babies . . .

  HUMANS. THEY’RE WHAT’S FOR DINNER.

  The mayor wants to address the iguana problem. But when Hurricane Ramona slams the coast, the town has a bigger problem on their hands. Bigger iguanas. Bigger than a double-wide. Unleashed by the storm, this razor-toothed horde of prehistoric predators rises up from the depths—and descends on the town like retirees at an early-bird special. Except humans are on the menu. And it’s all you can eat . . .

  Available now from Lyrical Underground.

  Chapter One

  They fed Tony to an alligator!

  Frank Ferrante woke up in a cold sweat, heart galloping to break free from his rib cage. His mouth was gritty with sand, the sour taste of thick morning breath compounded by the fact that he hadn’t brushed his teeth in two weeks.

  He rubbed his sunburnt lids with filthy knuckles. The image of Tony, screaming like he’d never imagined a man could scream, the alligator clamped on his leg like a vise, refused to dissipate like the ghost of a dream.

  Because it wasn’t a dream.

  The crying gulls overhead were drowned out by Tony’s pleading cries within his head.

  The sun stabbed his face when he sat up, the Gulf of Mexico surf creeping toward his hiding space in the tall beach grass. He spat into the sand, the yellow gob of mucus quickly absorbed.

  “You’re safe. You’re safe,” he muttered, hoping if he said it out loud enough, he’d eventually believe it. So far, it wasn’t working.

  What he did know was that he was safe for the moment. That didn’t mean his ultimate fear wasn’t standing right behind him, waiting to ruin the next moment.

  An old couple walked along the surf, gray hair standing on end against the breeze. A guy wearing nothing but a nut hugger and headphones jogged past them, his body glistening with sweat or sea spray. Frank really didn’t care which.

  Every joint and muscle in Frank’s body hurt. He was used to sleeping on one of those sleep-number beds, not within itchy beach grass, alleys and dark stairwells. He was sore and tired and hungry and scared. He wondered how long his heart could hold out, always on the brink of disaster and misery like this. He was young, only thirty-two, but he’d aged at least fifty years over the past couple of weeks.

  Shit, being forced to watch what they did to Tony had taken him right to the front of the old codger line.

  “What the hell?”

  Something tickled his back. He reached an arm to pull what must have been grass out of his shirt. His shoulder popped, ripples of pain shooting down to his fingertips. The pad of his index finger touched something long and hard. It moved up his back. More like scampered.

  Frank yelped, the old couple pausing in their morning walk to see him pop out of the reeds like an overexcited meerkat.

  Something was in his shirt, clawing its way up and down his back. He went into an impromptu St. Vitus dance, clawing at the dirty rag he called a shirt. Now there was something in his front and back!

  He stepped on his own foot, toppling backward. He heard and felt whatever was in his shirt give a soft pop. A sticky wetness oozed down his spine. Tearing his shirt open, the buttons popping free, a sleek green shape leapt off his scarred belly and tore ass along the beach.

  Goddamn lizard.

  Which meant the thing that had exploded on his back was one, too. Disgusted, but not as much as he would have been weeks ago, he slipped his shirt off and inspected the Turin-like stain that was in the vague shape of a lizard. He scooped the sticky remains off his back, flicking it onto the sand but refusing to look.

  Still in his clothes, he walked into the warm waters of the Gulf, washing the remains from his flesh.

  There were more goddamn lizards in this poor excuse for a Florida town than squirrels in all of New York. He’d gotten used to them flitting over him while he slept. But this . . . this was an intrusion that would not stand. He was glad he’d crushed the one, pissed he’d let the other get away.

  After a thorough soak, Frank left the beach, wet shoe prints in the sand. He needed to find food and something to drink. Worsening dehydration was making his heart beat all kinds of funky. He should be home in Ozone Park right now, having a hot cappuccino, huevos rancheros and a side of home fries at the North Avenue Diner.

  Frank choked back tears at thinking he could never go back there again.

  That life was as good and done as Tony’s.

  Dripping seawater, he didn’t bother to make himself presentable. Let everyone think he was a bum, a nothing that wasn’t even worth a second glance. There was safety in that. For now.

  He spied baby lizards darting in and out of the grass and up the palm trees as he shambled toward what passed for a town square.

  “Get out of here,” he spat, stomping his foot to make them run away.

  They were looking at him. They knew what he’d done. They’d be waiting for him tonight, when he was too damn tired to keep vigil.

  “You’re fucking losing it.”

  Picking up rocks along the way, he flung them at the lizards, hoping there would be some of yesterday’s sandwiches
in the dumpster behind the luncheonette.

  Huevos rancheros weren’t going to be on the menu for a long, long time.

  Meet the Author

  Hunter Shea is the author of over 20 books, with a specialization in cryptozoological horror that includes The Jersey Devil, The Dover Demon, Loch Ness Revenge and many others. His novel, The Montauk Monster, was named one of the best reads of the summer by Publishers Weekly. A trip to the International Cryptozoology Museum will find several of his cryptid books among the fascinating displays. Living in a true haunted house inspired his Jessica Backman: Death in the Afterlife series (Forest of Shadows, Sinister Entity and Island of the Forbidden). In 2011, he was selected to be a part of the launch of Samhain Publishing’s new horror line alongside legendary author Ramsey Campbell. When he’s not writing thrillers and horror, he also spins tall tales for middle grade readers on Amazon’s highly regarded Rapids reading app.

  An avid podcaster, he can be seen and heard on Monster Men, one of the longest running video horror podcasts in the world, and Final Guys, focusing on weekly movie and book reviews. His nostalgic column about the magic of 80s horror, Video Visions, is featured monthly at Cemetery Dance Online. You can find his short stories in a number of anthologies, including Chopping Block Party, The Body Horror Book and Fearful Fathoms II.

  A lifetime New Yorker, Hunter is supported by his loving wife and two beautiful daughters. When he’s not studying up on cryptozoology, he’s an avid explorer of the unknown, having spent a night alone on the Queen Mary, searching for the Warren’s famous White Lady of the Union Cemetery and other mysterious places.

  The Jersey Devil

  The Legend Lives

  Everyone knows the legend of the Jersey Devil. Some believe it is an abomination of nature, a hybrid winged beast from hell that stalks the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey searching for prey. Others believe it is a hoax, a campfire story designed to scare children. But one man knows the truth . . .

  The Devil Awakes

  Sixty years ago, Boompa Willet came face to face with the Devil—and lived to tell the tale. Now, the creature’s stomping grounds are alive once again with strange sightings, disappearances, and worse. After all these years, Boompa must return to the Barrens, not to prove the legend is real but to wipe it off the face of the earth . . .

  The Beast Must Die

  It’ll take more than just courage to defeat the Devil. It will take four generations of the Willet clan, a lifetime of survivalist training, and all the firepower they can carry. But timing is critical. A summer music festival has attracted crowds of teenagers. The woods are filled with tender young prey. But this time, the Devil is not alone. The evil has grown into an unholy horde of mutant monstrosities. And hell has come home to New Jersey . . .

  The Montauk Monster

  It Kills. . .

  On a hot summer night in Montauk, the bodies of two local bar patrons are discovered in the dunes, torn to shreds, their identities unrecognizable. . .

  It Breeds. . .

  In another part of town, a woman’s backyard is invaded by four terrifying creatures that defy any kind of description. What’s clear is that they’re hostile—and they’re ravenous. . .

  It Spreads. . .

  With every sunset the terror rises again, infecting residents with a virus no one can cure. The CDC can’t help them; FEMA can’t save them. But each savage attack brings Suffolk County Police Officer Gray Dalton one step closer to the shocking source of these unholy creations. Hidden on nearby Plum Island, a U.S. research facility has been running top-secret experiments. What they created was never meant to see the light of day. Now, a vacation paradise is going straight to hell.

  Tortures of the Damned

  Shock. . .

  First, the electricity goes—plunging the east coast in darkness after a devastating nuclear attack. Millions panic. Millions die. They are the lucky ones.

  After Shock. . .

  Next, the chemical weapons take effect—killing or contaminating everything alive. Except a handful of survivors in a bomb shelter. They are the damned.

  Hell Is For Humans

  Then, the real nightmare begins. Hordes of rats force two terrified families out of their shelter—and into the savage streets of an apocalytic wasteland. They are not alone. Vicious, chemical-crazed animals hunt in packs. Dogs tear flesh, cats draw blood, horses crush bone. Roaming gangs of the sick and dying are barely recognizable as human. These are the times that try men’s souls. These are the tortures that tear families apart. This is hell on earth. The rules are simple: Kill or die.