Siege of Station 19

by Raegan Butcher

  “What the hell is that on the roof?” asked Butch.

  “It looks like a man, sort of,” said Mootz.

  “Ain’t no man,” scoffed the kid.

  “Well then what is it?” asked someone else.

  The windshield of the Nova was smashed, spider webbed so badly it was a miracle the driver could see. Maybe the driver couldn’t see, because as the men watched from their ringside seats on the bus, the car shot over the curb across the street from them, squealed into the parking lot, and slammed broadside into the lieutenant’s unmarked squad car. The thing on the roof was thrown off by the impact and went tumbling. It smacked the pavement and rolled to a heap not far from the bus.

  The convicts began yelling. A chorus of alarm laced with colorful profanity rent the air. Nobody can curse like a busload of convicts. Guedel and Smith shouted them down to silence. Guedel shared a quick look with Smith and then drew his sidearm and stepped off the bus to investigate.

  From inside the precinct Juanita, Tiffany, Sergeant Hammerstrom, and Lieutenant Love heard the wrenching sound of metal impacting on metal. Love came out of the office where he’d been sitting with Martell while the man tried to reach someone on the captain’s phone. “What was that?” he asked

  Tiffany moved to the window. She saw the crashed Nova and Guedel bending down to examine the crumpled figure sprawled on the pavement.

  As she watched, the shape suddenly sat up.

  She couldn’t believe what she saw: a roughly humanoid figure with reptilian skin, winged arms, glowing insect eyes, and a tail studded with spikes. What in the world? Her mind’s eye flashed to stone gargoyles she’d seen on gothic churches. This was something like that, but not quite. The wings were different, and the eyes.

  Then, in a move so quick it only registered as a blur, long arms shot out and talons sank into Guedel’s chest. The wings made a tremendous snapping, flapping sound, and the creature and the transportation officer disappeared upward, leaving behind only a drifting swirl of settling dust in the parking lot.

  The convicts on the bus began yelling and struggling out of their seats. They pushed down the aisle like cows in a chute, moaning in panic. It was awkward because their feet were chained at the ankles. They stumbled and cursed, jostling, and shoving each other. Deputy Smith pumped his shotgun and bawled for everyone to remain in their seats.

  Something landed with a heavy thump on the roof, buckling it. Smith once again called for everyone to get back into their seats.

  No one listened to him as an inhuman screech cut through the night. Suddenly a banging sound came from above, and the roof crumpled even further under the force from the hammering blows of—what?

  What was that thing on the roof?

  What was going on?

  The convicts crowded the aisle, blocking Deputy Smith in the back of the bus. The roof in front of him sagged, then a long, whip-like tail angled down and smacked the window and it exploded in a shower of twinkling glass. Then the whip was inside, writhing like a snake. There was a barbed stinger on the end that looked very sharp. A viscous liquid dripped from it, splotching the seats.

  Smith raised the shotgun and fired through the roof, aiming at the bulge above him. A shrieking cry and the whip-like tail slithered out of the window in a hurry.

  The first inmate had reached the door but he was suddenly afraid to leave the relative safety of the bus, fearful of what might be waiting for him out in the dark. He hesitated for a split-second. A brutal shove from Mootz at his back sent him to the pavement.

  “Move it!”

  The rest of the manacled men poured out of the bus. Hopping with their shackled feet, they stumbled and shuffled as fast as they could to the sally port, chains clanking. The inmate who had been pushed down climbed to his feet in time to be snatched up, legs pedaling the empty air. His screams grew faint as he was whisked away. No one paid him any attention.

  The mob of prisoners reached the back door of the precinct. Mootz was first in line and he began pounding on the metal grille covering the window in the door. Behind him someone screamed as pointed teeth and curved talons sank into soft flesh.

  “Open up! Open this door, man! We’re gettin’ killed out here!”

  A convict at the back of the group disappeared into the heavens as if yanked on invisible wires. Deputy Smith, bringing up the rearguard, saw him vanish, looked up and saw another demonic shape dive-bombing down, claws extended like a bird of prey. He hefted the riot gun and blew the creature’s face apart like a ripe melon. The suddenly headless body smacked to the pavement, crushing one unfortunate convict under its mass, breaking his neck. The panic went up a notch and the terrified prisoners pushed even tighter against the door, pushing Mootz, Butch, and the black kid up against the building.

  “God damn man, move back,” screamed Mootz, but more snarling nightmare shapes kept making passes at the men on the outer ring of the group, stampeding them tighter.

  Smith kept his shotgun busy blasting the screeching figures swooping around his head, but one by one, the cringing men were plucked into the air to vanish into the darkness. It went on and on, seemingly forever—one little, two little, three little Indians—until the door clicked open, the startled faces of Sergeant Hammerstrom and Lieutenant Love suddenly appeared with their eyes full of questions that no one had time to answer. The convicts scrambled inside, slamming the door behind them.

  Out of ten prisoners, only Butch, Mootz, Torres, and the kid remained. Deputy Smith leaned against the door and panted heavily, with his shotgun clutched so tightly in his hands it looked as if he might break it in half. All of the men were gasping, adrenalized, and freaked-out. The sound of their huffing filled the room as they struggled to regain their breath.

  Then Martell was there, with Deputy Jones hovering uncertainly over his shoulder. Tiffany and Juanita could be heard in the other room making sounds of inquiry and distress.

  A lot of action for a closed down station, Love mused bitterly.

  Martell was agitated, overbearing, pushing his big belly between Love and Smith. “What the hell is going on? I heard shooting. Where are the prisoners?”

  Smith just shook his head. Martell kept yelling until finally Love told him to cut it out. Martell rounded on him and barked, “The day I let you give me orders they’ll be serving iced tea in Hell.”

  Love pushed into his face. “We’ll you better get used to taking my orders, Mister Marshal, Sir! Because this is my precinct and I am in command here. You are here on my sufferance—!”

  “Your what?” sputtered Martell. He drew back and then his eyes narrowed. “Oh, I get it. Let me guess. You been to college, haven’t you—” he almost called him “Boy” and it was a damn good thing he didn’t. Love was looking him in the eye, rock solid, righteous, and waiting. Waiting to tear his damned head off.

  The fat marshal took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. He went on evenly, controlling his voice, “You got some education to you…and you’re in charge. Okay. I got no problem with that.”

  He turned and gestured to the convicts. They were cowering in the hall, crouching down like hunted animals, all except Torres, who was watching the heated exchange with interest.

  “Get these pieces of shit locked up,” Martell muttered. “I am going back to use the telephone. The sooner I am out of this rinky dink joint, the better.” He strode off, brushing past the convicts. If Torres had not been shackled, he could have reached out and grabbed him.

  Love turned to Deputy Smith. “What is going on out there?”

  “Some—some kind of animals,” the deputy stammered.

  Hammerstrom went to the small window inset in the back door and peered out. “I heard shooting. You must’ve hit some.”

  “I did,” the young deputy’s head bobbed up and down. “I nailed at least five or six of the sumbitches point-blank with Mr. Twelve Gauge.”

  “Well then where are the bodies?” asked the sergeant.

  Smith was at the wind
ow in a flash, elbowing the older man aside, looking out wildly. “I blew their heads off!” he cried. “Look!” He pointed to a dark blotch on the cement. “You can see the blood! Look!”

  “Yeah, son, I see a puddle on the pavement,” the older man remarked sardonically. “You sure that isn’t where you pissed your britches in fright?”

  He turned away and joined Love, who was herding the prisoners into the holding cells. Each man got a cell to himself, a rare privilege in the U.S. penal system, despite what they showed in the movies, where everyone got a cell the size of a garage and never had to share it with another convict. Love unchained each of the men. When he came to Torres, Smith and Jones stepped in and stopped him.

  “Seems kind of extreme, don’t you think?” remarked Love.

  Jones snorted and said, “That’s Rattlesnake Torres.”

  Love gave him a sharp look. “Really? No kidding?”

  He moved closer and stared through the bars at the man. Torres was standing in the center of the small cell with his hands cuffed to his waist, ignoring them pointedly. He was short, dark, muscular but not bulky. Instead he was lean, sinewy, with an air of impending violence about him, like a lit fuse waiting to go off.

  “You’re Rattlesnake Torres, eh?” Love mused. “I thought you’d be bigger.”

  Torres swung his gaze to the lieutenant. Love was surprised to see no hate there, only curiosity. Torres wiggled his hands. “Been wearing these for a long time, Lieutenant.” His voice was smooth as syrup. “Sure would be nice to be able to scratch my nose.”

  Love looked at him warily. “If I un-cuff your hands, will you behave?”

  “Scouts honor,” Torres purred.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” cautioned Smith. Beside him, Jones shook his head, frowning.

  “If you were me,” drawled Love, smiling like the Cheshire cat, “you’d be good-looking.”

  He unlatched Torres and the short killer smiled as his chains fell into a pile at his feet. He slowly bent and picked them up. He nodded curtly to Love as he handed them through the bars. Smith and Jones brought their shotguns up sharply.

  “Thanks,” Torres said to Love. He glanced over the lieutenant’s shoulder at the deputies. The barrels of their shotguns guns looked huge, like twin freight train tunnels. “Don’t know why, but I seem to make these boys nervous.”

  ««—»»

  Martell was pacing behind the front desk, telephone pressed to his ear, when Love and Hammerstrom and the two deputies returned from the back.

  Tiffany sat huddled at her desk with Juanita, looking very unsettled, her eyes wide pools of worry. Juanita stroked her hair and spoke soothingly to her. She knew Tiffany was wound too tight for this kind of situation. The woman was as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof under the best of circumstances.

  Martell spoke angrily into the mouthpiece of the phone, “No! I cannot and will not hold! Listen to me operator: this is a police emergency! Put me through now!”

  Love approached Smith, who was nervously peering out one of the small windows in the front door while he slid fresh shells into his Remington.

  “Deputy Smith,” Love approached, using his most soothing voice. “Tell me what happened out there.”

  “We were attacked,” Smith said tersely through gritted teeth, not looking at him, but keeping his eyes on the parking lot. “Some kind of flying animal. Like nothing I’ve ever seen.” He paused ominously. “And there’s more than one.”

  “How many?”

  “Dozens, I think.”

  “What kind of flying animal?”

  “I don’t know! They are…they are monsters, man.” Smith shook his head and swallowed hard. He licked his lips. “I know that sounds crazy. But that’s what they looked like.”

  “Monsters?” Love repeated skeptically.

  “Like the creature from the black lagoon—but with wings,” Smith croaked desperately. “They’re big and shaped like a man. They’ve got green skin, weird glowing eyes like a bug, a long tail and sharp claws! I have never seen anything like it…except in the movies.”

  Love scratched his earlobe dubiously and tried to picture the animal as described. It didn’t make sense. His mind flirted with the idea that this was some kind of grotesque prank and then just as quickly dismissed the notion as absurd. There were six prisoners and one transportation officer missing, presumed dead. This was no joke. “Did anyone else see these…things?”

  Smith waved a dismissive hand toward the back hallway and the holding cells. “Ask those guys. They were out there too.”

  Martell’s voice cut through the conversation. “Now what the hell?”

  Love looked over. Martell held the phone up in his hand like a fisherman displaying a particularly disappointing catch. “The goddamned phone just went out.”

  “What?” Smith took a few uncertain steps away from the window. “What’s wrong with the phone?”

  “It just cut off.” Martell tapped the earpiece on the desk. “It’s dead.”

  “Maybe the company shut it off early,” offered Love.

  Tiffany came alive at her desk. “I spoke to the supervisor two hours ago. They’re not shutting off the phones until tomorrow.” Her head wagged back and forth.

  “Well then maybe—” Love began to say when the lights went out. Gloom enveloped the station like a funeral shroud. Tiffany whimpered and clutched at Juanita’s hand. Smith and Jones each pumped a round into their riot guns.

  “Now what?” Martell grumbled.

  Juanita and Tiffany got up from Tiffany’s desk and drifted over to stand with Love and the two shotgun-toting deputies. Smith kept checking the window, watching the parking lot. Jones moved to his side, wary, tense, and growing increasingly uneasy.

  “Power failure?” asked Juanita.

  From the window, Smith shook his head. “The streetlights are still on.”

  Even as he said it, dark shapes swooped across the sky. Suddenly with a powdery popping noise, the streetlights began to explode up and down the street. Taloned hands slapped them from their poles, wrenching them from their moorings and dashing them to the ground below. The noise joined a sudden splash of fireworks bursting in the sky a few miles away. For a brief moment, the flying creatures were illuminated in the flashing glow as they tore at the light covers atop the poles.

  “Come here and look!” cried Smith and they all crowded at the door.

  Tiffany screamed and backed away from the window with her hand to her mouth. Juanita gave a sharp intake of breath. Martell said, “Son-of-a-bitch!” in an awed tone. Jones gasped, muttering profanities and gripping his shotgun. Love just stared, open-mouthed. He’d never seen anything like it. None of them had.

  The strange beasts hovered, wings flapping, while they ripped out the last of the streetlights. Screeching triumphantly, they turned and zipped away into the night,

  “What is going on?” cried Tiffany. “What are those things? Why did they smash the lights? Why is this happening?”

  Juanita went to her and put her arms around her shoulders. “It’s okay, Tiff. Everything will be okay.”

  “What?” Tiffany exploded. “Are you crazy? We are not okay!”

  “You won’t help the situation by freaking out,” Juanita said calmly. She led the distraught woman back to her desk and sat her down. Love and Hammerstrom gathered with Martell, Smith, and Jones. There was an air of unbelief and shock hanging over everyone, like secondhand smoke fouling the atmosphere in a closed room.

  “Do you believe me now?” Smith demanded.

  “We believe you,” Hammerstrom assured him.

  “What do we do?” Jones wanted to know, looking at Martell.

  The fat marshal lifted his shoulders and then dropped them helplessly, flummoxed. He went to the window and stared out. “I don’t see them anymore,” he said in a dull voice. “Maybe they’ve gone away.”

  “Maybe,” said Smith. He didn’t sound convinced. “Who gets to go outside and check?”

 
Before anyone could answer, the men in the holding cells began screaming. Sergeant Hammerstrom drew his .357 magnum and dashed into the back.

  The dark hallway was filled with shouts and curses and a fierce stink. Hammerstrom’s booted feet crunched on broken glass. He looked up. The window set high in the wall across from the holding cells was shattered. Something green and slimy, with glowing insectoid eyes, was slithering through, backlit in the moonlight.

  “Shoot it, Sergeant!” screamed Mootz from his cell.

  The obscene shape flowed over the sill and landed on the floor. It straightened to its full height with a hiss and opened its mouth, exposing sharp fangs set in rows.

  Hammerstrom centered the barrel of the magnum on the creature’s torso and squeezed the trigger three times. The .357 banged out, muzzle flashes lighting the hall. The beast squawked as the slugs punched it back against the wall. Slowly it sank to the floor. Its tail drummed once and then it was still.

  The men in the cells were panicked, near hysteria, all except Torres, who was sitting calmly on his bunk.

  “Shoot it again, man! Shoot it again! It ain’t dead!” cried the kid. He couldn’t take his eyes from the sprawled figure. It was like something from a nightmare: a bug-lizard boogeyman from the depths of some child’s twisted imagination. And Jesus, did it stink!

  “Get us outta here Sarge, please!” begged Butch. “We’re like live bait in here. You gotta let us out! Please, man, please!”

  “Listen to him! Come on man, please!” Mootz pleaded. “We are sitting ducks in here.”

  Love appeared at the end of the hall. “What’s going on, Sergeant?”

  Before Hammerstrom could answer the black kid jumped back from the bars of his cell and yelled, “Watch out!”