Parasite (11 page)

A woman’s voice… soft,
sweet, but direct.

Why is there a woman in here?

Walter opened his eyes, and was surprised that the light in the room had gone back to the way it had been before the chandelier had been lowered.

Which meant…

Walter gasped and unfurled his body from the fetal position, reaching down between his legs tentatively, his fingers gently prodding the area like the crown of a baby’s head.

The surface was wet and tacky with blood, but thankfully he found no sign of an open wound.

Had the chain broken?

His eyes flicked upward, and he cringed at the sight of blood and gore hanging from the chandelier chain.

“In a few moments, we will have the sheriff of Askergan County on to tell us a little more,” the woman on the news droned on, “but it appears as if this house—what residents refer to as the Wharfburn Estate, even though both Mr. and Mrs. Wharfburn have been deceased for nearly a decade—this once palatial and yet now burning ruin of an estate was the source of the infestation. Authorities say…”

Walter looked away from the television and returned his attention to his own body.

Nude, he lay in a pile of blood—his own, or maybe that of the two other dead men in the room. He had no idea how much time had passed, but assumed that it couldn’t have been long—an hour, maybe, or two. If the news on the TV was indeed live, then the woman was standing in morning dusk—two hours, tops. And then there were the gunshots. Although he doubted that the sound would have made it to the bikers outside, Dirk most likely had. And even if the man had simply ducked his head and fled without addressing any of them, like he had done in this room, just seeing him in such a sense of panic would have likely inspired a visit to Sabra.

Sabra.

But before searching for the big man, Walter ran his fingers over his left bicep. It was smooth there, smooth and white, just like the other spots on his body that the crackers had erupted from. Just like…

His hand went back to between his legs, his breathing becoming shallow.

Smooth.

At first he’d thought that his fingers had found his scrotum, and relief had brushed over him. The skin was smooth and soft… but a quick second of probing and he realized that it was too soft.

His testicles were gone, ripped from his body by the chandelier chain.

Walter stopped breathing entirely.

The skin down there, like on his chest and arms, had healed, leaving behind what was undoubtedly a pale patch of skin.

Neutered.

He had been neutered like a fucking mutt.

A shudder ran through him.

Walter closed his eyes and spread himself out on the carpet, arms wide.

What the fuck is happening to me?

Time seemed to stop, and Walter considered, seriously considered, that he was in fact dead—that what he had experienced today was the hell that he was going to have to endure for eternity.

And if it wasn’t? Then he could just press the button beneath Sabra’s desk, only this time he would wrap the chain around his neck and not his balls.

But then the cracker in his shoulder quivered, bringing him back to reality—whatever reality it was.

Why end it now? Why now, after you have been given such
power
?

Walter forced his self-pity away, his thoughts briefly turning to his son’s scarred face.

Whatever hell this is, you earned it.

Walter groaned and pulled himself to his feet. He was still sore, but he suspected that, like his broken nose and two gunshot wounds, the cracker would deal with this new pain soon, no matter how cringe-worthy.

Walter walked slowly over to Sabra’s fallen body. The man’s ribcage was blown wide, revealing blankets of thick yellow fat covering his organs—his heart, his lungs, his liver—like bubble wrap. He stood over the body for a moment, staring at it.

Again he was struck by the crackers’ strange behavior—this wasn’t at all what he had seen throughout Askergan.

They’re evolving somehow… that must be it. Somehow the drugs are causing them to change.

Some of the crackers that had erupted within his chest were still in the cavity, their translucent bodies covered in blood, while others had escaped the man’s massive chest only to die after straying too far from their host.

These were a completely different animal than what he had seen littering Highway 2, and before that in the sheriff’s office before he had forced his way out the window. These were different, and somehow the drugs coursing through his system seemed to keep them—or, more specifically, one of them—alive. The others, for whatever reason, were not so lucky. They didn’t even seem capable of surviving in Sabra’s body, the gigantic incubator that was no doubt also flush with drugs.

Only the one in his shoulder seemed to live on.

Walter kicked one of the small crackers’ chitinous bodies across the hardwood.

Parasites—all of you.

Aside from the gaping hole in Sabra’s chest, the man’s perfectly smooth, perfectly bronzed skin was otherwise untouched.

Skin, so smooth and soft. I might have a use for you yet.

He thought about his own mottled flesh and how the man had insulted him for it.

A smile crossed his face.

Yeah, I think I have a use for your fake-and-bake skin.

But first things first,
he thought, and the first thing for Walter was, and always would be, drugs.

He hobbled awkwardly to the man’s desk, offering a wide berth around Ben’s body, and immediately grabbed the mirror with the still perfect little mounds of coke. He was about to indulge when he caught a glimpse of Sabra’s massive chair—more of a throne, really—only a couple of feet to his left.

“Why the fuck not?” he said to the empty room.

The chair was so heavy that he doubted he would have been able to move it; thankfully, Sabra was so fat that this was unnecessary. Walter could just slide his rail-thin body in between the desk and chair without moving it.

The first line of cocaine didn’t even so much as burn his nose, let alone get him high. But the cracker in his shoulder noticed; it noticed, and it liked it.

“Now, Sheriff White, can you tell us a little more about what happened here? What happened in Askergan over the last forty-eight hours?”

Walter’s eyes shot up at the sound of the word ‘Sheriff’, and then they immediately narrowed at the sight of Sheriff Paul White’s black face.

“Well, Nancy, as you’ve said already, Askergan was infected by some sort of crab-like parasites. There was a nest”—he gestured to the smoldering ruins behind him—“in the basement of the Wharfburn Estate. We are still totaling the loss and injury due to this, ungh,
infestation
, and can’t release any more details at this point in the investigation.”

The burly sheriff then turned toward the camera, his expression suddenly stern—too stern, maybe, like it was an act, like there was a specific image he was trying to portray. Regardless, when he spoke again, it was as if he was speaking directly to Walter.

“I want to assure the Askergan citizens that we have everything under control. I repeat, everything is now under control. Please stay in your homes. A deputy will be going door to door to answer any of your questions, and to make a list of the missing or lost. Again, I want to stress that the situation has been controlled.”

Walter wasn’t sure if the cracker in his arm heard or understood what the sheriff was saying, or if it was simply a coincidence, but it pulsated when the sheriff uttered the word ‘control’.

“We are still—”

The blonde woman turned and interrupted the sheriff.

“Do you know what kind of creatures they are? Or where they came from?”

The sheriff made a face.

“We are still working out the details, Nancy.”

Odd. ‘Nancy’. He should have just said, “Please, no more questions at this time”, and walked off. But he hadn’t. He had called her by her first name, and stared at her as if he was angry.

Something suddenly clicked in Walter’s brain. It was the sheriff’s words and the way he looked at the woman, with soft yet hurt eyes.

He’s fucking her.

“And body count? Do we know how many citizens were attacked by these creatures? How many are dead, Sheriff White?”

Sheriff White’s lower lip curled, and Walter thought he even saw the man cringe.

“The creatures caused several accidents as well as numerous fires across town. There were deaths, to be sure, and we are very sorry for the victims of this horrible accident. But at this time, we are unable to provide any further details.”

Nancy, clearly unsatisfied with this response, continued to press despite the fact that the sheriff looked as if he was nearing his wits’ end.

“There were rumors of a missing boy—”

The sheriff’s eyes went wide in surprise.

“Nancy, as I said—”

Walter started to snort another line, but hesitated; it was like watching reality TV—
real
reality TV. The asshole sheriff and his fuck toy having a spat on camera.

“Are the rumors true? Is it true that one missing boy, Tyler Wandry, died here at the Wharfburn Estate?”

Walter’s entire body started to tingle.

Tyler!

There was a long and awkward pause, something that seemed to stretch on and on as Walter gaped, barely able to swallow let alone breath.

Tyler!

So much had changed since he had first burst into the police station demanding that his son’s body be retrieved, even though he hadn’t even been sure that he was dead yet.

Now, however, things were different.

Walter’s hand instinctively went to the spot where his balls had once been.

Yes—things were very different.

“As I said,” the sheriff began slowly, “there were numerous casualties last night, and we are still taking a look at exactly what happened.”

“And—”

“I’m sorry, no more questions at this time. Thank you.”

The sheriff gently pushed the microphone away from his face, and the camera, after lingering for a moment on the big man’s sour expression, moved as well, panning out to get a shot of the smoldering ruins behind them.

Dead. My only son is dead.

Walter leaned forward and snorted a line of coke.

And thanks to Sabra, there is no way I will ever make another.

He turned back to the image on the television, barely noticing the fact that his shoulder had started to quiver again. His eyes were red, his vision blurry.

Rage built inside him.

“I’m coming for you, Sheriff. You killed my son and I’m coming for you.”

Walter leaned down and snorted the final line on the mirror, and then he tossed it to the floor in disgust.

“The parasites have not been controlled, you lying prick. I’m coming for you—I’m coming for you and for anyone you care about, starting with that blonde little bitch.”

Walter spat on the floor.

When he turned back to the TV, the newscast had gone on to something else, but Walter only saw one thing.

His bony hands gripped the thick wooden armrests so tightly that they started to crack under his grip.

He saw the imprint of the sheriff’s face, his big lips, his oddly sorrowful eyes, and he saw the blonde reporter looking up at him.

“I’m coming for you, Sheriff. I’m coming for you and I’m coming for
Askergan
.”

“Nancy! What the hell
were you thinking?”

The question didn’t draw an immediate answer. Instead, the woman seemed content in ordering her fat cameraman to get another shot of the burning wreckage before they packed up.

“Make sure you get a good panorama of the fireman trying to put out the fire. And I want good framing, get it all in the same shot. No chopping off their fucking heads like last time.”

Paul reached for her arm.

“Nancy, what were you doing?”

The woman turned to face him. She had cleaned up amazingly well after what they had experienced, including changing her outfit and doing a half-decent job of at least appearing as if she’d slept last night and hadn’t spent the entire time blowing alien crabs into white smears. But even with makeup, the soot that seemed permanently tattooed on her forehead had been impossible to conceal.

“I’m getting a shot of the burning house before they put out all the flames,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Paul shook his head.

“No, what
were
you doing? Why did you ask about the Wandry kid? You saw what I saw, Nance. You know about the fucking crackers, the shit that happened at Wellwood Elementary School, Tyler Wandry, and fucking Mrs. Drew, for Christ’s sake.”

An image of the woman fleeing from them, drawing the crackers momentarily away before Greg Griddle had shot her in the head, flooded back to him, and an incredible sadness washed over him.

He forced the tears away.

“Why do you need me to say it? And on TV, for Christ’s sake!”

Nancy tried to keep a stern expression, but he could tell that she too was nearing a breaking point.

“People need to know, Sheriff. They have a right—”

Paul cut her off. He wasn’t in the mood to buy any of her reporter or newscaster babble.

“After all you’ve seen, do you
really
want Askergan to know?”

Nancy seemed to contemplate this for a moment.

“Yes—I dunno. Does it matter? I just put the news out there. I told you this”—she gestured to both of them—“was important, but so was this.” This time she indicated the microphone and her cameraman.

Paul made a face. She was telling the truth, of course; Nancy had made it exceedingly clear that her career was important to her.

Maybe even the most important thing to her.

“Still, Nance, this is fucked. What happened here… what happened in Askergan, this isn’t normal. And you and I both know that this is the first time that something of this… nature… has happened here. Do you want to send everyone into a frenzy?”

Nancy shrugged, and she averted her eyes. It was clear now that she hadn’t meant to put him in the position she had, but that her instincts had taken over.

“But it’s over, right?” she said softly. “I mean, the things are all gone, right?”

Paul placed his hand on her chin and raised her eyes to meet his. Her green eyes were soft and bright, despite the gray smudges that peeked through the makeup on her cheeks and forehead. She was scared, he saw.

Nancy, who less than forty-eight hours ago had been shooting a pistol at crackers in a lemon-yellow dress like some sort of female James Bond, was scared.

She was one tough bitch, but she still
felt
.

I love her
, Paul realized at that moment. Despite their mutual agreement, that her work would come first and his own was of paramount importance, he
loved
her.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

They had killed so many crackers, and blown up thousands more.

But it had been what Coggins had done, Coggins and Greg Griddle, that had really put the nail in the proverbial coffin. Whatever they had done at the expense of Tyler Wandry and Kent Griddle had caused the vast majority of the crackers to just curl up and die.

Kill the queen—the
king
—and the hive will die.

“What the fuck were they, Paul?”

The sheriff looked around at the upturned cracker corpses that littered the Wharfburn lawn. As he had told Deputy Williams earlier in the day, he had called every bureau he could think of, trying to get an expert out here—looking for soldiers, police, even a goddamn forest ranger—and all he had managed to procure was a fucking pathologist.

Not even an entomologist, microbiologist, or a fucking
crab
-ologist.

In the past—during Dana Drew’s reign—Askergan had been content in doing their own thing, taking care of their own people. After all, Askergan County always was a little different, even before all of
this
. Shit, they had a sheriff’s department mixed in with the PD. And he, Sheriff Paul Lee White, was the top dog. Still, this was too much for
them
.

It was too much for him.

Paul looked skyward, trying to retain his composure.

“Sheriff?
Sheriff!
”

The urgency of the voice drew Paul’s attention not to Nancy, who had felt his pain and had stepped toward him, slipping a comforting hand around his waist, but to Deputy Williams, who was hurrying toward him.

The man was waving his arms madly as he ran toward them, while at the same time somehow pointing to the rubble behind him.

Paul’s gaze followed Williams’ wild gesticulations, eventually landing on a fireman hoisting a body out of the Wharfburn rubble.

“Paul!”

He’d known there would be bodies in the house, but the shocked expression on his deputy’s face immediately sent the alarm bells in his head ringing.

He gently peeled Nancy’s arm from around his waist.

“Andy? What’s wrong?”

A horrible thought crept into his head.

He swallowed hard, and his hand went instinctively to the gun at his hip.

“Are there more of
them
?”

Deputy Williams stumbled, breathing hard. When he looked up, his eyes were not so much scared as surprised.

“No,” he gasped. “Not more of them. But we found somebody.”

Paul raised an eyebrow and he took two steps toward the other man.

Found somebody? You mean found some
bodies
.

Interpreting the expression on the sheriff’s face, Williams shook his head back and forth vigorously.

“No, we found somebody, and they’re
alive
.”