Telling him that there was nothing he could do . . . nothing that anybody could do.
The bad radio had won.
The bad radio was here to stay.
CHAPTER NINE
“Be careful,” Cherrie gasped from where Delilah had left her supporting herself against the wall.
Delilah was cautiously approaching the man who continued to shuffle closer on thick legs. “Winston?” she said gently.
He turned his head stiffly toward her, and she noticed something very strange—something that she’d never seen before, although she’d been taking care of this man for the past month and a half. There seemed to be something wrong with his right eye—a kind of reflective coating, like a thick, silvery cataract.
“It’s okay. Let’s go back to bed,” she continued as she took his hand in hers and began to guide him toward the bed.
Winston immediately yanked his hand away as if she was burning him.
Delilah jumped back, but he was faster, grasping her throat tightly with his large hand. She gasped, unable to breathe, struggling to pry his fingers away. Strangely beautiful explosions of color erupted before her eyes, although they couldn’t hide the horrifying lack of expression on the man’s face.
And that eye. That strange, silvery eye.
She couldn’t stop looking at it. It was like she was slowly being sucked into its shiny center as everything faded to black.
“Drop her!” Delilah heard from somewhere far off, and suddenly the murderous pressure on her throat was gone, and she was falling to the floor.
Through bleary eyes she saw that Cherrie had thrown herself at Winston, pushing him backward where he stumbled on atrophied legs. The two were struggling on the floor beyond the foot of the bed, but it was clear that Cherrie was in terrible pain, and she was barely holding her own against the large man.
“Cherrie . . . no!” Delilah choked, struggling to gather her strength. Something was seriously wrong. Winston’s outbursts had never been this violent, never mind that the man hadn’t stood on his own two feet for years.
“Help!” she finally managed to scream. “We need help down here.”
Without another thought, she pushed herself to her feet and dove toward the fray, only to be rewarded with a vicious slap that sent her flying to the floor again, her mouth filling with the taste of copper.
Crazy colors danced before her eyes, and her ears were filled with a sound like the rush of the ocean, but the cold of the floor on her face partially revived her. She managed to sit up, but dizziness spun her perceptions round and round, and she knew she would only fall if she tried to stand.
Cherrie was screaming now. Winston had her around the waist in a savage bear hug and was lifting her off the floor. The nurse thrashed in his clutches, wildly kicking him as he shook her from side to side. Her cries were gut wrenching.
“Help!” Delilah screamed. Why hasn’t anyone come? She climbed to her feet and surged toward Cherrie, trying to pull Winton’s arms from around the woman’s waist. “Help us, please!” she cried again as Cherrie went eerily silent.
Delilah continued to scream and claw at the man’s arms and the back of his hands, even as blood poured from Cherrie’s mouth, staining the front of her mint-green scrubs. Her body was limp, her arms and legs flopping loosely, her head lolling to the side like a rag doll’s. Finally Winston tossed her away, and she crashed to the floor in a lifeless heap.
He turned his attentions once more to Delilah, his large hands open and reaching for her. She backed away from him but stumbled against the bed. Winston lunged. She threw herself onto the bed and rolled across its surface and off the other side, landing on the floor with a thud.
Where is everyone? she thought in a panic as the large man shambled around the bed, his face completely emotionless, his right eye glinting in the soft lighting of the room. Frantically she scuttled backward, away from the giant, until she slammed into something with a clatter, metal jabbing the flesh of her back. At first she had no idea what she had collided with but then realized it was the Hoyer lift. She reached up and grabbed hold of the arm of the lift, using it to haul herself to her feet, all the while keeping her eyes upon the approaching Winston.
She managed to maneuver the Hoyer between herself and Winston, although she wasn’t at all sure how long she could hold him off with just the heavy metal lift. Desperately she looked for anything that she could use as a weapon, and her eyes settled on the metal lever used to open and close the legs of the device. Quickly she reached down and pulled on the pin that held it in place. For a moment, she was afraid the pin would stick, but with a surge of adrenaline she gave it a vicious yank and it popped free. She grasped the top of the two-foot-long lever and pulled it from its housing. It felt heavy—the perfect weapon.
Delilah looked up at Winston. She took a deep breath and pushed the machine hard at him. The arm of the lift hit him squarely in the belly, and she heard a satisfying grunt as she turned away and raced for the door, weapon in hand.
He was suddenly behind her. She could feel his fingernails scrape along the back of her neck as they curled around the collar of her scrub top. And then she was viciously pulled backward, the V-neck of her top nearly choking her.
Without even thinking, Delilah twisted and slammed the Hoyer lever into Winston’s side with a loud thwack. Again she was rewarded with the sound of a soft grunt as the large man released his grip and stumbled to the right.
But it was only a momentary reprieve. Almost immediately Winston was shaking off the strike as if it were nothing at all and coming at her again.
She drew back and swung her metal bar again, this time striking him in the meat of his neck. She watched as his eyes went wide, the silver-coated right eye bulging as though it might pop from the socket.
Delilah backed toward the door, holding her weapon like a baseball bat, ready to swing. “Don’t make me hit you again,” she said, sure that Winston didn’t understand but feeling the need to warn him anyway.
The big man hurled himself toward her, and she swung the metal lever, striking the side of his round head with a muffled crack. Winston stumbled to one side, stood for a moment, and then came at her again.
“C’mon!” she screamed, hitting him over the top of the head.
The man dropped to his knees, swaying, but he still managed to lunge across the floor at her. Delilah let out a scream and swung with all her might, the metal bar hitting the man just above the eye—his right eye, to be precise.
Finally, it seemed to have some effect on him, the large man’s head moving about strangely as if he was suddenly blind.
Delilah didn’t waste any time. She dove through the doorway and slammed the door to the room closed behind her.
“Help me!” she screamed as ran down the corridor strangely void of life.
She saw Mrs. Denahy’s door open ahead of her and stuck her head into the room. The sixty-eight-year-old woman had suffered a massive brain aneurism and was bedridden—
Except that her bed was empty.
Delilah felt a cold finger of dread, a spider running down her neck, and stopped just inside the doorway to peer into the darkness. The storm still raged outside, the wind sounding like the wails of some mournful ghost.
Maybe they’ve moved her, Delilah thought as she stepped farther into the room. Maybe something happened while she and Cherrie were in with Winston.
The sudden image of Cherrie, blood streaming from her mouth, nearly made her sick, but she forced herself to concentrate on the dusky room around her. The sheets on the bed were rumpled, and she considered the fact that the poor old woman may have somehow fallen from her bed. Cautiously she made her way around the bed to the other side.
There was indeed a body crumpled on the floor, but it wasn’t Mrs. Denahy.
Delilah quickly knelt beside the still figure. “Are you all right?” she asked, grasping the figure’s shoulder and gently turning the body over.
She recognized Rose, one of the u
nit’s nursing assistants. Rose’s skin was cool to the touch; her eyes protruding from their sockets, her swollen tongue sticking from her mouth, heavy bruising around her throat.
Delilah immediately thought of Winston and quickly looked over her shoulder. Could he have done this before she and Cherrie had seen to his shower? But that still didn’t explain the whereabouts of Mrs. Denahy.
Delilah wanted to scream, but instead she took yet another deep breath as the words of her last clinical instructor ran through her mind. It’s the responsibility of the nurse to maintain calm and control—no matter the situation.
Yeah, easier said than done.
Delilah rose to her feet and quickly bolted from the room.
The hallway was still strangely—eerily—silent, and as she glanced quickly into every room she passed, she found each empty.
Her mind raced. Had there been some kind of emergency that caused the evacuation of the floor, and she and Cherrie had been somehow forgotten? Had they not heard the announcements as they’d fought with Winston?
She reached the nurses’ station desperate for a sign—anything—that would tell her what had happened. But again all she found was the chilling absence of any life. She grabbed the receiver of one of the desk phones and placed it to her ear. Instead of a dial tone she heard an odd buzzing. The sound was like an angry nest of wasps ready to attack, and she found it strangely annoying.
So annoying that she had the urge to hurl the phone at the nearest wall.
She slammed the receiver down hard, attempting to pull herself together while her eyes scanned the corridor.
The stairs—she’d take the stairs down to the lobby and get Sam. Sam would know what to do.
Quickly Delilah moved around the nurses’ station and over to the stairwell door. She was about to turn the knob when she heard a sound. She froze and cocked an ear to listen.
Yes, there was something—something just below the spattering of hard rain on the windows and the ghostly cries of the heavy winds.
It sounded like the moan of someone in pain.
She released the door handle and cautiously walked a bit farther down the hall, her feet suddenly growing heavy as she realized the sounds were coming from the activity room.
She hesitated and was seriously considering turning back when she heard the sound—the moan—again.
What if somebody needed her? What if she could help? Delilah’s brain raced, overriding her fear and sending her down the corridor toward the activity area.
She rushed into the room, ready for anything—or so she thought.
In the center of the room was a small circle of four wheelchairs, each occupied by a patient from her unit. They sat awkwardly, all leaning precariously one way or the other. Jagged wounds had been torn in the delicate flesh of their throats, and their clothing was stained red with blood.
But on the floor in the center of the small circle, the nightmare vision became even worse. The body of the pet therapist lay there, the large dog, Bella, beside her.
Again Delilah’s brain attempted to process the scenario in the most logical way—but it just wasn’t happening.
The body of the therapist twitched and flopped as the dog did to her what it had done to the poor patients in their chairs, the only sounds in the room now the dog’s licking and the tearing of flesh.
Hot bile shot up into her throat, and Delilah gagged.
The dog turned toward her, its muzzle covered in blood, bits of its owner’s throat dangling from the corners of its mouth.
It stared at her silently, and that was when she noticed it.
A silvery glint in the dog’s right eye.
Delilah barely had time to ponder that mystery before the dog stood and bounded silently toward her.
CHAPTER TEN
The ride to the airport from the encampment on the high school soccer field stirred up all kinds of emotions within Sidney—fear, sadness, anger—all vying for her attention as the Humvee drove through the debris-strewn streets of Benediction.
The things she saw . . . what had been done to her island home and its residents . . . it just wasn’t right.
Houses burned, bodies—people that she had known her entire life—dead in the streets or on their lawns near the bodies of the animals that had savaged them.
Survivors wandered aimlessly about, many of them still holding the weapons they had used to survive the night. Some of them managed a tentative wave as the vehicle passed.
Snowy whined, her nose tilted into the air, sniffing the terrible odor of the storm’s aftermath.
“Jesus,” Rich muttered.
Sidney reached over and grabbed his knee, giving it a quick squeeze.
“I thought I understood how bad it was,” he said, his voice cracking sadly. “But it’s so much worse.”
Cody remained silent. He too was looking out the window, his expression stoic, as if daring the nightmares they were seeing to affect him.
“We’ll get people here as soon as possible to help with the cleanup and recovery,” Sayid offered.
“Why bother,” Cody replied, not taking his eyes from the scenes outside the Humvee. “You should just burn it. It’ll never be the same.”
“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” Sidney commented, although she would have been lying if she said she hadn’t had the same thoughts.
“Yeah,” he agreed, without looking at her. “Very harsh.”
They’d all lost so much to the horrors of the previous night, but Sidney had to believe that there was still too much to live for—to fight for. They had each other; she still had Snowy and Doc Martin.
And besides, if they gave up, wouldn’t they be doing exactly what those things wanted?
She, for one, wouldn’t give them that satisfaction—no matter how hard it was, she owed that much to her father, who had sacrificed himself to save her.
Something momentarily wriggled around inside her skull, and she forced it back, concentrating on the other members of their little team. Sayid sat in the front, but Langridge and two others sat across from Sidney and her friends—a young, athletic-looking woman named Karol, and a heavyset, bearded older man that she’d heard Langridge call Fitzy.
“What if the storm’s too bad to fly into Logan?” Sidney asked no one in particular.
Langridge answered. “The plane’s military transport; it handled the storm getting here, should be able to get us to Boston.”
“Anything?” Sayid asked, turning around to speak to Fitzy, who was busily typing on a tiny laptop.
“Nothing.” Fitzy shook his head. “Something’s still blocking the signal.”
Sayid sighed, then caught Sidney’s gaze and forced a smile. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re working out the bugs.”
She made a face; she’d had more than enough bugs after last night.
“Sorry, poor choice of words,” Sayid apologized. “Problems . . . we’re working out the problems.”
“What do we do once we get to Boston?” Rich asked. “What happens then?”
Again Langridge answered the query. “We’ll head for the city’s emergency operations center and take control of the situation.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Cody said, at last looking away from the hellish view of their island town.
“It could be,” Langridge said. “As long as there aren’t too many surprises.”
Cody laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in the sound. “No surprises? Have you forgotten what the last twenty-four hours brought to this island? It’s nothing but surprises,” he said with a shake of his head as he turned back to the passing ghost of Benediction.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tyler Payton could barely contain his excitement.
Yeah, sure, it was terrible what had happened to this tiny New England island, but hey, an actual alien species had been discovered.
The burned mass that had been the life-form lay upon the floor of the cave, and all Tyler could do was stare, his imagina
tion running amok. Where had it come from? How did it get here? Had it been intelligent? The questions were like a line of dominos knocked down one after the other.
“Should I do this, or do you want to?” Doug Charmers asked, his voice reaching Tyler through the speaker in his headgear, shaking him from his reverie.
The two scientists were wearing special decontamination suits, though it didn’t appear that there was any chance of foreign contamination, and had been assigned to get samples of the life-form for a preliminary workup back at the camp.
“I got it,” Tyler said, squatting down in his white plastic suit and riffling through his kit for a container to hold the fragment. “Why don’t you bag up one of those,” he suggested, gesturing toward the back of the cave, where the floor was littered with dead animals—twisted and deformed, barely resembling the earthly species they had once been.
“Seriously?” Doug asked. “You want me to touch one of those?”
“And you call yourself a scientist,” Tyler said with a laugh.
“Molecular biologist,” Doug corrected, moving cautiously across the rocky floor toward the largest pile of dead animals. Supposedly they’d all died once the main organism—the transmitter, as it was being called—was killed.
“You’re still a scientist, and dead animals shouldn’t make you squeamish.”
“Have you looked at these things?” Doug asked. “They’re like something out of Stephen King’s worst nightmare.”
Tyler laughed again as he raised his scalpel to an area of charred alien flesh, then paused a moment. It could have been a reflection caused by one of the spotlights that had been placed around the cave for illumination, but Tyler could have sworn that he saw something move.
“Doug,” he began.
A tentacle shot out from beneath the blackened mass, pink and dripping, its needle-sharp tip penetrating the plastic face mask of Tyler’s decontamination suit as if it was paper and continuing on through the bone of his skull.
Tyler never even had the opportunity to scream.
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