[Continued: To start at the beginning click here.]
“What?” she breathed. “What is—”
The first of the bugs hit the window with a squelching pop, and Roxanne screamed, jumping back. Greenish-brown goo splattered out from the point of impact, but she barely had a moment to register it before more slammed into the glass. Hundreds of them peppered it like bullets, leaving behind a nauseating smear of guts and gore. Each impact sent her back another jerky step until she bumped into the bar.
“Why are they doing that?” she demanded to keep from screaming again. She wanted to cover her eyes and ears, but fear of not seeing kept her from doing either one.
“Fuck,” Sal yelled. “Look at the ceiling.”
She tore her gaze away only to see that the stain above had thickened into a slick black ooze. It looked like an upside-down oil spill on a choppy sea. Soon it would reach the bar and the kitchen. And the stench . . . Damp and foul. Rotten eggs in a steamy soup.
The blackness began to drip, and Roxanne fought down another scream.
“Reece! Reece, get out here!” she shouted instead, just as a loud crash came from the kitchen.
Santo turned, his gaze unerringly finding hers. The look he gave her spoke volumes, but she couldn’t understand what it meant. She couldn’t understand what was happening. The bugs had completely obscured the windows, the live ones crawling over the splattered remains, trying to get in. She felt the blood drain from her face. Could they? Would they find a way?
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