End Day. James Axler

the privacy screen down,” the little one said. “Do exactly as I say, or your brains are going to end up on the hood like three pounds of bird shit.”

      “Yes, sir,” McCreedy managed to croak. “Where do you want to go?”

      The grating voice rattled off the address of a university hospital on the East Side. The bigger ones hadn’t made a peep. He wondered if they could even speak. Without signaling, he pulled away from the curb and forced his way into the sluggish flow of traffic.

      As they crept forward, he considered cracking a joke to break the ominous silence: “Hey, how ’bout those Mets?” But the eye-watering, cat-piss smell wafting from the limo’s passenger compartment made him change his mind.

      Like a meth ho’s thong, he thought.

      He glanced warily back in his rearview. They sat as still as statues on the white leather upholstery. If, in addition to being armed, stand-on-two-legs giant reptiles, they were tweakers, no telling how they would take a joke. Screw it, he needed to bail on the limo. Just get the heck out and quickly, before things got even worse.

      McCreedy studied the traffic ahead. If he had a sufficient gap in front or on either side, he could floor the gas, open his door and roll out. To shoot at him, they’d have to get out on the opposite side and fire over the roof or around the bumpers. By the time they did that, he would be running against the direction of traffic, keeping his head down, using the cars for cover. He’d seen the same scenario pulled off lots of times on TV and in the movies. And what choice did he have anyway? He was fairly sure if he didn’t do something, he was going to end up dead.

      As he crept his fingers down to unfasten his seat belt, a horn of the assault rifle’s front sight hooked under his nose. As if the monster had read his mind.

      “Drive!” said the voice from the back.

      At one point during the twenty-minute trip, he thought he heard snoring coming from the back. When he turned up the entrance ramp to the hospital complex’s parking lot, the limo was riding so low the frame scraped on the concrete. Metal face directed him to the main building, which covered half a city block and was at least thirty stories tall.

      McCreedy stopped in a patient-loading-and-unloading zone. He wondered what the heck they were doing at a hospital. If the little one needed an oil change and filter, Jiffy Lube had faster service.

      A reptilian hand seized his neck and squeezed. The amber thumb hook rested against his jugular vein.

      “You’re coming with us. Get out slowly.”

      All of them piled out, the little one moving on its own in front of him in the middle of the pack. With an odd, herky-jerky gait, it passed through the automatic double doors.

      The entourage drew immediate attention from staff and patients. Like a circus act. Or a rap ensemble.

      “Wait just a minute, please.” A pair of uniformed, armed security guards stepped up to block their path. “Are you here for medical services or to visit someone?” one of them asked.

      “Out of the way,” the little one rattled.

      The guards exchanged quick, concerned looks but did not budge. Their hands dropped to the butts of their holstered sidearms.

      McCreedy started to shout a warning about the assault rifles, but before he could get a word out, the scaly hand tightened on his neck, shutting off his air and the flow of blood to his brain.

      The reptilians didn’t need guns to handle the situation.

      One of them simply reached out and grabbed the big, burly men by their faces, gripping eye sockets and chins in either hand, pulled them over double and hauled them squealing through an open doorway. The door to the side room slammed shut. From the other side came violent, crashing sounds. It was over in seconds.

      When the monster reappeared, McCreedy saw, inside the hood, below the slitted yellow eyes, a toothy smile.

      Seeing them coming four abreast, hospital workers and civilians cleared a path, flattening against walls or slipping out of the way into rooms and alcoves, in some cases abandoning patients on gurneys and in wheelchairs to their fates.

      They turned into the first elevator in a bank of four. The car groaned under their combined weight. One of them—maybe Metal face, he couldn’t see who—pushed a button on the control panel. The doors closed; the car jerked, then began to smoothly drop. It was a tight fit; it smelled really bad and something was leaking from somewhere—puddles were spreading underfoot.

      McCreedy looked up from his shoe tops and kept his eyes focused on the back-lit indicator above the door. They passed P for parking, then B—for basement, one through four, before stopping at B5.

      The doors opened onto a windowless, drop-ceiling hallway lit by overhead fluorescents. The reek of formaldehyde made a nice change from the aroma in the elevator. A rainbow of color-coded stripes on the facing concrete-block wall indicated the routes to various departments on this level: Pathology, Medical Records, Maintenance, Central Disinfection, as well as others.

      They trudged down the corridor, made a hard right and filed through a doorway placard-labeled Bioengineering and Nanotechnology.

      On the other side of a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, people in white face masks, hair covers and sterile suits were bent over rows of workstations. Everything was white on white.

      One of the workers looked up from a binocular microscope. When he saw the mob standing on the other side of the glass, he rose and stepped to a sliding door. He cracked it back a scant couple of inches, pulled his face mask down under his grizzle-goateed chin and said, “Yes, how can I help you gentlemen?”