It's Alive! (21 page)

Charley hurled himself against the car door, feeling the tendons tear across his shoulder. The door broke open.

Charley tumbled out, holding his shoulder, and ran for the rear of the house. “Chris—”

Frank backed away from Lenore. His voice quaked. “It’s been here. You’ve seen it. You’ve been helping it . . .”

They stared wildly at each other.

“. . . It’s still here, down there. Isn’t it? Yes. God, yes!”

He broke for the den, fumbling in his pocket for his keys, ripping them out, tearing his pocket and scattering coins over the floor.

He opened the drawer of the desk and grabbed the .38 and a box of shells.

Lenore ran in behind him, reaching for him, clawing at his back, slashing his shirt. “No! You can’t! You can’t do it! It’s our baby, Frank!”

He swung his elbow, slamming her against the wall.

He tried to push the shells into the chamber. They fell out of the box and rolled on the floor. He managed to load one, two. Enough. He swatted home the cylinder and dashed through the living room and kitchen to the cellar door.

Lenore was right behind him, diving at his hands, tearing them away from the hook. “You
can’t!
You
can’t!”
She scratched his face and he staggered back. She barred the door with her arms. “HE—COULD—HAVE—KILLED—YOU!” Her voice came in wet, fast gasps. “Yes, it’s true. Before, when you were sleeping, he could have killed you. You know it. But he doesn’t
want
to kill you. He doesn’t
want
to hurt you. You’re his
father
—”

He lunged for her, but she slid under his hand, down the door, collapsing on the floor, shivering with sobs.

He sucked for breath, staring at her, fingering the .38.

Charley reached the outside basement door and heaved it open with his one good arm. “Chris?”

He leaned his head down inside the door. “Chris? You down there?”

He heard a soft voice: “. . . Don’t be afraid. Nobody will hurt you. My name is Chris . . .”

“Who’s down there with you, Chris? Frank? Everything okay?”

“. . . Don’t be afraid . . .”

The door from the kitchen exploded open, spraying a stream of light.

Chris wheeled toward his father. “Don’t—”

“Dive, Chris!” Frank hurtled down the stairs, waving his gun in front of him.

“Dad, don’t—”

The thing yowled and leaped from its perch into the shadows.

Frank knocked Chris aside and fired.

The thing screamed and bounded for the outside cellar door.

Frank fired again.

Charley stood silhouetted in the moonlight when the shape hit him. He staggered backward, tearing at it with his hands as it wrapped around his throat. Then he sagged slowly to the ground. The thing slithered away across the grass.

Frank charged up the stone stairs. Charley was lying still on the grass.

Light hit Frank in the face. Two policemen ran up, guns drawn.

“I hit it,” Frank said, “I’m sure I hit it at least once.”

One of the policemen rolled Charley over, shining his light at the gaping gashes in the throat.

The other policeman ran around the edge of the backyard, flashing his light into the bushes.

Police cars screeched to a halt in front of the house.

“You didn’t have to shoot him, Dad.” Chris stood behind his kneeling father. His voice was calm. “He wasn’t going to hurt anybody.”

Frank’s body shook with weeping. He bent over his friend. “Look what . . . he did to Charley. Look . . .”

The policeman helped Frank to his feet.

Detective Perkins and several other officers sprinted around the corner of the house.

“We got one dead, lieutenant—there. Name is Charley something.”

“Evans,” Frank’s voice was barely audible, “his name is Charley Evans.”

“Davis shoot him?” Detective Perkins snatched Frank’s gun hand, then eased the pistol out of it.

“No sir. Throat’s been ripped open. Guess it was that thing.”

“I hit it, at least once. I shot. I hit it.”

Police officers immediately fanned out in a search. Other sirens wailed their approach.

“You see it, Mr. Davis?” Perkins asked.

“Just . . . a blur.”

“This your boy here?”

“My name is Chris.”

“You see it, Chris?”

“Yes.”

“What’d it look like?”

Chris shrugged. “Nobody. Me. Mom. Dad.” Suddenly he turned and ran to the back door, where his mother stood holding herself tightly with her arms. “Mom—Mom—”

He threw himself against her. They held each other. “He killed Charley, Mom. He killed poor Charley. He—didn’t mean to.” Chris wept and they rocked together.

“He killed others too, Chris. He was afraid. He only wants to live. I’m glad you’re home, Chris . . .” She took the boy inside and closed the door.

Detective Perkins examined Frank’s .38. “You shouldn’t have tried to do this yourself, Davis. Lucky you didn’t plug your son.”

“I did, I—”

Perkins peered at him.

“I mean, I hit the thing.”

Perkins turned to the first two officers. “How’d you guys miss all this?”

“We were cruising, sir, just like we were supposed to. We were by this house at least once every minute. And the foot patrol was on station too. Musta just happened in a few seconds. We never saw that thing go in. I figure it musta been in there for a good while.”

“You bastards were responsible,” he said softly.

“Yes sir. It’s just that, we did what you said, you know, short of going right in the house. And you told us not to do that. And we haven’t had any sleep in two days . . .”

“Okay.” Perkins chewed his cigar. “Get on the search, goddam it!”

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant!”

Perkins trotted over to the bushes.

“Look here, lieutenant. Blood. Quite a bit. He hit it, all right.”

“Here too, lieutenant, over here on this fence. Thing musta climbed over. Losing a lot of blood.”

The men traced the trail of blood beyond the bushes and fence into the next yard.

“Here, Lieutenant Perkins.” Captain Sanford stood in the gutter and stared down a storm drain. The trail of blood led across the sidewalk to the gutter and over to the drain. The trail stopped there; the blood trickled down through the grate. “I think we got the damn thing now. It’s down there.”

“Okay, seal off the drains!” Detective Perkins barked fast signals to his men. “Men posted at every opening around here! We’ll take the cars to the other end of the feeder! Six men cover this house, four outside and two in! Get Mrs. Davis and the kid outta there, take ’em to the station!”

He started for his car. Frank grabbed his arm. “I’m coming.”

“No you ain’t.”

Frank pushed in front of him. “I have to, lieutenant! I have to be along!”

“You’ve done enough already. Wounded it. That’s plenty. Enough for you.”

“No. Not yet!”

Detective Perkins gazed at him, his eyes narrowed. He worked his cigar over to the corner of his mouth. “You may have finished it off already.”

“Maybe not. I’ve gotta come! I’ve gotta be there when you find it.”

Detective Perkins looked off into the distance, then back at Frank. “So you gotta do it yourself.”

“It’s mine. My problem. Try to understand. Be more than a cop. Understand what I’m saying. You may need me. Try to understand . . .”

“I understand, Mr. Davis. It may not always look like it, but that’s my job. Between us, I figured all along that this thing might be heading here—might be trying to get to its mother, in fact. In a way I was
using
you. But I thought we’d spot it first, was sure of it. Otherwise I never would have tried it. We blew it, that’s all. So you ended up having to take some potshots. Now, I know what you’re saying. But I don’t even hear it. I never heard it. You just get in my car, on your own. Don’t ask questions, don’t answer none.”

“Thanks, lieutenant.” Frank closed his eyes. “I thank you for—”

“Shut up. And here, take this.” He handed Frank back his .38. “It’s yours. Put it away. Don’t use it. We’ll get this thing. No sense in us both being out of a job.”

Professor Eckstein stared down at the report Dr. Norten had written, several pages, single-spaced, its front cover marked, “Absolutely Secret and Confidential: Nobody Open.”

“It’s all there, professor.” Dr. Norten beamed.

Eckstein scanned the pages, flipping them over one after the other. “I see . . .”

“Yes! I processed the final lab reports on Mrs. Davis myself. Even
she
doesn’t know.”

“And it’s just like I—we had theorized.”

“To the penny!”

“This is terribly important, doctor—ominous. I suppose now we should release it to—”

“No no NO!” Norten grabbed the document and hugged it to his chest. “That is, not yet. We must, of course, await the final autopsy reports on the thing itself.”

“But meanwhile shouldn’t we alert—”

“We can’t breathe a word, professor. Just a little longer. If we released this now—you know how the scientific community is, they’d just scoff at us for an incomplete study. Call us amateurs. Scaremongers. They wouldn’t believe us. Listen to me: we do this right, it’s the Nobel Prize for us. You hear that? The
Nobel!
Rich! Famous!”

“I’m not so sure I care about being—”

“And above all, professional!” Dr. Norten said, jabbing an index finger in the air. “Professionalism is good timing. We’ll be professional by sitting on this for a while, until the world is ready for it.”