The basement smelled of soldering iron and stale Dr. Pepper.

  Frankie paced the concrete floor. Three steps turn. Three steps turn. Grass and mud, the lace hem torn, stained her vintage slip. She hugged her arms, trying to keep the shaking inside her bones where no one could see it.

  “Tell me again,” Dee Dee said.

  Dee Dee sat at her command station—a U-shaped desk dominating the center of the basement, crowded with three monitors, a tower of hard drives, and stacks of occult grimoires. The blue light from the screens reflected in her glasses, turning her eyes into hollow squares.

  “It wasn’t Sarah,” Frankie said. Her voice was flat. Mechanical. “It looked like her. It was wearing her bathrobe. But inside…”

  “Sludge,” Damon finished. He was sitting on an overturned milk crate, pressing a bag of frozen peas to the welt on his face. “Gray soup. And worms. White worms with pincers.”

  Dee Dee typed furiously. Clack-clack-clack.

  “And the head?” Dee Dee asked without looking up.

  Frankie stopped pacing. She looked at her hands. She had scrubbed them in Dee Dee’s utility sink with dish soap and steel wool until the skin was raw and red, but she could still feel the phantom grease of the blue slime.

  “I pulled it off,” Frankie whispered. “She fought until her head came off. The body dissolved. It wasn’t… it wasn’t supernatural decay. It was chemical. Like acid.”

  Dee Dee spun her chair around.

  “It’s not vampires,” she said.

  “We figured that out,” Damon said, wincing as he shifted the ice pack. “Vampires don’t melt.”

  “No,” Dee Dee said. She stood up and walked to a whiteboard covered in scribbles. She grabbed a red marker. “Vampires are reanimated via a curse. It’s magic. A spiritual binding to a corpse. This?”

  She drew a crude worm.

  “This is biological,” she said. “It’s a parasite. A pilot.”

  “A pilot?” Frankie asked.

  “Think about it,” Dee Dee said, her words tumbling out fast. “The body is just a vehicle. The worms are the driver. They hijack the nervous system. That’s why breaking the neck didn’t work immediately. The worms were bypassing the spinal cord, threading through the muscle fibers manually.”

  Frankie felt sick.

  “So Sarah was…”

  “Gone,” Dee Dee whispered. “The moment that thing entered her, she was gone. You didn’t kill your neighbor, Frankie. You scrapped a car.”

  It should have made Frankie feel better. It didn’t.

  She remembered the sound of the tearing skin. The way the head had rolled.

  “Where did they come from?” Damon asked.

  Dee Dee turned back to her screens. She brought up the hacked manifest file she had shown them earlier.

  “The Borealis,” she said. “Origin: Atlantic Trench. Cargo: Biological. Unstable.”

  She pointed to a grainy satellite thermal image of the harbor. The ship was a hot white blur against the cold black water.

  “That ship isn’t a dredging vessel,” Dee Dee said. “It’s a transport. And whatever they pulled up from the bottom of the ocean… it woke up.”

  Frankie stared at the screen. The thrum—that headache-inducing vibration—seemed to pulse from the monitor itself.

  “Deep sea creatures?” Frankie asked.

  Dee Dee pursued her lips. “Aliens, I think.”

  The word hung in the damp basement air.

  Vampires were one thing. Ancient curses, holy water, stakes—there were rules. There was a logic to it.

  Aliens?

  Aliens have unknown rules.

  “We need to call the Sheriff,” Damon said. “Or the FBI. Someone with hazmat suits and flamethrowers.”

  “The Sheriff thinks it’s a chemical spill,” Frankie said. “And the Feds? The Feds put it on that ship. If we call them, they won’t save the town. They’ll sanitize it.”

  She looked at the map on the screen. Norchester was a small grid of lights surrounded by darkness.

  “It’s spreading,” Frankie said. “Sarah was just the first one we saw. How many others? The mailman? The dog walker?”

  “If it’s a hive mind,” Dee Dee said, “it needs a signal. A queen.”

  Frankie remembered the bridge of the ship. The woman on the screen with the glowing blue eyes. The Skreeeee sound that had echoed over the water.

  “I think I saw her,” Frankie said. “On the captain’s log. Captain Daria Heather. She might be the source.”

  “Then we kill the Captain,” Dee Dee said.

  Damon looked up. “We go back to the ship?”

  “It’s the only way,” Frankie said. “We kill the source.”

  Damon stared at her. He looked exhausted. He looked terrified. But he didn’t argue. He knew the look in Frankie’s eyes. The “Ride the Drop” look.

  “We need wheels,” Damon said. “My truck is at your house. And your house is…”

  “Compromised,” Frankie said.

  “I’ll call Ted,” Dee Dee said.

  She was already dialing.

  Twenty minutes later, a heavy knock rattled the basement door.

  Shave-and-a-haircut.

  Dee Dee unlocked it.

  Ted Harris stumbled in, carrying a large duffel bag and smelling of weed and fear. He wore a heavy parka over his wetsuit—he hadn’t even changed since the morning surf session.

  “Dude,” Ted said, eyes wide. “The streets are weird. Like, Silent Hill weird. I saw a cat eating a tire. Literally chewing on the rubber.”

  He dropped the bag. It clanked.

  “I brought the survival kit,” Ted said. “And the van. It’s parked in the alley.”

  “Good,” Frankie said. She was rifling through Dee Dee’s closet, pulling on clothes. A pair of oversized cargo pants. A black hoodie. Combat boots that were a size too big.

  She looked like a soldier in borrowed armor.

  “What’s the plan?” Ted asked. He looked around the room, vibrating with nervous energy. “Are we fleeing? Because I vote fleeing. Mexico is nice. I know a guy in Baja. Far out, but safe.”

  “We’re not fleeing,” Damon said. He was taping a magazine around his forearm with duct tape—makeshift bite armor. “We’re going to the harbor.”

  Ted blinked. “The harbor? The place with the poisonous fog and the SWAT team? Why?”

  “To blow up the aliens,” Dee Dee said, not looking up from her keyboard.

  Ted paused. He looked at Frankie.

  “Aliens?”

  “Worms,” Frankie corrected. “Alien worms. They came from the ship.”

  “Zombies and aliens,” Ted muttered. “Great. Just great.”

  He walked over to Dee Dee’s kitchenette counter. He opened a drawer and started rummaging.

  “I need a weapon,” Ted muttered. “I’m the driver. The driver needs a weapon.”

  He pulled out a serving spoon. It was heavy, ornate silver—an heirloom from Dee Dee’s grandmother that had somehow ended up in the junk drawer.

  “A spoon?” Damon asked.

  “It’s thick,” Ted said. “And I can sharpen it.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He found a whetstone in the tool drawer. He sat on a stool and started grinding the handle of the spoon against the stone.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  The sound was rhythmic. soothing.

  “It’s a nervous habit,” Ted murmured, his eyes locked on the metal. “My dad used to sharpen knives when he was stressed. I don’t have a knife. I have a spoon.”

  “Whatever keeps you from hyperventilating,” Frankie said.

  She turned to Dee Dee.

  “Can you get us in?”

  Dee Dee typed a final command. A green light flashed on her screen.

  “I’ve looped the security feed for the harbor’s perimeter fence,” Dee Dee said. “Cameras 4 through 8 are playing footage from last Tuesday. It’s a loop. We have a ten-minute window before the timestamp glitch is noticed.”

  “Ten minutes,” Frankie said. “To get from the fence to the ship.”

  “And the guards?” Damon asked.

  “Distracted,” Dee Dee said. “I just triggered a silent alarm at the chemical plant on the south side of town. Sheriff Burke and half his deputies are peeling out as we speak.”

  Frankie looked at Dee Dee. The girl was trembling, her face pale, but her hands were steady on the keyboard.

  “Are you scared?” Frankie asked.

  “I’m terrified,” Dee Dee corrected. “But I’d rather be scared than dead.”

  Frankie checked her pockets. Phone. Flashlight. A roll of quarters (a fist-load for a punch).

  She looked at Damon. He had finished taping his arms. He held the aluminum bat.

  She looked at Ted. He was still grinding the spoon. The handle was honed to a needle point now. A silver shiv.

  “Ted,” Frankie said.

  Ted jumped. “Yeah?”

  “We leave in two.”

  “Right. Two.” Scrape. Scrape.

  Damon’s phone buzzed on the desk.

  The sound was loud in the quiet basement.

  Damon picked it up. He frowned.

  “It’s Tasia,” he said.

  Frankie stiffened. “What does she want?”

  Damon tapped the screen. He read the text out loud.

  “Damon. Please answer. My street is weirdly quiet. The dogs won’t stop barking. I think someone is in the yard. I’m scared.”

  The room went silent.

  Tasia alone in the big house.

  She remembered the way Tasia had looked at her earlier. The camera phone. The word Monster.

  “She’s alone,” Damon said. He looked at Frankie.

  “We can’t,” Frankie said.

  The words tasted like ash.

  “She’s asking for help,” Damon said. “If the things are there…”

  “If they’re there, it’s already too late,” Frankie said. “And if we go to her, we lose the window at the harbor. We miss the chance to stop the Source.”

  She stepped closer to Damon.

  “We save the town,” Frankie said, her voice hard, leaving no room for argument. “Or we save one girl who hates us. We can’t do both.”

  Damon stared at the phone. His thumb hovered over the screen.

  He could type Coming. He could call her.

  His jaw tightened. A flash of anger in his eyes. He hated this. He hated her for making him choose.

  “She’s just a kid,” Damon whispered.

  “So are we,” Frankie said.

  Damon closed his eyes. He exhaled, a long, shaky breath.

  He slid the phone into his pocket.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Okay,” Damon said. His voice was hollow. “The harbor.”

  Frankie’s jaw tightened. She pushed the guilt down.

  “Let’s go,” Frankie said.

  They moved up the stairs.

  Ted pocketed his silver shiv.

  “To the Mystery Machine,” he muttered.

  The van rattled over the potholes of Front Street.

  The town was dark. Most of the streetlights were out, either from the grid failing or someone shooting them out. The fog was everywhere. It rolled through the intersections like a living tide.

  Frankie sat in the passenger seat, eyes scanning the gloom.

  “Turn off the headlights,” she ordered.

  “Are you crazy?” Ted gripped the wheel. “I can’t see.”

  “You know these roads,” Frankie said. “Lights make us a target.”

  Ted whimpered, but he killed the lights.

  The van plunged into darkness.

  They rolled forward, the engine barely idling.

  They passed the high school. Empty.

  They passed the 7-Eleven. The windows were smashed. A lone figure stood by the ice machine, jerking spastically.

  “Don’t look,” Frankie whispered.

  They reached the perimeter of the harbor.

  Chain-link fences topped with razor wire had been erected overnight. Yellow BIOHAZARD signs flashed in the strobe of portable construction lights.

  But the guard booth was empty. Dee Dee’s diversion had worked.

  “Park here,” Frankie said. “Behind the dumpster.”

  Ted eased the van into the shadows of a derelict warehouse.

  They piled out.

  The air smelled stronger here. That mix of ozone, rot, and brine.

  And the thrum.

  It was a physical weight. It pressed against Frankie’s chest. It made her heart beat out of rhythm. Thump-thump-skip-thump.

  “Headphones,” Dee Dee whispered.

  She handed out earplugs. “It won’t stop the signal, but it might dampen the headache.”

  Frankie shoved the foam plugs into her ears. It muffled the wind, but the thrum was inside her head. It didn’t help.

  “Fence,” Frankie signaled.

  They ran to the section Dee Dee had indicated.

  Damon knelt. Frankie stepped into his hands and he vaulted her up. She grabbed the top of the fence.

  Razor wire caught her hoodie. Snagged.

  She froze.

  She carefully unhooked the fabric.

  She flipped over. She landed in a crouch.

  Silence.

  She signaled Clear.

  Damon helped Dee Dee over, then Ted. Finally, he climbed up himself.

  They were in.

  The harbor was a graveyard of ships. Fishing trawlers sat silent in their slips. The water was black and still, covered in a thin film of oily slime. Rainbows in the dark.

  And in the center of it all, smashing the pier into splinters, was the SS Borealis.

  It was dark. No running lights. No movement on the deck.

  But high up, on the bridge, the blue light pulsed.

  Thrum… Thrum… Thrum…

  “It’s breathing,” Ted whispered.

  “It’s broadcasting,” Dee Dee corrected.

  “We need to get to the bridge,” Frankie said. “Dee Dee needs access to the captain’s log. We need to know exactly what Daria is planning before we kill her.”

  “And if she’s there?” Damon asked. “On the bridge?”

  Frankie touched the pepper spray in her pocket. Useless. She touched the flashlight. Heavy.

  “Then we improvise,” Frankie said.

  They moved toward the gangway.

  Twisted angle. Wrong. But climbable.

  Frankie went first.

  She stepped onto the metal. It groaned.

  She froze.

  Nothing moved on the deck.

  She climbed.

  The slime was thicker here than it had been hours ago. It coated the railings. Long, dripping strands.

  It reacted to her touch. It pulsed.

  Frankie pulled her hand back.

  “Don’t touch the rails,” she hissed.

  She reached the deck.

  She pulled her flashlight but didn’t turn it on.

  The fog on the deck was knee-deep.

  “Stay close,” she whispered.

  They moved in a tight formation. Frankie on point. Damon covering the rear with the bat. Dee Dee and Ted in the middle.

  They passed the crew quarters.

  The doors were open.

  Inside, the bunks were empty. But on the floor of one cabin, Frankie saw a uniform. Just the clothes. Laid out flat, as if the person inside had simply evaporated.

  Or melted.

  “Where are the bodies?” Ted hissed.

  “They used him,” Dee Dee murmured. “Spare parts.”

  They reached the superstructure. The tower.

  The stairs leading up to the bridge were blocked. A massive coil of steel cable had fallen—or been thrown—across the entrance.

  “Blocked,” Frankie said.

  “Is there another way up?” Damon asked.

  “Maintenance ladder,” Dee Dee said, pointing to a schematic on her tablet. “On the port side. Near the cargo hold.”

  Frankie felt a chill.

  The cargo hold. Where the light had been. Where she had almost been caught by the SWAT team.

  “Okay,” Frankie said. “Port side.”

  They skirted the edge of the ship.

  The cargo hold hatch was open.

  A black mouth in the deck. Darkness poured out of it like smoke.

  As they passed it, the thrum spiked.

  Frankie fell to her knees, clutching her head.

  “Frankie!” Damon was beside her instantly.

  “It’s loud,” she gasped. “It’s screaming.”

  From the darkness of the hold, a blue light flared.

  Then, a sound.

  Click-click-click.

  Not one click. Dozens.

  A chorus of insectile chatter rising from the belly of the ship.

  Frankie looked over the edge.

  Down in the hold, illuminated by the bioluminescent slime, were pods.

  Hundreds of them. Translucent sacs pulsing with blue veins.

  Some were closed. Some were open.

  And crawling between them were shapes. Not just crawling. Weaving. Pulling strands of slime from the walls and wrapping the pods.

  “They’re not just infecting people,” Frankie whispered. “They’re growing them.”

  “We have to go,” Dee Dee said, her voice trembling. “The ladder is right there.”

  Frankie forced herself to stand.

  She ran for the ladder.

  She grabbed the rungs. “Up. Go. Go.”

  Ted scrambled up first. Then Dee Dee.

  Damon pushed Frankie. “You first.”

  “Go!” Frankie shoved him.

  Damon climbed.

  Frankie grabbed the cold metal.

  She looked back at the cargo hold one last time.

  A hand gripped the edge of the hatch.

  Pale. Gray. Long, translucent fingers.

  A face pulled itself up into the light.

  It wasn’t a crewman. It was a woman. She wore a tattered evening gown.

  She looked up at Frankie. Her blue eyes burned.

  She didn’t scream.

  She pointed.

  She opened her mouth.

  A shriek. Glass breaking inside her ear.

  The alarm.

  “Move!” Frankie screamed.

  She scrambled up the ladder.

  Below her, the chittering stopped.

  Silence.

  Then the roar.

  The hive was awake.

  And they were standing on top of it.