by Terence West
Cane turned to Montoya. "How many people did the Detective tell his story to?"
"Just the captain and I," Montoya answered confidently.
"No media?" Cane wondered.
Montoya shook her head. "That's not his style."
Cane leaned over and slid into a chair opposite Bishop. "That does lend some credibility to her story."
"In what way?" Montoya asked.
"If Detective Enbaugh didn't tell the media," Dawn started, "then his story wouldn't corrupt the public."
"Like what's been done with UFOs and alien abductions," Cane continued. "They've received so much media attention, anyone could tell you what an alien looks like, or describe what the standard abduction scenario consists of."
"You don't think these are aliens, do you?" Montoya asked in shock.
Cane shook his head with a smug smile on his face. "Don't be ridiculous. That foolishness was concocted by some bored science fiction writer." Cane ran his hand through his hair. "We obviously need to take a look at this woman's apartment. Perhaps this phenomenon isn't just localized to the Grant House."
Bishop nodded. "I'll see if I can get her address from her charts."
"Good," Cane replied after a moment. "In the meantime, I suggest we all get some rest. They've set up a shelter downstairs."
"What about Detective Enbaugh?" Dawn asked, standing up. "Didn't you say he went to get us hotel rooms?"
"We can't wait for the Detective," Cane said quickly. "If he comes through, all the better for us. In the meantime, we all need to get some rest."
Montoya checked her watch. "Where is Enbaugh?"
****
Enbaugh rubbed his hand across the windshield of his car. It was bad enough that the wipers couldn't wipe away enough rain, now the inside was beginning to fog up. His meaty paw cut a great slash through the fog allowing him to see again. Reaching over to his left, he pressed his finger against the power window toggle. The window's motor groaned as it opened slightly. The wind whistled through the crack while the rain slipped inside.
Enbaugh leaned to his right in the seat to stop the rain from hitting him in the face. Through the windshield, Enbaugh could vaguely make out the red blinking of a traffic light. Slowing down, he brought his car to a stop near where he thought the intersection was.
The winds were incredible. His car began to rock back and forth from the force. Enbaugh knew they were threatening to tip it over. Peering out his window, he searched for familiar landmarks. The winds had already wreaked their havoc through town, and Enbaugh knew the worst was yet to come. The devastation so far was incredible. Trees had been completely uprooted and sent sailing into the fronts of stores. Windows were broken, while doors had been completely ripped off their hinges. Street signs were flailing wildly on their posts, as if they were made of rubber. A thick power pole ahead had been knocked over pulling the lines down with it. Showers of sparks jumped intermittently from the transformer onto the street.
Enbaugh began to worry about the fire hazard. Reaching to his right, he grabbed his radio and lifted it to his mouth. "Dispatch, this is Adam five-two."
The radio crackled with static for a moment. "Go ahead, fifty-two," a female voice instructed him.
"Dispatch, we have a downed power pole on the corner of Westchester and Spruce."
"We're contacting the power company right now, fifty-two," dispatch replied after a moment.
"Thanks, dispatch."
"Take care of yourself out there, fifty-two."
Enbaugh smiled. "Will do." He tossed the small black radio into the passenger seat.
Leaning forward onto the steering wheel, he tried to look both ways into the intersection. He couldn't see any traffic in either direction, so he cautiously pressed his foot on the accelerator. Glancing to his right, he saw a small coffee shop that still had partial power and so far, the front windows were intact. He instantly recognized it. Montoya and he often stopped there for a tall latte before starting a long shift. He now knew he was only two blocks from the Brenton Hotel in downtown Stone Brook.
Enbaugh returned his attention to the road in front of him. He became mesmerized by the rhythmic beating of the windshield wipers as they tried vainly to push the water from his window. The rain was at an almost torrential downfall right now. He was just glad it stopped hailing.
Looking down, he checked the clock on his radio. It was almost one-thirty in the morning, and he was exhausted. Sleep had been a luxury he hadn't afforded himself the past two days. Maybe he should stop, he thought. Try and wait out the storm. No, he told himself, might as well press on. I'm almost there. He saw a bolt of lightning shred the murky sky in front of him, followed closely by the clap of thunder.
"That was close," he said aloud.
The sky lit up again, but this time, he couldn't see the bolt. He hoped it was too far away to see; otherwise, it was right over him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck and arms began to stand up.
"Shit."
He watched as a magnificent stream of bluish-white light broke through the clouds right in front of him. It attacked a tall palm tree just in front of his car. The lightning split the tree down the center, then arced up into a nearby lamppost. The bulb inside began to glow eerily from the electric discharge. The pole sparked once, then exploded, sending sparks raining down into the street. Enbaugh stood on the breaks trying to stop the car, but the wet roads were working against him. His vehicle began to hydroplane toward the crumbling light. The first bits of the post impacted his hood and shattered his windshield. Shards of glass shot inwards with the destructive capability of a bullet. His wheels completely lost their grip on the road and the car began to spin wildly toward the sidewalk. A third piece of the pole smashed into the roof of Enbaugh's car, denting it in.
Grabbing the wheel with both hands, Enbaugh tried to regain control of the car. He spun the wheel frantically against the spin, but it was no use. He had no traction. He felt the vehicle jump the curb. The jolt knocked him out of his seat, slamming his head against the now concave roof. Enbaugh's eyes rolled back into his head as he fell back into the seat unconscious.
The car rocketed into the brick side of the nearest building. It impacted with a sickening crunch of steel. The wall began to give way to the steel torpedo sending bricks showering down around it. The cruiser's momentum finally stopped as it came to a rest, partially embedded in the wall. The one remaining headlight shone intently in the interior of the shop and the mess that had been created.
Enbaugh flopped back into the seat, his body limp and wounded. A trickle of dark red blood ran down from his scalp onto his forehead and finally dripped off his chin. His right hand twitched, but suddenly stopped.
To his left, a pair of dark forms emerged from a shop across the street. They moved slowly, but deliberately, across the wet street toward the scene of the accident. Maybe they were attracted by the loud noise, or the carnage caused, but they were there. The two forms easily manipulated their shapes so they were each walking on two feet. Their footfalls made no sound, as if they weren't even touching the ground, rather floating just above it. They appeared to be wearing a large black cape that billowed in the wind. The two forms stopped in front of the car, their horrible red eyes appearing for the first time.
Enbaugh sucked in a deep breath as he slowly opened his eyes. Reaching up, he pressed the tender spot on his head, then quickly pulled his fingers away. He was bleeding badly. He needed immediate medical attention. Looking to his right, he searched for his small black radio, but then stopped. An odd sensation passed over him. At first, he thought there had been another lightning strike, but then he recognized the feeling. Spinning around in his seat, he came face to face with the two phantoms staring in his window. Enbaugh's eyes suddenly widened in horror.
"You will not escape," they assured him in unison.
Chapter 12
Rest wasn't coming readily to Bishop. Lying with his eyes closed, he laced his fingers behind his head. His mind
was swimming with images from the past few days. His induction into the OPR had been brief and his first assignment had come even quicker. Was he ready? He wasn't sure. He was trying to rely on his academy training, but this was a completely different situation. He wondered if FBI agents, besides the ones you see on TV, ever chased after ghosts and what the protocol would be. A smile crossed his face for a moment, but then quickly vanished. He started to think about Kelley. For her, there would be no retribution. There was no human killer to find, no one to prosecute. There was no one to punish for this atrocious crime. How could he help her as he had so boldly promised?
Rolling over, he pounded his fist into the small pillow to try and fluff it up. The basement of the hospital could be best summed up in one word: dank. A dingy, light green tile had replaced the brightly lit walls and floors of the upper levels. Small wooden cots filled the area of what used to be, until tonight, a storage room. Large cardboard boxes and plastic containers were still stacked high in the far corner. Two lights hung in the middle of the bare ceiling, one working while the other blinked on and off as it buzzed like a hive of angry bees.
Each refugee from the storm had been given two tan linen blankets with the hospital's logo emblazoned on them and one small pillow. As Bishop adjusted on the cot, his feet broke through the bottom of the blanket. They were either too short, or he had been short-sheeted. Not very damned funny either way, he thought. Sitting up, Bishop let his bare feet fall to the cold tile floor. The sensation was quick like a bite as the cold surged over the bottom of his feet. He ripped them off the floor and stuffed them back beneath the blankets.
Bishop leaned over and scooped a small black flashlight off the floor. He had placed it there before going to bed. The storm was raging outside and he was sure the power would be knocked out before morning. Running his hand over the cool metallic shell, he pressed his thumb against the activation switch. A bright beam of light erupted from the bulb. Bishop quickly pressed his hand over the light and thumbed the switch again. He didn't realize it would be that bright and he didn't want to wake anyone up. He suddenly felt like a child hiding his flashlight from his parents so he could read at night.
Reaching over the side of the cot, he lifted his pair of white socks off his duffel bag and began to slip them on. Standing up, he began to make his way through the maze of beds toward the hallway, but stopped. He looked down at his attire. Wearing only a pair of blue boxers and a tight fitting white tank top, he decided he didn't want to go traipsing around the hospital in his underwear, so he walked back to his cot and pulled on a pair of jeans. Sitting back down on the edge of the cot, he slipped on his shoes.
Now fully dressed, Bishop slid the flashlight into his back pocket and walked toward the door. He stopped and looked back for a moment. There were nearly one hundred people camped out in this small room. He wondered how many more were stuck out in the storm. His heart was too big, he decided after a moment. He couldn't help everyone, no matter how much he wanted to.
Stepping into the hallway, he was met by the harsh white glare of fluorescent lights. He squinted his eyes as they struggled to become accustomed. He ran his hand through his short, messy hair. There wasn't much he could do about that now. The hallway was short, but wide. The green tile of the storeroom only worked its way halfway up the wall in here, replaced with white paint that had dulled to an awful tan. There were several large brown spots on the walls and ceiling, most of them caused by water damage. He wondered how people could stand to live in Florida. It was a Mecca for sun worshipers, but the devastation wreaked each year by tropical storms and hurricanes would be too much for him. It was a constant cycle of destruction and recovery. Just about the time you had your house of cards built up again, the wind would come and knock them over.
He glanced down at the silver watch on his wrist. It was almost two-thirty in the morning. He wasn't at all tired.Damned insomnia, Bishop cursed.
A noise startled him.
Spinning around, he scanned the hallway. It was completely empty, except for the occasional box or scrap of trash. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on the small metal flashlight and clenched his teeth so hard, the small muscles in his jaw began to strain.
Silence.
He slowly began to relax his body. This was an old hospital. Occasionally, things creaked and moaned as the building settled. He knew he was acting irrationally but after what he had seen today, nothing seemed out of the realm of possibility. He slowly turned back and continued his journey down the hall. A few feet in front of him, it turned ninety degrees to the right. He felt like a mouse in a maze, searching for that tantalizing piece of cheese at the end, and hopefully, freedom.
Taking the turn, Bishop stopped dead in his tracks. Three feet inside, the hallway became dark. The lights had been knocked out by the storm. Two small rectangular windows near the top of the wall to his left were broken, allowing the wind and rain to whip inside. The tile floor was sopping wet. Looking through the darkness, he could see the opposite end of the hallway was still lit.
"The rain must've shorted out the lights," he said out loud reflexively. His mind was trying to push the fear away the only way he knew how. From his training at Quantico, he knew talking was a defense mechanism. "That's all, it's just a short."
He clicked the button on the flashlight and brought it up to his side. The white laser of light sliced through the darkness proving nothing was there. It was comforting to hold the light, perhaps as reassuring as a baby with its pacifier. Why was he so afraid? Swallowing hard, he took a step into the darkness, then another, followed by a third. His pace increased with each step while his focus remained on the light. There was nothing else to him at that moment except the light, and the feeling that…
He shook his head. He knew he was letting his fear get the best of him. He charged forward.
A loud cackle penetrated the darkness and echoed off the walls.
Bishop skidded to a stop dead in his tracks, almost slipping on the wet floor. His muscles suddenly became rigid and his senses went on full alert. As if fighting against his own body, he forced himself to turn around and look back. Bishop shined the flashlight down the tunnel as an acidy feeling erupted in his stomach. His light slowly moved from one side of the hall to the other. As he neared the right side, his beam disappeared, almost like it had been swallowed by the very darkness itself. He moved the flashlight past the dark spot and the beam reappeared. There was a black hole in the hallway.
He moved his light back to the hole. There was no reflection, and nothing to stop the beam of light. It was just blackness, almost the color and texture of black felt. A knot welled up in his throat and he found his breathing had become very shallow. He was in danger of hyperventilating. Looking down at the mass, he saw it was hovering above the floor. It was completely free-floating in space. He took a step forward, then stopped. What the hell am I doing? He assured himself this probably wasn't the best time to explore.
Slowly at first, he began to move away from the black hole. He couldn't even feel his feet. He just hoped they were doing what he told them to. He started to turn around–
The hole moved–He stopped. Had he really seen that, or was his mind playing tricks on him? He almost wanted to laugh out loud at the absurd thought. It wasn't his mind playing tricks on him. A huge gust of wind tore into the hallway through the broken windows. It was powerful enough to push Bishop back a step. As he quickly regained his balance, he stared back into the darkened hallway. The hole was gone.
"What the–"
He was stopped in midsentence by a rustling noise behind him. It sounded like curtains flapping in the wind. Spinning around on the balls of his feet, he saw the hole floating in front of him. His reflexes threw him out of the way just as a clawed hand shot out of the form and tore across his chest. Bishop stumbled to the ground, but was quickly up again. He glanced momentarily down at his chest. His white shirt had a long gash in it and three small scratches ran through the middle of it. They
were quickly beginning to welt and bleed. Looking back up at the hole, Bishop was astonished to see it had taken human form and was almost an entire foot taller than him.
Bishop looked up and down the lanky phantom in front of him. It's arms and legs were long and slender, the hands ending in five sharp barbs at the end that almost resembled a hand. The creature's waist was no larger than Bishop's leg, and the entire thing appeared to be two-dimensional. It didn't look like it had any width at all.
The long slender head twisted back and forth as if it were a piece of paper blowing in the wind. When it finally came to rest, Bishop saw two red slits glowing in the darkness.
"Red eyes," Bishop uttered in horror.
The shadow swung its spindly arm toward Bishop with its talons extended. Dropping to the ground, Bishop narrowly avoided the hand. The being's power was very evident as the hand tore into the tiles on the wall, shattering them. Bishop stumbled off the floor and began to charge down the hallway. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the shadow right behind him. It was gaining.
****
Morgan suddenly awoke from a dead sleep, her body lurching up into a sitting position. Her mind, still groggy with sleep, began to panic. She scanned her hotel room while she held her breath. Reaching up, she wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. Slowly, her mind began to relax when she saw the empty room around her, but there was still something that wasn't right. An alarm was buzzing in the back of her brain, the same alarm that had sounded at the airport.
She reached over to her nightstand and clicked on the wooden lamp. A soft white light immediately filled the room. Pushing her legs over the edge of the bed, she cautiously stood up. Reaching down, she adjusted her short black nighty that barely hung over her hips. Her mind was still racing to understand what was happening. She walked quickly into the bathroom and splashed a handful of cool water on her face. Grabbing a towel from her right, she pressed it to her face and reveled for a moment in the softness of it. Dropping the towel on the counter, she instinctively reached for the crystal around her neck, then suddenly remembered she had lost it. She quickly cursed under her breath. It would take months to adjust another crystal to her body.
