(A sample from Crawlspace.)
© 2009 asotir.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License.
The Warehouse
THE DODGE barreled down a flat country road, dead-empty in the night.
Styles drove. Trickman rode shotgun. In the back seat Tommy slumped between the Professor and Papers.
Trickman rummaged through some fast food bags behind the front seat. ‘I think we’re clear. Any of those donuts left back there?’
Styles groaned. ‘Give it a rest, Trickman. Didn’t your little tango with the bathroom window give you a hint?’
The Professor flashed a penlight into Tommy’s eyes. ‘Tommy, did you get enough of a flash on it? Where did it go? Where’s its lair?’
Tommy’s eyes wandered across the ceiling. He still seemed out of it.
He said, ‘There was a river … I think…’
His eyes rolled back in his head. He lost sight of the car and the Team. He couldn’t hear the car engine. He heard something else instead. Soft and rhythmic, like the lapping of water along a lake or riverbank…
The Professor’s voice came from far away.
‘Tommy. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where are you now? What can you see?’
Moonlight was gleaming off the river. A long low building was standing on one bank. Its windows were dark and broken. One light was burning.
‘I see a river … a warehouse…’
‘Is it up ahead, Tommy? Are we on the right road?’
Now he was looking down on the warehouse and the river.
‘It’s way off the main road.’
He was drifting high over the drive. It was cracked and weedy and broken in stretches of bare dirt. It looked like the warehouse had been abandoned a long time ago.
Higher he went, higher still. He could see a long way up and down the river. There was a lamp on the telephone pole where the drive hooked into the main road. A long, long way off, a tiny point of light was moving along the road.
‘Tommy. Tell me what you see.’
‘Professor, I see a car coming. I think it’s us. Yeah. We’re on the right road. About a mile up, I guess. Tell Styles the drive is on the left.’
The headlights came closer and the dream leaped to meet them. When the van turned onto the warehouse drive Tommy could see inside it. He saw himself lying in the back seat. His head was thrown back and his eyes were closed. He looked like he was hurting.
And just like that he lost the dream and sank back in pain and darkness, inside himself once more.
‘Tommy,’ said the Professor. He felt hands shaking him. ‘Tommy. Don’t quit now. What’s he doing? What’s inside the warehouse?’
The sick, hot taste of the Jelly was in his mouth. He felt like he was burning up with fever. With an effort he tore out of himself again.
Down the warehouse drive, faster than the van – to the warehouse – to the one bright window—
Inside the warehouse office, the Man from the Motel was stuffing various items into a metal box. Something about the way he was moving seemed unnatural. Something about the way everything was moving seemed unnatural.
All at once the Man from the Motel stopped. He was cocking his head and listening.
But all Tommy could hear was Trickman’s voice from the front seat. ‘Slow down, dude. No reason to let him know we’re here.’
‘Too late,’ Tommy moaned.
The Man from the Motel was already walking to the window, moving with delicate, unnatural speed. He was looking out through the corner of the window.
Through the window, Tommy saw the Dodge pull up, stop, and kill its lights. At the same time he heard the crunch of the tires braking and the soft rumble die when Styles killed the motor.
In the warehouse office, the Man from the Motel was already back beside the desk. He was snapping off the desk lamp. Darkness was … flowing … back into the office, like a sluggish, syrupy flood.
Something seized Tommy. It gripped at his chest like a big iron vise.
The darkness was rising up to the ceiling of the warehouse office and everything was going.
FOR A SECOND he didn’t know who he was or where. Was he the killer in the warehouse office? Was he the sick kid in the van? Was he one of the things that crept and crawled all over the riverbank?
Then something came to him – a word – a name: Tommy. That sounded right. Tommy. His name was Tommy.
It felt like he was sitting somewhere. Somewhere cold. He smelled cigarette smoke. He heard the sound of a river.
He felt cold air on the back of his neck. Then he heard metal sounds and voices outside.
I’ll open my eyes in a second, he thought. I’ll wake up and look around and find out where I am.
HE OPENED his eyes.
It was night. The Dodge was parked on a broken concrete drive in the long rank grass by a river. The concrete had weeds springing up through the cracks. It was the way he’d imagined it. At the end of the concrete stood the warehouse from his dream.
The Professor appeared in the open door. He felt Tommy’s wrist. ‘Welcome back.’
Tommy managed a weak smile.
‘Pulse strengthening. Want to sit this one out?’
Tommy shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to say anything yet. Dose twenty-three had been a bad one – he didn’t want to let on yet just how bad. The foul hot taste was still in his mouth, like he’d licked the dirty floor in front of a furnace.
He tried to climb out of the van. The Professor gave him a hand down.
Behind him the other members of the Team stood behind the Dodge. They held strange guns in their hands – things that looked like paint guns only with bulbs or nozzles instead of barrels. Burners, the special guns they used.
‘One to a customer,’ said Trickman.
Styles eyed the one he held with disdain. ‘I trust the tanks are full this time.’
‘Just don’t get your suit dirty, pal.’
Trickman cocked a lever on his Burner. ‘Showtime, boys.’
THE BIG OUTER DOORS to the warehouse banged open. Flashlights stabbed the dark. The Team stood in the opening, ready for anything.
‘Tommy, how many are there? Could you tell?’
Tommy peered into the darkness. He felt better now. But the stink and the prickles, were bad here. This place was a meeting-point for the Crawlers. Lots of them used this place. How many were here now? Not that many. He could tell from the stink. It was mostly stale. Only one whiff of it was fresh. Probably from the killer of his dreams.
‘Only one,’ he said at last. ‘Only the one from the motel.’
‘Right. No civilians involved,’ the Professor said. ‘So if it’s here, it’s alone – or with others of its kind.’
Trickman hawked and spat on the wall. ‘Right. So shoot first and think later. Kansas City all over again.’
‘Trickman, Styles, you know what to do. Papers, let’s see if we can find blueprints, a floor plan, in the office.’
Tommy leaned against the side of the door. The others were already moving away from him. ‘I can help.’
The Professor gave him the kindly-father look again. He shook his head. ‘Watch the car, Tommy.’
Trickman and Styles moved off into the dark. Papers and the Professor headed toward the office. Tommy stood alone at the door.
‘Sure. Watch the car. I can do that. I got that.’
From the belly of the warehouse came faint sounds – steel echoes, gravel crunch, water plash. He thought he could sense where the fresh whiff was coming from. Tommy shook his head.
‘I gotta do something.’
He moved off on his own, into the dark.
IN THE WAREHOUSE OFFICE, the Professor turned on the desk lamp. The office contained a chairs, file cabinet, old leather couch. A small lavatory opened at one end.
Papers grimaced. ‘Puh, pretty shabby.’
‘Dirty, like everything the things touch,’ the Professor said. ‘Let’s find those plans.’
TRICKMAN moved to the right down the main floor, gun ready. The warehouse was a forest of machinery, trash, and broken parts.
Styles moved to the left, and cocked his gun under a steel girder. He brushed off his shoulder. The girder left rust marks on it.
‘Shit,’ he muttered.
TOMMY heard the exasperation in Styles’ voice from across the warehouse space. The sound echoed and threaded everywhere. He came to a halt against a concrete pillar and shut his eyes. Listening. Smelling for the one fresh ugly whiff of the killer.
There it was. He opened his eyes. Looked straight up.
The Team’s flashlight beams swept over the girders and conveyors. They flashed over a conveyor belt just where Tommy was looking.
The Man from the Motel crouched on the belt in the light of two beams. His hand gripped a lever.
Styles’ voice shouted, ‘Trickman! Over here!’
The Man from the Motel jerked the lever. Lights flashed on – the machinery banged to life – conveyors turned. The warehouse came alive.
Trickman bellowed, ‘Coming!’
The Man from the Motel scuttled onto the conveyor belt – it tore him away beyond the light into darkness. Tommy followed him by smell. He saw the muzzle-flashes from the pistol firing down at them.
Off to the left, Styles ducked behind the girder. Bullets panged off the steel.
Tommy moved slowly through the storage space, picking through the broken glass and discarded objects. He was following the smell. He knew he was on the right path. The prickling was painful now.
On the wall beside him was a steel ladder. One of the rungs was gooey with Jelly. Tommy shouldered his Burner and started up.
More shots flashed from the conveyor belt.
Trickman opened up his Burner and a red beam burst out of the muzzle. It caught the conveyor belt – scattering sparks and flames and bits of molten metal.
The Man from the Motel rolled off the conveyor belt, caught a steel support column and raced up it like a giant cockroach.
IN THE OFFICE, the Professor and Papers checked a blueprint.
Papers gestured. ‘There. You see?’
The Professor nodded. ‘It can get out there.’
‘Th-that’s right, Professor.’
‘Once it gains the river we’ll never catch it. Come on!’
They raced out of the office into the main floor. The Professor shouted, ‘Styles! Trickman!’
TOMMY reached the top of the ladder. High under the ceiling a catwalk stretched around the perimeter of the building. At one end a skylight opened onto the roof. Tommy got up on the catwalk and started toward the skylight.
But something dark moved into his way:
The Man from the Motel.
The Man from the Motel raised his gun. Tommy cocked the lever of his Burner and aimed. He glanced down below.
Far below, the other members of the Team were climbing the ladders. He could see them all. They could see him too.
‘Shoot, Tommy – shoot!’ the Professor shouted.
The Man from the Motel halted. Tommy stood in front of the skylight. The killer locked eyes with him. Tommy’s finger tightened on the trigger. But he didn’t fire.
The Man from the Motel stepped forward. His mouth opened as if to speak – when a red ray splayed across him.
Hanging from the ladder, Trickman blazed his Burner like a blast furnace.
‘Hang on, Tommy!’
The beam sparked on the catwalk. The Man from the Motel burst in flames – raged and struggled – began to Change:
Bumps rippled under his skin – tentacles burst out of his sides – his head melded with his trunk and his legs fused and his skin roughened like bark, oozing with Jelly, and his body closed into beetle like plates – its bulbous black insect eyes glaring at Tommy as it burned—
— and the catwalk split and fell and Tommy held on but the Thing fell down, all the way down to the concrete floor.
Tommy twisted on the catwalk, dangling, staring down. The stink had become a burning smell but it was cleansed of whatever was worst in it. The prickling was gone. It had snapped off like an electric light.
Above Tommy, the Professor stood on the catwalk. He reached down and took Tommy’s hand and pulled him up to safety.
On the concrete floor, the Thing was a broken, smoking mess. The Team gathered round it.
Styles patted Tommy on his shoulder. ‘You all right, Tommy?’
‘Jeez, that was a gutsy thing to do.’ The admiration in Trickman’s voice made Tommy feel good.
But the Professor shook his head. ‘No. It was reckless and foolish.’
Tommy felt the good feeling collapse out of him.
‘Wh, what happened?’ Papers asked.
‘Yeah, pal,’ said Trickman, ‘why didn’t you blast the Thing?’
‘You had Trickman scared shitless!’ Styles laughed at Trickman’s glare.
Tommy didn’t know what to say. Why hadn’t he fired? He had to say something. The Professor was looking at him. ‘It wouldn’t work. My Burner. It – it jammed or something.’
‘Probably nothing in the tank – again,’ said Styles. He took Tommy’s Burner and toyed with it.
Trickman glared at him. ‘Are you ever going to get Duluth out of your mind?’
Styles worked the levers of the gun. Suddenly it came on and a red beam flashed across Trickman’s coat.
‘Shit! Power off! Power off!’ Trickman bellowed, dancing backward.
Styles snapped off the Burner. ‘Sorry.’
‘Damn fool dude!’ Trickman said. He looked down at the skirt of his coat and struck it, damping the smolder. ‘Don’t you know? Never point that thing at anybody human!’
‘One Burn and you’re done for,’ the Professor said. ‘Remember that. Even a slight singe in your flesh, the ray will go on working. It’ll end up eating through you.’
‘And,’ Papers said, ‘there, there is no known cuh, cure.’
Styles shrugged. He handed the gun to Trickman. ‘At least it seems to be full – this time.’
Trickman snatched the gun and jammed its levers. ‘Goddamn ignorant dude,’ he muttered.
The Professor said, ‘Cut it. Papers. Get your kit.’
Papers knelt beside the Thing and unrolled a pack of surgical instruments. He chose one and began slicing through the beetle plates, into through the membrane sacs underneath.
Styles gagged.
Trickman grinned. ‘I could go for some good barbecue about now.’
Out of the body cavity spilled hundreds of small pearly eggs.
‘Shit,’ said Styles. ‘This one was ready to pop!’
‘I’ve never seen a Cuh, Crawler so fully developed.’ Papers sealed the largest in a plastic bag.
The Professor took it. ‘One for Central. We’ll burn the rest.’
In the distance the sound of sirens grew.
Trickman swore. ‘The cops. Took them long enough.’
The Professor checked his watch, nodded. ‘Make a ring.’
They stood in a circle around the Thing on the floor.
‘Burn it,’ the Professor said.
The red beams converged on the Thing, charring it, reducing it to fragments. Tommy stood to one side, staring. Something twisted inside him to see it. It was always this way. What was wrong with him? Was he really sorry to see one of the Things get blasted?
The Professor said, ‘Power off.’
He kicked over the fragments. ‘That’s enough. The rest will turn to powder once daylight hits them.’
They shouldered their guns and moved away. Tommy stared down at the blackened, smoking remains.
‘Tommy!’
Tommy looked at the Professor.
‘Come on, son.’
Tommy nodded. He tried to laugh but the sound came out like he was strangling and he knew he better cut it out on account of the look the Professor was giving him.
They walked outside into the predawn light. They piled into the Dodge and Styles revved the engine and started backing out, tires spraying dirt.
In the back seat Tommy closed his eyes and felt himself drifting away, back inside the warehouse far behind.
THROUGH ONE open, broken window, the dawn was shining down upon the remnants of the Thing. The sirens’ screams were growing louder. Smoke was flushing from the remnants, and they were crumbling into powder and leaving only the scorch marks of the Burners on the concrete…
