Joe glanced at him with raised eyebrows, then scanned the night.
"I see it," he said after a moment. "Or rather I don't see the stars where it's cruising. It's—shee-it! It's coming this way!"
Joe threw the Gulfstream into a screaming dive that jammed Bill back into his seat. And then the world got darker as something swooped through the air where they had been only seconds before. The jet bucked and rocked in the backwash from the monstrous wings. Bill craned his neck back and forth looking for the behemoth as Joe continued the dive. He saw it, off the south, banking around, coming back to make another run at them.
"Never seen anything so goddamned big in my life!" Joe said.
And still he held the jet into the dive. The black water was looming up below them.
"Joe," Bill said. "Aren't you getting kind of low?"
"Not low enough yet," he said.
And still they dove. Not till Bill was ready to shout with terror that they were going to plunge into the sea did Joe level off. They raced along at fifty feet above the surface.
"You see it?" Joe said.
Bill twisted around. "Yeah. I can see its right wing. It's on our tail, coming up fast. Oh, God it's coming fast!"
"Tell me when it's almost on us. Don't tell me too soon—and f'God's sake don't tell me too late. Just wait till you think its about to chomp us, then give a shout."
It wasn't long. The thing was moving faster than the Gulfstream. Bill barely had time to wonder how something so big could move so fast when suddenly it was almost upon them.
"Now, Joe! Now! NOW!"
Abruptly the Gulfstream banked a sharp left, rocking Bill against his safety belt. And suddenly the ocean was exploding with white water.
"What happened?" Bill said.
"It hit the water," Joe said, grinning. "Simple aerodynamics, boy. You want to make a sharp turn in flight, you've gotta bank. You bank at this altitude with wings that size, the downside one's gonna catch the surface. And then it's cartwheel time."
Bill leaned back in the seat and wanted to throw up. But he swallowed hard and held out his hand to Joe.
"You are one hell of a pilot."
Joe slapped his palm. "I don't argue that."
"When's day?" Bill said.
Joe glanced at his watch. "Not for a long while. Sunrise won't come till 7:21 Greenwich meantime. Still some daylight left back home, I'd guess. Though not much.
WNEW-FM
FREDDY: It's 5:15, folks. Twenty minutes to sundown.
JO: Yeah. Everybody inside. Get inside NOW.
Hank didn't know how long he'd been phasing in and out of consciousness, but eventually he felt strong enough to move. His head felt three times its normal size and throbbed viciously, but he forced it off the pavement to look around. The movement triggered an explosion of pain through the left side of his skull as the world spun around him. He choked back the vomit that surged into his throat, squeezed his eyes shut, and held still. And while he held still, he tried to remember what had happened.
He recalled loading the van, driving down the Turnpike, turning in for gas—
Oh, Lord. The State Trooper. The pistol. The shot.
Hank reached up and gingerly touched the left side of his head. A deep wet gash above his ear there, clots and soft crusts all up and down the side of his head and neck.
But he was alive. The bullet had glanced off his skull and plowed a deep furrow through his scalp. He was weak, sick, dizzy, hurting like he'd never hurt before, but he was alive.
Hank opened his eyes again. He was looking down. A puddle of coagulated blood was pooled on the pavement a few inches below his nose. Keeping his eyes fixed on the blood, he pushed himself further up, pulled his knees under him, then straightened. The vertigo took him for another twirling ride, but when it stopped, he took his bearings.
Green metal bins on either side of him—garbage dumpsters. Framed between them he could see the rest stop gas pumps a hundred or so feet away.
Deserted now. No phony attendants waving cars forward. To his left was the stuccoed side of a building. The restaurants. Bob's Big Boy. Roy Rogers. TCBY.
They must have dragged him over here out of sight and left him for dead while they lay in wait for the next hapless traveler.
Clenching his teeth against the pain and the nausea, he pulled himself to his feet and peered over the dumpsters. The whole rest stop was deserted. Beyond the pumps the Turnpike stood quiet and empty. The cars he'd seen parked over here earlier were gone now.
So was his van.
Hank wanted to cry. Robbed. By state cops, no less. Lord, what was happening to this world? The human monsters acrawl during the day were as bad as the inhuman ones that ruled the night.
Night! He glanced at the sky, at the horizon. Good Lord, it was getting dark. In a few minutes those horrors would start flying and crawling from their holes. He couldn't be caught out in the open.
He hobbled to the door on the near flank of the restaurants. Locked. He made his way around to the front entrance. The glass double doors were chained shut from the inside. He peered through. A shambles within. It looked as if the place had been ransacked and looted before it had been locked up. No matter. He wasn't worried about food now. All he wanted was to get to shelter.
He looked around in the failing light for something to break the glass—a rock, a garbage can, anything. He found a heavy, stuccoed trash receptacle nearby but no way could he lift it.
Near panic now, he circled the rest stop, desperate to find a way in. He was half way around the back when something whizzed by his head, its jaws grinding as it passed. Then another. He couldn't see them in the dusky light but he didn't have to. Chew wasps. Here already. There must be a hole nearby.
In a low crouch he ran for the dumpsters on the far side of the building. Maybe he could hide in one of them—crawl inside and pull the top down over him. Maybe he'd even find some scraps of food among the refuse.
When he reached the dumpsters he hoisted himself up the side of the first and saw that its hinged top was gone. Same with the other. Now what?
As he eased himself back down his foot caught in a slot in the pavement. A storm drain. His foot rested on the rusty grate.
Try it! he thought, bending and yanking on the grate. It was square, a couple of feet on each side. No problem getting through if he could pull it free.
Another bug whistled by—close enough to ruffle his hair. A spearhead.
Ignoring the throbbing in his skull that crescendoed toward agony with the effort, he put all of what little strength he had left into lifting the grate. The metal squeaked and moved a quarter inch, then half an inch, then screeched free of its seat. Hank pushed it aside and slid through the opening into the darkness below. Four feet down, his feet landed in a puddle. No problem. Not even an inch deep. He reached up and slid the grate back over the opening. When it clanked into its seat, he slumped into a crouch and looked up at the sky.
Dark up there, but still lighter than down here. As he watched a lonely star break through the dispersing haze, a huge belly fly plopped onto the grate directly over Hank and tried to squeeze through. Its acid sack strained against the openings, bulged into the slots, but it was too wide. Buzzing angrily, it lifted off and flew away.
He should have been relieved, happy he'd found a safe haven. Instead, Hank found himself sobbing. Why not? No one around to see. He was alone, hurt—still bleeding a little—cold, tired, hungry, no food, no money, no ride, and now he was hiding in a storm drain with dirty, stagnant water soaking through his sneakers. He'd really hit bottom now.
He forced a laugh that echoed eerily up and down the length of the drain. If nothing else, he could soothe himself with the knowledge that things couldn't get worse.