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Convergence: Part 6 – Calling for Backup
In the sheriff's station, Okaley tried the phone. He slammed the receiver back down. "Damn!"
"They have control of everything," said Guppy. "It won't work."
"You boys got them satellite phones, right?" asked Oakley. "Can't you call for the National Guard or something?"
Jim-Bean tested his cistron. There was some interference, but he could hear a faint dial tone.
He punched in Sprague's number. The reception was bad enough that his features did not flicker on screen, but he could hear him.
"Yes?"
"Sprague?" said Jim-Bean. "We're in Groversville. There's some kind of plague, everyone's dead. We're requesting a quarantine."
"Quarantine?" More static. "Are you asking for a full quarantine—TSSSZZZHHHK—Copperfield?"
"Yes sir, we think that—"
A high pitched squeal cut him off. The other agents checked their cistrons. Nothing.
"Well that's that," said Jim-Bean.
"Now what?" asked Guppy.
"Now we wait," said Hammer. "We stay here until we can be sure that—"
The phone started ringing again.
This time the speakerphone went on by itself. All they could hear was buzzing.
"Ahhh, $#!+," said Oakley.
The lights went out.
"Okay," began Hammer, "we need to board up the—"
"Shh!" said Jim-Bean.
There was flapping noise outside. Something was buzzing quickly back and forth in front of the windows. In the darkness, it thumped softly. Thump ... thump-thump.
It was the sound of a padded blow. Like a dropped pillow striking the floor. Thump-thump ... thump ... thump-thump.
Louder. But not closer. Thump!
Something struck a window, rattled a loose pane, and rebounded into the night. There was the impression of wings.
Using his keys, Oakley unlocked the gun locker and started handing out shotguns. "I'm tired of this. It's time we started fighting back."
"We don't know what we're dealing with," said Hammer.
“We know exactly what we’re dealing with,” said Guppy. “Those are aliens. We have to wait until Majestic-12…”
“Majestic who?” asked Oakley.
Hammer shot Guppy a glare. “Nothing. Don’t mind him, he’s had a rough day.”
“Well I’m not going to sit here and wait to get eaten."
The flapping thing returned, battering itself against the glass with greater determination than before: Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!
With the streetlamps extinguished, Skyline Road was dark except for the luminous moon fall; however, the thing at the window was vaguely illuminated. Even vague illumination of the fluttering monstrosity was too much.
What they saw on the other side of the glass was something out of a fever dream. It had a six-foot wingspan. A head covered with quivering cilia. A segmented body. The body was suspended between the pale pink wings; it, too, was pink, the same shade as the wings—a moldy, sickly pink—and fuzzy and moist-looking.
"The alien dog," whispered Hammer. He remembered it. It was the "dog" that the Greys had asked for help with at the North Platte Air Force Base.
It bashed itself against the windows with new fury, in a frenzy, its pale wings beating so fast that it became a blur.
Guppy flipped over a table and hid behind it, his Beretta at the ready. Jim-Bean exchanged his SIG for the HG36.
It moved along the dark panes, repeatedly rebounding into the night, then returning, trying feverishly to crash through the window. Thumpthumpthumpthump. But it didn't have the strength to smash its way inside. Thumpthumpthump.
"Eat hot lead!" shouted Oakley.
"No, wait!" shouted Hammer.
Oakley raised the shotgun and pumped bullets through the glass until he ran out of shells.
The thumping stopped. The glass was shattered.
Oakley stood near the opening. “Well, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that thing anymore.” He cocked his shotgun with one hand. “I figure I just unleashed an armory’s worth of ammunition—“
He didn’t get to finish his sentence as claws grabbed Oakley by the head and yanked him out the window.
Sheriff Oakley screamed. The thing was fixed firmly to Oakley's face, holding on by some means not visible. His entire head was hidden by the thing. The thing was squealing, too, making a high-pitched, keening sound.
In the moon's silvery beams, the bat-winged lobster's huge pale velvety wings flapped and folded and spread with horrible grace and beauty, buffeting Oakley's head and shoulders.
Hammer unleashed both Glocks into it. Little pirouettes of dust spiraled off of the thing's back, as if he were beating an old coat.
Oakley staggered away, moving blindly, clawing at the outrageous thing that clung to his face. His screams quickly grew muffled; within a couple of seconds, they were silenced altogether.
Hammer kept firing. Guppy and Jim-Bean stayed in the sheriff's office. Guppy held up his cistron and snapped picture after picture.
Oakley began to run, but he only went a few yards before coming to an abrupt halt. His hands dropped away from the thing on his face. His knees were buckling.
Hammer reloaded and resumed peppering the thing with bullets. It wasn't having any effect.
Oakley didn't crumple to the ground. Instead, his shaky knees locked, and he snapped erect. His shoulders jerked back. His body twitched and shuddered as if an electric current flashed through him.
Hammer put down his pistols. It was hopeless. He watched helplessly as Oakley began to weave and thrash in a St. Virus dance of pain and suffocation. Oakley moved erratically across the cement, jerked this way and that, heaved and writhed and spun, as if he were attached to strings that were being manipulated by a drunken puppeteer. His hands hung slackly at his sides, which makes his frantic and spasmodic capering seem especially eerie. His hands flopped and flounder weakly, but they did not rise to tear at his assailant.
It was almost as if, now, he was in the grip of ecstasy rather than the clutch of pain.
Then Oakley collapsed.
In that same instant, the thing rose and turned, suspended in the air, hovering on rapidly beating wings, night-black and hateful. It swooped at Hammer.
He ducked, and the thing flew into the night.
Hammer crawled over to Oakley's body. It was sprawled on the pavement, flat on his back. Unmoving. The sheriff lay in the middle of the street, where there was just enough light to see that his face was gone.
Gone. As if it had been torn off. His hair and ragged ribbons of his scalp bristled over the white bone of his forehead. A skull peered up at him.
Hammer stared into the skull. Whatever it was ate through Oakley’s face. It took his eyes, most of the soft tissue, and his entire brain. Which was impossible.
"What happened?" asked Guppy meekly from the station.
"Stay there. Oakley's…" he had difficulty forming the word. "He's dead. Let's just leave it at that."
In the sheriff's station, Okaley tried the phone. He slammed the receiver back down. "Damn!"
"They have control of everything," said Guppy. "It won't work."
"You boys got them satellite phones, right?" asked Oakley. "Can't you call for the National Guard or something?"
Jim-Bean tested his cistron. There was some interference, but he could hear a faint dial tone.
He punched in Sprague's number. The reception was bad enough that his features did not flicker on screen, but he could hear him.
"Yes?"
"Sprague?" said Jim-Bean. "We're in Groversville. There's some kind of plague, everyone's dead. We're requesting a quarantine."
"Quarantine?" More static. "Are you asking for a full quarantine—TSSSZZZHHHK—Copperfield?"
"Yes sir, we think that—"
A high pitched squeal cut him off. The other agents checked their cistrons. Nothing.
"Well that's that," said Jim-Bean.
"Now what?" asked Guppy.
"Now we wait," said Hammer. "We stay here until we can be sure that—"
The phone started ringing again.
This time the speakerphone went on by itself. All they could hear was buzzing.
"Ahhh, $#!+," said Oakley.
The lights went out.
"Okay," began Hammer, "we need to board up the—"
"Shh!" said Jim-Bean.
There was flapping noise outside. Something was buzzing quickly back and forth in front of the windows. In the darkness, it thumped softly. Thump ... thump-thump.
It was the sound of a padded blow. Like a dropped pillow striking the floor. Thump-thump ... thump ... thump-thump.
Louder. But not closer. Thump!
Something struck a window, rattled a loose pane, and rebounded into the night. There was the impression of wings.
Using his keys, Oakley unlocked the gun locker and started handing out shotguns. "I'm tired of this. It's time we started fighting back."
"We don't know what we're dealing with," said Hammer.
“We know exactly what we’re dealing with,” said Guppy. “Those are aliens. We have to wait until Majestic-12…”
“Majestic who?” asked Oakley.
Hammer shot Guppy a glare. “Nothing. Don’t mind him, he’s had a rough day.”
“Well I’m not going to sit here and wait to get eaten."
The flapping thing returned, battering itself against the glass with greater determination than before: Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!
With the streetlamps extinguished, Skyline Road was dark except for the luminous moon fall; however, the thing at the window was vaguely illuminated. Even vague illumination of the fluttering monstrosity was too much.
What they saw on the other side of the glass was something out of a fever dream. It had a six-foot wingspan. A head covered with quivering cilia. A segmented body. The body was suspended between the pale pink wings; it, too, was pink, the same shade as the wings—a moldy, sickly pink—and fuzzy and moist-looking.
"The alien dog," whispered Hammer. He remembered it. It was the "dog" that the Greys had asked for help with at the North Platte Air Force Base.
It bashed itself against the windows with new fury, in a frenzy, its pale wings beating so fast that it became a blur.
Guppy flipped over a table and hid behind it, his Beretta at the ready. Jim-Bean exchanged his SIG for the HG36.
It moved along the dark panes, repeatedly rebounding into the night, then returning, trying feverishly to crash through the window. Thumpthumpthumpthump. But it didn't have the strength to smash its way inside. Thumpthumpthump.
"Eat hot lead!" shouted Oakley.
"No, wait!" shouted Hammer.
Oakley raised the shotgun and pumped bullets through the glass until he ran out of shells.
The thumping stopped. The glass was shattered.
Oakley stood near the opening. “Well, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about that thing anymore.” He cocked his shotgun with one hand. “I figure I just unleashed an armory’s worth of ammunition—“
He didn’t get to finish his sentence as claws grabbed Oakley by the head and yanked him out the window.
Sheriff Oakley screamed. The thing was fixed firmly to Oakley's face, holding on by some means not visible. His entire head was hidden by the thing. The thing was squealing, too, making a high-pitched, keening sound.
In the moon's silvery beams, the bat-winged lobster's huge pale velvety wings flapped and folded and spread with horrible grace and beauty, buffeting Oakley's head and shoulders.
Hammer unleashed both Glocks into it. Little pirouettes of dust spiraled off of the thing's back, as if he were beating an old coat.
Oakley staggered away, moving blindly, clawing at the outrageous thing that clung to his face. His screams quickly grew muffled; within a couple of seconds, they were silenced altogether.
Hammer kept firing. Guppy and Jim-Bean stayed in the sheriff's office. Guppy held up his cistron and snapped picture after picture.
Oakley began to run, but he only went a few yards before coming to an abrupt halt. His hands dropped away from the thing on his face. His knees were buckling.
Hammer reloaded and resumed peppering the thing with bullets. It wasn't having any effect.
Oakley didn't crumple to the ground. Instead, his shaky knees locked, and he snapped erect. His shoulders jerked back. His body twitched and shuddered as if an electric current flashed through him.
Hammer put down his pistols. It was hopeless. He watched helplessly as Oakley began to weave and thrash in a St. Virus dance of pain and suffocation. Oakley moved erratically across the cement, jerked this way and that, heaved and writhed and spun, as if he were attached to strings that were being manipulated by a drunken puppeteer. His hands hung slackly at his sides, which makes his frantic and spasmodic capering seem especially eerie. His hands flopped and flounder weakly, but they did not rise to tear at his assailant.
It was almost as if, now, he was in the grip of ecstasy rather than the clutch of pain.
Then Oakley collapsed.
In that same instant, the thing rose and turned, suspended in the air, hovering on rapidly beating wings, night-black and hateful. It swooped at Hammer.
He ducked, and the thing flew into the night.
Hammer crawled over to Oakley's body. It was sprawled on the pavement, flat on his back. Unmoving. The sheriff lay in the middle of the street, where there was just enough light to see that his face was gone.
Gone. As if it had been torn off. His hair and ragged ribbons of his scalp bristled over the white bone of his forehead. A skull peered up at him.
Hammer stared into the skull. Whatever it was ate through Oakley’s face. It took his eyes, most of the soft tissue, and his entire brain. Which was impossible.
"What happened?" asked Guppy meekly from the station.
"Stay there. Oakley's…" he had difficulty forming the word. "He's dead. Let's just leave it at that."