The Uninvited (35 page)

The man slipped through the wire, waded the ditch, and walked to the road. He opened a route through the trucks, then rejoined his friends at the fence.

“You can bet on one thang, Sheriff,” a man spoke. He spoke loudly, so many of the women could hear him. “There'll be another time. I thank we'll just trail you around the Parish, till the time is rat. Then we'll take yore women.”

Vic was suddenly, explosively, angry. A cold fury washed over him. After all they'd been through, trying to survive, to hear those words from a pack of white trash was just too much. He cocked his .357.

You don't have any time left you, you bastard!” Vic said, then shot the man in the center of the chest. The heavy slug exploded the heart. The man was flung backward to land spraddle-legged in a mud hole, on his back.

Not one of his friends made a move.

“Why is it,” Vic said, speaking into his mike, his voice cutting through the stormy air, “the scum and trash always seem to survive in any catastrophe?”

He was not expecting a reply, and received none. Vic put his cruiser in gear and rolled on, leading the convoy through the Parish. Heading westward.

 

 

“I think I've found a way in there,” a reporter said to his colleague. “You with me?”

“First let's see what you've got in mind, Sid,” Jean said. “You almost got me killed in Lebanon last year.”

“I've been prowling around some,” the network reporter grinned. “And I found some old maps of these Parishes that go back into the thirties and forties. Look here.” He spread a map on the table in their tent, several miles from the bridge the Navy SEALs had blown up. “This is Red Creek, a little bitty thing. Back in the 1920's there was a lot of work done in that area. Bridges and waterworks, stuff like that. There was a huge concrete culvert built right there.” He jabbed the map with a finger. “It's still there, and you got to be a real oldtimer to remember it. Fellow I talked with looked like he was older than God. He scratched and chewed and spit for several minutes before he remembered it. There is kind of a blocked-off ravine, or ditch, leading to it, and the big culvert goes under this little creek. And, it's not guarded.”

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“Because I drove out there as far as I could and walked the rest of the way. The fires are still burning, but you can get through. It's as easy as stealing candy from a baby. And we can take it all away from the other networks. Are you with me?”

Let's go!” Jean said, excitement building in her as fierce as an orgasm. Reporters, by nature, are nosy. And they watch each other's movements very closely. And reporters have a sixth sense that tells them when another reporter is up to something.

A minute after Sid and Jean left, along with their cameraman, two reporters from ABC followed. Two reporters from NBC followed them. Then it was Reuters, AP, and so on down the line, a parade in the stormy afternoon, heading into the unknown.

But moments after they departed, an Army Security Agency man reported to General Bornemann. “Reporters leaving the area like rats from a sinking ship, sir.”

“Is that a metaphor, Sergeant,” the General asked, “or an accurate comparison?”

Not being absolutely certain just what a metaphor was, the ASA man replied, “A little of both, sir.”

“I see.” Bornemann smiled. “Well, they've found a way in, I suppose.”

Do we stop them?”

“Hell, no!” He was adamant. “They were warned and ordered to stay out. They know there is a news blackout on this, and they are in willful violation of the martial law being imposed in this area. I won't nursemaid them. Follow them at a discreet distance, find out where they enter, and plug up the hole. You know the rules. This is not a goddamn game we're playing. Those hold me in contempt. I'll do the same for them.”

 

 

Eighteen reporters, print and broadcast, and their cameramen gathered at the west side of Red Creek. All were blackened from the smoke and ash. They made their way along the narrow spit of land between the Velour River and the Lost Swamp, eighteen men and women. There would have been more, but the rest got stuck in the mud on the dirt road. They were the fortunate ones. All had been stopped several times on the way, but they told the security troops they were on their way to the nearest town to get a drink. In this weather, the troops could appreciate that. The reporters were waved on through.

Once off the blacktop and onto the dirt road, hidden by the timber, the rest was easy. Just as Sid had said: taking candy from a baby.

“There it is.” Sid pointed. “It's all covered with vines and crap, but that's the way in.”

“Hell, let's go!” A reporter pushed past him, plunging into the swampy ditch.
Watch out for snakes.”

The ASA Sergeant watched from his position in the timber. Watched until all the reporters were gone from sight. He turned to an explosives expert. “Can you seal it?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“All right. Seal it, then let's get the hell out of here.”

“Damn, I'm glad to get out of that culvert!” a reporter said, breathing a sigh of relief as he plunged into the dim light of the tempestuous afternoon. “I was afraid any second I'd step on a water moccasin.”

He would have been better off had he done so.

“According to this map,” Sid said, and it's a new one, there is a small settlement about three miles from here. Little French community called Baie Comeau.”

“What's that mean?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Bay something or the other,” Lee Chang said, shifting his camera from one hand to the other.

“How many languages you speak, Lee?”

Four.”

They marched on.

“Maybe we can rent some cars from somebody in the town?”

“Oh, hell, yes!” Sid said. “We'll just offer them three or four times the going rate. No sweat.”

They walked down the dirt road, muddy from the heavy rains. A woman said, “This is weird, you know?”

“What?” Jean asked.

“There's no animals. Not a bird to be seen anywhere. Have any of you heard any dogs barking?”

They all shook their heads. “No,” a man said. “Come to think of it—no.”

“Nothing in their right minds would be out on a day like this,” a man said. “Except reporters.”

“Who says we're in our right minds?” a woman laughed. “We were warned there was a health problem in here.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, Bette. We've all had every shot known to mankind. What in God's name could we catch?”

They came to a house. A neat-looking house. A garden—or what was left of it—was by the side of the house.

“Wonder what happened to the garden?” Sid asked. “Damn! It's been stripped clean. What the hell kind of a bug would do something like that?”

All of them suddenly remembered General Bornemann's words at the press conference.

“Giant roaches,” a cameraman muttered.

“All right, all right,” Jean said. “Let's not get panicky. He was joking and you all know it.”

“I hope,” Lee said. He said a silent prayer in all four of the languages he was proficient in: English, French, German, and Spanish.

A heavy explosion came from behind the group.

“What the hell was that?”

“Anybody want to bet that wasn't the Army blowing the culvert?” Sid challenged.

“Those dirty bastards!” a man cursed.
They've sealed us in.”

“We were warned,” the Reuters man said, in a burst of fairness toward the military.

His peer group all looked at him as if he had suddenly gone mad. Which he would. Shortly.

The man from Reuters shrugged.
Well, we were, weren't we?”