Fallout Part 4
TWENTY-NINE
If she had not just come into town and described perfectly what he had been seeing for weeks, Wells never would have believed her. He knew parasites; they didn't have a consciousness, didn't enjoy killing. They just did what they did, like any other animal. The behavior she was describing was too deliberate, too planned.
But there was something wrong with Jonathan, and with the police chief. Maybe there were more that he hadn't seen. He questioned the girl further, listened to what she told him.
It was when she told him that the police chief was one of them that Wells found himself convinced. It fit too perfectly and every instinct he had was telling him that this girl was telling him the truth, despite how outrageous it seemed.
Finally she stopped. He knew there were details she had left out, particularly the exact way that both she and Nicole had acquired the ability to see these things, but for now this was enough.
"You can see them?" he asked.
"Sometimes. Things have to be just right."
"And your friend, Celeste, she was able to kill them? You can kill them the same way?"
Vicky Thompson nodded.
"What do you need to do this?"
"A place, a room, and time. I have something in the trunk of my car I would need too. But I'm worried about Nicole. I think they're hurting her."
He nodded. "We should get her first."
It occurred to him that it would be more sensible to give this girl a room and some time whatever it was she had in her trunk and let her work her magic. That way he would know she was telling him the truth. But if it took time and the police chief and someone else had Nicole, they might realize what was happening before Thompson finished, and do something to her.
Hostage first. That's how you dealt with these things.
Vicky Thompson was looking at him. It was afternoon now and the sun was beginning to throw long shadows through the window of his office.
"What do we do?" she asked him.
Wells stood. "I know someone who can help," he said.
#
There were several vets in town; three of them owned businesses and four had become grandfathers in the last five years. Wells kept in touch with all of them, and on Friday nights they would sometimes go bowling or would eat out. They had all talked to him about the war, and he to them. It was good for them, a kind of camaraderie you had to earn the hard way. Their experiences were varied, from different branches of the service. Most of them had done one tour and had gotten out as fast as they could.
Ricky Frantz had done three.
In a way the war had never ended for Ricky. He had been a Marine, force recon, and this had taught him that trust was a hard earned thing, but when given it was absolute. He was a gunsmith, and a good one, and his store had a monopoly on the hunting and fishing business in town because he was so good at it. He had a great love of children and would do anything for them, and a respect for women that could easily be misread as misogyny. His contempt for the government that had failed him in Vietnam was mixed with a fervent love of his country. People liked Ricky, even the ones who were a little bit afraid of him.
There was an electronic chime that went off as you opened the door to his shop. Wells and the girl stepped inside, and Ricky looked up and smiled.
"Benny!"
"Rick."
Ricky came out from behind the counter. He gripped Wells' hand hard. It was an old game they played, to see who would bend first. Wells usually lost, and he did this time.
"Ah! Army boy. You need to work out more! Who's your friend?"
"This is Vicky Thompson."
Ricky's hand went from iron to soft clay as he shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, Miss. You a niece Benny here hasn't told me about?"
Vicky shook her head. "Just a friend."
Ricky nodded. turned back to Wells. "And what can I get for you today, Benny? Going to do some fishing?"
Wells shook his head. "I need some other things," he said.
Ricky noted the tone, and his voice changed, became serious. "This way," he said, and led them to the handgun cabinet at the back of the store.
#
Vicky watched as the two men talked. She felt small, intimidated. She had never liked guns and back in Evansfield had even signed a petition in favor of stricter gun laws. But these men were not like the political NRA types she had met at school. They knew guns, both of them, knew what they were talking about and what they were holding. She noticed that at no point the barrel of any of the weapons they were handling ever point in her direction, or in the direction of either of them.
Wells selected a pistol, checked it. The shop owner nodded.
God, Vicky thought, I don't know these people. What the hell am I doing?
"Kevlar," Wells was saying. "For both of us."
"I've got some police issue vests that should fit," the shop owner said. "She's a bit small, though. When do you need it?"
"Today."
The man nodded. "What's going on, Benny?"
"She's got a friend in trouble," Wells said.
"Can I help?"
"You already are, man."
#
Ricky measured the girl, efficiently and quickly, then stepped into the back and emerged with two vests. He showed her how to put it on, nodded approvingly.
"Nothing prettier than a girl in a vest," he said, and he turned back to Wells. "Can I set the little lady up with anything else? I've got a 9mm that would fit her hand just fine."
Vicky shook her head.
"She's fine," Wells said. "I need to talk to you about some stun guns."
#
He took her back to the church, had her follow him home in her car, park it in the alley behind his house. Once they were there he took her inside and sat down with her. He produced a stun gun, handed it to her, showed her how to point it, where the trigger was.
"This is a weapon," he said. "The first rule of any weapon is that you never, ever point it at anything unless you intend to use it on them. This won't kill, but it will ruin the day of anyone you use it on. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"Now," he said. "If this goes right, we are going to be seriously overprepared and it will be over quickly. I will knock on the door and we will go in. You will stay behind me until I tell you it is all right to move. If you so much as see a gun, you get the hell out of there and hide. Protect yourself. We will go into the house and find Nicole, get her out of there. If what you say is true she will want to come. You understand that if you are wrong, we are both going to face some serious jail time."
"I understand."
He bit his lip, looked down at her hands. They were trembling as they held the stun gun. Part of him was screaming that this was insane, that he was throwing away his life on this girl's flimsy story, that he didn't even know what she was talking about. But there was another part, the part that had long ago learned to tell right from wrong, the part that he had learned to listen to all those years ago during the war, that told him that this was right and this was serious and that it wasn't just Nicole or Jonathan in danger, but a lot more.
"Is there anything else?" he asked.
Her hands stilled, and her voice firmed. "I need a safe room, and the thing in my trunk."
"There's a spare bedroom I use to store things. Do you need a hand?"
She shook her head.
#
The thing was heavier now, larger, but she could still keep it hidden under the blanket as she carried it into his house. He was in the living room as she did, checking his pistol. She brought it into the room, laid it down. A few moments passed and she watched it.
What are you? she thought. Why is all this happening?
A nudge came then, faint, almost like nothing at all. A tentacle had emerged from under the blanket; it bore the phallic head she knew so well. Another nudge sent her into his kitchen where she hunted for a glass in his cupboard. Returning to the bedroom, she found herself compelled to kneel before the thing, to hold the glass beneath the tentacle.
It spurted, into the glass. The liquid was nearly clear. It spurted again. Then the tentacle withdrew and she was directed to stand, to return to the kitchen, directed to look at him, staring, for several minutes.
Finally she understood.
"Do you have anything to drink?" she asked.
He looked up. "There's some ice tea in the fridge," he said.
"Thanks. Would you like some?"
He nodded. "Sure. No sugar, please."
He drank and they were ready.
THIRTY
They sensed the energy, sought it.
Not enough to triangulate.
But the defenders were here, somewhere.
Phone calls were made, between the police chief at the station, the mayor on his cell phone, guarding the girl, the doctor at his office along with the father.
"Do we kill the girl?" the mayor asked. "She is dangerous."
"No," said the doctor. "Sedate her. That will render her useless in the battle. There is still much we can learn from the weapons in her, and it would not be easy to acquire another one."
"We should prepare. They will probably try and reach the girl," the police chief said.
The father spoke then.
"Be careful, everyone. We knew this time would come."
THIRTY-ONE
They drove, the two of them, down one street, turning into another, into a quiet residential neighborhood, parked a short way down from the house. Wells noted the police cruiser parked in front. He shut off the engine of his SUV, turned to the girl beside him.
"Here," he said, reaching into his pocket. "These are the spare keys to this truck, and to my house. In case you need them."
She looked small, bundled in the heavy kevlar vest, her coat tight against it. Not the right person to bring on something like this; maybe he should have let Ricky come.
No. This isn't his fight. If this is all wrong he shouldn't have to pay for my mistake.
"You ready?" Wells asked.
She took the keys, pushed them into her pocket, nodded.
They opened the doors to the SUV, closed them and walked up to the nearest house, skirted along lawns, avoiding the sidewalk. It was dark now; the sun had set an hour before. Wells was remembering now, how it felt, moving carefully, the jungle all around you, your face painted in camo and your M-16 in your hand, your eyes and ears and nose alert for anything, for any sound that might be death just a few seconds away.
The feeling came naturally and this frightened him.
They reached the house. He directed the girl to stay back, out of sight of the door. She obeyed.
Wells approached the door, one hand in the pocket of his jacket, rang the bell.
#
No answer. He tired again. A light was on inside, and he sensed motion.
He rang the bell a third time.
The door opened.
The chief stood there.
"Reverend."
Wells kept his surprise hidden.
"Chief."
"What do you want, Reverend?"
"I'm here to see Jonathan and Nicole. Where are they?"
The man's face remained expressionless.
"They don't want to see you. Good night, Reverend."
He moved to close the door. Wells blocked it with his foot.
"I'm not leaving until I see them," he said. "Both of them."
#
The next seconds happened quickly. The chief stepped back. Wells saw his hand go down, to the service revolver he wore at his hip. The chief's palm went around the weapon, began to draw it out.
The reflex was instant, honed by training and combat Wells had thought he had forgotten. His own hand, moving from his pocket, aiming, firing.
The blast from the stun gun caught the chief full in the chest with a loud crack, sending him falling back against and through the coffee table in the middle of the room, his half-drawn pistol sailing against the wall and falling to the carpeted floor. Wells stepped forward, a single step and then a second, into the room.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the motion, just a bit, and as he turned he saw another man there, a man he knew.
Or had known. The mayor raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger, and with a deafening roar the small automatic discharged.
#
Vicky heard the noise, the roar, felt her ears ring with the sound of it. She heard another crash, another body falling, and she remembered his words.
If you so much as see a gun, you get the hell out of there and hide.
She hesitated, unable to run.
This saved her life.
A man appeared at the door, looked outside. She saw the pistol in his hand, saw him just see her as she aimed her stun gun, fired.
#
Wells fought to breathe. He had been shot; he knew this in an abstract way, like one might read about a shooting in a newspaper. He heard something, a loud crack, not so far away.
Have they called a the chopper? he wondered.
Then there was a girl, a pretty girl, kneeling over him. She didn't look like a medic and she was watching him.
I know you, pretty girl.
I know you.
Reality came into focus.
His ribs felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to them. He drew in a deep breath, blinked.
"Are you all right?" she was asking. "Are you all right?"
He remembered kevlar. He looked, down, at his chest. There was a hole in his coat, in his shirt.
But not in him.
He nodded, fought to breathe, did. "I'm all right. We have to hurry. Get me the handcuffs and the keys from the police chief."
She did. The man was groaning, trying to move. Wells secured his hands behind his back, then did the same with the mayor, keeping a close eye on the doorway as he did. Then he found the two pistols and removed their ammunition, stuffed the empty guns into his belt.
"All right," he said. "Come on."
#
They went through the house, quickly, room by room. He made sure she stayed behind him. The kitchen and the den and the master bedroom were empty; the second bedroom was not.
Nicole.
She was naked, on her bed, her wrist handcuffed to the bedframe.
Any doubt that might have remained in him vanished instantly.
"Christ almighty," he breathed.
He went for the handcuff first, used the chief's key to release it. Nicole moaned softly as he did, looked up at him, said something incoherent. He wrapped her in her bedspread, looked over at Vicky.
She was at the dresser, pulling out clothes. Wells shook his head.
"Never mind that. Let's go."
Vicky nodded. She had the second drawer open, and he saw as she grabbed some underwear from it and stuffed these into her pocket.
They reached the SUV just as the first sirens could be heard, shoved Nicole in the back and drove away. Wells knew the town well, took a back road in the direction of his home.
THIRTY-TWO
The girl was gone. They had anticipated an assault, had even managed to shoot one of the intruders. But it had gone wrong and now the girl was gone. As the police arrived the chief was able to move, but the mayor was still incapacitated. The chief told his lieutenant to give him the mayor's cell phone, then to give him some privacy.
The man looked at him a bit oddly but obeyed.
Dr. Tanner picked up right away. The chief spoke.
"We have lost the girl. The defenders were better prepared than we expected. There was a second person with the Reverend. It was a girl."
"Was she armed?" asked Dr. Tanner. He switched the phone to conference so the father could hear.
"There was no time to tell," the chief said.
"We must assume she was."
"Are we prepared to resist the weapons?"
The father spoke. "Perhaps. I don't know. I know I am stronger."
The chief breathed in deeply. "We must find the Reverend, kill him. Recapturing the girl is a second priority. I can direct the police force here to go to the Reverend's house."
Dr. Tanner looked at the father, who shook his head.
"No," the father said. "The police here are trained to capture, not to kill. If they capture the girl and she tells them what we have been doing, we will fall under suspicion. We must remove the police and the population from the equation. We must treat this as war now. Begin with the adults; this will cripple their ability to act."
The thing inside Dr. Tanner made him nod. In the patrol car the thing in the police chief made him nod too. The thing in the father spoke a final time, his word a command.
"FEED."
#
From the police chief the microscopic tendrils came forth, white-hot and hungry. In the house the lieutenant was checking the second bedroom, wondering why there was a pile of filthy clothes in one corner and why the bedspread was missing and why there was a pair of handcuffs hanging from the bedpost. In the living room another officer was marking the location of the six unfired bullets from the chief's service revolver and was wondering why there was a clip from an automatic 9mm lying just across the room.
Neither had time to scream.
In the office across the way from Dr. Tanner's office, an insurance agent was working late. In another building a night janitor was vacuuming an office. In a nearby neighborhood a young mother had just read her twin children a bedtime story. Two houses down a family had just sat down to a late dinner. On main street a restaurant manager had just gotten off work and was driving home.
All were taken easily.
The tendrils spread out, over the small town, like a net holding fish. House to house and place to place, burrowing into the brains and the minds of their victims, relishing the sudden, pained surprise, the inner screams.
There was no resistance, no aid. The restaurant manager lost control of her car, plowed into a storefront, setting off the alarm. But she didn't hear the alarm because her mind and her soul were on fire. The twin children were awakened by their mother, staggering through the house, knocking things over as she twitched, her face a tortured facade now.
All around the world the tiny ships saw the sudden burst of energy, of pain.
And they were afraid.
#
Energy coursed through the tendrils in the mayor, the police chief, Dr. Tanner and Jonathan Edwards. It was power, victory, hate. The glory of war. They had been quiet and hungry for a long time and now burned their victims without mercy. This was only the beginning, the first stage. Soon the millions behind them would arrive and this joyous death would be spread all over this tiny blue world.
Only one thing remained to be done.
THIRTY-THREE
Wells had carried Nicole in and had laid her on his bed when he felt it. Pain, sudden and stabbing, deep in his head. He cried out, went to his knees, his vision suddenly clouded in red.
Vicky was there. He felt her hand on his shoulder.
"Are you all right, Reverend?"
He blinked. "Oh, God," he moaned. "What was that?"
"It's started," she said.
#
The red grid had come up as she had fired her stun gun at the mayor, rushing in with the adrenaline and the terror. She had seen him, inside him, and inside the police chief too, had seen the white-hot things there as they struggled to make the bodies they had taken work again. It had stayed as she and the Reverend and Nicole had fled, as they drove back here.
And Vicky saw as the white-hot things spread suddenly over the entire town, as they flared from one person to the next in seconds, filling them, taking them. Every adult, every teenager.
Except for here.
She saw also as one of the things tried, as it came in and penetrated the Reverend's skull, trying to burn into his brain. She saw as the weapons that had been in the tea came to life, as they fought the tendril back, kept it away.
He managed to rise, to sit on the bed.
"Are you all right, Reverend?" she asked again.
He nodded. "I think so. God, that hurts."
"You need to lock the house. They're going to be coming soon. You need to get Nicole away from the windows. You need to keep her safe."
"We should go," Wells said. "We should get help."
Vicky shook her head, began to pull off her kevlar vest.
"No. They would kill us before we got out of town. It's all of them now. Every adult in this town. They will make them kill us."
"We can call. Get help. The National Guard ...."
"No." She stood, pulled off her vest, began to unbutton her blouse, stepped toward the door of the bedroom.
#
He watched her for a few seconds, torn. None of this made any sense.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
She turned. The front of her blouse was open and now she pulled it away. She had on a white lace bra and without meaning to he ran his gaze over her breasts.
"I am going to kill those things," she said. "All of them."
She turned again, walked down the hall toward the spare bedroom. Wells got up, followed her.
Her bra was gone now, discarded in the hall. He reached out, took her arm, turned her to face him again. Her breasts were perfect, firm and rounded, moving just a bit as she breathed.
"Vicky, what are you doing? What is going on?"
She said nothing, only reached out with her free hand and opened the bedroom door.
#
It was ... something.
About the size of a table now, rounded, red and pink and black. There were tentacles around the base, a myriad of them, all animated. One, extending from the point closest to two of them, resembled a large phallus, ridged down the shaft.
Wells pulled back instinctively, pulling her with him.
"What the hell is that?"
Vicky looked at him, pulled against his grip.
"I don't know. But I have to go in there."
He looked at her, at her bare breasts, shook his head. "Oh, God. No."
Her voice was serious, calm.
"I have to. This isn't a war you can win with guns, Reverend."
He said nothing now, tightening his grip. He felt, suddenly, as his body seemed to weaken, as though he was losing control. He tensed, closed his eyes, fought the sensation off.
Vicky was watching him. "You have to trust me, Reverend. No matter what happens, no matter what you hear from this room, you have to let me do what I have to do."
Wells shook his head. "I can't ... let you ...."
"Fuck it?" she asked. "You have to."
He shook his head again. "We'll run," he said. "We'll get help. But not this!"
She reached up with her free hand, touched at his face. He found himself looking at her eyes.
"I was missing for three months this summer," she said. "Every day for those three months I had sex with this thing. I don't know what it is but it never hurt me. Let me go, Reverend. The things out there, that were in the police chief and the mayor, they are almost here, right now. I can stop them. If you don't let me go they will kill you and I don't even want to think what they will do to Nicole and me."
The name "Nicole" registered through the shock. Naked, handcuffed to the bed. What had they been doing to her?
He remembered. A little voice that didn't understand.
Where's my Mommy, Reverend?
He released Vicky's arm, stepped back. She kicked off her shoes, pulled off her jeans. In her socks and panties she faced him.
"Keep her safe, Reverend. I'll be all right."
Then she had stepped through the door and closed it.
#
Wells turned walked back to the master bedroom. Nicole was still there. She had curled up into a ball and was sleeping fitfully, as though she was having a bad dream from which she couldn't awaken. He caressed her shoulder for a few minutes.
Outside, he heard cars driving up the street. He rose and carried Nicole into the bathroom, laid her in the tub. Then he locked all the doors and returned to her, sitting at the door and holding his pistol, praying to God for help.
THIRTY-FOUR
Vicky faced the thing. It was an old ritual now, a habit that you never questioned. You approached it in your panties, stripped for it before it did you. This had assumed an erotic significance for her; the last, symbolic barrier before it took you, like you were telling it that you surrendered, that you trusted it, that you knew it was going to make you feel the impossible pleasure.
In the red grid, existing in her mind like another sense, she saw the entire town burning in pain. She saw cars coming, people walking towards this house, this place, and she felt the terror and the pain in them because they knew what the white-hot things were gong to make them do.
Her vulva was moist and she relaxed. It was time.
She reached up, pulled her panties down, kicked them away. Naked, she stepped towards the thing. She awaited a nudge, direction.
None came.
She understood. She would choose her own position.
She knelt before it, crawled over it. She raised her buttocks, parted her thighs widely. She could feel her sex, moist and warm and somehow so sensitive just now, revealed to the thing.
Tentacles closed over her, around her arms and legs and waist, holding her tightly. She lowered her head, kissed at the rubbery surface of the thing, licking at it with her tongue.
Please, she thought. Gag me. It's hard enough that he will have to hear what he does.
It seemed to understand. A tentacle rose, the head a round ball, it pressed against her lips, and she opened them, feeling it fill her mouth, feeling the air flow from it.
Outside, two cars pulled up, bumping up against the curb haphazardly. Policemen. Armed.
She felt the tentacle, wet and hard, moving up her thigh. She felt it rest against her vulva, caressing, heard herself moan around the gag.
She screamed out with passion as it thrust deeply into her, ejaculating right away.
#
It pistoned hard, taking her without mercy. Vicky climaxed quickly, then climaxed again, screaming out against her gag. She could feel it ejaculate, and each time it was joy, pleasure, as she felt her vagina grip hard against the thing, felt her toes curling, her nipples hard and rigid, feeling as another pair of tentacles wound their way around her breasts, squeezing them tightly, even as another worked its way over her anus, caressing her there as she orgasmed.
The policemen were out of their cars now, were walking up to the front door. They had drawn their guns and the men that they had been, only a few hours ago, were screaming silently in agony.
Vicky saw the needles, billions of them, as they flew from her body and up, into the red grid. As she had before she directed them, only not at pebbles now but at the men, at the white-hot death that was inside them.
She cried out, spasmed, orgasmed hard, even as the needles flew at the two policemen, at them and through them and into them, into the white-hot things in them, burning the things away into nothingness. She saw the two men drop to the ground, saw as more people were coming, the white-hot things in them glowing strong.
These burned quickly too.
#
There was a sense to it all now, a reality that was her own and yet was not. There was the red grid, and the net of death that she saw through it, the tendrils that were even now trying to strengthen against her, but in the people of the town they were too fresh, too recent, to resist. And so Vicky blazed against them, cold and calculating in her strikes, moving out from the Reverend's house in an ever widening circle, cleansing the people, watching them fall where they were, themselves again.
In another reality she was in the Reverend's spare bedroom. Here there was little that was substantial; the only absolute was her and the thing that was doing her.
And what am I, in this place?
She was joy. Perfect, absolute, feminine. With every thrust into her vagina, with every impact of the ridged tentacle against her engorged clitoris, with every tight squeezing of her breasts or caress of her anus or just the tightness that held her limbs, she was feminine, was this joy. The thing that took her, that pushed up into her, impossibly long and thick and hard, that pistoned in and out of her body, was only a reminder that this was what she was, that these feelings were her and her alone.
Punctuated by orgasms, the thoughts came to her.
I
love
being
me
#
In time the town was clean; only a few of the things remained. These were stronger, had been inside their hosts for far longer than the rest of the townspeople. Vicky saw these few, even as they tried to flee, even as they tried to defend against her.
Her thighs were wet with her own moisture and the regular ejaculations of the thing, flowing slick from her vagina. She was exhausted and wondered how long it had been, how long she had hunted, had fought.
Still the thing jabbed into her, and still she came.
A burst of energy, and one of the remaining ones was clean.
She spasmed, screaming out against her gag, her voice raw now from her cries.
She pursued another. It was the chief, trying to get away in his car, the sirens blaring as he raced down the road out of town.
He was not fast enough. She closed in.
Another thrust. It pressed hard against her anus as it did, squeezed tightly and then released her breasts, things running in circles over her nipples. Vicky climaxed just as the billion needles slammed into him.
They burned deeply, into the white-hot hate, vaporizing it. She could almost sense its surprise as it died. Somehow the man was able to get his foot to the brakes and stop the car before he collapsed.
A third one had fled into the streets, was running. Vicky cleansed him, sweeping in twice, watching him fall as she did. Then she turned to the last, to the one who merely sat, as though it was waiting for her.
The hate in this one was strong.
The tentacle's pistoning had reached a fever pitch. It was spewing into her with a constant stream now, her body orgasming so quickly it was hard to breathe and only the air forced through the gag made it possible to do so.
Vicky struck, hard, against this last white-hot thing, burned at it with the needles, again and again.
Only this one escaped her.
THIRTY-FIVE
Time passed.
It had survived. It had held. It was battered, pain everywhere, but the adaptations, the changes, had worked. The weapons could be resisted.
The father looked up from where he lay. He had been with Dr. Tanner in the office, had watched as Dr. Tanner finally screamed, unable to stand more, had rushed out into the street. And a few moments later the attack had begun, on him, on what he was, burning at him, digging at what he was, trying to free the man inside him.
The man, the real father, knew the attack had failed. His sadness brought the thing some small pleasure through the pain.
The thing made the body stand. He was still in the office. At some point he had fallen to the floor; he didn't remember. It was morning now and he walked outside. It was quiet now, the street deserted. A car had smashed into a building just down the way; the front end was crushed and the door was open. Here and there people lay. Some slept; a few moaned.
He saw Dr. Tanner, stepped to him, rolled him over to his back.
The man looked up at him.
"You have not died in vain," the father said to him.
Then he moved on, looking for a car. It would take time to heal, time to muster the strength to send a message to those millions who were coming, to tell them what they needed to do, how they needed to prepare. He had sent a few updates, but these were incomplete.
Now his final results had been tested.
He looked around the desolation and smiled.
War is beautiful, he thought.
THIRTY-SIX
The drugs had begun to wear off shortly after midnight. There was a faint memory of noise, loud noise, of her hand coming free and someone guiding her, of being wrapped in something and warm. There was also the nightmare, the red grid, the wide net of hot, white hate that erupted suddenly, the nightmare of people she knew, good people from church, people she had known since she was a child, being taken, tortured, hurt.
Nicole stirred. She was in a tub, curled up, warm in her bedspread. She raised her head.
A toilet, a sink, an open door.
She looked at her wrist. It was ringed with bruises and still hurt from the cuffs. She rubbed it.
Someone moved, outside the door, closer. She shrank down into the tub, suddenly afraid.
Minister Wells. He stood at the door.
"Nicole?"
She nodded, whimpered.
He looked different. He wasn't in his suit and tie; instead he wore jeans and boots, and a heavy vest like the police wore. He looked tired, too.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
She hesitated. "I'm okay," she said softly.
"It's morning. Would you like something to eat?"
She nodded.
#
He brought her one of his shirts to wear; it was baggy and with a belt could have been a short dress. When she emerged he saw her and smiled.
"Oh," he said. "Wait a moment."
He stepped away, returned with a pair of jeans draped over his arm. He reached into one of the pockets and pulled out a pair of underwear.
"They're yours," he said. "Vicky grabbed them from your dresser when we got you."
"Vicky?" she asked.
"Your friend."
Nicole said nothing. She took the panties and closed the door, pulled them on and let the hem of the shirt settle back over her thighs.
He was sitting in the kitchen when she emerged, frying some eggs at his stove. She sat and he put a plate of them in front of her, followed this with a tall glass of orange juice.
"The gas is still working," he said. "But the power's off. Had to light this with a match. It's crazy out there. I did some recon, tried to help a few of them. Some were able to talk a little. It looks like whatever those things were, they're gone."
She trembled. "Things?"
He nodded, sat down across from her.
"One of them was in your father," he said. "It made him do things. That's what Vicky told me. I think she was right."
She looked at him for a moment.
"I know," she said.
"I got a call out on someone's cell phone," he said then. "There are some emergency crews out there now; they flew them in by helicopter. The National Guard is on its way with some trucks. They're treating this as a biohazard until they figure it out."
Nicole finished her eggs.
"What happened?"
"I don't know. We got you out and then the whole town went nuts, all of a sudden. Then Vicky ... stopped it."
"Who's Vicky?"
He looked at her. "Your friend, from college. She's sleeping now, in the spare bedroom, where she spent the night. I checked on her a while ago, but I don't know what I'm supposed to do with her."
Nicole thought for a moment. There had been a Vicky, who lived in her dorm. She always seemed to have boys around, liked to wear short skirts and go to parties.
The Minister was looking at her closely. "I need to ask you something, Nicole," he said.
She drank from her orange juice. It tasted good.
"All right," she answered.
"There was something, at the college. Something that wasn't ... human."
She trembled. What did he know?
"I need to know what it was. Can you tell me, Nicole?"
She shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
His look was gentle, disarming, his voice soft. "Nicole, whatever it was, it's all right. You know I won't judge you. But I've seen something, and I think you do know about it."
Her heart was pounding. He did know. He knew that she had come, again and again with the thing in the basement, that she had liked what it had done to her, what she had felt when it used her. And that meant other people knew, too, that she was just a whore and a slut and now no Christian man would want her.
She began to cry softly. He handed her a napkin as she did.
"I didn't want it to .... It just did .... It made me do it and then I wanted it to do it .... And now I want to be ...."
She blew her nose. He only looked at her, said nothing. She felt herself redden as the shame swept over her.
"I want to be fucked!" she sobbed. "I want a man to fuck me! I want it to fuck me! All right? I'm a whore! I liked it! I liked it!"
She sobbed again. It was all true and she couldn't help it and that was why they had all been so cruel to her, because she was too dirty to deserve God's grace.
Then the Reverend spoke and his voice was like it had been before, when she was little and hurting and crying all the time.
"Nicole. Listen to me. You are not a whore. What happened at the college doesn't matter. Do you remember what I told you? You are a beautiful young woman and God has given you your beauty, and these feelings, to give to the right man. Remember?"
She looked up, nodded through the tears.
"And you know that no matter what you do, no matter what you feel, Jesus loves you. You know that. Love is the most powerful thing in the universe, Nicole. It is the most powerful thing and the most important thing. Never forget that."
He was right. She knew this despite the guilt. Because Jesus had been there, with her, as she had lain handcuffed to her bed, surrounded by evil. It was his love that had kept her going, that had given her the strength to survive. The thing in the basement was nothing beside this.
She nodded now, then blinked.
Because the red grid was there, all around her. She saw the town, the people in the biohazard suits, helping other people, gathering them in the gymnasium of the high school, in the town hall. She saw the damage, the helicopter in the town square, the trucks arriving with supplies, with food and clothing and medicine. And she saw the people, each of them. Hurt, but clean, healing.
All save for the one she knew best.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Vicky emerged late in the afternoon, staggering out of the room. She was naked, her hair mussed. The Reverend hurried to her, helped support her.
"I'm all right," she said, but without his help it was clear she couldn't stand. "There's one more. I couldn't ...."
She saw Nicole, nodded. Nicole stared back at her.
"There's one more. I tried .... It's still out there ...."
"Let's get you into a bed," said the Reverend.
He led her into the master bedroom, pulled back the covers of his bed, laid her down, pulled them back over her. She looked up at Nicole, standing in the doorway.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I tried ...."
#
Nicole backed away as the Reverend tucked Vicky in. She could feel her heart beating, pounding as she turned and walked down the hall to the spare bedroom. The door was open and she looked inside.
It was in there. Quiet now, as she stood and watched, most of the tentacles unmoving. Only one was active; the large, phallic one, and as Nicole watched it it grew moist and two more smaller tendrils played over it, wiping the moisture away.
She trembled as it worked, unable to pull herself away. Her breath quickened, and she felt her nipples brushing against the fabric of the shirt as it did. There was a warmth in her belly, too, and lower. Familiar warmth that as she stood became intimate moisture.
"Nicole?"
It was the Reverend. He gently put his hand around her shoulder, guided her into the kitchen and to a chair. He sat across from her.
"Is that what it looked like? Before?"
She nodded.
He sighed, rubbed his brow. She could tell he was exhausted.
"I don't know what it is. I don't think Vicky knows either. But she does know how it works, what it does. Do you see the things she talks about, the things in people?"
Nicole nodded again. She still saw the red grid, still saw her father, the white-hot thing inside him glowing softly, as he sat now in the high school gymnasium, eating something they had given him. He was acting like he was one of the others, the ones who were confused, in shock, but she could tell it wasn't true. The thing inside him was hurt, but it was alive and growing stronger.
Reverend Wells sighed. "I don't understand it," he said. "Why does it need women? Vicky said it was up to her to stop the things, but she had to have ...."
His voice trailed off. Then he spoke again.
"I don't think it hurt her, and maybe she did save the town. At least it's over now."
Nicole looked up at him.
"No," she said softly. "Not yet."
THIRTY-EIGHT
It made sense. In the dorm there had been the thing, and then the police had come and had shot that boy, and then Celeste had done something, down there, in the basement. Then her father had come for her and it had been like it was before; not perfect, with all the old pain still but with the old love too.
And then he had changed, had become cruel, and with him the mayor, the police chief, Dr. Tanner. She remembered her conversations with the chief and she remembered that it was like she was talking to someone else, not even a person, really. The red grid had proved this.
She remembered her father's praying, as she had watched, as she had felt his pain as the thing hurt him.
And now, Vicky had come and the things in people were gone. Somehow she had destroyed them.
To make sure, Nicole turned the red grid to the mayor, to the police chief, to Dr. Tanner. They were themselves, only. Nothing more.
The only one of the things that was left was the one in her father.
The Reverend was watching her.
"Not yet," she said again.
"What do you mean?" he asked, and she could hear the tension in his voice. "Nicole, what do you mean?"
"I have to help him," she said.
#
It was a sin, she knew. It had not been before, because it had given her no choice, when it had made her come down to the basement, had made her spread her legs for it. That could be forgiven. Even the fact that she had enjoyed it, had even found herself looking forward to it, could be forgiven.
This? This was the sin of lust, of fornication. This was her choice, to spread herself for this thing, to let it violate her, enter her, use that part of her that was sacred, that was supposed to be for her husband alone. She remembered the words she had heard for so long.
Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived; neither fornicators, nor idolaters, not adulterers, nor effeminate ... shall inherit the kingdom of God.
The Reverend was watching her silently. He shook his head.
She had explained and he had listened. She wanted him to say something that would make it all right, that would explain the sin away. But as she sat, Nicole knew this wouldn't happen. There was no explaining it, no rationalizing around it, and they both knew this.
Even as Sodom and Gomorrha, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.
She looked at him, glanced down the hall. In the red grid she stared at her father.
"There has to be another way," Reverend Wells said. "This isn't right."
She nodded. "I know. But I have to do it."
He looked at her closely. "When?" he asked.
"I should do it soon. The thing in him is weak right now."
Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.
In the red grid she saw the thing in her father grow a bit, felt as it savored his suffering.
She stood. The Reverend looked up at her as she did.
"I'll be here," he said, "in case you need anything."
#
Nicole walked slowly down the hall to the spare bedroom. It seemed almost unreal, like this was all really just a dream, but she had felt this feeling before and knew it was not. She felt her body change, just a bit, as she walked, felt her nipples swell and harden, felt her skin flush. As she unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it away she felt a growing warmth in her belly, her groin, and with it she felt the moisture of anticipation.
There was no question, she knew. This was a sin that would send her to hell. It was the knowing that made this certain, knowing that it was a sin and that she was going to do it anyway, regardless. And as she dropped the shirt to the floor behind her and stepped into the room, naked save for her panties, it came to her that this didn't matter, that eternal damnation was acceptable.
To save him.
Honor thy father and thy mother.
She closed the door behind her, faced the thing.
It was animated now, tentacles waving in the air, the long phallic one erect and moist. Her breathing was short, irregular, as she licked her lips, then as she pulled her panties down her legs and stepped from them.
Naked, she spoke.
"Take me."
THIRTY-NINE
She stepped forward, toward it, brought one leg over the long, phallic tentacle, lay back atop the thing. It was comfortable, shifting itself to accommodate and support her even as she spread her thighs widely and arched up her hips, feeling the cool air of the room against her wet vulva.
Tentacles wrapped around her, holding her thighs and arms and belly tightly. She lay her head back, moaned softly as it moved, the moist thing moving up her inner thigh, caressing gently around her sex, and she felt herself squirm under its touch.
Oh, please. Take me. Please.
It did, pushing slowly into her. She felt her labia part as her body accepted the thing, as it filled her, moving deeply. Ridges along the shaft of the tentacle bumped over her clitoris, and Nicole whimpered helplessly as they did, her whimpering becoming a heated moan as the thing began to thrust in and out.
Then it ejaculated, and she cried out as she climaxed, her limbs tensing against her bonds, even as it spurted again into her, a second orgasm following quickly.
The red grid was there. She saw all.
She felt the tentacle pistoning now, in and out, and Nicole felt herself give in to the lust she felt, surrender to it. She orgasmed again, loudly, even as she felt more tentacles move over her breasts, caressing them, gripping them and squeezing, the tip running over her engorged nipples.
Her father was there, in the red grid. He was sitting in the gymnasium, on an army cot. Nearby, two children played as their mother and father lay resting. A National Guardsman stood nearby, watching the children.
Nicole screamed out now, as the tentacle ejaculated again, one orgasm seeming to meld with the next, her body fighting her bonds as she struggled with the impossible pleasure of it. And as the orgasms came again and again she saw that what the Reverend had told her was true; it was no sin to feel pleasure, to feel sexual, to feel female. It was no sin to love what you were.
A rush came over her, outside and beyond the orgasms. It was as though she was free, suddenly. She loved herself, everything that she was. She was Nicole and she was good and she was worthy of love.
The tentacle ejaculated again, and again she screamed in joy. And in the red grid she saw as a billion tiny needles rose up from her, rose and flew outward, out toward the gymnasium. They were hers, she knew, part of her.
Weapons?
Was this war?
Doubt, suddenly. She remembered the words of the police chief, his love of war. She remembered what he had told her she would feel, how hate and death were good, how even Jesus worshipped war.
The needles slowed.
The tentacle thrust, ejaculated.
But Nicole did not come. She gasped out, moaning, as it thrust again.
Jesus was not war. Jesus was love. What would she be, if she gave in to her hate? How would she ever be worthy of God's grace? How would she be different from the thing she sought to destroy?
Hate is not the way.
And then she knew. It was not about hate at all.
The tentacle thrust harder. It seemed uncertain, tentative now. But as understanding came to her Nicole felt herself surrender to it utterly, to the feelings, to the pleasure.
It pistoned into her, the ridges banging against her clitoris, thrusting deeply, spewing wet and hot and hard as orgasm after orgasm tore through her, the world itself fading into only her and it and the pleasure.
And the needles and their target.
#
Strength was returning. The pain was almost gone now, and the thing in Jonathan Edwards took a few moments to look around him. There were many sentients here; children playing as their parents rested, and several doctors and nurses who moved among the cots, checking people. In the school cafeteria they were cooking food for dinner, and the smell of it wafted through the gymnasium.
Soon, it thought, taking a moment to exact a bit of torture from the soul of Jonathan Edwards. Soon it would have the power to transmit, to tell the others what it had learned. And then it would kill Jonathan Edwards, burn the life from him, and take the body of another and hide until the others arrived.
The thing inhaled deeply of the smell of the food. It thought of feasting.
#
The first blow took it by surprise, tearing into it without warning. The body of Jonathan Edwards cried out, air forced suddenly from his lungs, falling forward to his knees.
The second blow was harder. The thing felt the needles, burning into it, felt as the defenses held, cried out again.
"Hey!" someone called. "Are you all right?"
The thing in Jonathan Edwards scanned, tried to find the source of its enemy. It could not be the girl who had massacred the others; he had felt her weakness as she fought him, knew she would still be too weak to attack again. This was someone else.
Someone it knew, and he knew.
The daughter.
As she struck again it laughed. It knew her biochemistry, her weapons. She had been the archetype it had designed its defenses against. It would be most resistant to her. If it could withstand the first girl it could withstand her.
People were moving around the body of Jonathan Edwards now, trying to help, holding him in place as he spasmed with each attack.
The needles struck, bounced away. The thing laughed again, the laugh coming as a gasp from the lips of Jonathan Edwards.
This is glory, it thought, as it braced for the next assault. This is the greatness of war. Facing your enemy, doing battle, feeling the rush of your hate, and that of your enemy.
A moment passed. A pause.
The thing in Jonathan Edwards prepared, scanned, looking for her. Yes, come at me with your hate, girl. Let us do battle, you and I. Let us see what you are made of.
A physician was talking. "Mr. Edwards? Can you hear me? Are you all right?"
The thing could hear him, but did not respond.
Another moment.
Then she came again.
#
The needles burned, deeply, in it and through it. The thing screamed, its surprise total. For its defenses were useless, suddenly, and the needles cut through them like they were nothing. And as it screamed again, its last, hate filled scream, the thing saw. It understood.
It was not hate that drove the girl, that powered her needles. No.
It was something unfamiliar, different. Something the thing had never thought to prepare against.
Love.
The thing, seeing this, was afraid.
And then it was dead and only Jonathan Edwards remained.
FORTY
Vicky awoke slowly. She did not know how long she had slept or where she was. But it was comfortable here, warm and safe, the sheets and blankets close around her body. There was someone else beside her, someone warm and whose breath rose and fell evenly.
When she stirred at last she was hungry and thirsty and had to pee. Carefully she slid out from under the bedcovers, glanced over at the form beside her.
Nicole. She didn't move as Vicky stood.
Vicky looked around. She was naked save for her socks. It was a familiar room; the master bedroom in the Minister's house. She felt safe here, and stretched languidly, enjoying the feel of her body. She was sore, though, all over, tender, her muscles stressed from activity. As she stepped to the small bathroom she noted that her vulva was tender too.
Someone had brought her bag in, had left it by the bed. After she peed and showered she dressed quietly and slipped out the door.
It was dark out, and the Reverend was sleeping on the couch in the living room. It was too small for him and he couldn't stretch out, and he was still in his clothes. He came awake as she stood in the doorway.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"I'm all right."
He looked at his watch. "Four AM," he said. "Are you hungry? Do you need anything?"
"Something to eat would be nice."
He nodded, sat up, stepped past her into the kitchen. "They've finally got things in hand," he said. "It was crazy there, for a while. At least no one died. They still think it must have been a pathogen, some kind of virus or something that affected the brain. They've called in the CDC, but they haven't found anything."
"They won't."
He found some eggs and bacon, started his stove. It took a few minutes and it smelled good as he cooked. She ate quickly. He made some for himself, sat back as he finished and looked at her. "How was that?"
"Good."
A moment passed. He got some orange juice out of the refrigerator and poured her a glass of it.
"Can I ask another favor?" she asked.
"Name it."
"Do you have a phone I can use?"
#
After a week the town began to return to normal. The quarantine had been lifted. There were still CDC people around, but the National Guard had left and people were back in their homes. Few spoke about what had happened; it was easier to simply accept the explanation that it was some bug, something that must have gotten in the water, must have come through in the air, than for people to admit what they had actually felt.
They were recovering, though, some more quickly than others.
Four cases had left their victims particularly weak: the mayor, the police chief, a respected physician and an accountant. These four were slightly malnourished and dehydrated, as though they had been neglecting themselves for some time. They were put in the local hospital for observation.
Nicole visited her father every day. She knew it was him, even without the red grid. He had the same quiet now, as though he was thinking all the time. He had fallen into unconsciousness at the gymnasium, they told her, like his body had just given out after all the stress.
He slept a lot, and she would sit beside him and hold his hand as he did.
When he did talk he asked her to bring him his Bible.
They prayed together, there in the hospital. As always, he led her. But the prayers were different now, just a little.
"For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you."
"Judge not, and ye shall not be judged; condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned; forgive, and ye shall be forgiven."
She watched him as he prayed. There was an intensity to it, day after day, as they sat.
"Take heed to yourselves; If thy brother trespass against thee, rebuke him, and if he repent, forgive him. And if he trespass against thee seven times in a day, and seven times in a day turn again to thee, saying, I repent; thou shalt forgive him."
He got better, stronger. The day came when they released him from the hospital, and she and Minister Wells drove him home. The Minister had been busy these past weeks, working tirelessly to pull his community back together, meeting with people, praying with them, sometimes going from house to house to make sure people were all right.
Her father thanked him, shaking his hand. Minister Wells nodded, told them to call if there was anything they needed. He left.
They sat, quietly, watched some television, went to bed.
The house was clean; she and Vicky had gone through it, washing and scrubbing, throwing out the rotten food in the refrigerator and freezer, restocking it from the local supermarket. Nicole liked Vicky, even though Vicky really wasn't a Christian and would admit this without being uneasy; Vicky was able to talk, openly, about what she felt, and she was willing to ask why, too. She called Jim at the hardware store a "hunk" after they had gone in for something, and together they had giggled about that all day. But Vicky couldn't stay; she had her own family, back in California, and though she talked with them every day on the phone Nicole knew that this wasn't the same and that her new friend would have to go back to them. Once the quarantine was lifted she started the long drive home.
Saturday came. Nicole cooked dinner, and her father said grace and they ate. He took out his Bible and thumbed through it, as though he was looking for something but couldn't find it. She watched him as he did, then as he looked up at her, his gaze heavy. She could see the new pain, just there, the pain that was guilt and shame and remembering what he had been forced to do to her. And it was the old pain, too, the pain that was so much a part of him, pain because he was so certain it was his responsibility alone to bear it. She watched as he closed his Bible, as he looked at her and his lips parted and even before he spoke she knew what he was going to say.
"Your mother was a good woman."
Nicole was silent.
"She was a good woman. A good, fine Christian --"
He stopped suddenly. Nicole had reached out her hand and had lain it over his, was holding him gently. His gaze came up and he looked at her. She spoke softly.
"I miss her too, Daddy."
His lips moved as though to speak, to say something. But there was nothing. After a few seconds he trembled, half rising from his seat and then collapsing to his knees before her, tears erupting, sobbing helplessly. Nicole was crying too, now, as she reached for him, drawing him close to her as he wept, feeling his tears soak through her blouse as she held him close and rocked him gently back and forth.
It was a beginning.
EPILOGUE
Vicky drove west along the interstate. It was midday, the sky clear and the road not so crowded, and she had just crossed the state line after a night in a motel. She had her car radio on and tapped her hands against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music as she drove.
They had wanted to come for her, Mom and Dad, had wanted to fly straight out to Denver and then rent a car and drive out to Hanesville. But there had been the quarantine for a week, and the CDC never would have let them in anyway, and so after several hours reassuring them by phone and having them talk to the Minister they had acquiesced, settling on wiring her enough money to get home on her own, insisting that she get a cell phone before she left.
Call us every few hours, they had said.
She did. She would explain, she promised them. Everything she knew. Why she had left so suddenly, why they had been unable to move, to follow her. She was familiar with what they had described and reassured them that they were all right, that there was nothing they could have done.
It had to be, she said.
She drove on.
On the seat beside her sat the thing, her blanket draped over it. It was smaller now, only about three feet long, but it had kept its shape and the tentacles remained. It had spent the week in the trunk of her car, parked behind the Reverend's house, just sitting. He had asked her to take it with her, to take it away, far away, and she had agreed. So far as she could tell it didn't need to eat; that it still lived was evidenced by the periodic motion of a tentacle or two.
From time to time she would look over at it, then back at the road.
#
She understands.
Enough, at least.
This is a breakthrough. She can communicate this knowledge to others.
There must be more training. There is much she can still learn, much we can learn. The enemy still approaches.
It would be simple to direct her to an isolated place.
A pause, in the small ship.
No. We have disrupted her life enough now. Let her explain what she knows to the other sentients. There are other preparations we must make, other refinements to the weapons. We must request reinforcements. This world must not be allowed to fall.
Do we keep the biomass with her?
Another pause.
That decision is hers, not ours.
#
She didn't know why it still remained, now that the other things, the white-hot things, were gone. Celeste had told her about the thing in the basement, how it had disintegrated after it had finished with her. And Vicky didn't know why she had brought the thing with her, really, except out of a sense of obligation to the Minister.
It moved a bit, a tentacle emerging from beneath the blanket, and she glanced over at it again.
Maybe it still wants you, she thought.
She thought back, to her little island, to the mornings spent wandering, thinking, to the nudges and the return to the chamber. She thought about how it had felt to sleep wrapped in the thing, protected from cold and rain, how it had felt to suckle at it, cuddled close. And she thought about how it had felt to have it do her, deep and hard and again and again, each impossible, beautiful orgasm followed by another. It had been freedom, in its way, her needs met, freedom to be utterly and absolutely female, to feel her sexuality in full measure, free from the hypocrisy and cruel judgment that were so often heaped on sex, free from restraint or fear.
She reached over, pulled the blanket away. A few more tentacles moved. She saw the longest, the phallic one, and she felt her body react instinctively, felt her nipples stiffen beneath her bra, her belly growing warm, her sex becoming moist.
An exit appeared ahead; a smaller road, a bridge over the interstate. Vicky signaled, turned off the highway. She drove for a mile on the smaller road, pulled to the side and stopped.
Her mouth was dry and she looked over at the thing.
Do I take it home? What then?
She knew. It would be with her, would always be there. It would be her life, keeping her safe, secure, doing her and making her feel the impossible, overwhelming pleasure. She would be well kept.
Vicky moaned, softly, almost imperceptibly. Her body ached for the thing, ached for its touch. Her hips shifted and she had to fight the urge to touch her breasts, to caress them.
There was another choice, though. It was more difficult, less certain. It was to go home alone. If she went home alone she would be what she had been before: daughter, girlfriend, sister, friend. She thought about this for a moment.
There were Mom and Dad and Gerald. They would always be there. But things with them would never be the same. She would always be the one who had been abducted, who had been gone for three months while they lived the unending nightmare of not knowing. They would fear for her, always, even after she told them the truth. Maybe more, then.
She thought of Jack, too. He was the big maybe, and not just him. Even if things didn't work out with him it would always be the same with men. If things got serious in a relationship she would have to tell her man everything. She would have to confess that this thing had made her feel things no man could, things he would never be able to duplicate. A good man deserved to know this; even if it meant he left her.
Vicky sat for a long time, looking at the thing. The road was quiet.
Life was a challenge, every day. It would be more so because of what had happened, because of this thing and what it had done. She could try with Jack, could try to make it work and hope that he would understand, that he would see that his touch, his kiss, was something special too, something the thing beside her could not duplicate. Because with him there were feelings, a man's feelings and her feelings for a man. Good and bad. Hard work, compromise. Maybe even love.
It was time to choose. Vicky looked at the thing, and it seemed to look back at her. Just the sight of it made her hot. Reaching out, she touched it, ran her hand over its smooth surface, smiled.
Then she reached past it, unlocked and shoved open the passenger door.
"You made me walk," she said. "Now you walk."
It didn't move. Maybe it didn't understand. Vicky turned and brought up her foot, pushed the thing out the door. It fell to the ground with a thump, and she saw as it crawled off into the brush.
Vicky leaned over and pulled the door closed again, pulled her seatbelt back on, started the motor, and returned to the interstate. Life would always be a challenge, never certain, but she knew she had earned the right to try.
She shifted up into higher gear and drove west towards home.
THE END