by Hunter Shea
One of the creatures slipped out from behind the SUV, deadly rows of teeth bared. The blue of its flesh was tinted red. Blood wept from its mouth.
Before he could get his finger around the rifle’s trigger, it charged.
Can Man scampered deeper into the reeds. Earlier, he’d poured the bottle of water he carried into the dirt. He covered his exposed flesh in mud as a way to camouflage himself, forgetting about his loud Hawaiian shirt. Most of the troops had moved out, but there were still ten men left, all of them up by the old lighthouse. None of them had noticed the steady parade of what he considered demons coming out of the water.
Silently, they padded up the rocky steps to the man-made walkway that circled under the rise that housed the lighthouse.
Another rode a wave onto the pebbled beach, shaking the salt water from the bits of fur still clinging to its muscular body.
“Fourteen,” Can Man whispered, keeping count of the demons as they arrived.
He hoped the mud masked his scent. They looked like dogs or wolves or panthers. It was hard to tell in the dark with only the moon to illuminate the horrors on the beach. If they were anything like any of those animals, they would have a keen sense of smell. He hoped they’d catch only a whiff of the earth when the breeze blew over him.
Sooner or later, the terrifying sea creatures were going to notice the men stationed at the lighthouse, or vice versa. When that happened, hell was going to open wide. If there was a God, Can Man would remain unnoticed, no more significant than a large shell rolled into the weeds along the beach.
The surf pounded with increasing intensity. Looking up through the slender gaps in the sea grass, he watched shadowy clouds scud under the luminescent lip of the moon. A storm was coming.
And another had already arrived.
The sound of a shrieking gull, or was it a man, was quickly drowned by the churning waves.
Can Man held his breath, listening. The angry Atlantic masked all other noise.
There was a flash of light by the gift shop, which was to the bottom left of the lighthouse, followed by an echoing report.
Shivering despite the humid warmth of the night, he shut his eyes tight and prayed.
CHAPTER 38
“Where are we going?”
Jason sat a slight distance from the woman piloting the boat. Her jaw chattered with chills. Her eyes never strayed from the bow. The boat clung to the visible, churning coastline. It rocked jerkily along the waves that increased in height and intensity as more dark clouds obscured the stars.
His hands hurt like hell. Looking down, he saw the black powder burns that stretched all the way to his forearms. The salt water only made it worse. Holding his waterlogged cell phone with his fingertips, he tilted it so it could drain. It was completely fried.
“Look, miss, my friends and I were attacked back there. We need to get to the police. My best friend was . . . was . . .” The words couldn’t come out. What happened to Tom would haunt him for the rest of his life.
“We have to get away,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“No, we have to go to the cops. Are you from around here? I know I’ve seen you before.”
Her long hair was wild and frizzy, and the outfit she wore looked expensive. It was the kind of crazy stuff that only rich people would wear, a runway nightmare. The bloodstains had rendered it useless, even for Goodwill.
He could tell by the haunted look in her eyes that, like him, she wasn’t prepared to talk about what had driven her to jumping in a boat to wander along the Atlantic coast. By the way she worked it, she’d obviously had very little boating experience.
The Montauk lighthouse was visible up ahead.
“Look, this little boat isn’t made for seas like this, especially at night. You’re going to have to land her somewhere. If you turn in there,” he said, pointing to a sandy beach on their left with a small dock where a couple of rowboats were tied to one side, “it’s just a short walk until we come to a small housing development. We’ll knock on some doors until someone lets us in to use their phone.”
When she finally turned to face him, everything clicked into place. It was one of the Wealthy Wives of the Hamptons—Grace something. For an older woman, she had a slamming body. He’d actually rubbed one out watching the show one night when he was too lazy to get off the bed and sift through the porn tubes on his laptop.
Whatever had happened had aged her. He almost felt guilty for making her one of his sex fantasies.
“You’re one of the Wealthy Wives,” he said.
She nodded. A lone tear carved a clear streak through the grime on her face.
“Everyone’s dead,” she said, her voice quivering. She suddenly collapsed into the pilot’s chair, her hands falling from the wheel. Jason jumped up to maintain control of the boat. With the waves as heavy as they were, things could get ugly, fast.
“Where were you when it happened?”
Grace looked far away. “It was supposed to be our last dinner party at Samar Van Dayton’s house. Everyone knew their part. Nancy wanted to take the show from us.”
The woman was far gone. She had sense enough to move aside so Jason could take over the boat.
“Shit balls.”
A large, four-legged animal jumped onto the dock, sniffing the boards. From this distance, it could have been a regular dog, but he couldn’t tell for sure. No sense taking chances. There was a spot along the right of the lighthouse where he could land. There were always park rangers on duty out there. It was a national landmark, after all. They said George Washington was the one who ordered it to be built. Jason hit the throttle.
“Just hang tight,” he said. Grace mumbled something about the show, wondering if what they filmed would make it to air.
“Sir, we’re going to have to move base of operations to a safer zone.”
The agent, still a kid with no field experience but good with computers, stood over Don Sorely as he tried to catch a few minutes of sleep. It wasn’t easy. With the CDC doctors on board, the Winnebago was packed to the gills. Radio check-ins and the doctors talking between themselves created a steady white noise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. All he wanted was fifteen minutes of peace.
“Safer zone? If I put my head outside, I’d hear crickets,” he said irritably.
“It won’t last long. We have estimates of at least seventy war machines from the Hamptons to Montauk.”
Seventy? Don burped, the acid laying a trail of fire on his tongue. He’d hoped that the tide would have washed more out to sea, leaving them to drown. He’d have to talk to his director, demand he get more boots on the ground. Fucking bureaucracy. Every branch of the government was laden with secrets. Over the past couple of decades, those branches turned against one another. Communication was a curse word.
“And here I am, sent to pay for their stupidity,” he mumbled.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Don waved him away. “Let me talk to the docs first.”
Greene and Ling sat hunched over a pair of laptops. They had dark circles under their eyes but neither looked ready to stop.
“You find anything?”
Dr. Ling looked up at him, her contempt barely contained. “Yes, I’ve found definitive proof that the people in charge of Plum Island are criminals of the highest order. Anyone who has touched that place should be tried as a war criminal.”
Dr. Greene placed a calming hand on her shoulder. “Sorely, this is more serious than you or your bosses understand. Some of the greatest minds in the fields of genetics, microbiology and infectious disease were brought together on Plum Island to create something that nature never intended, from the animals you call war machines to the disease they carry. Doctors and scientists were recruited from China, Russia, Germany and South Africa. They were given free rein and unlimited resources to delve into their most fanciful experiments, ethics be damned. At a time when the Plum Island research lab was publicly revealed to have wrapped up and ce
ased operations, they went into overdrive.”
A crooked grin stretched across Dr. Ling’s face. “You had no idea, did you?”
“How and why the hell would I? You think if I knew this I would have even come here?” Sorely huffed.
“I don’t know you well enough to answer that. Everyone has a price,” Dr. Ling replied coolly.
“What good is money when you’re not around to spend it?” He tapped one of the techs so he could sit in his chair.
Dr. Greene cleared his throat. “We need to focus. It appears each success went to the heads of everyone working in the labs as well as those who funded and watched over them. They were able to crossbreed species successfully, to the point where there was zero rejection. It’ll take years to decode everything they did. At the same time, using existing diseases and combining them with synthetics, Marvola-6 came into being. The true stroke of genius was genetically modifying the creatures they were creating so they could not only adapt to the disease, but also become organic germ factories. All of this was done under strict orders from the facility’s director to reveal less and less information to their benefactors, both Homeland Security and those above.”
“He means the President,” Dr. Ling added coolly. “There’s enough in here to not only have him impeached, but executed. You know what that means, don’t you?”
Don bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. He knew the President had some involvement, but having a paper trail was bad. Very bad.
“I don’t know the exact reasons for creating these war machines,” Dr. Greene said, pacing. “I’m sure if you followed the money you’d have your answer. The problem is, Marvola-6 has no cure.”
“None that you’ve found yet,” Don said, feeling as if the temperature in the Winnebago had gone up ten degrees in the past few minutes.
“A cure will never be found. It wasn’t created to be cured. Wherever they meant to deploy the war machines, the intent was to wipe out entire civilizations. The only way to stop it is to contain the infected and the war machines.”
Don jumped from his chair and clapped his hands. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Sir,” a tech interjected.
“Not now!” Don barked. The tech quickly turned away. “What’s the containment protocol?”
Dr. Greene coughed, and for a brief moment, looked as if he’d completely left the RV. He rubbed his eyes and continued, “Complete annihilation of every living organism within the infected zone. The war machines were designed to be light sensitive, a manufactured weakness to give a military cleaning unit time to do their work without fear. Within close range, you have to burn the bodies until they are nothing but ash. On a more far-reaching scale, an atomic, or what I feel is the more viable solution, neutron bomb can be dropped. At least with the neutron bomb, you’ll still have infrastructure left behind. As long as you can keep it a secret that you delivered the war machines in the first place, you can be seen as a hero nation for eliminating their threat and putting an end to a pandemic, all without laying total waste to a city or even country.”
Dr. Ling pushed her fiery hair behind her ears. “We’re in a hot zone right now. We also hold all of the evidence of the war machine program implicating some of the highest branches of the government. You know they’ll never let us leave here alive.”
He’d heard enough. This was as bad as it could get. They were bait. Goddamn bait for some wide-scale beta test. And they had damning proof. His head hurt as he calculated his next ten moves.
“The hell they won’t. None of us in here are infected. We’re hauling ass out of here now.”
Don strode to the front of the Winnebago with heavy footsteps. He keyed the ignition and hit the headlights, illuminating a pair of war machines, each an abortion of the laws of nature. They scattered the second the lights hit them, slipping back into the darkness.
“Our cameras show four war machines outside,” the tech called out.
“Yeah, I just saw two of them,” Don shouted. “I’ll run the bastards over if I have to. They may be big and ugly, but I don’t think they’ll hold up to several tons rolling over them.”
He spun the wheel, making a hard right out of the private lot.
Two heavy thuds sounded behind him. The Winnebago rocked to the right. Dr. Ling screeched as instruments crashed to the floor. Don fought to keep the big rig upright as the war beasts, learning to avoid the lights at the front, assaulted the sides and rear in the safety of the warm, dark night.
CHAPTER 39
Dalton tensed, arms outstretched, hoping to catch the creature by the neck before it could sink its teeth into him.
A loud bang rippled the air around him. The monster skidded and rolled to the tips of Dalton’s shoes. The side of its head was missing. He jumped back, frantically feeling his face for any traces of blood.
A shotgun’s muzzle rested on the open window of the driver’s-side door. Meredith clicked a flashlight and shined it on his face. His heart thumped. She may have saved him from a mauling, but he was still as good as dead if anything got on him.
“Let me see your hands, too,” she said. He raised them to chest level, showing her the front and back of each hand and exposed arm.
Her shoulders slumped forward as she sighed. “You’re clean. Let’s go back and find a squad car.”
Despite her reassurance, his nerves still trembled. It took him a few tries to get the SUV started as he fumbled with the keys. He noticed that Meredith had shifted away from him in her seat. For all either of them knew, they were carrying the disease that would melt them from the inside out just because they’d breathed in the charnel house that was the front yard.
They drove in silence, passing a burning house. There were no firefighters to battle the blaze. Other houses would ignite.
One of the creatures dashed away from the roiling house, a black shadow of impending death against the turbid flames.
Anyone trapped in that house could be the lucky one, he thought grimly. He jumped over the curb and onto the grass, getting as close to the front as the tongues of fire would allow. They listened for any cries of help. Mercifully, there were none. He punched the accelerator as hard as he could, racing to the center of town.
The crowd at the plaza had dispersed. All that was left were the bodies, and there were many. All showed early signs of infection. Their skin was waxen, blushed from the inferno that consumed their internal organs. Some convulsed, others arched their backs as if in labor. When Meredith and Dalton opened their doors, the wind carried the nerve-rattling moans and cries of the damned.
“There’s one,” Meredith said, pointing at Mickey Conrad’s car. Mickey was nowhere in sight. “I’ll get it.”
“Not with that leg.”
She gave him a look that said at another time, she would have beaten him over the head with her crutch. But he was right. If one of those things was lying in wait, she wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to save herself.
He handed her the M16. “Watch my back. And try not to shoot me,” he added to lighten her mood.
It didn’t appear to work.
He sprinted across the grassy plaza, eyes flicking downward to avoid infected bodies or worse, parts of bodies. A few soldiers had gathered within the wooden gazebo. Apparently, they had chosen it as the place to make a tactical stand. By the looks of their shredded uniforms, they’d lost while within the small-scale Alamo.
When he got to Mickey’s car, he called out for him in case he was nearby and well. The last thing he wanted to do was pilfer the man’s primary means of escape from this unholy nightmare.
“Conrad! Are you here?”
His cries were met by pleading from the dying. It made him sick, knowing there was nothing he could do for them. He thought of Anita Banks and how she must have suffered in her hospital bed.
“I’m taking your car, Mickey! If you can hear me, say something!”
Still only that eerie, zombielike wailing.
Gri
nding his teeth, he slid into Mickey’s car and pulled away from the war zone. It was unavoidable, running over pieces of people as he drove through the roundabout. Holding some kind of huge weapon, Meredith waited for him in front of the SUV.
“No Mickey?” she asked.
“No. Is that what I think it is?”
She stepped aside, revealing two flamethrowers. “I figured it can’t hurt to have them.”
They moved their cache of weapons from the SUV to the squad car, all while scanning their surroundings for signs of any creatures. Where the hell were they?
“I’ll check different frequencies until we find something,” Meredith said. She worked the digital display while he drove. He had a sudden change of plans. As much as it pained him to admit, Montauk was lost. His new goal was to get them out of Montauk, seek higher, safer ground. If he had to smash through the military blockade to do it, he hoped their aim wasn’t good.
Static blared from the speakers. He slammed on the brakes, the car swerving ninety degrees until they faced the entrance to the IGA. The lights were on inside and he could see a crowd of people peering out the glass doors. They had piled metal shopping carts against the doors inside.
A pair of the creatures pawed at the doors, the glass misting from their disease-ridden breath.
“You want to get their attention so I can toast them?” Meredith said.
“You ever use one of those things before?”
“No, but how hard can it be?”
Now wasn’t the time to tell her it could be very hard. He just had to hope she could figure it out—fast.
The moment he pulled into the lot, the creatures’ bird/boar/dog faces snapped in their direction. Dalton got out first, aiming the M16 at the nearest one.
“We need to pull them a little farther from the store,” Meredith said, strapping the dual tanks on her back.
He knew how fast these things were. With the slightest provocation, they could be on them in a nanosecond, well before Meredith’s finger ever touched the flamethrower’s trigger.
