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  This one is for

  Rob and Megan, again and always.

  I’d also like to thank:

  my sister, Mary Anderson, Nancy Pickard and Jenean Gilstrap, my agent, Al Zuckerman, and my editor, Beth Meacham, for their insights and suggestions about the story.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Invasion

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  March 10–14

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  March 15–16

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Quarantine, March 17–20

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  The Final Days, March 21–22

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Tor Books by Trish J. MacGregor

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Invasion

  Cedar Key and Homestead, Florida

  Collective they stream

  down the road like a swarm,

  seeking ruin, with cries in the air.

  Harm and destruction

  secreting a chill

  that swells to a violent cold dare.

  .….. fragile the silence

  they leave in their wake

  ’mongst litter that blows in the breeze,

  dark’ning the day

  with destructive intent,

  when hatred to ruin carries.

  Verena Scott

  http://gsp-shadow.blogspot.com

  Behind every man now alive stand thirty ghosts, for that is the ratio by which the dead outnumber the living.

  —Arthur C. Clarke, 2001: A Space Odyssey

  One

  FEBRUARY 13, 2009

  A small detail, something only a bartender would notice, triggered Kate’s first suspicion that nothing on Cedar Key was what it appeared to be.

  It was a chilly night on the island, temps hovering in the mid-thirties. The weather boys predicted frost in Gainesville fifty miles inland, with a promise of snow flurries by Sunday. No snow out here, not on this punctuation point surrounded on three sides by the Gulf of Mexico and connected to the mainland by four bridges. But a heavy fog blanketed the island, great, swelling banks of the stuff, the likes of which Kate Davis had never seen in her forty years here.

  The fog pressed up against the windows of the hotel bar with the persistence of a living thing. It eddied, flowed, constantly moved. Through the glass, she could see it drifting across the weathered brick in the courtyard, wisps of it caressing the leaves of the potted plants, and wrapping around the trunks of trees like strings of pale Christmas lights.

  The strange fog looked dirty, greasy as kitchen smoke.

  It gave her the creeps, even though she’d always been somebody who loved cozy days or romantic nights of fog. But this fog wasn’t cozy; it wasn’t sexy. The thought of entering into it when she left work made her stomach clutch, got her imagination working overtime, as if something malevolent might grab her from out of this nasty gray weather.

  But that was ridiculous. This was an island of sunshine and benign, lazy days. There was nothing threatening about it, or hadn’t been until recently, and she hoped she was only imagining those changes in people she thought she knew.

  Kate took a breath, braced her palms on the bar, and looked around to steady herself with what was bright, clear, and familiar.

  The Island Hotel had stood on Second Street since it was built in 1859. It was small, like the town—something she loved about both of them—just three stories of wood and glass, thirteen guest rooms, the bar tucked like a postscript behind the lobby. The floor sloped in here and the ceiling sagged enough so that most people instinctively ducked when they walked in—and then laughed and looked around to see if anyone had noticed them doing it, embarrassed that they’d let the illusion fool them. It made them feel like old-timers when they spotted the next tourist doing it, too. The space between tables in the back room was barely wide enough to squeeze through. Kate had worked here for five years and had never been able to shake the claustrophobic feeling of these two cramped rooms. Tonight it was worse because the place was crowded. And because of the fog. The bar seemed more closed in—isolated—than she’d ever experienced before.

  “Stop that,” she chided herself.

  Locals filled the stools along the bar, the six tiny round tables that lined the walls, and occupied the larger tables in the back room. During the winter, the island’s population usually swelled from seven hundred and fifty to several thousand, but the season had been slow this year. It surprised and pleased her to see half a dozen tourists, folks in shorts, sandals, and lightweight sweaters who probably hailed from some Scandinavian country and thought this weather was balmy. Tourists tipped well, locals did not. Maybe tonight would be a prosperous night after all.

  She hoped so. Her son, Rocky, wanted to take advanced placement courses in Gainesville this summer, as soon as he turned sixteen, so he could get into college earlier. He would need some sort of car or motorcycle to get to and from Gainesville. It didn’t have to be a new car, just something reliable that wouldn’t break down on that lonely fifty-mile stretch of road that ran from here to Gainesville.

  Her old VW might work for a while, but it had more than a hundred thousand miles on it and the local mechanic had told her already that it was going to need new tires and a new clutch soon. She had a college fund for Rocky, but didn’t want to dip into it for a vehicle. So for the last several months, most of her tips had been going into his car fund. With what Rocky had saved from his job at the animal rescue center, the fund now had about $1,500. She hoped for another thousand before summer.

  Her boss, Bean, had offered to loan her the difference she needed. Kate loved Bean like an older brother, appreciated his offer, but considered it a last resort. Bean told her she had too much pride; Kate preferred to call it self-reliance. All she had was herself and Rocky; they needed to be able to make it on their own; she wanted to set a good example for him.

  Now and then, music blasted from the jukebox, an old Wurlitzer Bean had restored to pristine condition. Banjos twanged, fiddles screeched, country tunes that made her smile at their lyrics—“Baby, come back to me, or I’ll come back to haunt you, baby!” In between, the constant murmur of voices washed over her; she was used to it. She didn’t need to hear these voices to know the alcoholic preferences of her customers. She knew the regulars well enough to worry about them.

  For instance, Marion the librarian—not her real name, but what people called her—loved her Skip and Go Naked, a wicked mixture of ice, limeade, lemonade, Sprite, vodka, and beer. By the end of the ni
ght, with a few more of those in her skinny little body, she would be doing the cha-cha without music or a partner. In the past few weeks, she’d been in here every night, hitting on any man alone at the bar. Kate thought it was sad, but she also thought it was odd, because Marion hadn’t behaved like that until lately. Usually, she was nice, kind of shy.

  Kate wondered if it was only the alcohol, or if Marion’s past had finally worn her down. She had been the librarian for only six or seven months. She was in her fifties, attractive except for the tragedy in her eyes. Kate had heard that her husband and two kids had died in a car accident in Gainesville a few years ago.

  Maybe she had simply succumbed to the same thing that ailed so many of the locals: alcohol as a way of life. A lot of them drank too much, Kate thought, while she scooped their tips. They claimed at one point or another that they were on the wagon, and promptly fell off that elusive wagon five minutes later.

  The fact that she cared about all of that—about all of them—meant she was getting strongly attached to the place again. She’d been born here, then left for thirteen years, and now was back again. She’d never intended to stay, but more and more, it felt like home to Rocky, as it did to her.

  She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  She didn’t have time to puzzle through it. She was alone at the bar tonight, one of the waitresses had called in sick, and Richard, her lover and the other bartender, was visiting friends in Gainesville. Since the hotel kitchen had closed hours ago, the only available food was from the bar menu, sandwiches and soups, mostly, that she prepared in between making drinks.

  Kate finished an order for a table in the back room, put everything on a tray, and set it down in front of her boss, Bean.

  Ted “Bean” Dillon was a scarecrow of a man who owned the hotel, had renovated it and put it back on the tourist map. He was sixty years old, divorced, a teetotaler who took no guff from drunks.

  She gave him an affectionate and tired smile.

  “Hey, boss,” she said over the blare of conversation and music. “Can you give me a hand here and take this to table three?”

  Bean was sitting on a stool at the bar next to Marion, the two of them howling with laughter. He didn’t acknowledge Kate’s presence, much less answer her question, so she slapped her hand on the bar, playfully, to get his attention. He stopped laughing and looked at her, bushy brows rising into little peaks.

  “What?” he said irritably.

  Kate pulled her chin in, not liking his tone, but then she realized that he was undoubtedly tired, too.

  “I’ve got four more drinks to make, Bean. Could you deliver this to table three?”

  “Oh, really,” Marion said with a roll of her pretty brown eyes. “That’s what he pays you to do, Kate.”

  Taken aback by the patronizing tone, Kate still managed to joke about it. “And not nearly enough, right, Bean?”

  “More like too fucking much,” he shot back at her, and it didn’t sound like a joke.

  “What?”

  “Get us another round, Kate,” he ordered, in a most un-Bean-like way. “Make it a pitcher of Skip and Go Naked for both of us, and more tequila for me.”

  He leaned in to whisper something in Marion’s ear, and whatever it was made her laugh raucously again.

  Kate stepped back, confused by this change in both of them. But the bigger surprise was that Bean clearly meant for her to bring him a drink, too. It was then she noticed that he had an empty shot glass in front of him, the kind they served to the straight tequila drinkers.

  “You’re drinking?” she asked him, dumbfounded.

  Bean didn’t drink. Ever. He was nearly religious about it, having been raised by drunks. And then something strange happened to her boss’s face, something that made her draw in her breath and back off another step, so she felt as if she were about to fall off something high and deep. It was a little thing, subtle, and she might not have noticed it if Bean hadn’t leaned forward at that moment and glared right at her. She was accustomed to looking into drunks’ eyes to see if they were tracking, to check if they could still drive home. Bean’s eyes looked like nobody’s eyes she’d ever seen before, just as the fog was like no other: his eyes, his kind and sea-blue eyes, had turned cruel black and shiny, like smooth, damp stones.

  A chill washed through her.

  He gave her a hateful look that shocked her more than his drinking did.

  He snorted. “You’re such a prude. I don’t know how Rich stands it.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “Our drinks, Kate?” he reminded her, with a mean sarcasm that made the librarian laugh again.

  She turned her back on him, on them, hurt and angry, and a little scared, and glanced at the wall clock. Just past eleven.

  She tried to convince herself that she hadn’t seen what she’d thought she’d seen.

  That was the answer: it hadn’t happened.

  Eyes couldn’t do that. Bean wouldn’t do that.

  Could she make it for another two hours? If she left now, Bean might fire her, given the strange and awful mood he was in, and in spite of their long family history. She couldn’t afford to lose this job. Even though she worked at Annie’s Café three days a week, she doubted she would get more hours there. Business was too slow. The terrible truth was that she needed both jobs to support herself and Rocky. Without this job, there’d be no gas for her own car, much less wheels for him.

  She’d been born and raised on Cedar Key. The island was in her blood, just as it had been for both of her parents. She’d left here once before, to attend Florida State in Tallahassee, but returned two years ago when her relationship with her son’s father fell apart. She was qualified to teach high school English, had applied for teaching jobs on the island and in Gainesville, but neither school system was hiring. She would make some calls tomorrow, she decided, get her name on the substitute list. She needed a backup plan. The fact that it made her heart hurt to think of leaving the island was going to have to be irrelevant.

  Suddenly, Bean stood beside her, shoulders twitching as though his pullover sweater were too small for him. She nearly said, “What’s wrong with you?” But before she could, he set a bottle of tequila down hard on the counter. “I delivered the meal, now you make Marion and me another round of drinks.” He leaned toward her, his gaunt face so close to hers that she smelled his reeking breath. Air hissed out through his clenched teeth. “We clear, hon?”

  WTF? Hon? What was that about? Before she could think of a snappy reply, he winked at her, patted her cheek as though she were a young child, and swung around the corner of the bar. He settled again on his stool, head tilted toward Marion, who giggled like an infatuated teen.

  The jukebox came on again, and someone shouted, “Hey, Kate, where’re our drinks?”

  The temptation to water down Bean’s order quickly gave way to making a pitcher of Skip and Go Naked. Kate set it and the bottle of tequila in front of them, without a word, and hoped they wouldn’t notice her hands trembling. It’s just the booze, she told herself. Bean wasn’t used to it; as for the librarian, Kate didn’t know what her excuse was for acting like a bitch.

  Still feeling stung, she turned back to the blender to add more ice. It churned constantly for the next half hour. The music and noise got louder, the room grew warmer, her feet ached from standing so long.

  Her cell vibrated and beeped, and she slipped it out of the back pocket of her jeans. A text message from Rocky read: Mom, you getting off at 1?

  That’s the plan.

  You need a ride home? I’m over at Jeff’s, got the cart. I can pick u up if u need a ride.

  Kate had forgotten he was spending the night out. His friend lived on the other side of the island. Even though Cedar Key had practically no crime to speak of, she felt uneasy about Rocky being out and about by himself at one in the morning, driving the electric golf cart. It’s a short walk 2 the houseboat, I’ll be fine. Luv u

  Text if u cha
nge yr mind. We’ll be up late ☺. Luv u 2!

  Her heart swelled at the affection in his text. “Love u 2!” That was pretty good for a fifteen-year-old boy, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t be caught dead saying it to her face or in public, but he could safely say it in a text.

  Kate smiled down at her cell phone.

  She wondered if his girlfriend, Amy, was part of the staying-up-late equation. Kate liked Amy, but worried about her and Rocky’s raging hormones. From the time her son was old enough to understand what sex was, Kate had been utterly frank about safe sex. He knew enough to use condoms. But. What if. Maybe.

  As Kate slipped the cell back into her pocket, she caught sight of herself in the window, the pallor of her skin, the circles under her eyes. Strands of her blond hair had worked loose from the large clip that held it off her neck and clung to her damp cheeks. This job, she thought, was aging her quickly. She cracked open the window for some fresh air. Ribbons of fog slipped through the screen and curled quickly around her wrist and forearm like a snake seeking warmth. It felt damp, slimy, cold, deeply unpleasant. She shuddered at its touch and then frantically slapped at it. She was startled to see the ribbons break apart, like the mercury in a thermometer had done one time when she accidentally dropped it.

  “That’s weird!”

  She knew it was an understatement even as she said it.

  It wasn’t just weird. It was impossible.

  Kate looked up, afraid of what she might see the fog do next.

  Bits of the fog hung in the air the way smoke does on a windless night, and finally dissipated. Kate slammed the window down, disturbed that she could still feel the slimy cold on her skin. But when she looked out again, she saw the fog was back, pressing against the glass, looking as if it were trying to get in, to get at her.

  Bean’s nuts, and now you’re losing it, too, she thought. She loaded a tray with drinks and sandwiches and carried it into the back room, to a table of four boisterous tourists, and looked at the clock again. Just an hour and fifteen minutes before she could close up. And go out in that horrible fog, her spooked mind said to her. Oh, shut up, she snapped back at it. Fog was fog. She was just nervous about losing her job and it was making her jumpy.