The Uninvited (36 page)

“I'm going to knock on that door,” Jean said. “See if anybody is home. If they're sick, then maybe we can help. Goddamn military isn't doing anything.”

The rain came down in spirit-dampening sheets, the wind slashing and whipping the forlorn group standing in the middle of the muddy road. They watched in silence as Jean walked up to the door, knocking, then hammering on the door. No answer. She pushed the door slowly open.

Then she began screaming.

“Oh, Christ!” Sid screamed. “Look at that!”

Jean was covered with a brown layer of something that seemed alive. Then her colleagues realized it was alive, and it was rapidly devouring the woman in a feeding frenzy.

The four cameras were rolling, taping the horror. Lee Chang, the cameraman for the INN—Independent News Network—kept his rolling long after the others had ceased taping and began running to help Jean. Lee sensed there was no helping Jean.

No!” he yelled. “Don't do it! Don't go up there. It's no good.”

About half the reporters stopped in the muddy yard and began backing up, back to the road, away from the horror they were witnessing but still unable to believe.

“Get back here!” an NBC man yelled. “For God's sake, run!”

Some of them ignored the yelling, racing up to what was left of Jean. She had stopped screaming and twisting, and now was buried under an ever-growing mound of brown.

Then the open door of the small house seemed to fill with creatures, varying in length from three inches to almost a foot. They jumped and soared and flew at the reporters closest to the house. There were thousands of them, and the reporters closest to the house, those who had gone to the aid of Jean, were soon covered with mutants dragging them down into the mud of the yard.

The air was filled with screaming, moaning, and clicking.

“My God!” a woman beside Lee screamed. “Those are roaches!”

Lee Chang continued to film.

“General Bornemann was right,” a man said, his eyes never leaving the living nightmare taking place in the yard. He was repulsed and fascinated by the sight. “The son of a bitch was telling us the truth all along. He leveled with us. He knew we wouldn't believe him.”

Lee Chang shifted to another position and filmed for a few more seconds. He covered his lenses and said, “Let's get the hell out of here.”

The small radio attached to his belt suddenly crackled.

“Vic?” the radio spewed the message. “Head for the bridge. Engineers working now. Should be through in about an hour. Maybe less. Once you people are across, the man from Sugar Cube can't deny you entrance to hospitals. We're setting up for you now. Right here. Move it, and good luck!”

“Rolling,” came Vic's reply. “We're on 28 now. Be there in plenty of time for the dance.”

“Sugar Cube?” the Reuters man said. “That's the White House.”

“Fuck the White House!” Lee said. “Highway 28, he must mean. That's not too far from here. Come on, let's get the hell moving. We'll cut across country.”

But the rain was slackening, and the winds were calming from a roar to a whisper. The sun was trying to peep out from behind the clouds, and the clouds were no longer so black and ominous. The storm which had kept the mutants in shelter was rapidly moving east. Out of Lapeer Parish.

 

 

“We're going to make it, babes,” Bob told his wife and daughter.
We are going to make it.”

Brett was telling Kiri the same thing.

Back in the buses, now dangerously low on fuel, ministers were leading the people in prayer. Many people were weeping openly, unashamedly, men and women. Some were singing Christian songs. Some were giving their lives over to Christ. Some just sat in numb shock.

The convoy had stopped at more than a dozen places trying to get gas. But the power was out and the pumps would not work. The rain was abating, and the men could see the windows of the stations crawling with mutants, watching them, giving them no time to hand-pump the gas. One man was overcome by the ravenous creatures when he tried. They had driven to several bulk plants, but turned back when they saw huge columns of black smoke pouring into the sky. In maddened fury at being left behind, the punks and thugs had set the storage areas on fire.

Using rubber hoses, they stopped alongside cars and trucks by the side of the road, trying to ignore the grisly remains as they siphoned precious gallons. Once they were jubilant when they spotted a tank truck parked by the side of the road. But it was filled with diesel.

They rolled on toward the bridge.

You'll never command another outfit,” the President's aide was calmly telling General Bornemann. Outwardly the aide was calm, inside, though, he was boiling with rage.
You're all through, General.”

“Maybe,” Bornemann smiled. “But I'm still in command here. And I'm getting those people out—something I should have done hours ago.”

“Why now, General?”

“Because I finally realized the government was not going to make any effort to save them. You were going to let them die.”

“Hard words, General.”

“But true.”

“You can't prove that accusation.”

“Maybe not. That's not important. What is important is getting those American citizens out. And that is exactly what I'm doing.”

“Who is going to treat them?” the aide asked, almost sneeringly. “With the knowledge the virus might be airborne.”

“The whole staff volunteered,” he was informed. “Every doctor, every nurse, every technician. Every man and woman in my division volunteered. To a person!”

“That's very courageous. Very commendable of them. Now, you listen to me, General. I represent the President of the United States.” The aide spit out the words. “Your Commander in Chief. My orders are his orders, and I command you to cease and desist the repairing of that bridge. Furthermore, I command you to order your men back to this position.” He thumped the table. “Send a Ranger Platoon to that bridge with orders to stop those people from crossing. And those are direct orders.”

The commanding officer of the small Army Ranger detachment, Captain Nick Blasinham, looked at the President's aide. “Up yours!” he said tersely.

General Bornemann smiled. But his smile faded when he saw the sun shining through the open flap of his tent. He quickly turned to an aide. “Tell Colonel Lewis to get his forward observers up there. Get ready to lay down a field of white phosphorus on both sides of that road. His battle tanks should be in position by now. Chopper a chemical crew up there to give the Green Bennies a hand. Have them fully suited in protective gear. Burn the area around the bridge clean. Move! We're running out of time.” He ran out of the tent, and sent the aide sprawling. Captain Blasinham ran out behind him, stepping on the aide's face on his way out with a number 11 boot.

General Bornemann was shouting at his chopper pilot.
Get her ticking. Let's go, go, go!”

Airborne in his chopper, General Bornemann got his armor commander on the horn. “Tell your FO's they've got to be pinpoint accurate this time, Randy. No mistakes. One shell off the mark and that convoy will go up like a firecracker.”

“My boys are the best, General,” he was assured. “They're getting in place now.”

The General's chopper hovered over the convoy like a protective mother hen. He spoke with Sheriff Ransonet on the radio. “Almost home free, now, you coonass. Just keep on trucking.”

A tire suddenly blew on the front of a bus, slewing the bus into a ditch, nose first. Now the sun was shining down in all its brilliance, creating little pockets of steam.

The mutants had left their shelters by the millions, a crawling scourge on the landscape. A mile from the Velour River bridge, Lapeer Parish side, stood the buildings of what was once the small town of Hatton. Hatton, three days ago, had consisted of two gas stations, twenty-four homes, one large general store, and eighty-seven men, women, and children. The buildings remained intact. The people were dead. Within the buildings now resided millions of mutants. They waited for the weather to clear to resume their hunt for food.

The creatures covered the windows, exposing their undersides. The sun felt good to them. They began clicking, swarming out into the warmth.