"Stay there, don't come up!"
"What's wrong? What is it?" She was already in the doorway, one hand gripping the jamb, staring into the room with the myopic reluctance of someone who wants to look and yet not to see.
"Don't move, Ruth. Stay right there." Chase got a firm grip and directed the beam upward. It moved across the crude plaster and lath ceiling, changing shape from a circle to an ellipse as the angle became steeper, and then the two of them heard the sound--a slow raking scratching.
At once Chase swung the beam toward it, and caught full in the cone of light were ten elongated and unblinking yellow eyes.
Ruth gasped as if she'd been punched in the stomach.
"Keep still! For God's sake don't move," Chase muttered, his voice thick and low. "The light usually mesmerizes them."
"Them?" Ruth sounded puzzled and far away. "What are they?"
"A rat pack."
"What?" Her whisper was aghast, incredulous.
Her reaction was understandable. The rats were giants. As big as Alsatian dogs, they crouched tightly together, pointed black noses between their paws, watching from the ragged hole where the ceiling had fallen through, or been gnawed away perhaps. Behind their narrow heads with the slitted eyes and flattened leathery ears, their backs rose fat and smooth under a light covering of gray dust.
This pack must have scavenged on anything and everything they could sink their razor-sharp teeth into, living or dead, to have achieved such monstrous size. But feeding alone wouldn't have done it. Genetic changes over several generations had developed this superior breed, each generation getting bigger and fatter and more voracious as their chief enemy, man, deserted his habitation and had to fight a rearguard action against the natural world he had perverted and destroyed. The rats were among the first to take advantage, but other species would soon follow.
As somebody had once said: Nature bats last.
One of them was pawing the broken edge of the plaster, sending a fine trickle of dust onto the top shelf of the metal racks. They hadn't altered position since the moment Chase put the light on them. Their yellow lidless eyes simply stared, snouts wrinkling as they scented the air (something moving meant food), mouths salivating as their appetites sharpened.
Chase didn't have the spit to swallow. If they came together, in a rush, neither he nor Ruth stood the remotest chance. A normal-size rat could leap yards, so these outsize bastards could clear the length of the room and take the pair of them without trouble.
Snap. Crunch. Finished.
So why were they waiting? A thought occurred to him that turned the marrow in his bones to water--these weren't the only rats in the building. The walls might be full of them. Even now there might be others sneaking from the bedroom next door and the rear stock room, creeping up the stairs, coming through the ceilings, slyly cutting off their retreat. Did rats think that way? Weren't they just greedy rodents who wanted everything for themselves and didn't like sharing with their fellows? They were cunning, yes, but he'd never heard of an altruistic rat before.
Chase carefully transferred the flashlight to his left hand, keeping the beam steady. Then with his right he took out the Browning automatic. When they came he might get one, or two, possibly three if he was lucky, but not all five. The odds were heavily in their favor.
But first get Ruth out of the way. Practically mouthing the words, he said, "Step back slowly. Don't make the slightest noise. When you're out of sight go downstairs, get the rifle, and wait there."
From the corner of his eye he saw the pale blur that was Ruth's face drift out of sight. There was the lightest of footfalls on the stairs. Holding both flashlight and gun at arm's length, Chase began to edge sideways toward the door, not for an instant letting his attention waver from the crouching rodents. Their evil yellow eyes swiveled in their sockets, following the light. And careful and painstaking as he was, Chase couldn't prevent his feet making a rustling noise on the rubbish-strewn floorboards. The rats heard. Their eyes detected the movement of the light. They knew that their prey was seeking to elude them. Acting as if on command they bunched for attack, haunches flattening as they prepared to hurl themselves in a sleek black fury of gouging teeth and tearing claws and whipping tails into the beam of light.
Chase was nearly at the door, four or five shuffling steps away, the adrenaline priming his system for the leap through onto the landing and down the stairs--another step, and one more, almost there . . .
They came en masse.
The fastest and greediest shrieked as it took the slug in its snarling mouth. Bits of pink tongue and bloody splinters of teeth exploded as it twisted in midair and crashed onto the metal shelving. Chase continued to jerk the trigger mechanically in a reflex action of sheer terror, pumping shot after shot into the squealing mass of furry bodies, seeing lumps of flesh fly off, seeing an eyeball transformed into a ragged red hole, seeing a shredded stump of paw whirl away and strike the ceiling, leaving a spattered bloody star. Seeing every detail with perfect precision and clarity before he emptied the gun and flung himself sideways through the door.
At the bottom of the stairs Ruth stood holding the rifle at her shoulder, squinting through the sight. Ducking low to avoid her line of fire, Chase scrambled on hands and knees to their spread-out belongings and rummaged in a canvas carryall and snapped a fresh clip into the Browning.
Together they waited, side by side, for the rats to emerge from the black rectangle at the top of the stairs. Almost certainly he'd killed two and severely wounded another one. That left two of the bastards, always supposing there weren't more of them in the roof. Reinforcements. A whole fucking battalion of them. He felt light-headed, euphoric almost, his body charged up like a generator running at peak power. He knew that later he'd probably collapse in a quivering white-faced heap.
Minutes passed and the darkness at the top of the stairs remained empty, and when Chase probed it with the flashlight there were no slitted yellow eyes watching them.
Ruth cocked her head. "Can you hear that?"
They both listened as from above came the muted sounds of tearing, chewing, and snuffling: the slack salivatory sounds of animals feeding.
25
Knees drawn up, arms laced across his bloated belly, the man in the bunk moaned continuously and monotonously. His mouth was pulled back in an awful grimace of pain. His face was the color of moldy cheese.
"Come on, man, you must have some idea!"
Frank Hanamura swung around and glared at the medical orderly, his tolerant good nature sorely tried. This was the third case in the past fourteen hours. Stomach cramps, vomiting, fever, swollen abdomen. And would you believe it, not even a qualified doctor on board! He calmed down a little; it wasn't fair taking it out on the kid, and besides it wouldn't do much good. The young orderly was frightened and way out of his depth.
"Are you sure it isn't food poisoning?"
"I don't know. It could be. But they've eaten the same food as the rest of us, haven't they? How come we're not affected?"
Hanamura turned back impatiently and leaned over the bunk, his glossy blue-black hair reflecting a sheen of light from the frosted globe on the bulkhead. "Gorsuch, can you hear me? Gorsuch!"
The man moaned, eyes creased shut, rocking himself.
"Gorsuch, what did you have for your last meal before the pains started? Can you remember? Can you tell me?"
A froth of some dark viscous substance had formed on the sick man's lips, like an oily scum. Hanamura drew back sharply at the smell. It stank of putrefaction, as if the man's intestines were rotting.