The Uninvited (18 page)

“The governor. But what do I tell him? That we're being overrun by giant roaches?”

It's too soon to panic,” the doctor said.
And that would start a panic. Let's give it until noon tomorrow.”

Dawn,” Vic said, finality in his voice.
Dawn. If it's worse by then, I evac the Parish. That's it. Have any of you gotten in touch with Dr. Whitson out at his lab?”

He won't answer his phone.”

“Keep trying. Okay, you better see to Captain Jack.”

 

 

At the Worth mansion, a small party was just getting underway, a very intimate party with only three invited guests. Paul Crenshaw, his wife, Mona, and a young local stud, Mack, who had a bag full of grass and hash. Hal Worth was out of town, on a business trip to New Orleans. And leggy, lovely Jean Worth was making the most of her husband's absence. Which she did whenever Hal left town.

The swimming pool in the rear of the mansion shimmered blue and green in the late afternoon sunlight. It was soft, inviting, almost sensual. The mansion had been built for seclusion, several miles out of town. A huge high wall completely surrounded the estate, shielding it from middle-class eyes. There were no live-in servants, despite the Worth's enormous wealth. Jean wouldn't have it any other way. Live-in servants would be such a bother—too nosy. A maid did work days, doing the heavy work, then went home, leaving Jean to occupy herself at night.

Which she did—several times a month when Hal was gone. Jean encouraged his business trips. She hoped the old son of a bitch would fly his plane smack into a rice field someday. Then she could have all his money—which was considerable—and all the young studs money could buy. Then she could fuck all night long, as many nights as she liked. Which was seven nights a week, all night long. She'd been trying to fuck Hal to death for five years, but the old bastard was worse than a goat. He just got in the saddle and rode.

Tonight, the trio would swap partners, Mack the Stud servicing Mona while Paul looked on, jacking off. He liked that; Paul was kinky that way.

No one in the house was paying any attention to what was taking place outside. They did not notice the field behind the mansion darken with life. The field seemed to move under the afternoon sunlight. It would move closer, then would be still for a time, then move again. Closer to the house.

“Hurry up with that grass!” Jean urged the young stud. “Let's smoke while we watch some movies. These are real dirty. Hope you brought some good speed this time.”

Mack assured her he had brought some good speed. He smiled as he rolled the joints. Jean was an old broad—at least forty. But she sure liked to ball, in any position: standing up, lying down, bending over. Just name a position, and she'd try it. And she was generous with the money, too. She knew he was taking her for a ride, overcharging her a hundred percent for dope. But she never objected. Stupid cunt.

Mack passed the grass around, smiling as he watched the old folks suck greedily at the joints, laughing and talking about how good it was and how high they were getting. As if smoking a joint were a big deal. Mack had been smoking this shit since he was thirteen.

All of six years.

The field behind the house was no longer moving. It was empty of mutants. But the north side of the mansion was covered, as were the grounds on both sides, and the roof. Had anyone opened the expensive drapes, they would have seen only hairy-legged darkness clinging to the glass, exposing the underside of grossness.

The lights in the den dimmed as the projector flickered out its porn. The sounds of sex, in living color, filled the room, passion play-acted for the jaded. Forty-two years old going on fifteen.

Hands began groping, seeking the hard and thick and the soft and wet. A half dozen films had been spliced together, creating a ninety-minute spectacle. Moaning from the rich carpet joined the groaning on the screen.

No one noticed the darkness as it moved on the outside, seeking cracks through which to enter the mansion. Partners were swapped and Mona growled her pleasure as Mack took her dog-fashion. Her husband looked on, eyes shiny with passion as he jerked off, watching his wife getting pumped on the floor.

Something alien darted across the flickering screen. No one noticed the intrusion. They were all too busy enjoying their own intrusions.

“Ouch!” Jean said, slapping at a bare thigh. “Something just bit me.”

Paul grasped his hard thickness and laughed. “Here, Jean, bend over and this will bite you up your ass.”

Jean quickly obliged. Paul was just right for the back door, not so big as to cause a lot of pain. With her face against the carpet, ass in the air, her cheek pressing against the shag, she came face to eyeball with a bug. A very large, ugly bug.

She screamed as the bug bit a chunk out of her face.

And then the horde was upon them.

Mack had walked to the bar, half-erection swinging, to fix a drink, when the first mutants rushed into the room. He stood naked by the wet bar, eyes wide with horror, not believing what he was seeing. What he had gained in a moment of passion went down like a pin-pricked balloon.

Mack ran from the den, bare feet crunching on the hard shells beneath his soles. The mutants leaped for him, attacking, attaching themselves to his flesh. He ran out of the house, into a sea of creatures. He ran on, whooping and hoo-hawing his fear and pain. Mack the Stud soon became a dark, running, almost shapeless form, as hundreds of mutant roaches covered him, overpowering him, bringing him down.

And then the late afternoon was silent, only a chomping sound to be heard.

“Oohhh, baby,” an actress breathed on the screen. “That's so good. Here, let me eat you.”

Click.

 

 

Captain Jack LaFever was gone when the men reached Dr. Long's small clinic. A nurse was sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood.

“Oh, God!” the deputy said, fighting to keep his lunch. He took another look to see if he was seeing right. He was. The nurse's throat had been torn out, teeth marks on the flesh surrounding the gaping hole. Bare footprints tracked through the blood to a window, smashed open.

“Call Vic,” Dr. Long said. “Tell him as soon as that prisoner is drugged and able to be moved safely, I want him brought over here. We've got to run some tests.”

 

 

While Vic called Sheriff Grant, telling him about Captain Jack, and cautioning him that anyone who came in complaining about bug bites should be isolated, Drs. Masterson, Terry, and Long were running tests on the now unconscious prisoner.

“I'm not believing this!” Dr. Terry said, as he looked at blood and tissue samples through dual microscopes. “The blood cells are changing so rapidly I can't keep up with the breakdown and rebuilding. What I'm seeing is impossible!”

Dr. Masterson took his turn at the scopes. “I've never seen anything like this. It's impossible! What the hell is happening here?”

Dr. Long took his turn. He shook his head. “Cytology was not my best subject. As a matter of fact, I flunked it once. I wish we could take brain samples. I'd like to see what this is doing to the brain.” He switched scopes.
I'll tell you this: if this continues much longer, this man is going to be more animal than human.” He looked at the horrified deputy standing behind the doctors. “Paul, get Dr. Whitson out at his lab. Bring him here. Force him if you have to, but get him.”

“Whitson?” the deputy said. “I didn't think he was a real doctor. I mean, not a doctor doctor. I thought he studied bugs at his lab.”

“I am well aware of his field, son,” Dr. Long said.
Whitson is the foremost authority in the world on insects. In the world. And yes, he is also a medical doctor. Go get him, son.” He turned to his colleagues. “What do either of you know about roaches?”