The Uninvited (32 page)

The huge warehouses, the most defensible buildings in town, were ringed with stacks of wood periodically soaked with kerosene to keep it ready for instant lighting. In the warehouses were the sick, the old, and the very young, guarded by volunteers.

The rest were scattered among the churches, schools, and gyms. And there had been no discrimination in the matter of placing people: first come, first served.

Vic had experienced some minor trouble with some die-hard bigots. He told them either to shut their goddamn mouths, or get out and take their chances with the bugs.

“Come next election time, Vic,” a few men told him, “we'll remember all this when we go in to vote.”

Vic had laughed at them. “You do that,” he had chuckled, amused at the absurdity of it all.
You just do that little thing, partner.”

The Catholic church and the rectory were newly built, and the buildings were tight. Still, all cracks around most doors and windows were sealed shut with Ready-Mix concrete.

Some of the people who refused to part with loved ones were housed in the smaller churches and the oldest school in town: the Elm Street Elementary. Vic knew they would be the first to go under any type of all out onslaught from the mutants. Too many windows, too many doors, too many ventilation shafts and duct work. He had warned them. That was all he could do. He could not force married couples to part.

So be it. Till death do you part.

“What's the head count, Slick?” Vic asked on this night of horror.

“Sixty-seven hundred and fifty-one people in shelter.”

“That leaves just about thirteen hundred people unaccounted for. We know what happened to the people out in the Parish.”

“There's a lot of punks roaming around out there,” Slick opined.

Yeah, but not thirteen hundred of them. I figure the bugs got maybe five, six hundred people here in town. Yeah, that'd be just about right. There's just about seven hundred no-good total assholes in this town—black and white, men and women. And they are out there tonight. Looting, drinking, raping, killing.” He glanced at Slick. “You put the word out, didn't you?”

“No one is allowed entrance in any shelter. Those that are in, stay in. Those that are out, stay out.”

“I figure we gave everybody ample warning. We went from door to door and street to street, on foot and in sound trucks. I think we did our best.”

“I wonder how many of us will make it?” Slick asked softly.

“I figure about a third, maybe a little less. If we can just get through tonight.”

 

 

“General Bornemann?” a battalion commander radioed to the CP. “Looks like the civilians are gonna try to rush us here at the bridge.”

It was what General Bornemann had been dreading, innocent people trying to escape a nightmare that was no fault of their own.

“I'm not going to lose any men defending that goddamn bridge,” the General said. “Have the SEALS finished their work?”

“Yes, sir. The bridge is ready to blow.”

“Clear the area of all personnel and blow it. Right now!”

“General!” a Navy patrol boat called in. “People trying to cross the Mississippi in small craft.”

General Bornemann felt a sickness in his guts. These people were not the enemy; they were just trying to survive. But he had his orders, and they came right straight from the top. The Man. He hesitated for a second.

“Give the orders, General,” a cold voice spoke from by his side.
Do it!”

General Bornemann looked into the calm eyes of the President's top aide. The Chief of Staff.

“Give those orders, General, or by God, you'll never again command as much as a boy scout troop.”

“I know what I have to do,” Bornemann growled. “And I know I have to do it, but by God, it doesn't make it any easier.” He took the microphone from his radio operator. “No survivors,” he said. “No one—repeat—no one must reach the banks alive. There are personnel in protective clothing standing by to retrieve the bodies. Fire!”

He turned to the aide. “There is still the matter of all that blood in the rivers. Have you people given any thought to that?”

“The doctors say there is only a slight danger, and that is if we miss a body and it floats ashore, contaminating a water supply. Navy SEALs and Frogmen have strung a series of nets, at staggered intervals, for miles down the river. Both rivers. We'll probably catch a lot of catfish and gar. Maybe an alligator or two in the Velour.”

That General Bornemann did not like the Presidential aide was evident in everything he did. The General said, in a voice laced with thick, undisguised sarcasm, “The simplest thing would be to wipe out all the residents with bombing runs. Napalm, perhaps. That way you wouldn't have had to gone to all this bother.”

The aide said, “Several small nuclear devices were considered for a very brief time. Yesterday. They were rejected because of the environmental impact.”

Bornemann's eyes widened. “You people are real motherfuckers, aren't you?”

“We are realists, General. And you had the reputation of being a realist. A tough-minded soldier who follows orders. What happened?”

“Those are Americans in there. That's what happened.”

We are all expendable,” the aide replied.

General Bornemann snorted his disgust and walked out of the tent.

 

 

Members of the press corps, now numbering in the hundreds, bitched and threatened from their holding area some miles from the scene. But there was little else they could do. All major Federal and State highways were blocked, as well as most Parish roads leading into the area. Several battalions from Fort Polk had been pulled in as security troops, in addition to a lot of armor and heavy artillery from the Post. Except for the military, all communications into and out of the Parishes were blocked by the most sophisticated jamming equipment the government had at its disposal.

With the bridge blown apart by high explosive, cutting off the last remaining easy exit, the residents of Baronne, leaderless and in a state of high panic, tried every possible route of escape. They tried boats. They were blown out of the water. A few tried to fly out in small aircraft. They were shot down by rocket-firing Cobra gunships after scarcely getting airborne. Some tried to swim. They were pin-pointed by heavy spotlights and shot. Only a few made it to shore.

There was, of course, some rationale to this carnage: who knew what person might be infected? And if one infected person made it out, how many more would he contaminate? The risks were just too great. The government could not chance it.

Finally, after realizing they could not escape, the panicked and fearful citizens of Baronne turned on each other with a savagery only human beings seem to possess. And as with a few in Lapeer, rape and looting and barbarism overcame the laws of decency on this night.

All through the night in Bonne Terre, the men and women fought not only the mutants, but other men and women. As the giant, flesh-eating roaches swarmed, so too did maddened humans.

“Don't let those people get over the barricades!” Sheriff Ransonet shouted his orders. “When they get within range, fire!”

And as the mutant creatures raced for food, the local thugs and punks and social misfits raced for safety. As the roaches went up in flames from the burning stacks of fuel-soaked wood, those who had chosen to disregard the safety of the holding areas were caught between the guns of the defenders and the hideous hordes seeking food. The night began to stink with the odor of burning flesh and the arid scent of gunsmoke.

During a lull, Slick ran to Sheriff Ransonet's side. “I can't raise anyone at the Elm Street school, Vic. They won't answer.”

“There is nothing we can do,” Vic replied, his voice husky with fatigue. “Just hold on here.”

“You reckon ... ?”

“Yeah. I reckon.”

The make shift forts became foul as overworked toilets clogged and overflowed their sewage. The restrooms had to be sealed off. Mutant roaches had found their way into the pipes and were coming in through sewage lines. The odor of nervous and fearful sweat permeated the hot still air.

The two outer wooden circles were gone, burning to embers, and still the creatures came on, climbing over the charred remains of their own. After feasting on the smoldering remains of those humans who tried to breech the security of the holding areas. And in all the areas of confinement, some were bitten by the few mutants who made it through, or under, or up into the buildings. Over the wailing and screaming and weeping protestations of family and friends, those bitten were taken outside by grim-faced survivors. They would not be seen again.

And the night dragged on, through fire and smoke and gun shots and screaming.

During the early morning hours, the mutants seemed to sense they could not reach the food they so desperately craved, not in the warehouses and the Catholic Church, so they withdrew on signal and began a march to the smaller holding areas. And there, by sheer numbers, they penetrated the older, less secure buildings, and feasted. And were, for a time, content. Both mutants and humans waited for the dawn. One to survive, the other to feed, in order to survive.

An hour before first light, violent storms hit the Parishes, with high winds and sheets of rain. Vic called General Bornemann.

“We gotta get out of here, General. We can't make it through another night. The wood barricades are soaked. We just won't be able to make it.”

“Sheriff, my people can't fly in weather like this. Those winds are gusting up to fifty miles per hour. Visibility is zero. Those winds would wreck the choppers before they got airborne. All I can tell you is to hold on, man.”

“I can't order them to do that, General. I don't know how much longer they'll listen to me. We've got to try crossing the river.”