Robert Craig - Creepers

Creepers

By

Robert Craig

THE AGONY EXPRESS

Ben Johnson had been a subway motorman for thirty years, but nothing had prepared him for what he saw when he opened his compartment door.

The passengers were being attacked. But more than just attacked. They were literally being torn to bloody shreds by creatures who could not be human, yet could be nothing else.

Desperately Johnson locked himself into his compartment. He heard the screams outside fading, to be replaced by an eerie silence. Then, as the buzzing of fear quieted in his brain, he could hear a different sound-a grinding, slurping noise

and even as Ben Johnson yanked the throttle to full speed ahead, he knew there could be no escape - not for him or anyone else

THE ROAR OF THE TRAINS

CANNOT DROWN OUT THE

SCREAMS OF THE VICTIMS

One by one they are disappearing. Men, women, children. Descending into the subways. And never coming out again.

Horror, by whatever twisted beings or unnatural things, is making the grimy New York underground a place of sheer terror. It is prowling the darkness, hiding in the shadows, waiting to strike

It is waiting to savage its next victim

It is waiting to commit its next hideous murder

But soon the waiting will be over, as this shuddering nightmare erupts into the streets of a great city. And there is reason for the entire population to be afraid

-Contents-

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1:55 - 2:27 A.M.

Jesus Ortiz switched on his transistor radio and an exuberant salsa melody filled the subway token booth where he sat drinking bitter Spanish coffee brought from home. The music made him daydream about San Juan. If he were back in Puerto Rico hed be drinking beer and playing dominoes with his buddies instead of making change for the locos who rode the subway at this time of night. Or, if he were lucky, hed be making sweaty love to one of the local girls who found his particular swaggering brand of machismo so appealing.

He lowered the volume with sudden anger. Who was he kidding? The San Juan he dreamed of was for turistas only. Natives didnt count. He was lucky to be away from there, lucky to be living in a city where he made enough money to buy food and little luxuries like the radio and portable television to keep him company. Jesus Ortiz was no fool. Hed take a lonely job in the New York subway over starvation on the beach any day.

He glanced at his watch. In five minutes, two half-hour episodes of the Mary Tyler Moore show were broadcast back to back. Jesus had a weakness for the good-looking norteamericana who seemed to find the world as confusing a place as he did. She was exactly the kind of woman he dreamed of making his wife and the mother of his children. He shook his head sadly at the thought. If only Mary Tyler Moore were Spanish, the dream would be perfect!

A minute later he turned the television on, but kept the sound off. There was still a minute or two before his favorite sitcom, and the salsas jangling rhythm had once again lulled him into a state nearing contentment. Working all night was considered the graveyard shift, but Jesus liked it. It was quiet. It paid more money. And he was working midtown. The poor bastards uptown in Harlem and out in the bad sections of Brooklyn and Queens were sitting targets for any crazy prowling the subways darkness. There were enough horror stories of robberies, beatings, even mutilations of token clerks to make Jesus thank God he was working in the IND station at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street. It was a good part of town. A safe part of town-relatively, anyway.

When the Mary Tyler Moore show began, Jesus turned off the radio. It was going to be a peaceful night. The kind of night when nothing happened.

Penny Comstock walked briskly south on Fifth Avenue, heading for the nearest subway station. With each step her resolve not to cry weakened, and by the time she reached Fifty-third Street, tears were streaming down her face. She stationed herself in front of the glamorous Ted Lapidus store and let herself cry very unglamorously. Damn Jack Grenfeld anyway! He was a first-class bastard. She should have recognized it the first time theyd had dinner three months before. Grenfeld was a typical office lothario-a good-looking, snappy dresser with a line that was pure bullshit disguised as sincerity.

Penny sniffed and wiped away a few stray tears. And silly little me fell for it hook, line, and sinker, she thought morosely. It was my own fault. Grenfeld had told her on their first date that he liked her but wasnt interested in any kind of commitment.

And what makes you think I want to get involved? she fired back at him. Jack, you know, a major problem with todays men is that they think the responsibility of getting in and out of relationships is entirely theirs ! She sipped her white-wine spritzer and laughed very confidently. I dont want any commitments, either.

Thats good to hear, he replied less enthusiastically. Say, you arent one of those womens-libbers, are you? His voice betrayed a slightly wounded ego.

Im not into labels, Jack. Let me tell you that straight off. I just want Penny Comstock to be happy. And if that means making Jack Grenfeld happy at the same time, so be it. She shrugged with munificent abandon and that was that.

She slept with Jack that first night as proof positive she stood behind her declaration of independence. And she slept with him two or three times a week from then on, slipping deeper and deeper in love despite his continued warnings. And tonight hed told Penny he wanted to break it off.

A new wave of despair washed over her and she leaned her forehead against the store window and cried helplessly. It had seemed such a perfect evening-drinks at Harrys Bar, then dinner at the Russian Tea Room. But it turned out to be a nightmare. All night long she thought he was going to propose. He proposed, all right-that she get out of his life. His cool rejection caught her off guard and shed acted like a complete idiot, crying, then calling him names. And to top it off, shed slapped him across the face and run out of the restaurant.

Well, crying wasnt going to change anything. She straightened her shoulders and walked to the subway entrance, thinking that a long, hot ride on the E train would end the evening perfectly.

Jesus caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eyes and tensed. When a lone woman came into sight he relaxed. She walked slowly down the few steps opposite him and approached the token booth. She was tall and foxy-black hair, nice tan, and lips painted so red he immediately thought of the hidden parts of her body. She wore a light, gauzy dress that clung to her long legs and outlined her good-sized breasts. Jesus wasnt a tit man, but he examined them carefully, nevertheless. From the sexy way she swung her hips he guessed this beauty was definitely una mujer bellaca -ready for some hot loving-and he felt a stab of desire in his groin. She wouldnt be the first customer hed sweet-talked into bed.

Two, please. Penny pushed a twenty-dollar bill under the bulletproof glass that enclosed the upper part of the token booth.

You got somethin smaller? There was plenty of cash, but Jesus wanted to stall her a little.

Oh, sure. She removed the twenty and replaced it with a five.

Its hot out there, aint it? She looked blankly at him, then nodded. Its nice inside here. Air-conditioned.

Lucky for you. Pennys voice was heaped with leftover sarcasm from her parting conversation with Jack Grenfeld.

Jesus stared at her a moment, then scowled. She was just another New York bitch. Christ, the class of people he had to deal with! He shoved two tokens under the glass just far enough so Penny had to scrabble for them. Then he poured fifty cents into the trough, folded three one-dollar bills into a long packet, and flicked them so hard they shot past her hand and fell to the floor at her feet. That would show her.