The Uninvited (21 page)

But it was the nutria, not the mutants, that would finally spell the end of the old bridge and contribute to Lapeer and Baronne Parishes' remaining nights of man-induced mutant horror.

“Nutria” was actually a misnomer: the nutria is actually the fur of the Coypu, a large South American aquatic rodent which was brought into Louisiana for study, and which escaped from captivity and spread over much of the state, becoming more of a nuisance than a trapper's delight. The Coypu burrows underwater into land, into levees and dykes, often creating dangerous situations by weakening structures, and producing sand boils under levees, allowing the current to eat away the earth.

On the Lapeer side of the river, under the bridge, a huge family, or nest of Coypu had, for some time, made their home in the earth beneath the bridge, honeycombing the earth, their entrance and exit under water. So it was not the bridge that finally gave way, it was the earth under the bridge that collapsed under the weight of increased traffic.

A huge eighteen-wheeler, overloaded, rolled and rumbled onto the bridge. The earth trembled and gave way slightly, causing a strain in the spans, which cracked. Soon, about forty feet of bridge would plunge into the murky waters of the Velour.

Then only one avenue of escape would remain for the residents of Lapeer and Baronne.

 

 

“There's something. I don't know how to describe it,” Kiri said. “I guess eerie is the word I would have to use. There's something going on in this town, Brett. I feel it and sense it. Don't you? Or is it just my overworked imagination?”

“Yes, I sense something out of whack. I suspect the Sheriff's Department is holding something back from the public about the deaths of the kids, the Cole family, Billy Oldroyd, and the rumors about what happened to that old man. What's his name? Captain Jack something. Far too much is happening in too short a time for these rural Parishes.”

They were walking to the Campbells. The night was warm, but not unpleasant, the temperature around seventy. It was nice strolling along, shoulders and hands and thighs sometimes touching gently. Bonne Terre was a nice, safe place to live, small easygoing southern town. Very low crime rate. People could still stroll at night in safety.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brett caught movement just behind them and to their right, across the street. No one else had the distinctive walk of Dick Piano. But what was he doing slipping around at dusk? Brett smiled.

“Be ready for anything, Kiri,” he told her, grinning.

“What do you mean?”

“Dick Plano's following us. You know how he loves to kid and play jokes. I'll bet you he's got that bug and is going to scare you with it. He just lives over on the next block. He knew we were coming over here tonight.”

“If he throws that ugly thing on me, Brett, I promise you I'm going to pop him one on the jaw.”

Brett looked around. But Dick was gone.

“Damn! Maybe I was only seeing things. But I could have sworn I saw Dick following us. Guess I was wrong. Maybe he was cutting down the alley going home.” But he
knew
he had seen Dick.

A loud clicking sound suddenly split the night air.

Kiri grabbed Brett's arm. “What was that?”

“I don't know. Some sort of bird or animal, I guess.”

“No. No, not the sound. That thing that just ran across the street. Right over there.” She pointed. “Right under the street light.”

Brett strained but could see nothing out of the ordinary. “Are we both seeing things? What'd it look like, honey?”

“Flat. Ugly. And it didn't run, exactly. It scurried in kind of a funny way. And it was big.”

He laughed. “Probably just a lizard, honey. Don't they have lizards in Kansas?”

“Not like that thing.”

He put his arm around her waist. “Hey, babe? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make fun of you.”

She kissed his cheek and squeezed his arm. “It's okay. I didn't mean to snap at you, either. I'm jumpy for some reason, and I don't know why.”

He deepened his voice, bringing forth the most sinister sound he could produce.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”

“I can do without that, too, smart-ass! Brett?”

“Uh-huh?”

“That thing I just saw—it looked like that bug you gave Dick.”

A chill touched the man.

The street lights, which had just popped on, suddenly went out. All over town.

Click.

In the cells above the Sheriff's Department, a prisoner began to scream and shriek in agony and fright. Vic and Slick were down the street, a block away, having a much-needed cup of fresh-brewed coffee and a sandwich. The coffee in the squad room tasted like old boiled mud. “Tastes like shit!” Slick said. The dispatcher was rummaging around in the storage room, looking for replacement parts for his radio: it had been acting up. Again.

The jailer was dead. Sprawled on the steps leading to the offices below the jail. A brown feeding mass covered him.

No one heard the prisoner screaming. No one heard when a second, then a third, and a fourth prisoner in the lockup began screaming, for their screaming only lasted for a few seconds. Until their mouths filled.

An unnatural silence filled the old two story building.

The dispatcher had found an old radio among the junk. Maybe, he thought, I can rob some parts from this piece of junk to fix the piece of junk we are presently using.

He walked into the dispatch room and stood for a moment, cold with shock. He dropped the radio on the floor and opened his mouth to scream. He never made a sound. The mutants were all over him before he could scream.

The floors and the walls of the building were alive with darkness, a thick shadow moving on hairy legs, scratching and clicking and scurrying toward living flesh. To dine.

 

 

“Luckily,” Tanya said with a smile, “the dinner was all prepared. It'll stay warm. Besides, I think dining by candlelight is romantic.”

Kiri agreed with her. Besides, with no electricity, she could play footsie with Brett and no one would notice.

“If there is no electricity,” Bob said, “then there is no movie. So Sarah should be home in a few minutes.” He looked at his watch. “Ten minutes, I should think.”

Wife and company laughed at that remark. “Sure, Bob,” Brett chuckled. “And the moon is made of green cheese. You can look for Sarah home at one minute before eleven. You can set your watch by that.”

“But what are they going to do?” Bob asked. “Everything is all shut down.”

“Bob?” His wife looked at him. “Are you really that naive, or are you forgetting when you were young?”

Bob grunted a noncommittal reply.

Tanya patted his knee. “Besides, I'm sure Dean will think of something to get into.”

Her husband grimaced. “Dear, I wish to hell you had rephrased that comment.”

They all laughed and sipped their drinks.

Outside the expensive home, a shadow slipped from window to window, then to the back door. The part human/part animal form tried the door. Unlocked. He slipped into the darkness of the back porch.

He clicked his jaws.

He was hungry.

 

 

“There is nothing infectious about this bug.” Dr. Whitson looked up from his examination of several mutant roaches. “Or this one. But this one”—he pointed to a larger mutant, or what was left of it—
is highly infectious. These non-infectious mutants all secrete the same type of noxious chemical as any other roach. But the secretion from the larger mutants is toxic. I must have other mutants and take them to my lab for study. I'm set up for that. You people are not.”

“But all these have teeth,” Dr. Terry said. “The one I caught tried to bite me.”

“Yes, they do,” Whitson agreed. “And that is remarkable. And most distressing. You doctors tell me that people have been disappearing around the two-Parish area. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Masterson said. “For several days.”

Well, I would have to say they haven't literally disappeared. They've been eaten.”

“Jesus!” Dr. Terry said.

“Please, young man,” Dr. Whitson said. “Let's not resume that.”

“Eaten!” Dr. Bond said. “Are you serious?”

“I am not in the habit of making careless or frivolous remarks, son. Eaten is what I said. Eaten is exactly what I meant.”

“So what do we do now?” Dr. Long asked.

“Try to capture some more of these mutants and find out what type of chemical will kill them. If anything will—which I doubt. I also have an idea this mutant species was not a fluke of nature.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dr. Ashley inquired.

“Exactly what I said, sir,” the old man replied. And would say no more.

 

 

“I'm gettin' the hell out of here!” a deputy told Sheriff Grant. “I'm haulin' ass for the bridge at Natchez and to hell with these bugs!”

“You're not going anywhere!” Mike's voice was sharp, demanding.
You're going to keep your ass right here and uphold the oath you took. Freddie, don't panic. Not now. We don't need that.”

The deputy removed his badge and dropped it on the desk. A tired Sheriff Grant looked at it, then at the man. “You're a coward, Freddie.”

The deputy's face flushed with anger. He balled his fists. “You'd maybe like to step outside and call me that, Mike? Don't you call me a coward. I've been behind a badge for ten years. I'm no coward.”

Sheriff Grant nodded. “All right, Freddie. All right. I'm sorry I said that. I'm tired. You're tired. So are all my deputies. But I need you, and more importantly, the people of this Parish need you.”

“The people?” the deputy laughed. “Oh, hell yes, Mike, the people really do, don't they? I work six days or six nights a week, putting my ass on the line every time I get in this uniform. And for what? Six hundred and fifty dollars a month. You know how much I take home out of that, Mike?”

“I know, Freddie,” Mike replied wearily. Same old story. “I know.”

“The people want protection from a department that's been spread too thin for months, for years! One third of our cars are down for repairs; the others are worn out. We're workin' long hours on each shift, and the goddamn people voted down a sales tax that would give us a raise. Fuck the people! They get exactly what they deserve.”

The deputy stormed out of the office and got into his car. Just outside of town, he pulled down a gravel road to take a leak. As he unzipped his pants, he wondered if he had made a mistake in leaving the department. A lawman was all he'd ever been.

He heard a clicking sound behind him.

 

 

“Why are you still here?” an agent stationed in Alexandria asked a fellow agent.

“Trying to get in touch with Al Little over in Lapeer Parish.”

“What's up?”

“One of the guys out of the New Orleans office called this afternoon. Laughing his ass off. Seems Al called Inspector Benning about some gruesome deaths up in Baronne and Lapeer Parishes. Bodies badly mutilated. Al said they were caused by giant roaches. The roaches ate them.”

The FBI agent looked at his friend for several seconds, then burst out laughing. “Giant roaches!” He almost yelled the words. He howled and slapped the desk with the palm of his hand. “That damned Al! He never quits, does he? You remember the time he put that pair of panties in Jim Fry's suit pocket? Boy, Jim had a hell of a time explaining those to his wife.”

But the agent behind the desk did not crack a smile.

His friend noticed this, sobering. “What's wrong, Lee? Come on, man! You know Al Little is the best joker in the South. He was putting Benning on. They've been friends for years. Benning and Al's daddy were classmates years ago. Al knows Benning can take a joke. That's why he did it. He knows Benning won't get pissed about it like some inspectors would.”

“I don't know.” Lee shook his head. “Ches? You remember Clint Wallace?”

“Sure. Left the Bureau 'bout five years ago. Went to work for the Office of Scientific Experimentation, I think. Up in Utah, I heard. Why?”

“He killed himself two days ago. His brother just called me this morning, telling me about it. We used to fish together when we were stationed over in Texas.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I liked Clint. Told him he ought to stay with the Bureau. But what's the connection between Clint and Al?”

“His brother said Clint had written him just a few days before he killed himself. He had quit the OSE. Said he didn't know if he could live with himself. He said something about what he had done to the people in Louisiana.”

“What did he do?”

“Clint didn't go into any great detail. But it seems he was—for some reason—driving a tanker rig last spring. Through Louisiana. There was a spill of some sort. I gather it was all very hush-hush.”

“Now that is interesting,” Ches said softly. “Yes, sir. That is very interesting.”

“Why do you say that?”

“My wife's brother—the young one—is in the Navy. Stationed in Charleston. He told us, while he was on leave last month, that this spring, March or April, I forget exactly, a tanker was lifted onto a ship—a cargo ship. One of his buddies was stationed on that ship. They steamed about five hundred miles out into the Atlantic and dumped it over the side.”

“The whole tanker?”

“That's what he said his buddy said. Said two guys, civilians, wearing heavy protective gear were on board. They didn't talk to anybody the whole time. Just before they dumped the tanker, these guys opened the cocks on the tanker so whatever was in there would drain out or water could drain in.” He shrugged. “Whatever. That's strange, isn't it?”

“Yeah. It sure is.”

“Said he couldn't live with the knowledge of what he'd done to the people, huh? That's weird. Hey, what's the problem about getting through to Al?”

“Circuits are all busy.”

“In those Parishes? That's odd, buddy. This is not a holiday. Why would the circuits all be busy?”

“Beats me.” He lifted his eyes to his friend's gaze. “I see by the schedule we're both off through Monday.”

Uh-huh. What's on your mind?”