Read Online Bits & Pieces by Jonathan Maberry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Maberry
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somewhere and he couldnât find it.
Dad swung the shotgun at her, and her face seemed tocome apart. Pieces of something hit Jack in the chest, and he looked down to see teeth stuck to his raincoat by gobs of black stuff.
He thought something silly. He knew it was silly, but he thought it anyway because it was the only thought that would fit into his head.
But how will she eat her Sunday dinner without teeth?
He turned to see Dad struggling with two figures whose faces were as white as milk except for their dark eyes and dark mouths. One was a guy who worked for Mrs. Suzuki. José. Jack didnât know his last name. José something. The other was a big red-haired guy in a military uniform. Jack knew all the uniforms. This was a National Guard uniform. He had corporalâs stripes on his arms. But he only had one arm. The other sleeve whipped and popped in the wind, but there was nothing in it.
Dad was slipping in the mud. He fell back against the rear fender of the Durango. The shotgun slipped from his hands and was swallowed up by the groundwater.
The groundwater.
The cold, cold groundwater.
Jack looked numbly down at where his legs vanished into the swirling water. It eddied around his shins, just below his knees. He couldnât feel his feet anymore.
Be careful, Mom said from the warmth of his memories, or youâll catch your death .
Catch your death.
Jack thought about that as Dad struggled with the two white-faced people. The wind pushed Jack around, made him sway like a stalk of green corn.
He saw Dad let go of one of the people so he could grab for the pistol tucked into his waistband.
No, Dad, thought Jack. Donât do that. Theyâll get you if you do that.
Dad grabbed the pistol, brought it up, jammed the barrel under Joséâs chin. Fired. Joséâs hair seemed to jump off his head and then he was falling, his fingers going instantly slack.
But the soldier.
He darted his head forward and clamped his teeth on Dadâs wrist. On the gun wrist.
Dad screamed again. The pistol fired again, but the bullet went all the way up into the storm and disappeared.
Jack was utterly unable to move. Pale figures continued to come lumbering out of the rain. They came toward him, reached for him . . .
. . . but not one of them touched him.
Not one.
And there were so many.
Dad was surrounded now. He screamed and screamed, and fired his pistol. Three of the figures fell. Four. Two got back up again, the holes in their chests leaking black blood. The other two dropped backward with parts of their heads missing.
Aim for the head, Dad, thought Jack. Itâs what they do in the video games.
Dad never played those games. He aimed center mass and fired. Fired.
And then the white-faced people dragged him down into the frothing water.
Jack knew that he should do something. At the same time,and with the kind of mature clarity that came with dying at his age, he knew that he was in shock. Held in place by it. Probably going to be killed by it. If not by these . . . whatever they were . . . then by the vicious cold that was chewing its way up his spindly legs.
He could not move if he was on fire, he knew that. He was going to stand there and watch the world go all the way crazy. Maybe this was the black wall of nothing that he imagined. This . . .
What was it?
A plague? Or what did they call it? Mass hysteria?
No. People didnât eat each other during riots. Not even soccer riots.
This was different.
This was monster stuff.
This was stuff from TV and movies and video games.
Only the special effects didnât look as good. The blood wasnât bright enough. The wounds didnât look as disgusting. It was always better on TV.
Jack knew that his thoughts were crazy.
Iâm in shock, duh.
He almost smiled.
And then he heard Jill.
Screaming.
10
Jack ran.
He went from frozen immobility to full-tilt run so fastthat he felt
Dad swung the shotgun at her, and her face seemed tocome apart. Pieces of something hit Jack in the chest, and he looked down to see teeth stuck to his raincoat by gobs of black stuff.
He thought something silly. He knew it was silly, but he thought it anyway because it was the only thought that would fit into his head.
But how will she eat her Sunday dinner without teeth?
He turned to see Dad struggling with two figures whose faces were as white as milk except for their dark eyes and dark mouths. One was a guy who worked for Mrs. Suzuki. José. Jack didnât know his last name. José something. The other was a big red-haired guy in a military uniform. Jack knew all the uniforms. This was a National Guard uniform. He had corporalâs stripes on his arms. But he only had one arm. The other sleeve whipped and popped in the wind, but there was nothing in it.
Dad was slipping in the mud. He fell back against the rear fender of the Durango. The shotgun slipped from his hands and was swallowed up by the groundwater.
The groundwater.
The cold, cold groundwater.
Jack looked numbly down at where his legs vanished into the swirling water. It eddied around his shins, just below his knees. He couldnât feel his feet anymore.
Be careful, Mom said from the warmth of his memories, or youâll catch your death .
Catch your death.
Jack thought about that as Dad struggled with the two white-faced people. The wind pushed Jack around, made him sway like a stalk of green corn.
He saw Dad let go of one of the people so he could grab for the pistol tucked into his waistband.
No, Dad, thought Jack. Donât do that. Theyâll get you if you do that.
Dad grabbed the pistol, brought it up, jammed the barrel under Joséâs chin. Fired. Joséâs hair seemed to jump off his head and then he was falling, his fingers going instantly slack.
But the soldier.
He darted his head forward and clamped his teeth on Dadâs wrist. On the gun wrist.
Dad screamed again. The pistol fired again, but the bullet went all the way up into the storm and disappeared.
Jack was utterly unable to move. Pale figures continued to come lumbering out of the rain. They came toward him, reached for him . . .
. . . but not one of them touched him.
Not one.
And there were so many.
Dad was surrounded now. He screamed and screamed, and fired his pistol. Three of the figures fell. Four. Two got back up again, the holes in their chests leaking black blood. The other two dropped backward with parts of their heads missing.
Aim for the head, Dad, thought Jack. Itâs what they do in the video games.
Dad never played those games. He aimed center mass and fired. Fired.
And then the white-faced people dragged him down into the frothing water.
Jack knew that he should do something. At the same time,and with the kind of mature clarity that came with dying at his age, he knew that he was in shock. Held in place by it. Probably going to be killed by it. If not by these . . . whatever they were . . . then by the vicious cold that was chewing its way up his spindly legs.
He could not move if he was on fire, he knew that. He was going to stand there and watch the world go all the way crazy. Maybe this was the black wall of nothing that he imagined. This . . .
What was it?
A plague? Or what did they call it? Mass hysteria?
No. People didnât eat each other during riots. Not even soccer riots.
This was different.
This was monster stuff.
This was stuff from TV and movies and video games.
Only the special effects didnât look as good. The blood wasnât bright enough. The wounds didnât look as disgusting. It was always better on TV.
Jack knew that his thoughts were crazy.
Iâm in shock, duh.
He almost smiled.
And then he heard Jill.
Screaming.
10
Jack ran.
He went from frozen immobility to full-tilt run so fastthat he felt
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