The city was dark, no lights in the buildings that she could see along the waterfront. The sky was filled with clouds, but also smoke. There were buildings burning in the distance, and as they grew closer to Rowes Wharf, she could see cars and some delivery trucks haphazardly parked around the aquarium as if they had just stopped.
And there were bodies.
She didn’t want to see them—to acknowledge them—but they were there, lying on the sidewalks as if struck suddenly by death.
But she knew otherwise.
What looked like pieces of trash in the street were actually birds, squirrels, and even some cats and dogs.
She felt that terrible tightness forming in her chest. She knew that what had happened on Benediction was happening here as well, but there was a part of her that had hoped it wasn’t . . . that perhaps it hadn’t started and they still had time to warn people before . . .
“We can dock at Rowes Wharf by the aquarium,” Cody said.
“We could get into the aquarium today,” Rich said. “Bet there’s no line.”
Nobody responded to Rich’s attempt at black humor, most of all Rich. The expression on his still-pale features was one of intensifying fear.
Cody maneuvered the craft like an absolute pro, even though the heaving swells were doing their damnedest to smash their boat up against the docks. There weren’t many others out there who could have steered through the storm the way he had.
They were as close as they were going to get, and Rich jumped into action. He stood at the side of the boat as it rocked wildly in its berth.
Seeing his opportunity, he sprang over the side of the craft, landing awkwardly and rolling across the dock.
Sidney ran to the side, holding her breath, to make sure that he was all right. But he got to his feet, reaching out as Sayid tossed him the ropes.
It didn’t take long before the boat was as secure as it was going to be, and Sidney mentally prepared herself for what was to come.
She had always enjoyed her trips to Boston and had been looking forward to going to college and living in the city.
Wasn’t it just her luck that an alien invasion had to come along to screw it all up.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Delilah continued to climb the ancient metal ladder, ascending toward the light.
Deacon was close behind her, keeping her calm with stories of his childhood, although she suspected it was just as much for his benefit as for hers.
“Yeah, Dad used to bring me into work on Sundays,” he was saying, a slight breathlessness to his voice as he climbed. “We’d stop for donuts first—coffee for him, hot chocolate for me. It’d be way before six and still dark.”
She craned her neck, squinting her eyes to what waited above her. The light still wasn’t great, and she could make out the confined shapes of the new, surrounding walls and what might have been ductwork.
“Sunday was the day that he got all his odds and ends done,” Deacon said. “And I would help him, which is how I got to be so knowledgeable about the old building.”
“There’s something up above us,” Delilah said, slowing down, attempting to discern specifics.
“Yeah, those are probably the new air-conditioning ducts that were put in before the new walls were put up,” he explained.
Something down below them crashed and thrummed in the darkness. They felt a sudden vibration moving up the metal ladder, and it felt as though it was coming away from the brick wall.
“Just keep climbing,” Deacon ordered before going on with his story. “Yeah, this ladder ran up the outside of the building then, to the old section of roof where the original air-conditioning unit was.”
The ladder vibrated again.
“We’re going to come to a skylight,” he said. “That will be how we get out onto the roof.”
“Is there a door?”
“No,” he said. “They put a skylight in when they built the new walls.”
“So it opens?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “We’ll cross that bridge when—”
Deacon’s scream was chilling, freezing her in place upon the ladder.
“What is it?” she called, looping her arm around the rung of the ladder so she could look down into the darkness below her.
Deacon wasn’t there.
* * *
They grabbed him from below, clawed hands wrapping around his ankles and pulling. His hands lost their grip, and he fell, his chin narrowly missing the iron rail.
He frantically tried to catch the rungs with his hands, feeling the tips of his fingers brushing against them as he fell. More hands wrapped around his legs to his knees.
Finally he managed to grab hold of a rung, and it took nearly all his strength to stop his downward momentum. He kicked at his attackers again and again, getting one foot back on the ladder.
“Deacon!” he heard Delilah yell from far above him.
“Keep going!” he shouted at her as he struggled. At last he was able to pull his other leg free and scrambled upward.
He had climbed only two or three rungs when something buzzed near his ear, and then he felt a sharp pain in his hand. Deacon cried out, almost losing his grip as his hand immediately began to swell.
“Deacon?” He could hear the panic in Delilah’s voice as she called to him again.
He had to hold on.
Delilah needed him.
He tromped down the pain, ignoring the swelling, and quickened his ascent. She was still hanging from the ladder, waiting. He could just about make out the expression of fear on her face, the terror glistening in her eyes.
“Thought I told you to keep going,” he said, urging her on.
She turned and began to climb again. “I wasn’t going to leave you,” she said.
But he wished she had, for he could feel the ladder shaking from below as more of the patients made their way up in pursuit.
“You keep going no matter what,” he said, waiting for the sensation of hands upon his feet and lower legs. “Do you understand?”
“I don’t . . .”
“Do you understand?” he repeated.
“How much farther?” she asked, ignoring him.
“Not much,” he said. There was some illumination just above him, and he imagined that it was the light from the outside coming in through the skylight.
To the right of where they were climbing he saw the first of the new air-conditioning ductwork.
The patients grabbed him again from below, their arms and fingers wrapping around him. He yanked one of his legs from their grasp, and, holding on as tightly as he could with his stung hand, he reached up to grab the edge of the metal duct. With all his might he pulled and could feel the middle section loosen.
He gave it another yank as multiple sets of hands gripped him, pulling him from his perch.
The piece of ductwork pulled away with a deafening clatter, and he guided it the best he could toward the area beneath him as he desperately hugged the ladder.
He heard Delilah cry out at the sudden sound, and then felt the hands on his legs begin to pull away as the heavy piece of metal connected with those climbing up behind him, knocking them from the ladder.
He didn’t know how much time they would have until the next batch started up, so he gave it all that he could, increasing his speed and urging the woman above him to climb faster.
They were so very close now.
He was climbing so fast that he crashed into her.
“I can’t go any further,” she said.
He tried to look past her, at the more intricate ductwork that had been put in place.
“We’re here—we just have to climb over the ducts,” he told her.
“Over the ducts, I don’t . . .”
“Over the ducts,” he repeated, starting to climb onto and over her. “The ductwork is just below the skylight,” he said as he managed to get above her on the ladder.
The lighting was slightly better here, the illuminati
on from the roof coming in through the frosted and partially painted over glass in the skylight. He reached up, his fingers touching pebbled glass.
“We just need to break through, and we can climb out onto the roof.”
Delilah didn’t respond.
“Delilah?” he called.
“Deacon, they’re coming!” she cried. He could feel her inching up the rungs, getting closer.
He felt around the frame, feeling the dry, weathered caulking crumbling beneath his fingers. “I’m working on the glass,” he said, frantically digging his fingers into the material to free the first of the panels.
He could feel the vibration becoming more pronounced and knew that they were almost here. He tried to remove the pane, but it needed more work.
“Deacon!” Delilah screamed, and he knew that the first of the patients was there and that they had her.
He could feel her struggle, feel the shake of the ladder upon the wall.
Deacon lashed out with his swollen hand, punching the loosened pane of glass, shattering it. The sudden burning told him he’d been cut, but he managed to grab a piece of the glass, and, holding it like a knife, went to Delilah’s aid.
“Move!” he cried out, clutching the glass and stabbing at the bodies below her. “Break the windows!”
The glass was digging into his palm, and he knew that he was bleeding, but it didn’t stop him. He kept stabbing and slashing, listening for the sounds of glass breaking above him.
“Hit it harder!” he screamed, as he continued to try and drive their attackers back. “Hit it with everything you have!”
* * *
Delilah punched at the glass, hurting her knuckles. It was hard—pebbled and thick—but she had to break it.
She had to break through.
She felt something snap within her, and suddenly she was wild, ignoring the pain in her hands as she struck the glass over and over again, and when that wasn’t enough, she angled herself in such a way that she was able to use her elbow. She heard the glass crack, and that was all she needed, the sound providing her with the strength to continue.
She did it again, and then again, listening to the sounds of the glass breaking and falling away from the skylight. There was a covering of wire behind the glass, and for a moment she believed that another obstacle had risen up to stop her, but the wire, very much like chicken wire, was easily pulled from the rotting framework.
“I’m through,” she shouted to Deacon, feeling his weight shift on the ladder as he pulled himself up beside her.
She broke away all that remained of the glass and was greeted with a rush of cool, damp wind.
“Go,” Deacon told her, motioning with his chin.
She tried to maneuver herself through the opening but couldn’t quite get enough leverage. She felt her scrub pants rip as she struggled, and her phone fell from her pocket. There was a moment of panic over what she had lost, but it was quickly forgotten. Staying alive was far more valuable. She suddenly felt Deacon beneath her, gripping her legs, and she was pushed upward into the opening and over the edge.
The rain was still pouring down, and the air was filled with the heavy smell of the ocean. She crawled onto the roof, small pebbles and stones digging into her palms as she dragged herself up over the side. There wasn’t any time for her to catch her breath, and she immediately returned to the edge and reached down for her friend.
He was there, but still fighting the patients attempting to take him.
“C’mon!” she yelled, and he looked up to meet her gaze.
There was moment where she wasn’t sure what he was going to do, a look in his eyes that said, I’m not sure I can do this.
“Take my hands,” she told him, trying to make that look leave his eyes. “Deacon, listen to me and take my hands!”
He looked away and her heart plummeted, but he’d only turned to deal with the latest attacker before turning toward her and jumping from the ladder to grab hold of the skylight edge.
As he struggled to climb up and over, Delilah tried to help by grabbing his clothes and arms and pulling with all her might until he was rolling onto his side on the wet rooftop, exhausted.
There were noises from below, and she looked down into the broken skylight at the sight of one of the patients, his right eye glistening metallically as he reached up for her.
Deacon was rising to his feet. He was still holding on to his piece of glass and slowly opened his bloody hand to let it fall to the ground.
“I’ll look at that as soon as we get a chance,” she told him.
“As soon as we get the chance,” he repeated, and he reached out to take her hand in his.
Both of them ran across the rooftop.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Isaac cocked his head strangely.
The action reminded Doc Martin of a curious puppy hearing a strange noise for the very first time.
“Isaac,” she said again. “Isaac, are you still there?”
He remained silent, and Doc Martin couldn’t help but turn around to check on the still-swaying mass of life behind her. She could swear that she felt every single right eye of the snakelike abomination staring at her.
Waiting—for some yet-to-be-given command.
Isaac was still staring at her with his two horrible eyes. The fact that he hadn’t yet attacked her gave her some hope that maybe the young man that she knew was still in there somewhere.
“Isaac, can you tell me what happened?” she asked.
Again he cocked his head, and she watched as his mouth started to move and his hands twitched at his sides.
Doc Martin imagined the inside of the young man’s skull; the strange alien growth having formed alongside and connecting to the brain, tendrils flowing down to enshroud the eyes.
Change the eyes . . .
She remembered the right eyes of some of the animals she’d examined at the hospital. They were like the aperture of a lens—like looking into a camera.
Was that what Isaac’s eyes had become, she wondered. Cameras looking at our world in service of the force that was trying to invade?
She found herself moving toward the youth.
Isaac went rigid at her approach, stepping quickly back. The mass of life looming behind her surged forward as if sensing a threat.
Her hands instinctively went up, and she stepped back a few inches.
The mass moved back as well.
Doc Martin could feel Isaac’s altered gaze upon her, and, as much as it freaked her out to do so, she looked into the silvery orbs, imagining what might be looking back.
“What am I talking to?” she asked, the young man’s head again moving oddly from side to side, his mouth moving like he was attempting to speak.
Learning to speak?
The thought chilled her to the core.
“I . . . I’m not talking to Isaac . . . am I?” she said, feeling both stupid and terrified.
Isaac—or whatever it was—studied her face, her mouth, her lips, leaning in toward her, close enough that she could see the organic mechanism of the eyes moving as they attempted to focus.
Doc Martin had no idea what to do. She was completely at the mercy of the events unfolding in front of her and felt her anger begin to grow again, fed by a nearly overwhelming anxiety.
“What the hell is going on?” she blurted out, the words bubbling up and out of her like lava. “What do you want?”
Isaac’s head snapped back, as if sensing her hostility. She quickly glanced at the snakelike organism that continued to stand guard behind her.
But it just swayed ever so gently. She looked back to Isaac, waiting for something . . . anything . . . to happen. It was excruciating.
Finally, without a word, Isaac simply turned away from her and walked swiftly up the road. She watched him, noticing his movements. There was no doubt he was being controlled by something, and it was growing accustomed to the body it was using.
Should I follow? Or should I just stand here li
ke an idiot, terrified out of my freaking mind?
She glanced back at the snake of animal life still swaying behind her and took a step toward where Isaac had gone. The snake did not move. She took another step, and still there was no outward sign of aggression. Taking a deep breath, she followed Isaac up the road.
There was a slight incline to the dirt road, and she felt the muscles and tendons in her legs straining with exertion as she came over the rise, exiting from the path to a wide open area with a spectacular view of the Atlantic from the cliffs beyond it.
She’d never been to this part of the island, there really had never been a need, but she remembered a town meeting. She’d been there to do her yearly pitch for vaccinations and spaying and neutering, but recalled that there had been a proposal submitted by one of the larger telecommunication companies about putting a cell tower on one of the island’s high points.
There had been some grumblings, she vaguely remembered, but not too long ago she heard that it had gone through. The tower was going to be built.
And from what she saw, it had been.
She watched Isaac’s back as he walked across the open area to where a white metal maintenance shack, surrounded by a chain-link fence, had been erected, and beside that the cell tower itself.
But something didn’t appear right. Something was odd.
Doc Martin stopped because she couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing. Around the base of the tower, snuggled up close, were these . . . things.
Her brain attempted to define them in the most normal way possible: A tarp had blown in and gotten caught against the base of the cell tower.
No, it wasn’t that.
She started to walk again, more cautiously, but the closer she got the more confused she became.
A parachute fluttering in the breeze coming in off the water? Some sort of sea foam brought up from the shore below the cliff by the wind?
Nonsense, not even close.
Isaac had reached the base of the tower and stood very close to the things. She wanted to call out to him, to tell him to get away from whatever the hell they were, but she doubted he would have listened.