by to inspect the repairs and say a few words.
Which was why radio reporter Henry Stillman and freelance cameraman Abe Bristow were waiting outside, and they weren’t alone. About thirty other journalists were present as well, along with a crowd of roughly fifty tourists, all of whom hoped to catch a glimpse of the President.
Stillman had a long gaunt face, a no-nonsense chin, and was dressed in a well-cut gray suit. He flamed another in a long chain of Camels he had smoked that day, clicked the Zippo closed, and dropped the lighter into his coat pocket.
“So, Abe,” Stillman said as he sucked the rich smoke deep into his lungs. “What do you think Grace is doing in there? Asking Lincoln for some advice?”
Bristow was short and squat, as if God had taken a normal-sized man and squashed him like clay. He was fiddling with his huge flash camera.
“God knows the bastard could use some,” he replied sourly. “Not that he’d listen.” Stillman might have said something more, but there was a sudden stir at the top of the steps leading up to the memorial and the crowd surged forward.
Stillman and Bristow went with the flow, but were soon forced to stop as half a dozen uniformed police officers rushed to block the way. A man dressed in civilian attire appeared immediately behind them and stepped up to a microphone. His voice boomed through speakers set up two hours earlier.
“Good afternoon… My name is William Dentweiler, the President’s Chief of Staff. There’s no need to push and shove. President Grace will take questions for about ten minutes. Then it’s back to the White House for some important meetings.
“Mr. President?” At that point Dentweiler took two steps to the right, which gave Grace access to the microphone.
Grace flashed one of his trademark smiles as he stepped up to the microphone and a coterie of Secret Service agents came with him. It was a sunny day, so there were no flashbulbs for the President to contend with as Bristow and his fellow photographers began to click away.
In the meantime Stillman pushed his way forward in an attempt to get his new Minifon battery-powered recorder as close to the President as possible. Most of the journalists shouted questions, but it was one of the veteran radio reporters who managed to make himself heard.
“Mr. President! Arthur Norton, WDC News. There are rumors that sections of the Liberty Defense Perimeter have been breached. Is the government concerned that citizens may panic?”
Grace frowned. “Panic? Do me a favor, Arthur… Everyone… Look up.”
Stillman, recorder extended, looked up. The rest of the crowd did as well.
“Now,” Grace said. “What do you see?”
Norton was a balding man in his early thirties. He looked confused. “Nothing.”
Grace nodded knowingly. “Exactly.
Stillman had successfully elbowed his way forward by the time Grace stopped speaking. “Henry Stillman for USA News, Mr. President… Our reporter in Montana says that a Protection Camp located outside the defense perimeter was overrun by thousands of aliens the day before yesterday.”
At that point Dentweiler leaned in to speak. There was undisguised anger in his voice. “That camp would have been located
“Bill’s right, I’m afraid,” Grace put in reasonably. “The so-called Freedom Firsters are a greater menace than the stinks are.”
Apparently Dentweiler wasn’t all that thrilled with the line of questioning because he stepped in to shut the press conference down.
“All right,” the Chief of Staff said, “the President has a busy schedule to keep. Let’s wrap this up.”
Suddenly a high-pitched whistling sound was heard, and something fell out of the clear blue sky and hit the roundabout behind the crowd. A taxi was thrown into the air. There was a loud crash as it smashed into the ground and burst into flames. A cloud of black smoke enveloped the scene as women screamed, policemen shouted conflicting orders, and the President was half carried toward a waiting limo.
As the smoke began to clear, Bristow pointed at the spire. It was shaped like a huge spear, the head of which had penetrated the concrete, and was lodged underground. But unlike a normal spear, this one was made of metal, and thousands of times larger. Vapor out-gassed from the object, the air shimmered around it, and Still-man heard pinging sounds as the missile began to cool.
“Henry… What
Stillman shook his head. “I don’t know, Abe… But it wasn’t made by humans. That’s for sure.”
Some people were lying on the ground where Good Samaritans tried to assist them as sirens sounded and the presidential motorcade pulled away. Meanwhile, like the newsmen they were, Stillman and Bristow went over to examine the spire. The cameraman snapped shot after shot as they got closer.
“Thank God it didn’t explode,” Bristow said, as he lowered his camera. “But maybe we should—”
Bristow never got to finish his sentence. An ominous hum was heard as a series of plates were pushed out and away from the spire’s fuselage. Then, without warning, hundreds of softball-sized eggs began to tumble out onto the street. Stillman felt something cold enter his bloodstream as the yellowish globes bounced and rolled in every direction. “I don’t like the look of those things,” he said. “Run!”
Both men turned back toward the memorial and started to sprint up the stairs as the eggs began to hatch. A cacophony of bloodcurdling squeals was heard as thousands of Spinners were born. Within seconds of breaking out of their soft-shelled containers the horrible-looking creatures began to morph and were the size of house cats by the time they swarmed the slowest members of the crowd.
People screamed as they were borne to the ground by five or six Spinners. Each stink was equipped with fangs and hollow barbs through which chemicals could be injected into their victims, all of whom instantly began to thrash about.
Having escaped the initial onslaught, Stillman and Bristow were halfway up the stairs, right behind a mixed group of journalists and tourists. Both men heard something howl, and Bristow felt one of the creatures land on his back as more of them swept up the stairs. He stopped, and was trying to reach back and get a grip on the Chimera when Stillman took hold of the squirming stink and ripped it away. The Spinner was hot to the touch, and it snapped angrily when the reporter heaved it down toward the street.
Hundreds of additional Spinners were flowing up the stairs by then, so both men turned and ran. People had been trampled and Stillman felt something give horribly as he was forced to step on a man’s chest. The building was equipped with steel gates, and as a quick-thinking security guard hurried to secure the last one, the duo managed to slip inside.
There was a loud clang behind them when the door closed, followed by a persistent rattling noise as hundreds of frustrated monsters hit the barrier. It consisted of closely set vertical bars that allowed those inside to see out as the pimply-faced guard emptied his .38 revolver into the squealing mass. Each bullet killed at least two or three Chimera, but there were plenty more, and it wasn’t long before the guard’s pistol clicked empty.
Then, as if in response to some unseen signal, the tidal wave of alien flesh broke and fell away. That was when Stillman saw a horrible sight as a man stumbled up the last few steps with half a dozen Spinners clinging to his body. But the creatures weren’t stinging him. Not yet anyway.
“Oh, my God,” Bristow said. “It’s Norton!”
The WDC newsman reached the top and grabbed the bars with both hands, then began to rattle them. His eyes were wide—and his pupils were dilated.
“Let me in! For God’s sake, let me in!”
The security guard produced a large ring of keys and was on his way to the gate when Stillman grabbed an arm.
“Wait! You can’t do that.”
The security guard attempted to break Stillman’s grip but Bristow was there to restrain him as well.
“Are you crazy?” the young man demanded. “There’s an innocent man out there!”
