In The Falling Light by John L. Campbell Page B

connected, no one
appeared to take the call. In the background she could a constant
clicking that sounded like bacon frying. Something big and black
skittered past the lab camera.
    Her rear and abdomen swelled, pushing chairs
aside, whitish-gray and glistening, and she raised her eyes to one
of the wall mounted screens. A news helicopter showed a black
blanket of giant ticks swarming up the Empire State Building,
trying to force their way through windows. Another screen displayed
a ground level video shot from a moving military vehicle, the
raucous bark of a machinegun close by, the image of a Manhattan
street choked with overturned vehicles and corpses. The shot panned
to show the marquis over Radio City Music Hall heavy with huge,
clinging black shapes.
    None of it made any sense to her.
    A male tick the size of a Hyundai scuttled
through the command center and disappeared through a pair of double
doors. Joanna caught the scent of fresh air from that direction.
Someone had opened an exterior door. She began moving in that
direction, her final clear thought telling her the exit stairs were
wide, and if she moved quickly she might get her swollen bulk up
and through it before she was too big.
    She had to get outside. She needed to find a
place to lay her eggs.

 
     
     
     
TAILLIGHTS
     
     
     
     
    It was four miles from Lee’s Country Store
to the cabin, two-lane blacktop twisting along the east side of
Whitaker Lake. Patricia’s headlights showed a rock face on the
left, a narrow strip of trees to the right and the moonlit surface
of the lake beyond. On the passenger seat sat three sacks of
groceries. Her trip to the store had taken longer than expected,
just enough supplies to tackle breakfast, and she was making it up
now, her Mountaineer racing along the deserted road.
    Patricia’s window was down as she smoked,
which she wasn’t supposed to do with Gabby in the car, but as long
as she kept it out the window she figured it would be okay. In the
back her two-year-old sat buckled into her car seat, babbling and
singing little songs to a plastic elephant.
    The deer trotted onto the road from the
trees ahead, stopped and stared at the headlights.
    Patricia screamed, her cigarette falling
into her lap, and stomped the brakes, yanking to the right. Tires
smoked and the SUV shot off the road, headlights dancing off the
trunks of pines, bouncing and rocketing down a short embankment,
branches snapping at the sides.
    She had quick images of wrapping around a
tree, Gabby’s car seat, Randy and the boys-
    The Mountaineer plunged into Whitaker Lake,
a wave washing over the hood and windshield, then cold water
pouring through the open driver’s window. Oh God , she
thought, as the nose tipped sharply and started down, the lake
quickly filling the front seat. Gabby . She lunged between
the seats, but the belt snapped her back painfully. Patricia
fumbled for the buckle as the water rose to her chest, couldn’t
find it.
    Gabby was crying. “Mama!”
    “Mommy’s coming,” she moaned, tugging,
probing for the button. Her thumb depressed something and she was
free, hauling herself up into the back seat as the SUV went
vertical. She forced herself to think her way through the five
point harness securing her daughter, got it open, and Gabby dropped
into her arms with a splash. It was up to her chest now, and the
cold water made Gabby shriek. She yanked the door handle.
    Nothing.
    She tore at it, pulling hard, but it
wouldn’t open.
    The child locks were on.
    “No!” Patricia pushed Gabby up and into the
cargo area, then kicked and pulled herself up and in as well. A
moment later the lake followed, cascading over the leather seat
back. She tucked her screaming daughter under one arm and began
pushing at the rear hatch, one hand groping along the surface for a
release lever. She had never been back here, always opened the
hatch remotely with her key fob, didn’t even know if there was a
handle.
    There wasn’t.
    The lake