"In a practical sense?" I asked.
Womblic seemed to deflate. "In a practical sense, the amount of mass and energy needed to form and sustain a wormhole would be vast. Black holes might do it, but they're lethal. There's no way to survive one. To artificially open and sustain a wormhole, you'd need energy on a scale I can't fathom. And then there's the question of whether you could survive the trip through a wormhole. There might be tidal forces from the gravity that would rip you apart and spread your atoms throughout space. It's too incredible to contemplate, but it's the only answer I can think of."
"Let's say you're right," Frank said. "Let's say these aliens could create a wormhole and travel to our world. Where are they? Why aren't we seeing armies of them marching across the planet? We wouldn't stand a chance. We'd be dead within a year or two."
"Because they wouldn't stand a chance either," Womblic said.
"Our world," I said. "It would be as alien to them as theirs is to us."
Womblic nodded. "If it wasn't the atmosphere, it'd be the germs or the food or the water or any number of threats. The chances of them having the correct metabolic and immunological makeup to thrive on Earth are very small. They would die before they had time to conquer anything. It's another reason the alien invasion theory falls apart. There are too many negatives."
"So we're back to homo sapiens," said Frank. "Everyday humans and their everyday struggles for power and dominance. Someone in Emersville is kidnapping people, for whatever reason, and it's our job to find out who and why. We're back at where we started."
I stood. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Womblic. It may have not been particularly helpful, but it was certainly educational."
Ricky Womblic opened his office door. "When you were a kid, did you ever use a magnifying glass to burn up ants?"
"Once or twice," I said, feeling uncomfortable. "It made me sick to my stomach."
"Then be thankful you're dealing with the earthly," Womblic said. "The detective's comment earlier was correct. If this were an alien invasion, we would be the ants, and they would be the ones holding the magnifying glass."
* * *
We climbed back into the Charger.
"Where to?" I asked.
"The one place where we can find answers," Frank replied. "Emersville."
"They'll be looking for us."
"Don't worry, Paco," Frank said. "I got it covered."
Chapter Sixteen
We returned to Emersville in an undercover sedan Frank borrowed from the Rock Mills Police depot. The car had a Remington short-barreled shotgun clamped to the underside of the dash and a heavy plastic chest in the rear foot well. The chest contained two Kevlar vests and extra clips for Frank's handgun, as well as several stun grenades.
Halfway into town, we passed the red-bricked Emersville Public Library and Frank took the first right.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"I'd rather not drive through the center of town, so I'm looking for another route to the turnoff."
"We're going back to the lake?"
He caressed the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. "Kerry drove there for a reason. I intend to find out why."
Frank found the road leading to the lake. As we approached the turnoff, he said, "Watch for cops. They may not recognize this car, but I'm sure our descriptions have been passed around."
I nodded. The air was damp. Storm clouds had rolled in overnight, big thunderheads, dark and ominous. They covered the sky like a vast alien spacecraft hovering over the city, blocking the sun as it prepared to destroy all life on the planet.
I tore my eyes away from the sky to look at Frank. "What do you make of Ricky Womblic's alien theory?"
He scowled. "There are no little green men. He said so himself. What we're dealing with is strictly human."
"And the wormhole?"
"I don't understand a tenth of what the guy said, but one thing stuck with me—travel from one star to another is impossible." Frank slowed the sedan and we eased into the turnoff. "Wormholes and warp speed are bullshit. They're distractions we don't need right now."
"What if Jacaruso was telling the truth? What if we're dealing with an alien race come to take over our world?"
"Womblic said it couldn't happen."
"What if he's wrong? What if it's not impossible?"
Frank grunted. "Then we're royally screwed."
The sedan rolled onto the beach. Tire tracks looped wildly across the sand like Chinese lettering. Beyond the shoreline, the lake was calm. Wisps of mist rose from the surface, as if the water were exuding memories of summers past. In it, I imagined fishermen catching perch and bluegill, children swimming, teenagers water-skiing. Happiness and laughter and smiles and—
—and something more sinister: drownings, boating accidents, bloated bodies with lidless, staring eyes and corpse-skin sloughing away at the slightest touch. Ugly memories. Terrible memories.
I turned away from them. My life was already dark enough.
Frank jammed the gearshift into park, unlocked the chest in the back seat, and handed me a Kevlar vest. After grabbing one for himself, he jerked the Remington free and climbed out of the car. I joined him.
"What’s that smell?" he asked.
"Methane. I’d keep the stun grenades in your pocket for now."
Frank rubbed at his eyes. Fatigue was quickly becoming a concern. "Put on the vest and head south," he said. "I'll go north. Call if you see anything."
“Does your phone work?”
“I’m good.” He handed me his Sig, along with two extra clips. "Each one holds ten rounds. You've got thirty. It should be enough." He paused. "If you aim at someone, be prepared to shoot. This isn't a game."
I hefted the gun. It was big and ugly, with hard rubber grips. Everything about it spoke to killing.
I stuffed it into the waistband of my pants. "Jacaruso thought I meant business."
Frank chambered a round into his shotgun. "You're lucky she didn't call your bluff. At least, I hope you were bluffing. I was standing right behind her. Your shot would have killed us both." He thumbed off the safety. "Be ready. Remember, the only successful gunfight is the one you walk away from."
He left without saying another word, pushing through the tall grasses growing along the shoreline until he disappeared.
I listened to the sounds of his passage until they too disappeared and I began walking south. The uneven ground made travel difficult. Thickets blocked my way. Long nettles, wickedly sharp and always seeming to angle toward me, pricked my skin until red welts covered my face and hands.
I reached a clearing, another slender stretch of beach. This one didn't have an access road. I stopped and looked back. The woods were quiet, still. No squirrels or chipmunks. No blue jays. No sparrows. No deer.
Only fingers of mist creeping in from the lake.
Where were the animals? With winter coming, they should be racing back and forth in search of food.
I wiped the sweat from my eyes and pushed on. The path became treacherous. Deadfalls appeared more frequently, overgrown bushes turned me aside. At one point, I had to circle back and find another way.
My mind kept replaying what Frank had said: Kerry had come to the lake for a reason. Find out why, and we might find our wives.
Water is the beginning and the end.
I had climbed what felt like my hundredth deadfall, a massive pine whose flesh had turned spongy with decay, when I heard a faint rustling, like a small animal scampering over dead leaves, followed by another coming from a different direction.
"Hello?" I said. "Is anybody there?"
More rustling, movement I could hear but not see.
"Frank?"
Something scurried across the path, low and fast.
Icy fingers gripped my insides.
"I've got a gun," I said. "I'll use it if I need to."
A twig snapped. I spun, the bulky semiautomatic thrust out in front of me.
The forest grinned back
, mocking me.
What's the matter, Doc? Having a little hallucination problem?
"Who's out there?" I shouted.
The rustling intensified, multiplied. Branches swayed. Leaves twitched.
"WHO'S OUT THERE?"
I heard gunfire, far in the distance. A single shot, then another. Not a handgun. Something larger, something with more punch.
Like a shotgun.
Frank.
My mouth went dry. I vaulted over the deadfall and sprinted back along the trail.
The mist now covered the ground completely, concealing everything beneath it. I ignored the dangers and raced ahead.
A branch as thick as my leg loomed before me. Ducking, I scurried underneath, but by foot caught on something and I fell. Air exploded from my lungs, and my bruised ribs howled in agony. Somehow, I managed to keep hold of the handgun.
A third gunshot sounded in the distance.
I scrambled to my feet, and that's when I saw them.
Dolls.
Cloth ones like Thumbkin, only there were many. Filthy yarn for hair. Lusterless, button eyes. Stitched mouths warped into snarls.
They emerged from the mist—an army of demonic toys. Three blocked the path. I kicked one away. The others attacked, jumping onto me. Soft hands groped at my clothes. I cried out in surprise as sharp needles pierced the skin on my arms.
The fine metal threads we’d found inside Thumbkin. I finally understood their purpose.
More needles dug into my ankles, calves, thighs. Dolls clung to me like blood-thirsty leeches.
I brushed two off with my hand. More took their place. I scraped my body against a tree and dislodged several. Twice as many fell from above. I bit back a scream as they drove wires into my body. More streamed out of the forest, their numbers seemingly endless.
More gunshots, louder this time, almost next to me. Frightened, I searched for the source and realized it was me—I had pulled the trigger on the Sig and fired the shots. One round had hit a doll, an overstuffed Cabbage-Patch-looking thing with bloody cheeks, and blew it apart. The others had missed. I shook off my terror, aimed, and fired. Out of sheer luck I hit four, but there were so many.
I needed a plan. I'd passed a clearing earlier. It had to be nearby. If I had room to maneuver, I might be able to get away.
I charged ahead, knocking dolls away with my feet. More moved to block my escape. I emptied the Sig's clip into them. A few seconds to switch clips and I was back in business. Dolls disintegrated under the impact of the .40 caliber rounds.
A cloth hand reached around from behind my head, blood-soaked filaments sticking out like deadly claws, and swiped at my face. Needles gouged my cheek. I grabbed the little bastard and threw it.
Three more disintegrated before my second clip ran dry.
Slamming the last clip into the handgun, I focused my efforts on the ones in front of me. They died in bloodless explosions of cotton and fabric. It didn't take long to run out of rounds.
Tossing the gun, I bolted forward—
—and almost fell into the clearing.
Panting, I searched the area. Sand, tall grasses, and the lake. More dolls swarmed the path in front of me, cutting off my escape. I had no other choice.
I stumbled into the mist-shrouded water, my legs pumping until the water reached my waist, and dove.
Dolls didn't breathe—I couldn't drown them—but maybe they couldn't function in water. Maybe their mysterious power source would short out or something?
My aching legs propelled me through the murk. The tiny creatures I hadn't dislodged clung tightly to me.
I tried diving deeper, but I wasn't a strong swimmer. My lungs began to burn. Desperate, I rolled like an alligator, praying the rush of water would dislodge my assailants. A few might have let go; I couldn't tell.
The effort took its toll. My lungs cramped and my vision dimmed. I wouldn't last much longer. With a series of kicks, I swam upward until I broke the surface and pulled air into my lungs.
I shook the water from my eyes, then lifted one arm and the other, checked my legs and abdomen, reached around to feel my back.
The dolls were gone.
I took a moment to catch my breath. I was treading water in the deep part of the lake. I needed to reach the shore. The trouble was, I felt as if I had already run a marathon.
Pushing with my arms, I turned until I faced the shore. My stomach clenched.
Dolls covered the thin stretch of beach, dozens of them, row upon row, staring at me with hatred in their soulless eyes. I searched for a way to escape, saw more beaches to the north, but doubted I could swim there. My limbs felt like they were filled with sand.
I drifted toward shore. The dolls edged closer to the water. They looked eager, almost hungry. No doubt they would pounce once I reached land.
My breath came in short, shallow gasps. The muscles between my ribs began to ache. Time was running out. If I could get close enough to shore to stand while keeping my head above water, I could rest my arms and legs.
I kicked, my legs slicing through the water and propelling me forward. After several yards, I stopped and tried to feel the ground with my toes. No such luck. The water was still too deep.
The dolls pushed closer. Several stood waist-deep in water. One, a creepy rabbit with floppy ears and crazed red-glass eyes, hopped in glee.
I estimated the distance. About fifteen yards of lake separated us.
A shiver rippled through my body, forcing my teeth to clatter. My fingers and toes no longer felt heavy. Cold lake water had pulled the heat from them, and they now felt numb. If I didn't get away, I would start suffering from hypothermia as well as exhaustion.
I focused on the beach. I would have to risk the dolls. Gathering my energy, drawing from whatever meager reserves I had left, I swam for shore. Water splashed wildly as I hit ground and began running. Determined to survive, I let out a scream, a bellow so fierce I thought my vocal cords would rupture.
When I reached the shoreline, the dolls attacked. As one they jumped, sailing through the air, their metal claws extended. I managed to block the ones going for my face. Others latched onto my legs, my arms, my chest. None could penetrate the Kevlar vest, and my clothes afforded me some protection; at least they couldn't rake at my skin.
Then I heard my name called, and Frank charged out of the woods, the Remington clenched in his fists. He looked like hell. His clothes were shredded. Blood seeped from cuts on the backs of his hands and around his neck. A flap of skin hung from a gash on his forehead. His lower lip had swollen to twice its normal size.
The worst injury, the one that made me want to cry out, was his left eye.
It was gone.
It had been gouged out, presumably by one of the dolls, leaving behind a bloody socket that wept pink-tinged fluid.
The injuries didn't stop him. He swung his weapon in a tight arc, firing again and again. Dolls exploded, one after the other, their wretched bodies practically vaporized by the assault rifle.
Emboldened by Frank’s courage, I yanked dolls off me and threw them like clay pigeons. Frank shot them out of the air. He had collected an arm full of trophies at shooting contests, and even with one eye, they made for easy prey.
Despite his accuracy, despite being able to channel his rage through the Remington, there were more dolls than ammo, and he quickly ran out of shells.
I hurried over to him. He dropped the now useless shotgun. His remaining eye locked onto me.
"We’re deep into the shit this time, Paco.”
"What about the stun grenades? We could try and ignite the methane."
"If the gunshots didn’t ignite it, I doubt a grenade will." He coughed up flecks of blood. "Besides, I’d prefer a solution where we didn’t die in a massive explosion."
We must have killed a dozen dolls. More than a dozen remained. They gathered in a pack and advanced.
"Head back to the car," I told him. "Call for help. I’ll do what I can here."
He grabbed my shoulder for support. "Already did. Sent out an 'officer down' and the location."
I should have known. "Any chance you were heard?"
The dolls had crossed the distance and were ready to attack.
Frank snorted. "Saddle up, Paco. Time to fight for our lives."
We turned to face our attackers. They were small, but they were many. No matter. We planned to put up a hell of a battle.
The lead doll, a clown with hair the color of decayed seaweed and rusted bells on its costume, leapt at me, its tiny mouth gaping open.
There was a gunshot. The doll exploded with a loud bang and the stench of burning ozone.
I looked behind us. A man emerged from the woods. It was Kent Couttis, son of Emersville's recently murdered chief of police, his service revolver aimed at us.
He wore his patrolman's uniform, with the same too-large shirt, same pants with the cuffs at flood level. His mouth was a thin, angry slash across his face.
"That'll be enough," he said. "You go on back."
I wanted to ask him what he meant, where we were supposed to go, when Frank turned me around.
The dolls were retreating. They melted back into the forest like wraiths.
Only the three of us remained.
"What a timely rescue," I said to Couttis, not bothering to hide my anger. "How did you find us?"
"I heard the call on the police band. When I arrived, I saw the tracks and followed them. I could have let them kill you—I probably should have—but I didn't." Couttis holstered his weapon. "A little gratitude would be nice."
My fists clenched. "What are those things, and how is it you can control them?"
Couttis acted as if he hadn't heard me. He turned to Frank and said, "I've got a first aid kit in my cruiser. Let's get you patched up, then your friend can take you to a hospital."
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