The Uninvited (8 page)

Vic suddenly kicked on all his lights, high beam. His spotlights cast circles of high intensity on the grounds in front of the house. His stomach rolled over and he almost lost his lunch. He had had no supper.

The illuminated lawn was dark with movement, the acre covered with—God! he didn't know what it was. He cursed, both in English and in Cajun, crossed himself, then dropped the patrol car in gear, backing out of the drive. He got the hell away from the Cole farm. The rear tires bit into the dirt and gravel as he floorboarded the automobile, the tires kicking up a hard spray. He had to brake savagely when the Parish hardtop came into view. He had rammed his cruiser up to eighty in his fright and haste.

 

 

Inside the Cole house, Donna and Jeff Cole—or what was left of them—sprawled in cruel death as the creatures resumed their feeding on the bits of flesh that still clung to the bones. Empty eye sockets stared out of fleshless skulls in blank openness at the horror that crawled around them. Clicking.

 

 

Slick!” Sheriff Ransonet shouted into his mike. “LP One to Base!”

No reply. Vic wiped a sweaty palm on his trousers and tried again. “Slick! Goddamnit, answer me!”

“Now, now, Sheriff,” Louisiana State Trooper Rollie Satler laughed through Vic's speaker. “You know the rules. No profanity on the air. That's not nice.”

“Rollie? Meet me at the office. No questions on the air. Just get there in a hurry!”

“Rolling,” the trooper's voice crackled.

“Slick?”

“Right here, Sheriff.”

“You get hold of Al Little?”

10-4.”

“Tell him. Tell him,” Vic's voice broke from the strain. “Tell him to hang on, I'm on my way in.”

“I pulled everyone back in, Vic,” Slick said. “What do you want us to do?”

Vic was silent for a time, a moment, only the crackling of electronic air penetrating the dispatch room. When he spoke, his one-word reply seemed most curious to the deputies and the FBI agent around the radio.

“Pray.”

Chief Deputy Riggs looked at the men in the room. “Did Vic just say pray?”

“That's what it sounded like to me,” a deputy said, a puzzled look on his face.

“That's odd,” Slick said, looking at the radio, as if the electronic components within had somehow contrived to change and twist the spoken words. “I never realized Vic was a praying man.”

It's not odd,” Jimmy said. His color had returned and he sat off from the others. Sat in a chair in a corner of the room. He had been silent since his return. “Not if you all had seen what I saw this evening.”

“What did you see?” the vacationing FBI agent asked.

“I think maybe the same thing Vic just saw.” And he would say no more, despite repeated questioning. He just shook his head and said they would all have to wait for Sheriff Ransonet.

What a hell of a way to start a vacation,” Al Little remarked. “A praying sheriff and a mute deputy.”

At the office, Vic told his regular night deputies—both of them—to go back to patrol duty. Just be careful. Very careful. Patrol the Parish highways and stay the hell out of any situation they feel bad vibes about. He sent his other deputies home, telling them to keep their mouths shut as to any speculation they might have and to stay close to the phone. They should be ready to move. He told Jimmy to go home, get some rest, and keep his mouth shut about what he saw. He called the DA and the Coroner, asking them to come to his office. Then he called his wife, explaining he would be tied up for several more hours. Go to bed.

“Sheriff,” the Parish Coroner, Dr. Bruce Long greeted him, as did the DA, Parker Williams. “What do we have this night?”

Vic told them, bluntly. The men, including Trooper Satler, stared at him in disbelief.

“Scientifically and medically speaking,” Dr. Long said, fighting to hide a smile, “and, Vic, I don't want you to take this the wrong way. I don't believe you.”

“I didn't expect you to believe me,” Vic said, no annoyance in his tone at the doctor's words. “This is something you'll all have to see for yourselves.”

“This I got to see,” DA Williams grinned. “Giant bugs? We've been friends a long time, Vic—since high school—but I've got to go along with Bruce. You've been working too hard.” He laughed aloud. “Come on, Vic, level with us. This is a joke, right? You've got somebody out there at the Cole place all dressed up in a bug suit. They're going to jump out at us and holler Boo!”

Vic's smile was grim. “You'll see, boys.” He called Sheriff Grant in Baronne, asking if there had been any new developments in his Parish. There had been more disappearances. Vic hung up, then turned to the men in the room.

“Al, you and Slick ride with me. Parker, you and Bruce ride with Rollie. Let's go, gentlemen, and I hope you all have very strong stomachs.”

They had been discovered by enemy forces. The mutant creatures realized this, and it alarmed them. The light was their enemy; this they knew instinctively. And as their bodies, wings, antenna, and mouths had grown, so too had their survival instinct sharpened to the point where they could almost think. Dully, and without a great deal of comprehension of the world around them—but they could almost think.

Withdraw, the signal went out. Pull back. Retreat. Seek cover. Hide. Regroup.

All over two Parishes, the clicking grew louder as the mutants scurried into hiding.

Careful, the signal went out. Hide.

 

 

“All right, Vic,” Special Agent Al Little said. “Where are your creatures?”

The men stood in the front yard of the Cole farm. The moon glistened off the wetness of grass like carelessly scattered jewels.

“They're around,” Vic said through clenched jaws. “They haven't gone far—bet on that. I saw them, and Deputy Garland saw them.”

Vic had taken a lot of ribbing from Special Agent Little during the ride into the country. Now, in the front yard of the farm house, Al said,
I come back home to start my vacation—do some fishing—and you get me involved with creatures from the black bayou.” The FBI man began whistling the theme music from
The Exorcist.

“I wish to hell you'd whistle something else,” Slick said. He had not taken part in any of the kidding. He had known Vic for years, and knew Vic was not the sort of man to panic or make up wild stories.

Well”—the FBI man struggled to keep a straight face—
I brought a can of Raid.” He couldn't help himself. He laughed out loud.