Creepers (13 page)

Jackson looked over his shoulder. He saw nothing. It wasn't like El Bee to get spooked. Still...he couldn't see anything. "You jes' freakin' out on that grass, man--" he started to say. He never finished.

A low-slung shape leaped from between cars in front of the two men and landed close to the ground. It rested a moment, then sprang forward. With a single leap from a resting start, it landed seven feet away--on Jackson. The thing surrounded him with long arms and squeezed the breath from him. Jackson kicked and punched in desperation as the hot breath of the thing burned his neck, but he was trapped.

Lester started running away, back toward the last car to get his other men. The four of them could overpower the creature who had Jackson. He ran flat-out, realizing as he stumbled along that he'd urinated in his pants. It didn't matter, though. Nothing mattered but getting out of there. Getting Jackson out. Alive!

He reached the car and peered in. It was empty. His three other men were gone, Lester was alone. He immediately dropped to the roadbed and slid under the car to hide himself. He lay there choking back his breath, terrified that the slightest sound might bring one of those things down onto him. Now it was quiet and dark. Nothing stirred for a minute; then a muffled cry to his right got Lester's attention.

There was a sound from out there, the sound of something--a body?--wriggling around, thrashing about. Lester craned his head around. In a gray puddle of light spilling out from the subway car, Lester saw Sammy. He was lying on his back. A creature similar to the one that had Jackson was sitting on Sammy's chest, its prehensile toes clutched to his side for support. Its left hand supported Sammy's head. As Lester watched in terror, the creature pulled Sammy forward like a lover about to bestow a kiss. But instead of a kiss, the creature raised its right arm high above its head, curled its fingers into a claw, then struck suddenly, like a snake attacking. When it pulled back, a piece of Sammy's throat the size of a fist hung in its bloody hand. The spark of life faded in the boy's eyes, then flickered out.

Lester began shaking uncontrollably. From off in the distance a cry of pain and terror shattered the safety of the silence. It was Jackson. The creature spring off Sammy and scurried away, revealing the fates of both Roy and Ronny: Roy's body was being dragged off into the darkness of the subway yard by yet another of the ghouls, and Ronny's body was receiving special attention. Two creatures, each expertly wielding a knife, were butchering him by hacking away slabs of muscular flesh, then stuffing the bounty into a plastic bag. They were impatient as they worked, and were soon covered from head to foot with blood. When Lester saw the reason for their haste written on their grimly set features, he turned away. Insanity he could have dealt with. Or hatred. Or even anger. But not what he saw. Not with hunger.

Lester gathered all his courage and strength and scampered out from under the car and ran straight forward across the tracks away from the carnage and death. If he didn't get out, if somehow he didn't manage to get away, he was dead, as sure as his friends were. He kept running at a ninety-degree angle to the line of cars where his friends had died. If there were creatures looking for him, he hoped they'd stick close to the side of the cars for protection and not dare to run out into the open as he'd done.

When he finally stopped, he was alone. He looked back and saw the creature who had attacked Jackson dragging his body by the arm along the tracks; it bumped and rocked along the rough ground and was finally passed from one creature to another until it disappeared under a subway car. The thing turned now and stared into the darkness. Toward Lester. Lester knew no human being, even an animal with extraordinary night sight, could see him. Yet he knew in his gut that this fiend was watching him, waiting for the wrong move, any move.

As if to prove his feeling right, the creature straightened up to its full height of five feet, then hunkered down, compressing itself into a solid mass. It placed its weight on the back of its hands, and like some monstrous frog, sat with its body poised between its splayed legs. It sprang and landed a mere five feet away from Lester.

Lester had followed the graceful arc of the creature with horrified fascination. Seconds before, escape had seemed not just possible, but probable. He wouldn't meet the same fate his friends had. Now, with this creature squatting before him, all that had changed. Lester recovered his composure enough to stumble back against a nearby subway car, hoping to put as much distance between himself and the creature as possible. He turned and started to run. Yet, not five feet away, he was grabbed by the ankle and toppled over onto the tracks by a second hidden creature.

This creature pulled itself from under the car, using Lester's leg as balance. The first attacker loped forward to help, its forward propulsion an eerie combination of arm and leg motion that made it appear to be rolling, not walking. The movement of flesh against flesh, clothing against the ground, produced a soft swishing sound.

"Jesus! Get away from me!" Lester yelled, unable to free himself from the thing's grip.

Its long fingers were like the jaws of a rabbit trap around his legs. Using Lester as balance, it climbed up him so quickly he didn't realize what had happened until he felt the weight on his chest. And suddenly a hand gripped the back of his neck, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the other arm swing up into the air. He was going to get the same treatment Sammy had gotten!

Lester kept his eyes focused on the creature's face, and with his free hand dived into his pocket, frantically searching for some means of defense. His fingers wrapped around his house keys. He pulled them out, clutching one tightly between his thumb and forefinger, and releasing all his fear and anger, drove the key into one of the creature's eyes. The thing bellowed, then attacked, biting a flap of flesh from Lester's shoulder. But it immediately fell back and dropped in pain to the ground.

Lester ran for his life. Only after he stopped for breath did he realize that in his panic he'd run back into the yard, deeper toward the creatures and farther away from help. But it didn't matter if he died now. He was exhausted. The pain from the wound was excruciating. He couldn't go any farther.

A soft swooshing noise from behind him broke the sound of his heavy breathing. Lester spun around just as the sharp teeth tore through the sleeve of his shirt. He wanted to scream, but the sound caught in his throat as the pain raced up his arm, across his good shoulder, and blinded him. His knees buckled under him and he fainted, falling across the tracks in a puddle of his own blood.

Chapter 7

"Corelli, get your ass in here." Captain Dolchik's raspy voice filled the cramped TA office with unusual urgency.

Corelli looked up from the report of the attack on Lester Baker and stared at Dolchik, whose obese form filled the doorway to his office. For a moment Corelli let himself hate the man; not because he was crude and loud but because Corelli suspected the captain was giving him the runaround about Penny Comstock and the others. Just because Dolchik acted like a Keystone Kop didn't mean he was one. Maybe he was one of the "big boys" that Dr. Geary had mentioned. Why not? It wasn't totally preposterous. After all, it was his file that had started Frank on his own investigation.

"Corelli!" Dolchik took two or three threatening steps forward. "Did you hear me? Or are your big brains clogging up your ears?"

Corelli slid the Baker report into his briefcase, then pushed back from his desk, ready to take on his bellicose boss. Reading the attack report had given him a jolt, had touched that sixth sense of his that inexorably was leading him through the maze of disappearances toward a clear answer. He didn't know what the reporting officers made of the subway-yard attack, but as far as Frank was concerned, it was no different from the others--Comstock, Slade...Lisa Hill--except in one way: Lester Baker was still alive to talk about it.

As Corelli entered the captain's office, Dolchik assumed his favorite position behind the litter-strewn desk--fat fingers folded over the quivering bulge of his stomach, leaning back precariously in his chair, an insincere smile carved onto his pudgy features. That smile grew with each step Corelli took, and by the time they faced one another, Dolchik was grinning like a maniac.

"Have a seat, Detective," he offered grandly, indicating one of the torn naugahyde chairs usually reserved for dignitaries. Corelli remained standing. "Have it your own way. You always were an arrogant sonofabitch." The smile slipped away. "Now, tell me, Detective Corelli, exactly what you've been up to for the past two days."

"What is it you want to know in particular, Captain?"

"Simple: I want to know what you've done to help your fellow officers since last Monday--Labor Day, if my memory serves me well."

"You've seen the duty roster," Corelli hedged.

Dolchik's fingers untwined like snakes unknotting themselves in a basket. He spread them out over his corpulent thighs. "I've also seen cartoons where cows jump over the moon, but I don't really believe cows can fly. Now, tell me what the fuck you think you're up to. For two days no one has seen you for more than ten minutes here and there. Even Quinn is beginning to wonder if his pal Frank Corelli is really a figment of his imagination."

"I've been on a work-related investigation," he said evenly, ignoring the crack about Quinn, who wouldn't give Dolchik the time of day, let alone betray Corelli.

"Work-related investigation? It must have slipped my notice. Tell me about it," Dolchik said sarcastically.

"I've been tracking a series of unusual occurrences, Captain," Corelli said with as much respect as he could muster. "And it's taken more time than I expected."

"Exactly what "unusual occurrences' do you mean, Detective?" The smile suddenly reappeared. "If you don't mind me prying."

"Not at all." Frank now slipped into the chair opposite his overstaffed inquisitor. "I'm talking about the very same disappearances you've kept so carefully hidden these past months. The attacks late at night on subway passengers you pretend aren't happening."

Dolchik's face hardened instantly. His jowls fluttered to rigid attention as his teeth snapped together. For a moment he silently appraised Corelli before speaking. "Is it possible, Frank, that your job is getting the best of you? Maybe you're working too hard?" He got up and ambled to the open office door and shut it.

"I'm not working hard enough. Not when people are getting hurt in the subway because someone wants to pretend these things aren't happening."

"Am I really supposed to know what you're talking about?"

"You tell me, Captain."

"No, Detective Corelli, you tell me!"

"I'm talking about the fact that eight days ago a woman named Penny Comstock walked into the Fifty-third Street IND and vanished; I'm talking about a little girl named Lisa Hill who was snatched from a subway platform on Labor Day; I'm talking about the death of Ted Slade, one "of the Dogs of Hell, whose body was carved up like last year's Thanksgiving turkey; and I'm talking about Lester Baker, and God knows how many others." Corelli's anger propelled him through the list of names with machine-gun rapidity.

"Baker? Who's Lester Baker?" Dolchik's question was almost inaudible.

"The latest victim. He's 'El Bee,' the subway graffiti king. He's at Columbia Presbyterian in shock."

Dolchik's face paled. "I didn't know."

"Baker was attacked last night by a guard dog in a yard while he was spraying some of the cars. The reporting officer said the dog was already crazed before he encountered Baker. Something had gotten under its skin and it attacked without the handler's command. What do you make of that?"

Dolchik shook his head. He stared at Corelli for a moment, and when he spoke, he'd regained his composure. "What's the connection between this and the other names...whoever they were?"

"That's exactly what I'm trying to find out; that's my investigation. And I don't intend to let you or anyone else fuck me up," Corelli answered hotly.

"That sounds like an ultimatum, Frank. I don't like that." He searched for a fresh cigar, but couldn't find one. "You're really pushing me, you know that? You've already stepped on the wrong "toes by questioning Geary . . ." he began to say, but thought better of it. "Why the hell should I let you go off on this wild-goose chase while the other men get the shit jobs? You wanna explain that one tome?"

Corelli got up slowly, digesting the fact that Dolchik already knew he'd visited New York Mercy Hospital and had talked to the pathologist. But as he walked directly to the file cabinet to Dolchik's left he didn't betray his surprise that his movements had been charted already; he had other things to do right now. With one swift movement he stooped down and tried to open the bottom drawer that contained the missing-persons file. The drawer was locked.

"Looking for something special?" Dolchik's voice was thick with sarcasm.

"The file you've kept on the very same disappearances I've been talking about, Captain."

"I don't know what you're getting at," Dolchik lied.

"I made a copy of it," Corelli revealed. It was important now--now that Geary's name had come up--that Dolchik believe he knew everything there was to know about the missing persons. "So don't try to bullshit me."

Dolchik made an aborted lunge across the desk, but Corelli avoided him.