The Uninvited (20 page)

The physicians gathered around the examining table. “Restrain his head,” Dr. Whitson ordered.

A wide leather band was carefully placed over the man's forehead and buckled in place. Dr. Whitson pulled back the man's eyelids. His eyes were black, not just the iris, lens, and pupil, but the entire eye.

“What's happened to his eyes?” Dr. Terry asked, his voice no louder than a whisper.

“Infection,” Whitson said patiently. “Whatever is causing this drastic change within him is also affecting his eyes. And since the eyes are so close to the brain . . .” Dr. Whitson let the others draw their own conclusions.

“Jesus!” said Dr. Masterson.

Whitson shot him a pained look. “How professional,” he muttered. “Someone get me a dog or a cat.”

“I beg your pardon?” Dr. Long asked.

“A cat or a dog,” Whitson repeated his request. “Get me a lab rat, or a monkey, or a rabbit, or a pony. Get me a Great White Ape, if you wish. Just get a warm-blooded animal in here!”

“Why?” Dr. Terry asked. All the men in the room were more than just a little in awe of this man.

Whitson put his deep-set eyes on the questioner, causing the young doctor to shrink back just a bit. “As a matter of fact, get me several animals. I wish to see just how infectious this man is. Whatever he has may be airborne. I'd like to know. Wouldn't you? I believe we have an animal pound in this community, do we not?”

The doctors filed out silently. Outside the clinic, Dr. Masterson said, “I haven't been spoken to like that since I was in med school. Why is it that man always makes me feel like an idiot?”

Dr. Long chuckled. “You're not alone, Dennis. Believe me, you are not alone.”

 

 

“Vic,” Slick said, “Sheriff Grant just called on the radio. The phones are really screwed up in Baronne. 'Bout seventy percent of them out.”

This night, unlike the previous night, would be clear and starry, with a lover's moon hanging yellow against a velvet backdrop. Yes, it was going to be a beautiful night in this part of Louisiana.

“How do we stand?” Vic asked.

“It's gettin' worse. I talked with the phone company repairmen and asked them if they'd seen anything suspicious while out in the country. They said they hadn't seen a thing out of the ordinary.” He tossed the evening paper on the desk. “You seen this?”

Sheriff Ransonet scanned the front page. The governor was out of the state for several days, on an industry-inducement trip up north. Lieutenant Governor Bradford was holding the reins of state government.

“God help us all,” Vic said. “Pukey Bradford's in charge.”

“And you know what that means.” Slick sat down.

“It means he wouldn't help us if I got down on my knees and kissed his ass in the middle of Baton Rouge rush hour.”

Robert “Pukey” Bradford was originally from Lapeer Parish. He got his name because every time he got excited, he threw up. He graduated high school last in a class of fifty. He had pulled a number of shady deals while living in Lapeer, and was not well-liked. And that was being kind. In Lapeer and Baronne Parishes, in the last election, he had received the humiliating total of only twenty-seven votes. Both Parishes combined.

“Can you imagine”—Vic put his head in his hands—
me asking Pukey for help?”

Slick laughed without humor.
Yeah. I got a picture of that. Only time I know of you ever steppin' out on your wife was that time you and her had that fight and she went back to Thibodaux for a time. Hell, Vic—how were you to know that woman you met over in Alex was Pukey's wife?”

“I never should have humped her, but I was drunk, and did. Then she goes back and tells Pukey about it. Said I took advantage of her. Damn! I thought she was going to rape
me
right there in the bar.”

“Well, maybe we could get Mike to—” He stopped and shook his head. “No, I forgot. Mike whipped Pukey's ass in college, didn't he? Put him in the hospital for a couple of days.”

Yeah,” Vic said glumly. “Well, if it gets bad enough, we'll have to call him and he'll have to react—like it or not.”

“How long we going to wait?”

“Dawn.”

“Sheriff?” A deputy stuck his head in the office. “Phone company says to tell you something is chewing the hell out of their lines and foulin' up their terminal boxes. Power company says the same whatever is doin' it to them, too. Service is being interrupted all over the Parish.”

Vic nodded.

The door closed.

“The bugs?” Slick asked.

“Yeah,” Vic sighed. “The bugs.” He slammed a heavy hand on his desk, the fist balling in frustration.
Goddamn it! Al tells me to wait. Dr. Long asks me to wait. Rollie says he can just see himself calling his commander and telling him we're under attack from giant bugs. I feel like I'm in a box, Slick. I need more proof. Get hold of a movie camera, as many as you can. I want each deputy to have one, and you and me, too. We're going to take pictures of those fuckers!”

“I'll scrounge some up. Wonder how Al is doing in Alex?”

“I don't know. But I wish he'd call.”

 

 

Al Little's remains were being nosed down the Velour River, pushed along by the snout of a bull ‘gator. The 'gator wasn't certain what the charred, blackened thing was, but it sensed food of some sort. When the 'gator got back to its den, it would wedge the object up under some roots, far up under the bank, and hope the thing would ripen—then it would feast. Right now, it wasn't hungry. It would save this for later.

 

 

Captain Jack LaFever crouched by the side of a house on the edge of town and watched through painful eyes at the woman who sat watching TV. He was naked, and he slobbered and clicked his jaws. He was hungry. He moved to the rear of the house and slipped in the back door, hiding in the darkness of the kitchen. He heard the woman rise from her chair and walk toward the kitchen. He attacked her before she could click on the overhead lights, her screams cut short as the old man buried his stubs of teeth in her neck, ripping the life from her. He fell with her to the coolness of kitchen tile. There, he feasted.

 

 

Tommy Sabatier prowled the town, looking for something to eat, to destroy, to maim. One primeval thought was paramount in his inflamed brain: to survive. A small dog snarled at him. He jerked the animal up, ignoring the bites the animal inflicted upon him, and tore the head from the dog. He sat down with his back to an empty house and ate. Finished with his meal, Tommy belched and crawled under the house, seeking darkness, seeking the safety of his own kind. He lay down on the cool earth and went to sleep.

 

 

Dr. Whitson injected blood from the prisoner into one cat. The cat became very aggressive in a matter of minutes. He killed it and laid it aside, to later study the effects of the injection upon its brain. The other cat was force-fed some of the white foam from the prisoner's mouth. The same results.

“We are in trouble, Doctors,” the old man said. “Very serious trouble. I need some of those so-called roaches for study. And I need them right now.”

Where in the hell are we going to get some of them?” Dr. Terry asked.

“Oh, I should imagine one or more of them is watching us this very minute.”

The doctor shuddered. “Jesus!”

Whitson gave him a weary look. “I should imagine there are dozens of them under this very building, probably more than that.”

“Jesus!” Dr. Terry repeated.

“Young man,” Dr. Whitson said, “if you must persist in shouting out the names of Biblical characters, I wish you would at least diversify a bit.” He looked at the others. “Since we've all been wearing surgical masks I can't tell if this infection is airborne. If it is, it's in a much weaker form. But I would imagine it can be carried through the air, for a time, at least.”

“God!” Dr. Terry said.

“Same family,” Dr. Whitson muttered. “But any change is better than none, I suppose.” He looked around. “All right, gentlemen, get yourselves dressed for safari. Long sleeve shirts made of thick material. Leather gloves. High topped boots. And, Doctors, do try to avoid being bitten.”

 

 

Just after dusk that evening, there was a sharp crack under the southernmost bridge over the Velour River, in Lapeer Parish, as a semi-rig roared over the bridge, its axles overloaded. This had always been a favorite route for overloaded truckers wishing to avoid the scales on the more heavily traveled U.S. highway.

But they would not be using this route much longer.

With the other bridge out, traffic had increased over the old bridge by almost fifty percent. The bridge was over fifty years old, and engineers had said, many times, it should have been replaced. Several had wanted it condemned. But there was no money in the budget for a new bridge over a secondary road. There was no heavy industry in either Baronne or Lapeer Parishes, and none forthcoming in the foreseeable future. Only a couple of very small factories in both Parishes. So, said the powers that be in state government, a new bridge would have to wait.