He watched the two things climb up and onto the Volvo’s hood. One of them scrambled forward and punched its fist through the Volvo’s windshield, shattering the safety glass and turning the windshield green. Marvin’s seat tilted violently backwards; he was pitched ass-up, his feet suddenly off the floor. The screaming-howling sound became unbearable. Marvin saw the deputy’s face loom, its dead eyes and drooling mouth inches from his own.
The Volvo, out of control, spun onto the icy median. Marvin could feel the car spinning, and then pitch over. Marvin heard the loud sounds of metal on asphalt. The Volvo rolled over completely, twice, finally righting itself. Marvin, his seat loose, bounced around the car. He saw the deputy’s legs pinned by the collapsing back end of the Volvo’s roof.
The car had miraculously come to a stop upright, but kept rolling forward, the engine still in gear. The Volvo struck the snow bank on the far side of the two-lane road and smashed into it, burying itself into the bank.
It was quiet, or seemed that way to Marvin. The things’ howling had stopped. He could hear the sound of the engine stuck at a high RPM. It was completely dark inside the car, which, Marvin realized, was buried in the snow bank. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned, looking for a way out of the car. He ran his fingers over the car’s console, felt the map-light button and switched it on.
He saw the deputy. The creature’s back had been crushed by the roof, but it was still trying to move. Marvin found the tire iron, picked it up and brought it down on the deputy’s skull again and again until it was just bloody red and grey pulp, the skull smashed to bits.
Marvin’s face and hand was covered in brains and a wet blood-filth, making the tire iron slippery. He stopped finally and realized he’d been screaming the whole time he was striking the thing’s head. He looked out the side window and saw only snow pushed against the glass and the sound of the car’s engine whining loudly. He wiped his face. It was slick with gray matter. He felt it on his fingers and face. He rolled over and kicked the driver’s seat upright, landing it in front of the steering wheel, but cocked to the right. He took a few breaths. He managed to shift the Volvo into reverse. He began to pray. His lips dirty, he prayed the car would respond.
He felt the tires slip and started to laugh, which shocked him. The salesman had talked him into buying a four-wheel drive, and he’d bitched about it for weeks afterwards. Now the Volvo pulled out slowly, in reverse, through ten feet of snow bank and back out onto the empty road.
* * *
“Who’s that?” Quentin asked. He’d seen the Military Police outside his office when he got back from Eileen’s. He was about to go out again and look for Sharon.
“It’s someone called Bell,” one of the deputies said. “Hey Sheriff, we’re trying to get Calvin on the radio, and nothing. He was supposed to be back from Reno this afternoon.”
“I talked to him first thing this morning,” Quentin said. “Keep trying. Why are they bringing him here—the Lieutenant? That’s an Army problem.”
“I don’t know,” the deputy said.
Miles Hunt walked up to the main counter of the Sheriff’s office. Quentin saw him and raised his hand in a hello. Miles walked through the doorway and up to the counter that separated the offices from the public anteroom. Miles looked at the young man sitting against the wall in chains and leg irons, and then at Quentin standing in his office doorway.
“Quentin, what’s going on?”
The sheriff looked at the young reporter and hesitated. “Buzz Miles through,” Quentin said.
Miles stepped to the gate in the counter and waited for the buzzer to sound. Bell glanced at him. His leg chains made a noise on the floor as he moved his feet. The buzzer sounded and Miles stepped though. He followed Quentin into his old-school, all-metal-furniture office. Quentin closed the door.
“What have you heard?” Quentin said, leaning against the door.
“I heard a lot of people in town are missing, and that’s not all. The paper sent me over for a list of missing people. Eileen was supposed to email it, but she must have forgotten. So I came over to get it myself. And I came to ask you what you’d heard about the rumors.”
“I can’t give it to you. The list, I mean,” Quentin said. He looked at his friend. “Not right now. This is all off the record. Do I have your word on that?”
Miles nodded.
“I got a call from the State Police in Sacramento about an hour ago,” Quentin said. “There’s some kind of … outbreak.”
“You mean like in the movies?” Miles smiled.
“No, there are people gone missing all over the state.”
“And that’s not all,” Miles said. “There are gangs of people roaming the streets of Los Angeles. Killing people.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Price called the Los Angeles Times,” Miles said. “He still knows a lot of people on the staff there.”
“Gangs of people?” Quentin sat on the corner of his desk, taking the news in.
“That’s what Price’s friend said. And something else. I went up to Genesoft’s news conference this morning. A woman stopped me in the hall and told me that there’s a serious problem with one of the company’s new products.”
Quentin’s cell phone rang and he picked it up.
“Daddy, it’s me,” Lacy said.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in town, at the Copper Penny. I changed my mind, I’m going back to school,” she said. “I stopped here—I wanted to look for Sharon and tell her. And I just bought a new cell phone.”
“Don’t. I want you to come here, to my office right now. Right now,” Quentin said.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just want you to come to the office.” Quentin looked up at Miles.
“Daddy, is something’s wrong? Did you find Sharon? Is she okay?”
“No, I didn’t find her yet,” Quentin said.
“I think I know where she is. I’m going over there,” Lacy said.
“Lacy. Please, for Christ’s sake, not now!”
“Daddy, I can’t go back to school without getting her to go home. Mom wouldn’t like it. I know I can get Sharon to come home. I know I can.”
“Lacy ... Goddamn it!” The line went dead. Quentin held his phone, then put it down. “I’ve got to go out. I’ll be back.” Quentin rushed out the door, past the military police in the lobby of the building. Lieutenant Bell, handcuffed and waiting in one of the wooden chairs, watched Quentin move past him.
They’re here, Bell thought. They’re here and he knows it.
Bell turned in his chair. He held up his manacled wrist and tried to move his chained feet. He twisted in the chair, watching the sheriff pass, out on the street now, from the window behind him. The sheriff moved quickly down the sidewalk, and people moved out of his way.
Miles couldn’t wait for Quentin. He had a deadline at the paper and was already late with his end of the story. He stopped at the counter to look for Quentin’s secretary, but didn’t see her; he would have to write the story without a list of missing persons.
He tapped his fingers on the transom, frustrated because he couldn’t get any hard news to substantiate all the rumors he’d heard. Two deputies were talking to the Military Policemen at the far end of the counter. Miles turned and looked at the young redheaded lieutenant in leg irons and waist chain sitting against the wall. The lieutenant’s head was craned around so that he could see out the window behind him. Miles tried to overhear the conversation the deputies were having with the military policeman.