"They have more money than Oprah," Brandon said. "That kind of cash can buy you a military escort."
"Does it give them the right to kill people?"
"Maybe not the right, but certainly the ability," Brandon said.
Brandon sat next to his friend on the couch and put an arm around his shoulder. He figured Greg could use a little comfort. Brandon certainly needed it.
"So," he said, "I guess this means you and Lizzie aren't going to have a second date."
Greg looked at him slowly, unsure if he should laugh or cry.
"She's an awful person," Greg said. "I could never imagine being with someone like her no matter how good looking she is... was. Jesus Christ, how is this happening?"
Brandon didn't have an answer. He saw what happened on television, but he wasn't there to see Lizzie's face melt like an old candle. He couldn't fathom what witnessing something like that could do to a person, but under the circumstances, he thought Greg was holding up rather well.
"What do you want to do?" Brandon asked.
"I want to sit here and be quiet for a minute. I need to think."
"Do you want to be alone?"
"No," he blurted. "You can stay right where you are." Being alone was the last thing he wanted right now. It scared him half to death imagining having to go through this by himself.
"Do you mind if I look on the Internet?" Brandon asked. "See what's going on?"
Greg shook his head.
Brandon grabbed his laptop from the kitchen and sat in the chair opposite Greg, loudly typing in one web address after another.
"I can't get a connection," he said. "The Wi-Fi is out."
"I'm not surprised," Greg said. "They don't want something like this getting out."
"We're on our own," Brandon said.
"We're on our own," Greg agreed.
Just as Greg came to terms with this shocking new reality, the lights flickered and went out.
Chapter 3
The Sunoco by the Turnpike off-ramp had been ransacked. The first sightings of what the Wildflower soldiers knew as P-21 had only occurred less than an hour before, but already the residents of Ditchburn had devolved into frantic looters and thieves. The outbreaks weren't widespread, but in the affected locations, hundreds had been killed by the brown blobs like the one that had eaten Lizzie Gennetti. The small-minded pack of local rioters who had taken the Sunoco by force knew that in case of an emergency, it was expected of them to acquire as much water, snack food, and alcohol as possible. They did so with aplomb, killing the cashier - a man many of them knew for years - and raiding the shelves like a pack of hungry wolves.
At the edge of the parking lot sat a school bus that had been returning late from a junior high field trip. The rear half was blackened and burned from where some genius had doused it in gasoline and lit it on fire to stop the spread of what he called 'The Blob Job.' Those inside the inferno that hadn't already been liquefied by the attacking brown slime were burned alive as they tried frantically to open the faulty emergency door. Those who'd set the bus ablaze watched it burn as they snacked on bags of Fritos and smoked cigarettes they'd stolen from the dead cashier.
Across town, the Ditchburn mid-rise burned furiously. Three local fire departments had their trucks stopped at one of the military barricades, where the firemen were held at gunpoint under threat of incarceration. All they could do was watch helplessly as people jumped from the windows of the upper floors. When the station chief hopped the barrier to help a scared, burned eight-year-old girl, he was shot in the back. The second shot hit the child in the neck and dropped her in her tracks.
After they'd received their warning, the fire crew was permitted to hook up one of their hoses to a nearby hydrant to fight the blaze from a distance. They promptly turned the hose on the soldiers, knocking several to the ground in a torrent of icy water, but it turned out to be much easier to avoid the stream of water than the barrage of bullets. In seconds, most of the crew of the D.F.D. had been gunned down as well as the two dozen spectators who had been laughing at the soldiers only a minute before. Sitting on flat tires, the firetrucks became an even more reliable roadblock for anyone trying to pass.
When the soldiers began screaming and tearing at their clothing, there was no one there to see what was happening...
...no one to report that P-21 had entered the town's water supply.
When reinforcements arrived after several minutes of radio silence, they assumed their fellow soldiers had gone AWOL. What they didn't know was that they had been turned to bloody sludge and washed into the sewer system, leaving nothing behind but a few soggy clothes and a pile of M4A1 carbines to mark their graves.
A few blocks away at the Sudsy Mug Tavern, it was a much different story. Two dozen happy drunks were poured one free beer after another as the Mug's owner promised to keep refills coming as long as the generator held out. Being wasted, blasted, and shit-faced had become a welcome diversion from the screams beyond the tavern's locked door. What better way to survive an outbreak of hungry shit-monsters than to remain gloriously oblivious to anything happening on the street outside? Built in 1876 of stone and brick, the Mug was as solid as the Alamo. Luckily, for the gathering of alcohol aficionados, none seemed to remember how that particular battle had ended up.
When Scott Backer ordered a glass of water, those inside the Mug found out how quickly a garrison could be overtaken by an overzealous enemy.
The locked doors became their downfall.
At the local swimming hole, six partying teenagers were eaten alive as a seventh stole his best friend's car and sped off into the night. When he tried running the barricade at the foot of River Street, he was shot more than a dozen times as Wildflower soldiers laughed at his stupidity. They immediately began placing bets on how far other fleeing citizens would get if they tried the same ill-fated tactic.
Gladys Wentz, well-known local historian and upstanding member of the Rotary Club, fell in her shower and was quickly dissolved by the toxic spray, leaving nothing behind but a wedding ring and the fillings from her teeth.
Joni Mitchell - the owner of the bait shop, not the famous folk singer - was attacked in her driveway while calling for her Persian cat, Flip. After she melted and slowly oozed down the asphalt, Flip darted from the bushes for a tasty meal of Joni stew, only to have his head split open and consumed. His burned hair formed a perfect outline in the driveway... a feline crime scene.
At the Shady Meadows elderly home bordering the Christmas tree farm, a rousing game of candlelight cover-all Bingo was underway. Pitchers of iced-tea had been served, made with good old Ditchburn tap water, but no one had yet risked leaving their card behind. They took Bingo seriously.
Mable Arner was the first to go, but the night was still young.
***
"They cut the power," Greg said. "The bastards don't want us to know what's happening out there."
"What else is there to know?" Brandon said. "You saw for yourself what's going on."
"That doesn't mean I want to be left in the dark."
Every little noise and bump set them on edge. Greg peeked through the curtain into the dark street and saw several of Brandon's neighbors out on their porches, shouting back and forth like fans at a football game. He wanted to go outside and warn them to be quiet, but now wasn't the time to draw attention to himself, not with trigger-happy soldiers only a few blocks away killing anyone who got in their way.
"What do you see?" Brandon asked.
"Just some of your redneck neighbors being redneck neighbors."
A topless man in a pair of boxer shorts walked to the middle of the street, stared into the sky, and loudly cracked open a can of beer. His wife and son sat on the porch swing and laughed at something they found particularly amusing. The man was joined by another who held a can of beer of his own. By the way they swayed and staggered, Greg was pretty sure they'd been drinking since lunch.
"Let them come here and try that shit," the man in
boxers slurred. "They won't be so brave with a .30-06 in their face."
"I'll karate chop those bitches right in the neck," his friend added before drunkenly showing how it was done.
My God, Greg thought. They know what's happening and they're too wasted to care.
Maybe they were the lucky ones.
"Your neighbors are morons," he said as he shut the curtain. "They're going to get themselves killed."
"You should see them on July 4th," Brandon said. "It's a miracle any of them still have all their fingers."
"Should we say something? All they're doing is putting a bullseye on Grant Street."
"Absolutely not. I'm not opening the door unless there's no other choice." To prove his point, Brandon got up and checked the lock before returning to Greg's side.
Outside, one of the men began singing 'The Star-Spangled Banner.'
His off-key rendition was interrupted by a fusillade of gunfire from downtown.
Greg returned to the window and saw both men drop their beers and run to the safety of their porches, all bravado temporarily forgotten. The shots weren't any closer than before, which gave Greg the impression that whatever was happening may be limited to Block Street and the nearby surroundings.
But what were those shiny, brown blobs? How had they gotten here and what was their purpose?
Greg turned to Brandon and said, "Do you think Wildflower is behind this? Maybe something in their lab, something they were working on?"
"Only stories," Brandon said. "There's never been any proof of anything going on up there that couldn't be explained."
"You just got done saying Wildflower could afford to keep people quiet, but now you're changing your story?"
"I'm not saying they don't have their hands in some questionable shit, but I'm not going to buy into stories of animal testing and alien experiments. They couldn't have gotten away with it for decades without someone catching on. This isn't Roswell."
"Then what are they doing here?" Greg asked.
"I don't know. Maybe they were called in by the military to help?"
"And what the fuck would a pharmaceutical company know about it if they weren't somehow involved?"
"Do you expect me to have answers?" Brandon asked. "Is that what you're looking for?"
Greg shook his head. "I'm just saying something isn't right. What if they're using Ditchburn as a testing ground for biological weapons?"
"Now you sound crazy..."
"You didn't see it," Greg shouted. "I was there. I know what it can do. I don't care if it's from Wildflower's lab or Altair 4... I just know it isn't natural. It doesn't belong here and the government is going to do whatever it can to make sure no one else knows about it."
"It's 2019," Brandon said. "They're never going to be able to keep it from getting out."
"We don't have power or cell service. The landline is out, the Internet is down. I'd say they're doing a great job at keeping it from getting out."
"They can't kill everyone," Brandon said. "We're not on an island. Someone is going to escape."
"And what are they going to say? That the military has quarantined the town to stop killer blobs from outer space? They'd be in a straitjacket by morning."
"You should have joined the Debate Team," Brandon said.
"Nah, it's too much work being right all the time."
Brandon punched him in the arm and they laughed, but it was too forced to lighten the mood.
"So what do we do now?" Brandon asked. "How do we know what's going on out there?"
Greg stared at the floor and drummed his fingers on his thighs. "Do you have a radio?"
"A radio? Yeah. My dad has one in the garage that runs on batteries."
"That's perfect," Greg said.
"But that means we have to go outside," Brandon said. "I'm not sure I like that idea."
"Do you have a better one?"
"What about Denice? We can't just leave her here by herself."
"Sure we can," Greg said. "She'll be safer inside, anyway."
Brandon nodded. "Then let's do it now before I change my mind."
They crossed the living room and kitchen and stared into the yard through the kitchen door. With the lights out, it was hard to see more than three feet of the walkway leading to the garage.
"Twenty-five feet," Brandon said. "Thirty, tops. Just stay on the path so we don't get separated."
They cringed as the door creaked open and the smell of smoke wafted into the kitchen. Ditchburn had become a war zone, albeit a quiet one. No sirens blared, no shots were fired, not a single breath of wind rustled the trees.
It was either the aftermath of the storm or the calm before it.
Greg couldn't help thinking the worst was yet to come.
***
With the door closed firmly behind them, they felt alone in a sea of black. Brandon's yard wasn't large, but with nothing more than starlight to guide them, they may as well have been standing on the dark side of the moon. Even though it was Brandon's house, and he was more familiar with the layout, Greg was the one taking the lead, allowing Brandon to hold on to his shoulders like a two-man conga line.
The first time his foot slipped off the concrete and into the soft grass, Greg gasped and pulled his foot back as if he'd stepped in lava.
"What?" Brandon whispered. "What happened?"
"Nothing, just my nerves. Be quiet."
The path felt much longer than thirty feet, more like three hundred. Brandon turned to look at the house, trying to draw comfort in knowing it was still there. The roofline stood out against the starry sky; Denice's window glowed orange from a burning candle.
He'd never been so afraid of the dark in his life.
"Are we almost there?" Brandon asked.
"I don't know, it's your fucking yard."
"Keep going."
"No, really? I thought we were going to stand here and look for shooting stars," Greg said.
After several more steps, Greg stopped abruptly, forcing Brandon to run into his back and wrap his arms around his waist.
"What are you doing?" Brandon asked, squeezing tighter.
"Shut up, I think I heard something," Greg said as he pried at Brandon's hands. "Are we dating? Back the fuck up."
Brandon grudgingly let go and allowed a few inches of space between them, a space that suddenly felt like the icy vacuum between distant planets.
To their right, something rustled loudly, snuffling and crunching through the hedges. If Greg hadn't already emptied his bladder into his pants back at the movie theater, he would have done so now. His skin tingled and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
"What... the fuck... was that?" Brandon panted.
"Maybe the dog got out."
"He's in Denice's room."
The hedges rustled again, followed by a wet snort.
Greg didn't wait around to find out what had made the noise. He ran through the dark, covering the last ten feet in two long strides and running face-first into the door. He groped around for the knob, turned it, and lunged inside the garage with Brandon hot on his heels. He slammed and locked the door behind him.
"I think I broke my face," Greg said, reaching up a shaky hand to rub his forehead.
"What the hell was that?" Brandon asked, sniffling.
"Are you crying?" Greg asked.
"No, maybe, I don't know! Who cares?" He wiped his nose on his arm and then used his shirt to dry his eyes, grateful for the dark for the first time. "Jesus Christ, man. I'm scared shitless."
"We made it," Greg said. "Whatever it was, it can't get in here." The garage was of sturdy cinder block construction, the door made of heavy aluminum.
"But we can't stay here. Denice is still in the house."
"We'll see if anything is on the radio and make our way back," Greg said. "Whatever it was, it should be gone by then."
Unless it was following them... or hunting them.
Brandon crossed the garage to his father's workb
ench and searched through several of the cabinets before laying his hands on a battered Maglite. He turned it on and stood it up on the bench so the lens was facing the ceiling, giving them plenty of light to see their surroundings. Brandon saw the small oily patch in the center of the floor and wished his parents' car was still there. He would have felt much better knowing they were home and safe and not being eating alive in some Chinese restaurant.
What great advice would their fortune cookies have to impart? What shared wisdom would help them survive against an unbeatable enemy?
Brandon exhaled, shook his head, and turned on the radio.
At first, there was nothing but static. Greg felt his hopes fall as station after station was more of the same hissing white noise. Finally, a static-drenched voice broke through the silence and they knew immediately who it was.
Dexter Maitland - shock jock, paranormal guru, and all-around obnoxious progenitor of local folklore. He'd been around for decades, spilling his hokey tales across the airwaves and on his own cable access show, Forgotten Places. Everyone knew that most of what he said bordered on the absurd, but if anyone was going to have something to say about what was happening in Ditchburn, it would be him.
"Tune it in," Greg said.
Brandon rolled his eyes and tweaked the knob until most of the static had disappeared.
For the next ten minutes, they listened raptly, hanging on his every word.
***
"Welcome back to Forgotten Places," Dexter Maitland said. "We'll get back to our normal programming in just a few minutes. Stories have been coming into the studio of a military presence building in the small town of Ditchburn, about forty minutes from where I'm broadcasting. It's been hard to find any information on exactly what has been transpiring, but early reports suggest that parts of the town are under quarantine for an unspecified outbreak.
"Don't bother changing the channel and trying to find news coverage of the event, as it appears there's a complete media blackout in Ditchburn and the surrounding communities. Comments on social media have been removed and some users have had their accounts terminated. Several videos on YouTube claiming to be from Ditchburn were deleted within minutes of being posted.
Melt Page 4
