Monstrous

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “I thought . . . ,” Delilah said, moving toward Deacon.

  Deacon pressed his ear to the door and raised his hand for quiet. “I think it came from out there.”

  And then they heard it again. “Help.”

  Deacon nodded excitedly. “I heard that.”

  Delilah and Betty looked at each other uncertainly.

  “I don’t want to open the door,” Betty said fearfully, clutching her umbrella all the tighter.

  “Help.”

  “But we can’t . . . ,” Delilah began, understanding the fear. But how could they possibly ignore cries for help?

  Deacon carefully opened the door, just enough to cautiously peer up, then down the corridor.

  “Help,” came the voice again.

  “Holy shit,” Deacon cried, and ran out into the hallway.

  “Deacon, wait!” Delilah called out, racing after the maintenance director.

  “Shut the door!” Betty screamed, and Delilah heard it slam behind her as she caught sight of Deacon farther down the hall, dragging a lifeless body back toward her.

  “Phil,” Delilah gasped, immediately recognizing her friend.

  “He’s bit up pretty badly,” Deacon said, and as he neared her, Delilah could see the bloodstains and rips in Phil’s scrubs.

  She turned to the office door, grabbed the knob, and pushed, but it didn’t budge. “Betty?” she called through the door. “It’s okay! It’s another nurse from my floor, and he’s hurt!”

  Deacon had reached her and they waited, nervously watching the hallway for signs of danger.

  “Betty!” Delilah called again, more forcefully this time. “Please!”

  Another few moments passed, and Delilah wondered if Betty would allow them back into the office, but then she heard the scraping of a chair on the floor and the door opened.

  Deacon dragged Phil into the office and laid him gently on the floor as Betty rushed around behind the desk, her umbrella poised for action. Delilah slammed the door closed and replaced the chair under the knob before turning to kneel beside Phil.

  He was lying on his side, curled into the fetal position.

  “Hey, Phil. It’s me, Delilah. You’re going to be okay now,” she said as she gently touched his arm. He was trembling but didn’t respond. “He’s pretty bad,” Delilah said, looking to Betty. “Is there anything in here we can use to clean up these bites?”

  Betty just stared, gripping her umbrella.

  “Betty,” Delilah nearly shouted. “Is there anything to clean his wounds?”

  Finally, Betty seemed to focus. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, right here.” She walked to a file cabinet in the corner and pulled open a drawer.

  As Betty rummaged through the drawer, Delilah rolled Phil over onto his back. At first he fought the movement, but then he seemed to relax, his eyes still tightly shut. Delilah looked him up and down, her gaze pausing on his bloodstained scrubs pulled tightly over a bloated belly. That was odd. Phil was very thin, and she was sure she would have noticed a potbelly before.

  “Here’s some alcohol and cotton balls,” Betty said, approaching them, her hands full. “I’ve got some bandages . . .”

  Alarm bells went off inside Delilah’s head, and a wave of panic washed over her. “Get away from him,” she cried out, scuttling backward across the floor.

  “Delilah, what’s wrong?” Deacon and Betty asked, almost in unison, sudden fear evident in their tones.

  Delilah’s gaze was locked on Phil’s face. His eyes snapped open—his right eye covered with a silvery sheen.

  And then he opened his mouth—they all thought it was to scream in pain.

  But it was to let the wasps out.

  The swarm of yellow and black insects flowed out onto his body, fluttering their wings, drying them as they readied to take to the air. Deacon and Betty looked as though they might pass out, so Delilah knew it was up to her to do something.

  She reached out, grabbed the alcohol from Betty’s hand, and ripped off the cap. She stood over Phil’s trembling body—and poured the full bottle over the largest concentration of wasps.

  As if sensing danger, Phil’s body arched violently; his head threw back and his mouth opened wider, and wider still. Delilah blanched at the terrible sound of his jaw dislocating as more insects emerged in a mound of writhing panic.

  “A match,” she said, looking at Deacon and Betty.

  “A match!” she repeated, nearly screaming when they didn’t move.

  Deacon tapped his pockets. “I don’t . . .”

  “A match!” Delilah shouted at Betty, swatting at wasps that had finally taken to the air.

  “I’m trying to quit,” Betty said, her voice soft, almost dreamy. Her eyes, wide with shock, were riveted to the insects pouring out of Phil’s open mouth.

  “I don’t care! Give me a match!”

  Finally Betty jumped to action, moving left, then right, as if not sure where she was. She went to the small desk, yanked open the bottom drawer, and pulled out a tattered matchbook.

  “There’s only one left,” she said pathetically.

  Delilah ripped the book from the woman’s hand and lit the lone match, silently relieved when its head flared. Then she dropped the burning match on top of Phil and watched as the alcohol ignited, setting wasps and Phil afire.

  Delilah gasped in horror as Phil rolled onto his side and began to climb to his feet. “We have to get out of here,” she cried, taking a step back as Deacon rushed forward with a chair.

  The maintenance director rammed into Phil, sending the nurse stumbling backward into the window, igniting curtains that hid a view of the back of the building.

  Papers on the desk had begun to burn as flaming wasps fell on them. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh filled the small room, and then the sprinklers kicked in, creating an artificial rain to douse the spreading fires. It slowed the wasps somewhat, but Delilah knew it wouldn’t last. “Betty, c’mon,” she urged from the door.

  The woman still stood near the desk. “They’re out there,” she said, terror in her voice.

  “And the wasps are in here,” Delilah retorted. “I’d rather take my chances out there. Let’s go!”

  “But where are we going?” Betty asked, near panic.

  “We’re going to get the hell out of here,” Deacon said, taking a step forward and holding out his hand to her. “We’ll go together.”

  Delilah stood with her hand on the doorknob, watching, waiting.

  “I need to see my grandkids,” Betty said finally, moving toward Deacon and reaching to take his hand.

  But she never got there.

  From out of the smoke, Phil emerged. Before anyone could move or make a sound, he’d wrapped his hands around the woman’s throat and savagely twisted.

  Snap!

  The sound was horrible in its finality, and all Deacon and Delilah could do was watch helplessly while Betty’s limp body fell to the ground in a twitching heap as the life left her.

  Something inside Delilah let go then, a wave of overwhelming anger washing over her like the flames that had burned Phil’s body, and she rushed the nurse, pushing him back with all her might.

  Phil tripped over Betty’s outstretched arm and fell awkwardly against a high wooden bookcase. The force of the collision made the bookcase fall forward atop Delilah’s former friend, driving him to the floor and pinning him there.

  Delilah knelt beside Betty’s still form, hoping that maybe . . .

  She felt for a pulse and found nothing, Betty’s skin already beginning to cool.

  “C’mon, Delilah,” Deacon said, putting a hand firmly on her shoulder. “We can’t stay here anymore.”

  She knew that he was right, the smoke getting thicker by the minute.

  “You ready for this?” he asked her as she started toward him.

  “Yeah,” she said, thinking of Betty’s grandchildren and then her own son.

  “You should take her shoes,” Deacon said softly. “You’v
e only got one now—I think two would be better.”

  She was horrified by the idea but knew that he was right. Betty’s feet didn’t appear much bigger than hers, and she found herself apologizing as she slipped the woman’s white loafers onto her own feet.

  “We just have to get across this unit to the stairs on the other side,” Deacon explained. “Those’ll take us to the roof. I parked my truck up there this morning. I was gonna lay some tarp down around the roof vents for leaks on Six South.”

  “Okay,” Delilah said, swatting at the remaining wasps that were flying drunkenly out from the smoke and artificial rain. She could feel her heart rate begin to quicken as she watched Deacon’s hand grip the doorknob.

  “Go,” he ordered, opening the door, sending a gust of thick black smoke wafting into the hall with them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Doc Martin bundled herself up like it was the middle of January.

  Heavy winter jacket, hood up over her head, scarf across her face, thick gloves, pants tucked into boots tied tight to keep things from crawling inside; she was ready for the swarm of insect and animal life that would most certainly try to prevent her from getting to Clara’s car.

  “Turn around and let me take a look,” Clara ordered from her chair.

  Doc Martin was already sweating bullets, but she turned for the old lady.

  “Can’t be too careful,” Clara said. “Those buggies can find their way into the smallest cracks.”

  “Don’t talk about my cracks,” Doc Martin joked, catching Burrell’s exasperated eye roll from across the room. “Feeling any better?” she asked.

  “What if I said yes?” Burwell countered. He’d moved to the sofa, and the trash bag Clara had made him lie on crinkled as he carefully shifted his weight.

  “Then I’d be taking this getup off, and you’d be going to find Isaac.”

  “You better get goin’ before you pass out,” Clara said, interrupting their banter. She grabbed hold of the arms of her chair and slowly pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll help you to the door.” She staggered to one side, caught herself, and then continued on to the kitchen. “Got the gun?”

  Doc Martin felt the hard lump in the pocket of her coat through gloved hands. “Yes I do.”

  “Good,” Clara said, entering the kitchen.

  Doc Martin saw her glance briefly at the dog bed before heading over to the kitchen door covered by a heavy tarp that had been nailed to the frame. Clara grabbed a hammer from the nearby counter and began to remove the nails that held the tarp in place.

  “Let me help with that,” Doc Martin said as she tried to take the hammer from the old woman.

  “I can do it,” Clara said, pulling the hammer away from the veterinarian.

  “I was just going to help,” Doc Martin said, throwing up her hands and backing off.

  “You help by getting out there, finding your friend, and stopping this bullshit from getting any worse,” Clara said, pulling the nails from the wood with a squeaking groan.

  The tarp came down. “It’s a straight shot to the garage from the steps,” the old woman said as she struggled to pull the tarp away from the door. “Don’t slow down for nothing.”

  “I won’t,” Doc Martin said, feeling her heart rate begin to quicken and the blood rush through her veins. She would have loved a cigarette right then.

  “And it would be great if you could bring the car back in one piece,” Clara continued as she carefully pulled back the multiple dead bolts locking the door. “Good luck,” she said, finally pulling open the door.

  Doc Martin recognized Benny immediately. He was once a beautiful, gunmetal-gray Great Dane with a gentle and loving disposition. Now she wasn’t sure what he was, but he stood at the bottom of the concrete steps, staring, and it stopped her cold, filling her heart with a sickening dread.

  Large patches of the dog’s fur were missing; appendages that looked like the limbs of some large and frightening insect protruded from the mottled flesh. And its right eye . . . its terrible, silver-coated right eye.

  “Close the door!” Doc Martin barked as Benny silently lunged forward.

  But Clara wasn’t fast enough or strong enough. “Shit!” she screamed as the dog wedged its horselike head between the door and the jamb, knocking her backward to the floor.

  Doc Martin rushed forward and slammed her full weight against the door, pinning the dog before it could get completely in. Silently the beast struggled to wriggle its muscular, misshapen body into the room.

  “Son of a bitch,” Clara growled, rolling onto her hands and knees and crawling toward the counter.

  The dog-thing thrashed, its mottled skin tearing and dripping on the linoleum floor. It pushed one of its insectlike limbs through the narrow opening, digging deeply into the floor in an attempt to drag itself into the kitchen.

  Doc Martin managed to turn and braced her back against the door, putting her full weight into it, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough to keep the twisted animal-thing out.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” she heard Burwell yell from the living room.

  “Could use some help!” Doc Martin screamed. Her words were punctuated by a crash from the other room, and she knew Burwell was likely trying to make his way to the kitchen. She also knew he wouldn’t be in time.

  The thing that used to be Benny was slowly, steadily pulling itself through the doorway. Doc Martin could feel her feet moving forward even as she tried to press her back harder against the door. Clara had managed to haul herself to her feet and was leaning against the counter, muttering and swearing, but she wouldn’t be much help against this monster.

  And then Doc Martin remembered the gun in her pocket. She ripped the thick glove off and jammed her hand into her coat pocket, closing it around the gun. She yanked it out, the dog far enough inside that it could turn its head directly toward her. She looked into its eyes, focusing on the silvery orb, almost mesmerized by its pulsating lens.

  She raised the gun, aimed at that horrible, metallic eye, and was about to pull the trigger when—

  A serpentine tongue erupted from the dog’s open mouth. It wrapped around her wrist, squeezing with incredible force. Doc Martin tried to twist her arm. Her finger tightened upon the trigger and she fired, but the shot went wild, burying itself in a nearby wall.

  She was losing her fight with the door. The dog was almost completely in the room, only its hind legs pinned against the jamb. Another insect limb clawed at the air, snagging the shoulder of her winter coat, pulling tufts of white insulation from the tear.

  “Gah!” Doc Martin cried, trying to pull away, but the muscular tongue just squeezed her hand and wrist all the tighter, slowly drawing her closer.

  Suddenly Clara was beside her, raising a silver meat cleaver high over her head. “Watch it!” the old woman roared, bringing the blade down and severing the thick tongue in one swift move.

  The dog silently reared back, retracting the bleeding stump of its tongue and giving Doc Martin the opportunity to aim her weapon and fire. The first shot struck the dog-thing in the lower chest, but the second went exactly where she wanted it to, blowing out the silvery eye and the back of the poor dog’s head. Finally, it collapsed to the kitchen floor in a lifeless heap.

  “What the hell?” Burwell exclaimed, and Doc Martin turned to see him leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, the bandage on his leg once again saturated with blood.

  “Couldn’t have said it better,” Clara muttered as she held up the creature’s severed tongue and stared at it. “Never saw anything like this before.”

  “It’s the thing on the island,” Doc Martin explained. “From what I understand, it can alter animals. . . . It puts them in a kind of cocoon and mixes various characteristics together.”

  Clara just stared in disbelief, as Doc Martin moved to help Burwell back to the sofa in the living room. She settled him once again on the trash bag and quickly rewrapped his leg before heading back into the kitchen.r />
  She retrieved her glove and her gun, then grabbed Benny’s twisted corpse and dragged it outside the back door, pushing it off the top of the concrete steps. When she turned back to the door, Clara was standing there, hammer in one hand, tarp in the other.

  “Hopefully, I’ll be back,” Doc Martin said.

  “What if you’re not?” Clara asked.

  “Don’t even want to think that far in advance,” Doc Martin said. She pulled the door closed and could already hear the sound of Clara’s hammer as she took a deep breath and began her journey across the backyard toward the garage.

  As a multitude of insects and vermin converged upon her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Something was attacking the boat.

  Sidney couldn’t make out what it was as she stood at the port rail, holding on tightly. Cody, at the wheel, tried to outrun the submerged threat, piloting the cabin cruiser in a zigzag pattern across the choppy water.

  “What is it?” Langridge demanded. She had her gun out and was peering over the side.

  “Don’t know,” Sayid replied. He too had his gun out, eyes searching the water, waiting. “Looks like my theory about the signal only reaching so far is wrong.”

  The boat lurched suddenly, its twin outboard engines whining as it rolled to starboard. Snowy was going wild, too close to the edge, barking insanely at something below the waves. Sidney stumbled across the deck, wrapping her still-stinging fingers around the shepherd’s collar—

  Just as something enormous and gray erupted from the water.

  It snapped at the boat but missed as Cody expertly spun the wheel and turned the cruiser just out of reach. With an explosive splash, the great white shark dropped back into the water, the ocean once again concealing its terrible presence.

  Sidney held tightly to the whining, barking Snowy as the ocean spray chilled her flesh, and the water churned and frothed around the boat.

  And suddenly it was as if someone had fired a confetti cannon across the deck. Only it wasn’t raining confetti; it was raining fish—hundreds and hundreds of fish of every conceivable size. Langridge was struck by what looked like a flounder and stumbled backward, almost going over the side.