Monstrous Page 6

  “Isaac?” she called out, starting toward the tent where he had been resting. “Hey, Isaac, you okay in there?”

  She passed through the entryway and at first believed the tent to be empty, but then she heard the pathetic moans coming from somewhere in the area of the cot—

  Under the cot.

  She found Isaac curled tightly into a trembling ball, wedged beneath his sleeping place.

  “Hey, Isaac,” she said as calmly as she was able, not wanting to startle him. “What’s wrong, buddy?”

  He shook even more, and he tried to push himself farther under the cot. He was moaning now, a horribly sad and disturbing sound.

  “Isaac, what’s wrong?” Doc Martin asked more firmly.

  “The bad radio,” he gasped between pained moans and groans. “The bad radio is still here!”

  Doc Martin felt a sudden jolt of fear. The bad radio is what Isaac had called the transmission that had turned the animals into killers. He seemed to be able to somehow pick it up.

  “Naw, buddy,” she said, approaching the cot and lowering herself carefully to her knees beside it. She knew she would regret it later, but she had to reach the boy. “The bad radio is gone,” she said. “The army guys burned it up in the cave, remember?”

  She leaned forward to peer under the cot.

  “Burned it up in the cave?” he repeated.

  “Yeah, you remember that. Why don’t you come out from there, and we’ll talk about it, okay?”

  “The bad radio was burned up in the cave,” he said again.

  “C’mon,” she said, reaching a hand toward him.

  Tentatively he took it, and she helped him the best she could to squirm out from his hiding place.

  “There ya go, buddy,” she said, watching him as he climbed easily to his feet.

  “The bad radio was burned up in the cave,” he said as if reviewing the information again.

  “Yep, it was.” She tried to stand but found herself in an awkward situation, her knees having locked. “Hey, Isaac, think you could give me a hand getting up?” She reached up to him.

  Isaac just stared at first, but the idea eventually permeated, and he took her hands, helping the older woman to struggle up from the floor of the tent.

  “Thanks,” she said, grunting as she stood, her knees making muffled popping sounds. “Oh, man . . . getting old.”

  “Yes,” Isaac said to her. “You’re very old.”

  She resisted the urge to crack him one, telling herself that he had issues. And besides, he was right. She was getting old.

  “The bad radio was burned up in the cave,” he told her again.

  “That’s right,” she assured him. “The army guys went into the caves and found you, Sidney, and the others, and then they burned it to a crisp.”

  “Sidney went to Boston,” he told her. “With Cody, Rich, Snowy, Dr. Sayid, and Brenda Langridge.” He waited for her response, rocking from side to side.

  “Yes she did,” Doc Martin said. “She had special business there.” She reached over and took his arm. “Why don’t we go outside and get some fresh air, and maybe a bottle of water.”

  Isaac resisted, pulling back his arm.

  “There’s a bad radio in Boston, too,” he told her.

  “Yeah, there probably is,” she agreed. “But Sidney and the others are going to try to stop that one too.”

  He seemed to think about that for a moment, his hand hovering around his left ear. “The bad radio is in Boston, too,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she told him again. “Let’s go get a bottle of water.”

  “It’s here, too,” he said firmly, not moving.

  “No,” she said. “We talked about it, the one here—”

  “There’s more,” he told her, rocking more quickly from side to side. “There’s more . . . there’s more . . . there’s more . . .”

  Doc Martin was moving to comfort him when she heard the first gunshot and then the people outside the tent began screaming.

  * * *

  The organism was able to control the two higher life-forms after neutralizing their neural functions.

  The first one had been simple—piercing the subject’s skull and shutting down most of the brain’s higher capabilities. The second had required some effort, and the organism had had to use the first as a vessel to chase the other down and render him . . .

  Less complicated.

  It was proving a little more difficult to control these two than it had been to control the many lower life-forms during the training exercise; however, the organism managed to move the pair down from the caves, through the woods, and toward the open area where the interlopers had set up a makeshift camp.

  The two vessels entered the encampment side by side.

  “Hey, where the hell have you two been?” came a sudden, harsh voice.

  The organism turned the two toward the sound. A human male stood there.

  “Where’s the jeep?” he asked. “Don’t tell me it broke down.”

  The vessels did not respond.

  “And what the hell is wrong with your eye?” the human asked, pointing with one of his appendages.

  The organism allowed one of the vessels to drive its fist into the face of the man, knocking him to the ground.

  “Hey! What the hell’d you do that for?” the human screamed, lying in the dirt. The blow had drawn blood.

  The second vessel stepped forward and kicked the downed human in the chin, then fell upon the stunned man, wrapping its hands about the man’s throat and squeezing.

  “What’s going on over here?” the organism heard from behind and turned the first vessel to see another human quickly approaching. This one was clothed differently, and in his arms he carried something that the organism recognized from the information it had pulled from the folds of the vessels’ gray matter.

  An automatic weapon.

  The organism propelled the first vessel toward the man.

  “Explain yourself, Tyler,” the human ordered.

  The words were nonsense—inconsequential to the mission—and the vessel struck with absolute fury, hitting the man savagely, stunning him, and ripping the gun from his grasp.

  The organism in its inhumanity felt something akin to excitement as it raised the weapon and took aim.

  * * *

  Doc Martin rushed from Isaac’s tent as the thunder of the gunshot receded in the air, a roar of disturbing noise before a return to eerie silence.

  The events of the previous night had left nothing to make any noise—no birds chirping, no insects buzzing, no dogs barking off in the distance. The island was silent now.

  One of the soldiers, a heavily built guy with a buzz cut had fired his weapon, bringing another from Sayid’s team to his knees. This one was wearing one of those heavy decontamination suits, its stark white now stained red with blood.

  A crowd had gathered and was watching fearfully as Buzz Cut approached the figure on the ground. Doc Martin pushed through the bystanders for a closer look and caught sight of a rifle on the ground beside the man from Sayid’s team. Another man in a decontamination suit struggled to break free as more soldiers held him down on the ground.

  What the hell is going on around here?

  She wasn’t sure if the guy on the ground was alive or dead until she saw him twitch on the grass. And wasn’t it awfully strange that no one seemed to be getting him any medical attention?

  She wanted a cigarette, but she only had one left. Instead she strode forward. “What the hell is going on here?” she asked.

  Buzz Cut didn’t even turn around, continuing to stand over the man he had shot. “Ma’am, if you would be so kind as to step back—”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Doc Martin interrupted as she continued forward.

  Two more security officers appeared to either side of her and took her arms.

  “Are you shitting me?” she exclaimed. “Since when did this become a police state?”

  Buzz Cut
finally looked at her, and she didn’t like what she saw in his face. The guy was clearly worried.

  No, afraid.

  “You’re the vet, right?” he asked, recognizing her. She remembered him now, one of the guys who had saved her in the parking lot of the animal hospital.

  “Yeah, what the hell is going on?” she asked again.

  Buzz Cut nodded at the two soldiers who held her arms, and they quickly let her go, receding toward the crowd.

  “Look at his eye,” Buzz Cut said. “Look at his right eye.”

  The words turned her insides to ice. She didn’t want to look, but what choice did she have?

  The man was still wearing the headgear of his suit, but she could see that the faceplate had been shattered. His forehead was stained with blood. And then she saw it.

  “Shit,” the old veterinarian muttered. Just as it had been on the eyes of the dogs and cats that had gone murderously insane at the animal hospital, shiny and metallic and encompassing the entire eye.

  “Yeah,” Buzz Cut said. “That one too.” He pointed to the other member of the science team being held down by four soldiers.

  “But I thought it had been taken care of,” Doc Martin said aloud, the worry filling her voice.

  There was a murmuring commotion behind her, and she saw Buzz Cut begin to raise his weapon. She turned to see Isaac forcing his way toward them, wild-eyed. Quickly she stepped between the young man and the soldier, holding her hands out to slow his approach.

  “Slow it down, buddy,” she told him, placing her hands flat against his chest as he reached her.

  “Is he all right?” Buzz Cut asked, the paranoia already starting to seep into his tone.

  “Yeah, he’s fine,” she said, although she wasn’t at all sure that he was. Isaac had stopped and was looking past her, toward the figure lying prone and bleeding upon the ground.

  “The bad radio,” he said, and lifted a hand to point. “The bad radio was here.”

  She followed the young man’s finger and saw the body on the ground go suddenly rigid, twitch slightly, and then become completely still.

  “What happened?” she asked, following Buzz Cut for a closer look.

  He didn’t answer, but as they leaned down toward the body, Doc Martin noticed that the silvery coating over the man’s eye seemed to be decomposing, melting away and running down his face.

  “Mr. Burwell?” Another soldier called out to Buzz Cut, and Doc Martin looked up to see that the other man in the decontamination suit had also gone still. She brusquely hipped Burwell aside and knelt beside the body, feeling that cracking sensation in both knees as she did so. She reached down and removed his helmet.

  “Careful with that!” Burwell ordered, moving to stop her, but she shrugged him off.

  She placed her fingertips on the man’s neck, looking for a pulse. There wasn’t any.

  “He’s dead,” she said.

  “Crap,” Burwell said.

  “He was probably close to being that way before all this,” she said as she moved her finger up to touch the silvery slime running down his cheek. “I’m guessing the other one is dead too.”

  Burwell turned around. “Is he alive?” he called to his men.

  Tentatively the soldiers felt for a pulse. “No pulse,” confirmed one.

  “What do you think?” Burwell asked Doc Martin as he turned his attention back to her.

  “I think that whatever was in control of them has gone,” she answered. “Where were these two before here?”

  “Velazquez?” Burwell called out.

  A short woman with thick horn-rimmed glasses appeared, pushing through the crowd. “Yes, sir?” she said.

  “Where were these two supposed to be?”

  She pulled a small tablet from the waist of her pants and tapped it. “They were supposed to be collecting specimens from the cave.”

  “So there you have it,” Burwell said. He reached down to grab Doc Martin’s elbow as she struggled to her feet.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “So I guess that thing we burned to a crisp in the cave isn’t really dead,” he said to her.

  “I’m guessing you’re probably right, unless there’s another one, of course. What are you gonna do now?”

  The security officer thought for a moment. “Shit,” he said. “Looks like I’m gonna get my flamethrower and head back up into that cave.”

  Someone laughed behind them, and they turned to find Isaac still standing there, rocking back and forth, one hand up near his bad ear, fingers twitching.

  “Isaac, what’s wrong?” Doc Martin asked him.

  “The bad radio . . . ,” he began in a creepy, singsong voice. “The bad radio isn’t there anymore. . . .”

  “What’s he saying?” Burwell asked.

  “What do you mean, Isaac? The bad radio isn’t there anymore?”

  He nodded as he rocked, staring out across the field in the direction of the cliff, as well as the cave.

  “No reason to go. It isn’t there . . . it left.”

  Isaac looked at them, and there were tears in his eyes.

  “The bad radio isn’t in the caves anymore.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Delilah was six years old again, and the demon dog was gonna get her.

  She raced down the corridor, the sounds of the dog’s nails clicking on the floor behind her.

  Getting closer.

  She wanted to turn around, to see how close the horror actually was, but she fought off the need, putting the energy into speeding up, finding someplace safe.

  She caught the strains of classical music and realized that Lonnie Jorgenson’s room was just up ahead. She pushed herself even faster.

  It was just like before, the monster nipping at her heels. She could feel it—the hot breath, the scrape of claws, the nip of teeth as it attempted to grab hold of her.

  Delilah was crying now, gasping for air as the music grew louder. The doorway was before her, welcoming her, telling her to get the hell into the room before the dog bit her . . . tore her, slashed and ripped her. She dove through, grabbing the edge of the door and swinging around to slam it closed.

  The beast was indeed closer than she had thought. The heavy door swung shut, hitting the dog’s side and pinning it against the doorframe.

  Temporarily stunned, it was motionless, gazing at her with lifeless eyes. She found herself staring at its right eye, that strange silvery globe, and thinking about the moon.

  Then it started thrashing. Delilah wasn’t all that big of a woman, no more than 120 pounds soaking wet, but she knew how to use that weight. She turned herself around and slammed her back against the door, crushing the animal between it and the doorframe.

  How odd that she was the one making all the noise over the strains of Mozart. The dog remained silent, even as its body thrashed and its jaws snapped.

  From the corner of her right eye, Delilah caught a hint of movement, and too late it dawned on her that Lonnie’s bed was empty.

  And Lonnie Jorgenson was coming toward her.

  Lonnie Jorgenson, whose brain was so damaged that she was unable to take care of herself, to speak, and to wash and feed herself.

  To walk.

  “Lonnie,” Delilah croaked as the woman rushed her, her hands reaching for Delilah’s throat.

  Survival was all that Delilah could think about, her own animal instincts kicking in to keep her alive. She reached out, swatting Lonnie’s clutching hands away and grabbing her by the front of her pretty, flowered pajamas. She spun the woman around, slamming her back against the door.

  “What is happening?” Delilah screamed in frustration, looking into the slack face of the woman who had grown to be her favorite.

  And seeing her eye—her silver-coated right eye.

  Delilah had to do something, and quickly. As she struggled with Lonnie, the door was moving, and the dog was coming in. Her muscles burned and were beginning to feel more like rubber. She couldn’t hold out for mu
ch longer.

  Suddenly her little boy’s face flashed in her mind. He was at home waiting for her, and she had promised him a big-boy bed.

  A surge of strength rushed through her. Delilah slammed her forehead into Lonnie’s face, stunning her, then pulled the patient toward her, allowing the door to open and the dog to enter.

  The dog’s claws scrabbled for purchase as it lunged into the room, its mouth wide open, ready to bite.

  Forcing herself not to think about what she was doing, Delilah pushed Lonnie backward, where she landed hard on the dog’s back. Both collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  But they won’t be there long, Delilah thought, already on the move.

  She leaped over the thrashing bodies of patient and dog as the two struggled to recover enough to resume their attack upon her.

  She was running again—so much like the nightmares she’d had for most of her life, running to get away from the monster that was chasing her. For a brief moment she wondered if maybe it was a dream. Maybe she should just allow herself to be caught, and then she’d finally wake up and everything would be fine.

  Thunder roared outside, and she could have sworn that the building shook with the onslaught of the storm.

  No, this wasn’t a dream; this was all too horribly real.

  She ran, the dog again in pursuit, this time with Lonnie close behind it. Ahead of her, at the other end of the corridor, she could see patients slowly leaving their rooms—patients who had not walked for weeks, months, and even years.

  She took a sharp left, back toward the elevators and some administrative offices, and ran full tilt into Mason’s cleaning cart, tipping it over and knocking the wind from her body. For a moment she lay among the rolls of toilet paper and sheets of paper towels strewn across the floor, unable to move—until the dog’s blood-covered snout appeared from around the corner.

  She scrambled to her feet, only to lose her balance and pitch forward hard onto her hands and knees. Get up! Get up! she screamed in her mind as hot tears flowed from her eyes.

  A closed office door suddenly opened, and she saw somebody standing there. Delilah let out a scream as the figure reached for her.