“That’s okay,” Rick said. While it was fully dark now, they could still see fairly well. Up ahead of them, bobbing lights moved urgently. The streetlights themselves were dark.
“It won’t be like this for long,” Jack said. He motioned toward the sky where the clouds were moving at a fast pace with help from the wind. What little light they had from the moon was soon going to be obscured by more heavy clouds.
Rick nodded. “Then let’s go.”
They headed down the street, past silent houses settled back in comfy lawns. They reached the end of Elm, turned left on Spruce, and zigzagged their way through the residential section of Phillipsport, braced for any sign of a Clicker. Bobby kept up with the spirit of a trooper; he held onto Janice’s hand with a firm grip and an equally grim determination.
* * *
At the town center and along the beachfront shops and pier, the town was out en masse. Those who lived close to the beach who’d witnessed the initial uproar had either gathered their firearms and ammunition to begin the battle from windows, or braved the rainy weather and fought on the front lines. They lined up like soldiers in battle, guns cradled in their arms, ammunition ready for reloading, lanterns and flashlights illuminating the darkness. Gunfire sounded even as Rick and Jack rescued Janice and Bobby, and its faint echo was a constant reminder of the threat they faced as they threaded their way to the center of town. Along the way those that saw what the uproar was about either beat a hasty retreat— some scrambling into their cars and making a beeline for farther points inland—or gathered their own firearms and held down the fort to protect their respective homes and families. Many Clickers that managed to make it past the front wave of people shooting them were killed by those that lived farther inland. However, quite a few managed to survive and do what they came to do: breed and forage for food.
And eat they did. Most of what went down their gullets were hapless pets that got caught up in the ruckus: dogs, cats, some pot-bellied pigs, the occasional hamster or guinea pig. A pair of Rotweillers chased down several Clickers, attacking them with their jaws, and were quickly swarmed and overrun by more. The cats were usually able to escape, but some weren’t so lucky; a mother cat nursing her nine kittens underneath the porch of one house was ravaged by a pair of Clickers, her meows of pain reduced to sizzling fur and flesh. For the most part, however, those cats that were outside were able to escape where most cats escaped to—up the nearest tree. Local wildlife was infected as well: a group of foxes nestling in a burrow were torn apart and devoured; squirrels and other rodents made small appetizers. One Clicker invaded the den of a hibernating rattlesnake and began chowing down before the slumbering reptile could gather its senses. By the time it did it was too late.
There were human casualties as well, but these numbered less than the animals and pets of the area. A dozen Clickers invaded a home and descended on the owner, a portly woman of fifty-five and her thirty-seven cats. They left the house ten minutes later, leaving a mass of goo, fur, and bubbling flesh. A handicapped man who had been rendered paralyzed from the waist down in an automobile accident fifteen years before in Atlanta, Georgia, was attacked as he tried to hoist himself up the stairs of his home; the Clickers swarmed through the pet door he’d installed for his dog and they found him halfway up the stairs. He screamed, trying to scoot up the stairs faster, but he was no match for their numbers. Five minutes later what was left of him sizzled on the green shag carpet of his steps. They left his dog in the same condition on the back porch.
The Clickers that beached themselves by burrowing into the sand were forgotten as others scuttled up the shore, heading toward the townspeople now lining the pier with rifles, shotguns and semi-automatic rifles. Billy Ray Wilkeson, the town tough who hung out at Juke’s Bar on the outskirts of the city—and was a frequent lover of Stacy Robinson when her boyfriend was slaving away at work, and who sometimes accompanied Sheriff Conklin on rides through back-roads on the lawman’s off time to beat up niggers and faggots—let out a bloodcurdling scream and dropped the rifle he was firing at the Clickers. A large one had snuck up on him right below his line of fire and clamped down on his ankle with one blood-red pincer. Billy Ray screamed again and stepped back as the Clicker’s segmented tail rose and jabbed. The stinger plunged through the paunch of his stomach and Billy Ray promptly fell down on his ass. The Clicker lunged, tore out a chunk of his face with a mandible and began eating even as Billy Ray’s stomach expanded and sizzled.
But for the most part, the people were winning.
* * *
Glen Jorgensen was watching the action from his third floor attic, viewing it all through his telescope as his opinion became clear. He stepped back from the telescope as the realization dawned on him: he was in a relatively safe place, so long as they didn’t go by human scent. He had three guns in the house—a Luger semiautomatic with a ten round clip, a .45 Magnum Long Barrel, and a Winchester thirty-ought six hunting rifle with a scope—and he had several hundred rounds of ammunition. All the guns except for the Luger were kept in the attic; the Luger was kept in his bedroom, in the top drawer of his nightstand. An old habit he’d never broken when he was completing his residency at St. Mary’s in Yonkers, New York. His one room apartment had been a five minute walk from the hospital, and he often passed by patients he worked on who had come into the hospital after having been stabbed, shot, or beaten up in domestic disputes, gang turf wars, or Saturday evening barroom brawls. And more often than not, he was accosted at the hospital itself for his cash by some gun-toting junkie who would snake through the busy hospital corridors, shaking down anybody and everybody. He was glad when the residency was over; he didn’t know if he’d eventually face the barrel of some hood breaking into his apartment, or if he would go crazy himself from the eighteen-plus hour days.
Now he gathered the weapons together, breaking open the rifle. He sat on his desk loading the rifle, all the while keeping his attention to the window and what lurked out in the rainy darkness. He could hear the sound of gunfire and from the sounds of yells and jubilant screams it sounded like the citizens of Phillipsport were going to be mounting some strange-looking trophies over fireplace mantels in the weeks to come—not to mention bringing the scientific community down on this little seaport haven in droves. But that wasn’t what worried Glen.
It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
He finished loading the rifle and turned his attention to the Magnum. He opened the chamber and began loading it. He was lucky to find a window between two trees on the north east corner of his home where he could train his telescope. Once there he had a great view of the beach, and he’d been watching the action on the shoreline for the past two hours. Those crabs weren’t just hurtling themselves en masse to wreak havoc on the town; they weren’t just beaching themselves to forage for food. Glen witnessed the intensity of their scramble to shore and their haste to breed in the sand. He noticed as the last wave hit the beach that they were more frantic, more concerned about scuttling up the beach and away from the sand, than with mating. They barely even noticed the threat of the men on the shore blasting them away with their guns. They continued to scurry up the beach even as others were blown to mush. They were scuttling inland as fast as they could.
It almost looked like they were fleeing from something.
Glen Jorgensen’s features were grim as he began loading the rifle. What was going on outside was confirming the fear that was now pulsing through his veins. It was confirming the theory he had formulated through his reading of the past few hours.
Something was hunting the crabs. Something that had taken the village settlement nearly four hundred years ago.
Glen Jorgensen finished loading the rifle. He set the weapons by the window near the telescope. Then he went downstairs to his bedroom, found his heavy duty flashlight, and with the strong beam lighting his way, headed to the first floor. He checked the front door, making sure it was double-bolted, then went around the lower floors checking
the windows and the rear door. He
strode down to the basement and made sure the windows down there were shut and locked. Then he headed back upstairs, gathered some food and water from his second floor apartment kitchen, reinforced the windows there, and headed back up to the attic.
Glen set up his watch command by the window. He hefted the rifle up and lowered it on the mantelpiece that sat near the window. Then he sat down, keeping a watchful eye out the window, looking out for what he knew in his heart was left to come, but praying to God that it wouldn’t.
* * *
They wound up at the center of town by pure fate. They’d run back toward the beach and decided to try making a grab for Janice’s car. Just when it seemed like they weren’t going to get the chance to get the car because it was surrounded by Clickers, opportunity knocked when Janice’s neighbors, a young couple in their mid-twenties, blew a couple of them away with their hunting rifles. That was when they seized the opportunity to make a mad dash for the vehicle. Rick took the wheel while Janice stayed in the back with Bobby, who remained curiously mute throughout the ordeal. Several Clickers came across their path, yet Bobby showed no physical reaction. Instead of numb fear or hysterics, he simply looked at the creatures in awe, as if wanting to know more about whatever it was that had hurt him.
They drove through town, tearing down the streets as the headlights of the car picked up what was going on: people running madly, hysterically; other people brandishing rifles, pistols, baseball bats, running into the street in rage, beating and shooting the Clickers who seemed to scurry unheedingly. Rick had to take care not to swerve into either people or Clickers. Driving through Phillipsport on this night was almost like driving through downtown Los Angeles at rush hour.
They hit the center of town and Rick pulled up in front of the Sheriff station. People were running along the beach front with rifles, shotguns and handguns, shouting enthusiastically at each other. These fucking people are acting like it’s a goddamn war or something, Jack thought. But then he mentally checked himself. It was a war; one against mankind by what he termed an alien invasion. Alien because as far as he could tell, he and everybody he had come across had never seen creatures like this before in their lives.
“Radio should be inside,” Jack said.
Rick nodded, looking around. There wasn’t any sign of Clickers anywhere. The only Clickers around were dead.
Rick turned around toward the back seat. “If the radio here doesn’t work—”
Jack tapped Rick’s shoulder and motioned out the window. “Sheriff’s here.”
Rick turned toward the window and saw Sheriff Conklin heading toward them. His clothes were slightly disheveled and damp, his grin cocky and malevolent. He looked pale, panicked. The Sheriff limped toward the car and for the first time, Jack noticed that the right leg of his pants was stained a dark maroon. Most likely a Clicker, Jack thought as he traded a glance with Rick and shrugged. Both men exited the car.
Roy approached them, his grin fading as Jack noticed that most of the townspeople seemed to be ignoring the arrival of the Sheriff. They were all off on their own little worlds.
“Sheriff Conklin—” Rick began.
“Put your hands up!” Conklin barked.
“What?” Rick began, but he got no further than that when Conklin abruptly spun him around and shoved him against the car. Rick was momentarily stunned as he hit the side of the car with his chest, making it rock a little on its springs. Inside, Janice gave a startled cry. Rick moved to turn back and Conklin had him in a choke-hold, one muscular arm around his chest and throat, holding him. Rick struggled. “Hey, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Stay the fuck down,” Roy muttered, throwing his weight into the hold, which pinned Rick to the car. Janice scrambled across the seat and emerged from the other side while Jack stood in numbed shock beside the car, his bony hands curling into fists as Roy brought his handcuffs out and snapped a cuff on Rick’s left wrist.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jack yelled. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“You shut your face or I’ll haul your ass in, too,” Conklin said as he relaxed his grip slightly and pushed Rick against the car with his knee pressed into his back.
Janice was livid as she stormed up to the lawman. “You cocksucking pig!”
Roy calmly snapped the second cuff on Rick’s right wrist. “You want to join him, Miss?” Roy looked at her with eyes cold as flint. It was like looking into the eyes of a shark.
Rick was still stunned. “What the hell is going on here? Why are you—”
“Shut up!” Roy said as he hauled Rick up and began moving him off the street to the Sheriff’s station.
Jack followed him a few feet behind. “What are the charges?”
“No charges,” Roy said. “There’s a war going on and last time there was a war, men like him,” he shook Rick’s shoulder with the tight grip of his hand, “were the reason we lost. We’re not losing this one.” He opened the door of the station and marched Rick inside. Jack stopped at the curb, staring vacantly at the gray facade of the building as Bobby’s voice rose in the air. The boy was crying again.
Jack turned back to the car. Janice was in the backseat comforting her son who sniffled and sobbed. “What did Rick do, Mommy?”
“Nothing, honey,” Janice said, trying to soothe her son. She stroked his head with her hand, smoothing hair back from his forehead.
Jack caught her attention and motioned inside. Janice nodded. Jack turned and strode into the office, more pissed off now than when those things had stormed the beach.
He entered the lobby just as Roy was leading Rick down the hall to the cells. “Okay now, will you please tell me what the fuck is your problem?”
Roy stopped and slowly turned his neck, casting Jack in his cold gaze. “What was that?”
“What the fuck is your problem? Have you lost your mind?”
Roy took his pistol out of its holster and pointed the barrel at Jack’s face. He cocked the hammer. His eyes narrowed in cold slits. His face was stone. “You know, Jack, I believe I have. Do you have any suggestions on how we can alleviate this problem?”
The rest of what Jack intended to say dribbled out of his mouth, spiraling away into nothingness. He raised his hands as if to ward off any anticipated blows. His legs felt rubbery and his body suddenly felt light. He took an involuntary step backward.
“It’s okay, Jack,” Rick said. “Go back outside with Janice and Bobby.”
“Yes, Jack,” Roy said, keeping the weapon trained on Jack’s face. “Go outside and keep that slut and her little brat company.”
Jack stood his ground for a moment as if rooted to the spot. He looked at Roy closely. The lawman’s clothing was damp, almost sopping wet. It was disheveled, and his hair was even more matted. There was a tear in his slacks, the clothing itself stained badly. From within the tear he could see blood. The lawman’s face was white, almost pasty, and his eyes were haunted and livid. His lips twitched as he stood before him, training the gun on him.
For the first time, Jack noticed that Rusty wasn’t with the Sheriff. Where was he? The heavy sound of Roy Conklin’s breathing and the mad, livid look in his eyes told him that something caused the Sheriff to become unglued mentally. There was no trying to reason with the man now.
He backed up slowly until he was at the door. Then he eased out the door outside onto the sidewalk.
Only then did Roy lower his gun.
Jack watched the rest of it from the sidewalk. Janice stood by the side of the car, calling out to him. “What happened? What the hell is going on?” He held up a hand to silence her and watched as Roy ushered Rick to the rear of the Sheriff’s station. A moment later Conklin reappeared and headed toward a room off to the side.
It wasn’t until Sheriff Conklin was out of sight that Jack went back to the car and told her that he thought Sheriff Roy Conklin had finally lost his mind.
* * *
“So you’re sure you’ll be all right here?” Jack had asked her this question for the third time and she was getting tired of it.
“I’ll be fine, Jack,” Janice said. “Now will you please go find Doc Jorgensen so he can try to clear this mess up?”
Jack nodded and glanced inside the car at Bobby. He smiled and waved. Bobby returned the wave. The smile took a bit more effort.
It had been Janice’s idea for Jack to find Glen Jorgensen. If what Jack Ripley told her was true, then Sheriff Conklin had been injured worse than the flesh wound on his leg. She, too, had seen the mad expression in his eyes, and it scared her. She’d read about people who’d gone mad, and in the descriptions in all these works, usually the novels of Stephen King and Dean Koontz, the madman’s eyes were livid, haunted somehow. Hollow, yet alive with some insane lust. Sheriff Conklin looked like that now, as if he was possessed by some hidden force that had suddenly taken root. She’d never liked the man much, had always found him to be odd—but harmless. That oddness was now blossoming into something dangerous. And if the problem was medical—psychological from some hidden dementia, or physical from the loss of blood—she knew Dr. Jorgensen would be able to help.
“Are you sure you’ll be safe?” Jack asked with growing concern on his features. “Those things—”
“Bobby and I will be fine,” Janice said. “If any more trouble happens, I’ll get in the car and drive us over to Jorgensen’s. Until then, I’m staying here until Conklin comes out. If he’s lost it, maybe he’ll listen to me. I’ve known him almost all my life.”
Jack nodded. She could see that she’d scored a point, and Jack knew that what she was saying made more sense. Jack had been living in Phillipsport barely fifteen years, which still made him an outsider in these parts.
Clickers Page 19
