CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Phil Ramos thought he had forgotten how to pray.
As a little boy in the Philippines, he would attend church with his family in Manila, pray to God and all the saints to take care of his family and all the people he loved and his country. But as he’d grown older, his thoughts had turned to other things besides prayer.
He’d dreamed of going to the United States, getting a good education, and becoming a nurse. Praying to God became less and less of a priority, replaced by hard work to put him on the road to making his dreams become a reality.
And did they ever. He finally had the life he’d always wanted, and prayer no longer seemed quite so important.
Until now.
He had made it to the garage . . . they had made it to the garage. They’d waited as long as they could for Deacon and Delilah, but something was coming.
He tried to picture what it was and found that he couldn’t. It was like looking at everything in the world that terrified him all rolled into one horrible thing that was chasing him.
Chasing all of them.
They had managed to put a door between them and the . . . something, although it was what he had seen of the city outside, through the windows of the skywalk as he’d raced into the parking garage with the others, that had made Phil even more afraid.
The storm still raged, and the sky was filled with heavy dark clouds and also thick black smoke from the fires that burned uncontrolled in buildings not far from Elysium.
Father Jon had always warned of God’s dissatisfaction with the world and that the end of all things was closer than anyone knew. Phil had scoffed at such superstitious nonsense, but now . . .
Is that what’s happening? he considered. Was God so tired of humankind’s disrespect that this day was the day He’d chosen to end it all?
He saw Father Jon on the pulpit in his memories, warning them to always be prepared . . . for their souls to be clean.
And that was when he remembered.
“Our Father, who art in heaven . . . ,” Phil prayed, as he raced toward his car.
“Hallowed be Thy name . . .” He could see it at the far end of the garage, squeezed in the last space before the wall.
“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . .” He reached the Subaru, grabbed the door handle, and pulled. Locked.
“On earth as it is in heaven . . . ,” he gasped as he dug in his pocket for his keys.
“Give us this day, our daily bread . . .” The key ring was jammed with keys of all sizes and shapes, and he fumbled to find the right one. “And forgive us our trespasses . . .”
He found the key and shoved it in the lock, turning it—unlocking the door.
“As we forgive those who trespass against us . . .”
Phil pulled open the door and was about to climb inside when he felt it, a strange tingling sensation on the back of his neck.
As if he was being watched.
He couldn’t help himself. Slowly he turned to face the garage behind him. All he could see were the cars that remained unclaimed and wondered briefly if those who had driven them that morning were even still alive to retrieve them.
“And lead us not into temptation . . .”
Dirt, or maybe rust, dropped from the ceiling, striking the back of his car with a metallic ting. Immediately Phil’s eyes turned to the ceiling.
It was lined with pipes going this way and that, sprinkler pipes, pipes housing the wiring for lights and alarms—pipes on which perched rows and rows of black, furry bodies, hairless tails dangling down beneath them.
Rats.
And each and every one of them was looking directly at him, their plump, hairy bodies vibrating with repressed energy as they readied themselves to pounce.
“But deliver us from evil.”
He finished the prayer, the Lord’s Prayer, wondering if his soul would be clean enough for heaven, even as the flesh was torn from his body.
* * *
“This way!” Mason screamed to the two women who were running off in the opposite direction.
He knew their time would be limited, that the strange mass of insects and animals was probably not done with them.
Nancy and Mallory seemed to have their own plan . . . and where did Phil go?
Never mind. He thought of his wife and baby girl at home alone and spun around, racing away toward his truck parked on the other side of the garage. In his mind he saw them safe, not knowing what he was dealing with here, but that idea was quickly derailed as he recalled what he’d seen outside the office window. A city in the grip of a storm, but also something else.
Something that he did not understand, something that terrified him.
Mason rounded a corner, spotting his truck not too far from a stairway exit. Quickening his pace, he dug into his pocket for his keys, then glanced down quickly to find the right key before looking up.
Into the eyes of the dog standing silently in his path.
It was quite possibly the hairiest and filthiest dog that he had ever seen, its eyes barely visible through long strands of matted fur.
Slowly, never taking his eyes from the dog, he withdrew the pair of scissors he still had in his back pocket. “I’m just going to my car,” he told the animal, holding the scissors before him.
But the dog just stood, staring at him menacingly. Silently.
He moved to go around the dog, and it moved in kind, again blocking his path.
“You don’t want to play that game with me,” he warned, lifting his weapon higher as he made another move for his truck.
And once again the dog was right there, but this time closer. Mason reacted at once, bringing the scissors down, cutting a vicious furrow the length of the dog’s snout.
The dog made no sound as its head lolled forward and a steady stream of blood puddled on the concrete floor.
“There’s more where that came from, you ugly son of a—”
The dog charged, nails scrabbling across the concrete as it lunged. Mason managed to stumble back, swinging the scissors again and catching the animal on the side of its head. The force of the blow sent the dog veering to the left, giving Mason time to catch his balance and ready for another attack. His heart beat crazily, and his blood felt like liquid fire coursing through his veins, but he gripped the scissors tightly, forcing himself to wait for the dog’s next move instead of lunging recklessly forward.
The dog swayed for a moment as blood continued to drip from its damaged snout, and Mason noticed that part of a floppy ear was missing as well. Then it started toward him again. He gripped the scissors all the tighter, wishing every ounce of strength he had into his arm, ready to channel it into the force of his next blow.
But the dog did not attack. Instead it slowly dropped to the floor of the garage, sitting Sphinx-like, staring at Mason as if it was waiting for something.
Slowly, cautiously, Mason lowered his arm. The beast began to pant—the first sound the dog had made, and Mason found it chilling as it grew in intensity, like a locomotive preparing to roll down the track.
“Stay there,” he ordered with a snarl, holding his weapon in front of him as he carefully backed away and moved toward his truck.
The dog suddenly stopped its rough breathing, and its body went rigid as if electrified. Mason was ready, again raising his weapon to ward off an attack.
But it wasn’t the dog that he needed to worry about.
The dog’s fur had started to move. At first he thought there was something wrong with his eyes, but then he realized that he wasn’t seeing things at all. The dog’s fur was moving; there were things coming out from beneath the thick, filthy coating of hair, things black and shiny that dropped to the ground at an alarming rate. The dog had opened its mouth, showing off its nasty yellow teeth, and the pink cavern of its maw.
And living things were flowing from there as well.
How many bugs can be inside one dog? Mason wondered as he tried to make it to his truck.
/> Hopefully not enough to kill a man was the answer.
* * *
“Where did you park?” Mallory asked Nancy. She pushed the button on her key, and a large, bronze-colored vehicle beeped and flashed its lights.
“I didn’t drive today,” Nancy replied as if just realizing this bit of information. “I came in with a friend!” she added, her voice rising.
“Don’t worry,” Mallory said. “I’ll take you with me.”
“Get in,” she ordered.
Nancy raced for the passenger door as Mallory climbed into the driver’s seat, slamming the door closed. Quickly she looked around, checking all the mirrors for signs of anything coming after them.
“Do you think the others made it?” Nancy asked, reaching for her seat belt.
Mallory did the same, eyes going to the rearview for another look. “I don’t know. I certainly hope that—”
Something moved rapidly across the lot, disappearing from view as it neared the car. Quickly Mallory turned the key in the ignition, feeling a sudden, nearly overwhelming sense of panic.
Just as the SUV was struck from below.
Mallory and Nancy screamed in unison as something pounded the underside of the vehicle, making it rock from side to side.
“What is it?” Nancy cried, frantically looking out the windows.
“I don’t know!” Mallory shouted, slamming the car into drive and lurching forward, smashing into the Chrysler minivan parked in front of her. “Shit,” she hissed, putting the car in reverse and stomping on the gas again. The SUV lurched back, but then the tires began spinning as if stuck on ice.
“Why aren’t we moving?” Nancy cried, her voice rising with panic.
“I don’t know!” Mallory yelled again, that answer seeming to be perfect for everything that day. She stepped harder on the gas pedal but only succeeded in making the engine rev all the louder. She looked again into the rearview mirror and felt the grip of terror as she watched the floor of the parking garage move with insect life, a living wave flowing beneath the car.
Having lived through many New England winters, she found herself suddenly thinking of her brother Denny’s advice on how to get through snow.
You have to rock it.
And she did just that, putting the car in drive, surging forward into the van, before reversing and attempting to back up again. She was actually having some success. The car’s tires caught, and Mallory managed to drive about six feet away when they were once more struck from beneath. This time the blow was so powerful that it lifted the front of the car, and as it crashed back onto the floor, the air bags deployed, filling the interior of the vehicle with white powder.
Mallory was stunned, the taste of blood in her mouth.
“What?” she found herself saying aloud. She tried to focus and looked over to see Nancy leaning forward, her bleeding face pressed to the rubbery pillow as it slowly deflated.
“Hey,” Mallory said, reaching over and giving Nancy’s shoulder a shove.
The yellow jacket just appeared, sinking its stinger into the flesh below Mallory’s thumb.
She screamed, pulling her hand back as Nancy moaned. There were more yellow jackets inside the car, and she reached for the knob to close the air vents. But her hand fell upon a clump of wasps that stung her palm and between her fingers, clinging to her hand. The pain was excruciating, and she waved her hands and arms about, attempting to protect herself, hysterical with pain and fear. Nancy had begun to twitch, but her face was covered with the black and yellow insects. Mallory screamed and thrashed, her hands so swollen that she could no longer bend her fingers. The cloud of insects grew thicker, a steady stream of the wasps flowing through the air vents into the space.
It was too late for Nancy, but Mallory knew she couldn’t die that way too. Frantically she jammed her swollen fingers into the button to release the seat belt, then managed to get the door to the SUV open, stumbling awkwardly from the vehicle.
The floor beneath her feet was moving, as if the cement had somehow gained a life of its own. Immediately the insects surged upward, covering her legs. She began to run, screaming for somebody . . . anybody to help her, but knowing there was no one.
“Oh God,” Mallory wailed as her numbed legs finally gave out, and she pitched forward into the writhing mass of insect life on the floor of the parking garage.
It’s like falling into the sea, she thought briefly, before oblivion mercifully claimed her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The marina burned as they sailed away, clouds of billowing black smoke reaching into the sky, small clapping explosions echoing across the water.
Sidney wondered if there would even be a marina anymore when she got back.
If she got back.
She watched the sky for birds, but the fire and smoke seemed to be keeping them away . . . or maybe something else was.
“Maybe the signal only reaches so far,” Sayid said from beside her, startling her.
She hadn’t heard him approach, but she watched him now as he gazed out over the bluish-gray water.
“The alien presence,” he continued, without looking at her. “Maybe that’s why the birds aren’t chasing us . . . its influence can only reach so far, and the further we get from the island the better.”
Sidney shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe.” The awful sensation in her brain was quiet. Resting? She didn’t know.
“How does the connection work?” Sayid asked.
She turned her attention toward the water seething in the large boat’s wake.
“Sometimes it’s there, and sometimes it isn’t.” She shrugged again.
“So you’re not aware of it all the time?”
“Oh, I’m aware, all right,” she said, feeling a sudden flash of anger at the questions. “I know it’s there, but sometimes I just don’t know where.”
He was looking at her as if she were some kind of bug under a microscope. She knew he was a scientist, and the information she had in her head was important, but the questions still made her uncomfortable.
“It’s like being in one of those big houses on the island, those McMansions?” she continued, not sure he would understand the analogy, but it was the only way she could explain what was happening to her. “I’m in one room and that . . . thing is somewhere else in the house.”
He nodded slowly, then returned his gaze to the ocean.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a few moments. “Sorry that you and your friends . . . the island . . . had to go through—this.”
“It sucks,” she agreed, unable to think of any other response.
“We should have moved faster,” Sayid said. “We should have known.”
“How could you have known?” Sidney asked. “It’s not like this stuff happens every day.”
The way he moved his head then, it was almost as if he didn’t want to look at her. “No, not every day,” Sayid said slowly, reluctance in his tone. “But it has happened a few times. Sporadically over the past three years or so. We just hadn’t been able to figure out what we were dealing with . . . until now. Honestly, I think we didn’t want to believe what we were seeing.”
“Shit,” Sidney muttered, not really knowing how to react.
“We’d never encountered anything like this before,” Sayid said. “The world never encountered anything like this . . . there’s no precedent.”
She thought of the island and what had happened there, her thoughts drifting to Boston and what was likely going to happen there, and beyond. “Let’s hope it isn’t too late to create one,” she said.
She could see by the grim look on his face that he agreed.
Let’s hope.
* * *
Cody wasn’t sure he’d ever been so tired, but at the same time he felt strangely alive.
He was piloting the yacht toward Boston, watching the gathering storm clouds and thinking about the future.
He’d thought his life was over—the breakup with Si
dney, the insaneness on the island, the gruesome death of his father. It had been hard imagining life beyond that very dark place in time.
But now . . .
He had somehow found the strength to act. He had done what he had to do, burning the evil with fire—chasing the darkness away with light.
It was all kinda corny, he realized, but it had helped.
Cody gazed ahead, hands clasped upon the wheel, steering the boat into the storm with a confidence he had been missing for quite some time.
Steering himself toward a future that he didn’t believe he had—until now.
* * *
Rich didn’t know he was dreaming. It felt so real.
He was back home with his parents in Newton, Massachusetts. They were sitting in the dining room about to have dinner. The amount of food on the table was outrageous, and Rich couldn’t remember if it was Thanksgiving or not. He didn’t think it was, but he wasn’t about to tell his mother; besides, he was starving.
His father stood at the head of the table, the enormous turkey laid out before him, carving knife and fork in hand. Rich watched with hungry eyes, his gaze traveling across the crowded tabletop as he thought of what he would have for his first helpings.
Something skittered across the table, hiding behind the bowl of mashed potatoes. He waited to see if whatever it was would emerge again but instead caught sight of something else that had crawled onto the turkey plate and disappeared inside the bird.
His father plunged the twin metal tines of the fork into the meat of the bird.
“Dad,” Rich said suddenly. “You might not want to—”
But his father didn’t listen, cutting into the juicy meat of the turkey breast, revealing a living core.
“Oh God,” Rich said, recoiling as spiders, worms, and beetles spilled from the turkey.
His father continued to slice, as if not noticing the insect life swarming over the plate and onto the table.
Rich couldn’t move, frozen in his chair, watching in horror as the bugs crawled up his father’s arms. He glanced toward his mother, hoping she would do something, but he saw that she didn’t seem to notice either, carefully arranging the bowls of potatoes, squash, thick homemade gravy, and stuffing.
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