The Uninvited (30 page)

“Dead,” the man said shortly. “All dead. I went to a dozen houses up and down my road. Dead. Same in every house. All dead. Eaten. It was awful. Worst thing I ever seen. I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

The man put his back to the men in the cab and sat in silence all the way back to Bonne Terre.

It had been a day of almost unspeakable horror for the men who rode the Parish roads, looking for survivors. At times they would see long, seemingly endless masses of mutant roaches, marching toward food. Sometimes the tires of the trucks would crunch over the bugs. Other times the marching bugs would be so thick they would cover the vehicles, ten deep, blotting out the sun as they sought a crack to enter. There were volunteer searchers who never returned. One man broke under the strain and put a bullet through his head. Several were bitten.

“One survivor?” Slick asked, looking at the man in the bed of the truck. “Just one? That's all you found in your section?”

“That's it,” Bob said, as he and Brett climbed stiffly from the pickup. “How about the others?”

“Some better. But not by much.”

“What was that smoke we saw just after dawn?” Brett asked.

“Vic burned down the sheriff's office. Millions of bugs in there.” Slick's face was dirty from smoke and ash. “We poured gasoline all over the grounds outside the building, then threw bottles filled with gas into the building. Molotov cocktails we used to call them. You should have seen the bugs come out of that building. I got pictures of it—movie pictures, if they ever get developed. Vic waited until the very last minute; he had guys standing around the ground. Then he set the grass on fire.” Slick smiled with grim satisfaction. “We got rid of a bunch of them. When the fire hit them, they popped like firecrackers goin' off. Filthy bastards! Vic talked to old Doc Whitson about why the bugs seemed to gather in that building. The doc didn't know. Said he doubted any of us would ever know. Whatever that means, and I don't really care to dwell on it.” He walked off.

“Let's go see about the girls,” Bob said.

At Dr. Whitson's laboratory, located in the rear of his large, rambling, cluttered home on the outskirts of Bonne Terre, they found the women assisting—whenever they could—the old man in running tests.

“Survivors?” Kiri asked. She looked very tired. And still very lovely.

Brett shook his head. “We only found one we could bring back to town.”

She did not inquire as to what Brett and Bob did with the others.
Dr. Whitson has ordered us to leave here as soon as you men arrived,” she said, brushing back a lock of hair from her forehead. “He says it's no longer safe out here. The bugs might come at any time. He says he's staying—wants to work up until the last minute.”

Bob looked at the old man, bent over a microscope. “You immune to the bites, sir?”

“Hardly, young man.” Dr. Whitson straightened up, easing the strain on his old bones. His back popped and he smiled with relief. “I'm almost eighty years old, son. Had two heart attacks in the past eighteen months. Next one should do it. But don't worry about me. I won't be turned into a babbling, howling madman.” He looked at Kiri and smiled his fondness for her. “Excuse me, lady-libber, mad-person. When I see them coming into this building—the bugs, I mean, not women's libbers—I'll simply dispose of myself. I've been preparing myself for that for some time—months. Like a great many of my colleagues, I don't subscribe to the popular mumbo-jumbo of life after death. At least not in the manner in which you probably believe.”

“You don't believe in God?” Sarah asked.

“Not really; young lady—but that does not mean you should not. In my line of work, one deals with fact, not fiction.” He leaned back and sighed. “Nothing,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Can't find anything that will kill them. No combination of chemicals.” He rattled off a series of chemical names, then smiled. “Forgive me. Probably those names meant absolutely nothing to any of you. Well, I even went back forty years and tried borax powder and sodium flouride. Nothing.”

He slid from his stool and walked to the radio the military had given him. He flipped on the switch.
Boswell—Wilkins, answer me.

A crisp feminine voice replied. “That is not the proper procedure used in contacting a position. First, you must . . .”

Dr. Whitson cut her off—abruptly. “Young lady, if I were twenty years younger, and we had the time, I would suggest a position that both of us could assume—together. You sound sweet. Full of yourself, but sweet. But for now, shut your snippy mouth and get off the air. This is Dr. Whitson, and I assure you I am not in the least interested in nor impressed with your military gobbledygook. Just get off your butt and fetch Doctors Boswell and Wilkins for me.”

Silence for a moment. “Yes, sir. I'll do that, sir.”

“Wonderful.”

“You old goat,” Dr. Boswell chuckled out of the speaker. “Do you have to intimidate everybody who comes in contact with you?”

“I find it gets their attention much quicker. And besides, I happen to derive a great deal of pleasure from it. At my age, I have few pleasures. I hate to tell you this, Bosie, but I struck out finding anything that will kill these damnable mutants.”

“So have we, Jefferson. But we may have something as to why the creatures are in those two Parishes and no where else.” He told Whitson about the FBI agents' story.

“The government,” Whiston snorted. “I figured that all along, but was hesitant to put my fears in words. Bosie? Please tell me this chemical didn't come out of Utah. That's where my one-time associate Billings has his lab.”

“Dr. Billings, Samuel, S. You got it, Jefferson. He's the one.”

“That fool!” Dr. Whitson spat the words.
Where is that idiot?”

“General Bornemann ordered him into the second seat of a jet fighter. Right now, he's probably flying over the Midwest, dipping south, probably peeing in his flightsuit. He's afraid of flying.”

“I hope his piss freezes his balls to the seat,” Whitson said.

“Billings says he doesn't know anything about the bugs. Said as soon as his people discovered the effects on roaches, he shut down the project and ordered the chemical dumped—out to sea. Said he didn't know what else to do with it.”

“How many people did he lose?”

Boswell's laugh was bitter. “Three. Bug bite.”

“That man is one contemptible human being.”

“I concur.”

 

 

“General Bornemann!” a reporter said at the first press conference. “The doctors—all twenty of them—have told us about some health problem in Baronne and Lapeer Parishes. Said that's why it had to be sealed off. Closed. That may or may not be true. But what we would like to know is this: why is the military involved? Why not the State National Guard? Why the entire 82nd Airborne? Special Forces? Rangers? I've seen those wild men from the Navy, those River Rats. Why are they patrolling the Mississippi and the Velour? I heard them testing their guns. That's live ammunition in those weapons!”

“Big bad gun go boom-boom,” a Navy SEAL muttered from the rear of the tent.

“Something else, General,” the reporter said. “The rumor is you've ordered the Air Force in to napalm the river banks. Is that true?”

“Yes,” the General said.

“But why?” A woman jumped to her feet. “On the east side of the Velour is a wildlife sanctuary for birds. All that will be destroyed. What are you people trying to do here?”

On carefully rehearsed cue—for if he hadn't stepped in at precisely that instant, the young Lieutenant would have spent the remainder of his military tour on a penguin count in the Arctic—one of General Bornemann's aides stepped up and spoke in the General's ear. Bornemann said, “I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I must go.”

He walked out the rear of the tent and was gone before anyone could stop him. The reporters were taken out the front of the tent. The reporter who had had the silent exchange with the SEAL had another more vocal exchange with the Navy man.

“Uniform lover,” the reporter said as he passed by the SEAL.

The SEAL's reply was a bit more lengthy, and somewhat cruder. But very much to the point.

In his tent, General Bornemann radioed into Lapeer Parish. “Sheriffs Ransonet and Grant?”

“We're here,” Vic replied.

“If there is anybody still alive around the banks of the Mississippi and the Velour, pull them back. Centralize your people in the centers of the Parishes. I've been ordered to call in napalm, we've got to widen the strip and burn out any pockets of mutants that might be there.”

The strain was telling on Sheriff Grant, and telling hard. The man had aged ten years in forty-eight hours. He was shaky, and Vic could see his mental condition was becoming unstable. The Baronne Parish sheriff grabbed the microphone from Vic.

“It's a trap!” he screamed. “You're trying to get us all in one spot so you can kill us!”

“Man, don't be a fool!” General Bornemann said. “Calm yourself. Why in God's name would we want to do anything like that?”

Vic shoved Sheriff Grant away and took the microphone. “General? It's all clear in my Parish. But I know damn well my volunteers didn't find all those infected today. There's got to be more out there—a lot more. Their bite is terribly infectious, so don't let anyone out of the Parish area.”

“What have you done with those you and your men have found?”

“Shot them!”

His words were brutal even to Bornemann, who had seen time in three wars.

You're a hard one, Vic.”

“It's a hard time, General.”

You're both insane!” Sheriff Grant screamed. “And I'm not having any part of this wild scheme. I'll see you both in hell first.”