The Cage (13 page)

Jack stepped back, brushing up against the chalkboard. Something warm and wet seeped through the back of his shirt. He realized that it was his wife’s blood. But the sticky liquid felt
wrong
somehow. His vision went blurry. He closed his eyes and listened. His own classroom across the hall was silent. So were most of the kids in this classroom. He opened his eyes again, studying them, disturbed by how they sat quietly. Why weren’t they making a break for the door now that Nick’s attention was occupied with the window? Jack swallowed hard. His tongue felt swollen and dry in his parched mouth.

“Nick, what is it that you want?”

“I want you to fucking listen to me, Mr. Madison. I want you to help me before it’s too late!”

Jack nodded dumbly, aware of just how precarious the situation had grown and how helpless he was to do anything about it.

“First it was my sister,” Nick said. “She came back from college out in Los Angeles and she wasn’t the same. Then my parents. I started seeing them everywhere! Qwik-Burger, the mall, even online and on television.”

Outside, a Kevlar-armored S.W.A.T. member stepped out calmly from behind the barricade and strolled towards the main office door. Nick was staring at the floor and hadn’t noticed.

“They’re like slugs,” Nick said. “I’m not sure how it works, but they get inside your head.”

Jack realized that the other students were staring at both him and Nick with undisguised loathing. The cop had disappeared into the building. Presumably, if this situation followed the laws of television, he would come onto the P.A. system and try to negotiate with Nick. Jack calculated his options while Nick babbled. Did he dare to distract Nick, possibly even scuffle with him, to allow the kids a chance to escape? And if he did, would they take the opportunity? They appeared to be in the grip of some bizarre shock; emotionless and uncaring.

Suddenly, each of them erupted with another ear-piercing wail, pointing their fingers at the gunman. Outside, the police stirred behind the barricade. They stood watching in mute silence, the rescued students side-by-side with them, all staring at the classroom windows. Nick grabbed the shotgun, pointed it at his nearest classmate, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

“Empty,” he yelled above the din. “You’ve gotta believe me, Mr. Madison. They’re not human!”

The shrieking chorus grew louder. Nick charged around the room, screaming at the students to shut up. Jack’s head began to throb. He covered his ears with his hands. Nick thumbed the power button on the classroom television, cranking the volume as loud as it would go, trying to silence the chorus while he fumbled for more shotgun shells.

“Authorities indicate that martial law has been lifted on most of the West Coast, and that the situation is now firmly under control. The public unrest that has gripped the area for the last two weeks has ended, after National Guardsmen were deployed into San Francisco, San Diego, Los Angeles, Portland and Seattle. Coming up, the health benefits of kelp and why you should try it for yourself.”

“Do you see?” Nick pointed at the television. “Why isn’t there anything about this on the news? Some kid goes nuts in New York and shoots up a High School, and they’re talking about fucking
kelp
? They’ve taken over! They’re the real monsters. Not me.”

Jack pondered that as more police walked in a leisurely line towards the school. He thought about monsters. Was Nick a monster? Nick, a thin and quiet young man. Nick, a reclusive but highly productive student. Nick, a raving lunatic who had just slain over thirty members of the faculty and student body. Nick who had just killed Jack’s wife…

Jack trembled as thoughts of Gina crept back into his consciousness. They had argued last night. She’d been distant and indifferent lately. They hadn’t made love since she’d gotten pregnant and he wanted to know if it was something he’d done. Unrelenting, Gina had insisted there was nothing wrong and then rebuffed his tentative advances. Fuming, Jack had slept on the couch. She had been cold to him this morning. Jack had thought she was still mad and chided himself, realizing that her drastic shift in mood was probably due to the hormonal changes going on inside her.

The intercom crackled, and Nick shut off the television. The students stopped shrieking. Jack listened for the rational voice that would try to reason with the gunman, and braced himself for whatever Nick’s reaction would be. But instead, something else came from the speakers. Something that was not a language. At least not a language Jack had ever heard before. It was vaguely male, but there was something sexless in the tone. Rather than speech, it delivered a series of dry, clicking sounds. The students listened intently.

Finished reloading, Nick pulled the trigger again and Laura Elkin’s face imploded, spraying the peculiar gray and green blood all over the student behind her. Without thinking, Jack charged Nick. Whirling around, Nick leveled the gun at Jack’s chest. He hesitated, indecisive, and then Jack was upon him, struggling with the wiry teen. The weapon flew from Nick’s grasp and soared across the room, striking the desktop. The gun discharged again. The slug scored the mahogany and sent Gina’s ceramic salt shaker flying. Salt rained down on two of the students in the front row, and immediately they began to shriek again.

Jack and Nick broke away from one another, clapping their hands over their ears. The two screeching teens twitched on the floor. White froth bubbled from their noses, mouths, and eyes. Jack stared in horror, whimpering as something small and gray crawled from their ears and began dissolving in a pool of slime. Suddenly, the window exploded, showering the floor with tiny glass daggers.

And then there was silence.

Nick stood gaping, a crimson stain spreading on his shirt.

“Listen,” he gasped. “You’re next, Mr. Madison. Fight them for me.”

Nick staggered two steps toward him. Jack felt the bile, mixed with a sob, rising in his throat. The police sniper fired a second shot and Nick collapsed to the floor.

As the echo of the gunshot faded, Jack finally understood what was wrong with Gina’s head.

It wasn’t her head anymore.

The bottom fell out of Jack Madison’s world. The thing that was not his wife lay still, but her abdomen was
moving
, tiny clicking noises emanating from within her womb.

The remaining students approached him. Jack backed away. He ducked down and picked up the shotgun and fished some more shells from the dead teen’s pocket.

His laughter sounded like a scream when he fired the first shot.

This is a very old story—one of the first stories I ever had published, in fact. It’s not very good (at least, in my opinion), but it’s one fans have asked me to have reprinted over the years. Your wish is my command. I resisted the urge to heavily revise it for its inclusion here. It first appeared in an anthology called
Poddities,
which was a collection of stories inspired by Jack Finney’s
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
The story was then reprinted in my first collection,
No Rest For the Wicked.
Both books have been out of print for many years now.
Poddities,
edited by Suzanne Donahue, also contained early work by writers such as Nicholas Kaufmann, Tim Lebbon, Christopher Golden,Dan Keohane, and Jeffrey Thomas, as well as work from veteran writers such as Michael Marshall Smith, Ramsey Campbell, Jack Ketchum, Thomas Monteleone, David Silva, and many others. It was an important sale for me, and so, this story has always held a special place in my heart (despite its flaws). I hope you enjoyed it, too. If not, here’s one more story that maybe you’ll like instead.

Trying not to cry, Artie waited.

His older sister, Betty, had buried him up to his head in the sand. He’d been reluctant, but Artie feared her disapproval more than being buried. Betty liked to tease him sometimes.

The sand had been warm, at first. Now it was cold. His skin felt hot. His lips were cracked. Blistered. His throat was sore. When he tried to call for help, all that came out was a weak, sputtering sigh. Not that anyone would come, even if he could shout. It was the off season, and the private beach had been deserted all day. Just him and Betty.

And the men.

They’d appeared while Artie pleaded with Betty to free him. Their shadows were long. Betty’s laughter died. The men didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just walked right up and punched Betty in the face. Again and again, until she bled.

Then they carried her away.

Artie licked the film of snot coating his upper lip. Gnats flitted around his face. A small crab scuttled near his ear, waving its claws in agitation.

The sun disappeared beneath the ocean. The waves grew dark. Black.

Artie watched the darkness creep closer.

It was very loud.

Cemetery Dance Publications asked me to write a story short enough to fit onto a t-shirt. This was it, and it was indeed printed on a line of t-shirts. I was re-reading a lot of Richard Laymon at the time, and I think his influence is very apparent in this tale. In addition to its appearance on a t-shirt, this story also appeared in my now out-of-print short story collection
A Conspiracy of One.