SHORT STORY: Knee Deep

The childhood monuments hadn’t changed in thirty years. The old "warhorse" still bobbed at the end of its frayed rope and the rainwater gently sloshed within its tire. The jungle-gym cast its long shadow across the yard, a grim reminder of fractured arms and chipped teeth. Jeremy couldn’t understand his father’s need to keep them around. Each time he made one of his occasional visits, guilt demanded he make more occasions to visit. Today, though, his father had called for him. Something urgent.

He couldn’t remember the doorbell ever working, so he rapped with the rusted knocker.

"Jer, come on in. But do it slowly." The windows were propped open; his father was apparently in the kitchen.

"Why?"

"Just do it. There’s something in here you need to see."

Jeremy’s father was very healthy for his age. He hadn’t shown any signs of senility in the past, but something about his tone sounded... off. Jeremy stepped into the house, flinching when the floor complained beneath his work boots.

"Dad?"

"In here. Quiet."

Jeremy peered around the corner and into the familiar kitchen. His father cowered against the humming fridge at the opposite side of the room, a claw hammer gripped tightly in his left hand.

A fist-sized shape, smeared in black, danced around the table between them. It skittered sideways along the scarred wooden surface. Several spiny limbs sprouted from its back, all of them stubby next to its menacing stinger. Jeremy decided it must be some sort of scorpion.

"Dad, what is that?"

"It’s my coffee mug."

"I don’t--"

"Watch." The old man took a hesitant step forward and swung his weapon downward with surprising violence. The creature exploded. White debris littered the tabletop.

Jeremy studied a piece of the rubble. It was porcelain, with a decorative blue trim.

"Have a seat, Jer. We need to talk."

"No kidding! What just happened?" Jeremy brushed chalky powder from the seat of his chair and realized he was seating himself in the same chair he’d been assigned for three decades. His father sat next to him.

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like you pulled a magic trick without me seeing the strings. Where did the scorpion go?"

"Scorpion ... I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it did look like one. I assure you that it's gone now, though--I smashed it. Assuming it wasn’t a trick, what did you see?"

"OK ... It looked like you broke a mug that wasn’t a mug at first."

"No, it was a mug at first. It was the mug you gave me when you were in the sixth grade. It was the one that had that old picture of you and Tad Delpino on it."

"I don’t remember that."

"You don’t? Well it’s right there, on the counter behind you." Jeremy raised an eyebrow. His father looked extremely old, the creases radiating from his eyes were deeper than usual and the veins in his forehead tried to push free from beneath his dark skin.

Jeremy spun around and came face to face with a mug he’d never seen before. A faded image, apparently captured from Jeremy’s days in Boy Scout Troop 522, had been glued onto its surface. Tad Delpino grinned a gap-toothed grin next to a teenage Jeremy. A simple blue trim had been painted around the rim.

"But... Tad was never in the Boy Scouts. His parents wouldn’t let him join, remember? Where did you get that? I didn’t give you that mug." When Jeremy turned around to face his dad again, the table was completely clear. "Dad, how are you doing this?"

"I’ve discovered a fundamental truth about the universe, or perhaps a fundamental lie would be more accurate. Here, take this and be ready to smash my mug again."

"What?" Jeremy retrieved the hammer.

"Just do it. No! Not yet--wait for it to change. I know you never gave me that mug. In fact, you hardly ever gave me anything. So, I convinced myself that you had. I fabricated several things that you might have crafted for me throughout the years, had we been closer, and then there they were. Physical. But, as you can see, they’re changing."

"Changing into what?"

"I don’t have an answer for that, but you saw one of them. About to again--smash it!"

The mug vibrated at first, but soon its surface boiled and the photograph peeled. Tad’s smile grew unnatural as it melted away. The exterior cracked, creating a jigsaw pattern of shining porcelain pieces connected by black, organic sinews. Jeremy pummeled the half-mug until it was chalk again.

"So you’re telling me you only have to wish for something and it’s yours? Do you know how crazy that sounds?"

"Yes, but that's not exactly what I meant. I don’t wish for things; it’s more complex than that. I lie to myself. Do you think I would still live in this place if I could have anything? No, Jer, I’ve tried. It’s something different. Loss, maybe."

"I don’t understand."

"I’ve always regretted how things worked out between the two of us, so I convinced myself that it couldn’t possibly have been as cold as it seemed. And then it wasn’t. I had photos on my walls of us going to ballgames, scrapbooks full of your artwork, perfect report cards, hell I even had video tapes of us on the beach when you were only four years old--you do realize we never even owned a video camera?"

"How?"

"Because it’s bullshit. All of it. That’s why I called you over. Everything is changing, like the scorpion you saw. I don’t know why. Maybe as I’ve grown closer to the end of my life, I’ve started doubting my memories, perhaps even repairing them."

"Then there are still more of those things?"

"They don’t all look the same, but yes, there are many more of them."

"Where?"

"I’ve killed a dozen or so, but several escaped. Some haven’t even changed yet. That’s why you’re here."

"You’re afraid of them."

"They’re real, Jer ... And violent." The old man lifted up his shirt and ran his knotted fingers across enormous bite marks on his belly.

"Dad!"

"It’s fine. It hurts, but it didn’t break the skin."

"We have to get out of here. You can come live with me for a while."

"Did you know I drove all the way to Redwater last month? You didn’t, did you? Went to stay with your aunt Claudia, but they followed me there. No, I created these things and apparently they’re bound to me."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Fight them. I’ve got a big one trapped in the basement. Maybe the biggest. You and I are going to kill it."

"How big?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"No ... I guess not. Do you have any weapons?"

Jeremy’s father gestured for the hammer and his son returned it to him. He tested the weight of it. "This has done fine for me so far. We’ve got a couple of your hockey sticks still in the garage."

"Dad, we never played hockey ..."

"Right. Shit."

"You remember playing baseball?"

"Of course."

"Good, there’s a baseball bat in the garage too. We’ll get that after we deal with the sticks."

Jeremy rifled through the cupboards for makeshift weaponry. He carefully opened each cabinet, ready to spring away if he encountered more of the inky beasts. Finally, inside the kitchen drawer, he discovered a long-tipped barbeque lighter and complimented it with a can of anti-corrosive spray.

"Dad?"

"Yeah."

"You understand that I am having a hard time with this, right? I want to believe you’re not crazy, and I’ve seen some stuff here that I can’t explain. But doesn’t this all seem a bit surreal to you?"

"Yeah."

"You’ve definitely creeped me the hell out, you know that?"

"Sorry."

"Do you think you’re the only one who can do this?"

"Honestly ... no. I think the scale of it is much bigger. I’ve thought about the lies we feed ourselves each day, hell, we’re not even responsible for most of them. Our brains tend to twist things over time, sometimes making old experiences better, but usually making them worse. Grudges. Hurt. What if all that garbage is leaking out into the world around us? What happens when all those misconceptions begin to break down like mine did and we’re left knee deep in shit?"

"That’s awful."

"Yeah."

"No, really--that is fucking awful. How am I supposed to accept that?"

"It’s just a theory, Jer. Come on, now that you’ve "outed" my hockey sticks, we’d best get to them before they escape."

The two men walked carefully through the hallway, each studying the rooms they passed for signs of trouble. Jeremy felt a stronger connection to his father than he had in years, despite the absurdity of the situation. They were the Carver team, perhaps for the first time. Jeremy’s lighter flashed to life and he held the spray can ready. He nodded his readiness to his father.

Though the door’s paint had faded over three decades, the familiar double-click of the top hinge hadn’t changed. The two men tensed, but nothing attacked. Jeremy reached into the black room and flipped on its harsh fluorescent light.

"There’s my bat, but I don’t see any hockey sticks," said Jeremy.

"Not a good sign. I bet they’re hiding back there." He tilted his hammer towards several large sheets of plywood.

Jeremy nodded and they advanced together. As he stepped beneath the light fixture, something wet splattered onto his shoulders and sprung to life. It clung to his neck with rubbery legs.

"Get it off! Get it off!"

"Hold still, I’ll--" The old man shrieked as the second creature squirmed its way up his pant leg. He dropped to the ground, desperately pushing down on his jeans to keep the beast away from his crotch.

Jeremy slammed into the old tool desk and sent its contents clattering to the floor. The creature spiraled around his neck several times and when it finally flexed, it easily cut off Jeremy’s breath. Panicked, he aimed the anti-corrosive can towards his own face.

The old man dropped onto the oil-stained floor and splayed his legs. He hammered the bulge in his jeans with the claw-end of his tool, shrieking with each swing. The creature only squeezed tighter, so he swung with more violence.

Jeremy, ready to black out, made a dangerous choice. He sprayed the anti-corrosive towards himself. The clear stream passed through his lighter’s flame before splashing his face with pain. It blazed brilliantly; soon he wore a beard of fire.

The creature in the old man’s trousers began to slow; black liquid bled through the fabric. Finally, he felt the hockey stick return to its rigid state during a downward swing. It was too late to redirect the blow.

Jeremy pulled the flaming, charred carcass from his throat. It transformed into a blackened, L-shaped piece of wood as it struck the ground. His father stood and pulled the chipped hockey stick from his pants. He kept one trembling hand on his testicles.

"Dad, are you--"

"I clipped one. I ... I'm sure it will be OK." His voice was a whisper.

"I think I burned myself bad--I can’t feel my face."

Jeremy’s father stared at him, jaw agape and eyes intent. He quickly corrected his reaction and smirked. "A little red is all, like a sunburn. You got a worse burn skiing in Colorad--"

"Dad."

"Never happened, did it?" His voice remained weak. The old man was biting back his pain.

"No. What do we do about these sticks?"

The old man said nothing. He simply picked up the damaged sporting equipment and placed them upon his table saw. It took several runs over the noisy blade, but the threat was eventually reduced to kibble.

"Get the bat, Jer."

"Are you sure you want to do this? Maybe we should wait a bit until we’re both feeling a bit--"

"We need to do this now."

Jeremy hesitated. He was looking for a way out. He wanted to return to his own house, where Mary would be waiting with his dinner. He’d put some cream on his burns, fabricate some crazy excuse as to how they got there, and return to normality. But how could he leave his father to fight his demons alone?

"Jer?"

"Ok. Let’s do it." He pulled "Slugger" off of its wall hook.

The short walk back inside and to the basement was brief but uncomfortable. Jeremy kept his eyes aimed upward as much as possible. His father limped, his right hand still attached to his groin.

"You said this was a big one, dad. Are you sure we can handle it?"

"Right now, yes. It hasn’t changed yet. When it does, though – probably not."

The lights were already on in the basement, and Jeremy was grateful for that. When he opened the door, he saw same the basement from his youth. At twelve, his father had allowed him to move his room downstairs. It was his sanctuary. The thought of something unnatural living in it caused more anger than fear. He descended halfway down the stairs and peered into the open space.

"Dad, if you know it’s a lie, why hasn’t it changed already?"

"I think because it believes in its own existence."

"What do you mean?"

Jeremy glanced up at his father. Tears traced the heavy creases in the old man’s face. The father studied the son, whose face was a reflection of his own from thirty years ago. Patches of his boy's cheek, where the skin had peeled away, swarmed with squirming black tendrils. The old man raised his hammer.

SHORT STORY: Tender

I'd always assumed it was a homeless shelter. The architecture, while plain enough to blend in with its aging neighbors, peaked and plunged like most of the city's older churches. It wasn't likely that this temple had seen any worshippers for decades. A moat of garbage spanned its cracked exterior and layers of bird shit marked its passage through the years. A few marred ornaments sprouted from the roof. No doubt the building had once commanded respect, but its flock had moved on. It wasn't abandoned; I had seen people inside, shuffling past the fogged windows. Some days the front door cracked open just enough to reveal the chipped tile floor inside. The sign on the wall said "Piscine St. John," which, I thought, sounded like a perfectly good name for a shelter. Of course, in French, a "piscine" is actually a pool, but I had only lived in Montreal for about two years at the time and still hadn't picked up the language.

In those two years, I hadn't yet experienced a true Montreal winter. Sure, it dropped well below the coldest I had known growing up in the South, but that winter, the winter I was to learn the truth behind St. John's, was a whole different creature. Even tucked beneath a thick scarf and a wool cap, the wind stung my skin. My eyes welled and leaked. That morning, I saw the real homeless shelters of the city--bank A.T.M. entrances, subway benches, and even telephone booths. Anything to escape the wind. Those who braved the weather tucked themselves into alleys and cocooned inside heavy sleeping bags. Some still walked the streets, bundled in awkward layers of filthy clothing. It was the first time I'd come face to face with human survival.

During the summer, in a big city, you learn to ignore the vagrants. It sounds cruel, but you cannot help them all. Newcomers will start out by giving quarters to each one they encounter (for about two blocks) before realizing that there is a whole society of needy people living off of pity. Soon, newcomers will begin to ignore the cries for money, look away from the signs begging for help, and only respond with an apology once they are called out by a passing fuck you. It's just easier that way - if you don't notice something, you can't feel guilty when you deny it.

Watching the winter try to claim these people, however, caused me a great deal of shame. I decided to pay St. John's a visit and see how I could help. I wasn't prepared to volunteer my time serving food but I did have my checkbook with me. I'm not going to portray myself as a benevolent spirit here, because at that time, I was not. The city has a way of forcing introversion upon you, teaching you hard lessons when you reach out to people. My hand had been bitten enough times to know that sticking to my routines was the safest way to get by. I needed a quick way to write off my guilt and be done with it, so I headed to the shelter.

By the time I reached St. John's, I was disoriented, stumbling, and I had developed a dull ache behind my eyes. Wind as frigid as it gets here can permeate your skin and sink even deeper. An ice-cream headache. That's the best way to describe it when the chill passes through your eyes. I considered warming myself with a cigarette, but I didn't dare expose my hands long enough to fumble with lighting one. I wasn't even sure if you could smoke through a scarf.

The shelter looked almost new to me. The garbage had been covered by several inches of snow and the stained roof was also veiled by winter. The front door stood about an inch open, allowing the warmth to leak out. Whether it was the promised relief from the cold, the apparent transformation of the building itself, or something less easily explained, I don't think I can properly describe how welcome I felt at that point.

It became clear that St. John's was not a shelter (or even a church) as soon as I stepped into the front room. The walls were colored with fluorescent blue and lined with lifesavers and pool cleaning nets. Painted footprints led around the corner. A yellowed photograph, labeled "Bain St. John--1926," hung unevenly behind the front desk. In it, two men in suits shook hands while people bathed in the water behind them. Public baths had long since become unnecessary, so the city must have adapted it to something more useful - a piscine.

I had forgotten about my original goal for entering; curiosity now compelled me to explore the odd building. I followed the path laid out by the tiny footprints. The pool room was cramped, yet comfortable. The pool itself retained an unusual shape from its past spent as a tub and didn't appear to have a "deep end". It struck me as odd that the place was even open in January. There was no cover over the clear water. I glanced back at the painted feet. No doubt the children of the neighborhood were aware of the pool here; with an open front door and an exposed body of water, this place was potentially dangerous. There weren't any lifeguards around. Or were there?

"Hello? The front door was open. Is anybody here?"

I thought I heard a faint reply from somewhere...outside? I tried again.

"I can't hear you. Speak up!"

Nothing. The thin windows along the sides of the room hummed as the wind caressed them.

I began to itch inside my winter gear. St John's was very well heated--too hot. I removed my coat and hooked it over the back of a chair. I tossed my gloves, scarf, and hat onto the seat. My clothes beneath were soaked in sweat.

I wanted to explore the rest of St. John's, but each time my eyes crossed the surface of the water, the hum grew louder and my thoughts slowed. Soon I was entirely focused on the pool and when I looked away from it, I panicked. I worried that it might disappear if I let it. I felt I was missing the big picture, that if I opened my eyes wide enough I'd see everything. In the middle of the harshest winter of my life, more than anything, I wanted to swim. I am normally a modest person, but that morning I stripped down to my boxers. I'd left the front door cracked open, and somebody could have walked in at any minute. But I needed to swim. There was no rationalization, something unnatural drove me forward.

Someone did enter. Even as he hobbled into the room, I continued to stare into the water. The surface blurred and writhed in response to the new occupant.

"No, God... No," he said. His words were thick with phlegm.

The voice woke me from my trance. On instinct, I reached for my clothes to cover my nakedness, but stopped as I caught site of the intruder. At first consideration, he appeared to be one of the city's vagrants. He'd layered himself thick with dull grey clothing. His hands were lost within oversized sleeves and most of his face masked by stacks of winter hats and hoods. The skin I could see was pale and sickly. Bloated lips twitched as he spoke.

"You can't do this! You can't!"

I clumsily pulled my pants back on. "I'm sorry... The door was open, I thought--"

"Who's there? Please! Don't let it put me in there!"

Homeless and drunk. It wasn't a fair assumption, but there it was. "Do you need me to call someone? I thought this was a shelter, but I guess it's--"

"No!" The man had reached the opposite side of the pool. The layers of soiled cloth peeled back and the hoods lifted. The man inside them was completely exposed. His flesh was gelatinous and it quivered as he was ejected forward towards the pool. I could see completely through his body. His bones and organs were visible, yet translucent. He flopped onto the concrete lip of the pool with a disgusting splat, and his entire body rippled. His eyes met mine as he slid helplessly into the water.

...And then I saw the true purpose of St. John's. For a second, the water seemed as clear as ever, but the illusion broke when the man slid into it. The entire basin was filled with living, jellied people, and all eyes were upon me! They mouthed words I couldn't hear, but I knew they begged for help. I could see through their bodies, all the way to the bottom of the pool. It was much deeper than it had appeared, by at least ten feet, and a hole opened at the very bottom. What looked like a simple breach in the floor chewed slowly with staggered brickwork teeth. I stumbled backwards and toppled over a chair.

The man's clothing, now floating a few inches above the ground, spun to face me. It began a slow drift in my direction.

"What the fuck?" I asked myself aloud. I dashed for the front door. More of the cloaks. At least three more had entered St. John's through the front. I grabbed one of the safety nets and headed back towards the pool. The first cloak still hadn't reached my side of the pool. Why were they so slow? Because their prey is usually slow, I realized.

I charged it, pole extended, and was shocked at how insubstantial the beast was when I connected. I easily snagged it from the air and hurled it towards a wall. Stunned, it hesitated a moment before floating upright. The room began to darken. Above me, the entire ceiling was obscured by descending cloaks.

I desperately gripped a doorknob at the back of the pool room, hoping it was a fire exit. It didn't turn. I kicked at the door with the flat of my foot, but without my boots, I had no chance of forcing it open. Weighing my odds, I sped back to the front room.

I failed to notice one of the cloaks that had flattened out along the floor and I stepped right into its trap. It snapped shut. The nerves in my leg screamed and I fell to my knees. I tried to kick the thing off, but it gripped tighter. The other cloaks in the room were almost upon me from all directions. I waved my makeshift weapon at them, but soon there wouldn't be room to even swing it. The warmth in my trapped leg was almost gone. With nowhere else to flee, I dragged myself to the pool and slid in. The cloak released its hold before I could pull my leg over the side.

It wasn't like treading water, though the bodies were slick with fluid. They still had weight, and I could keep myself near the surface by stepping on their rubbery limbs.

A woman's voice, full of liquid but definitely female, whispered into my ear, "Don't leave us."

The pool stunk of vinegar and my eyes stung. My exposed skin burned as it pressed against the slimy bodies. The mouth below still called to me, although it was less urgent now that I was already being digested. Let go. Swim.

It would have been easy to let go, too, but I had one trick left. I braced myself between one body and the wall and reached into my back pocket. I shoved my fist up into the cloud of cloaks and my lighter licked the beasts with flames. The blaze leaped through the creatures, gaining momentum with each new victim. They began to drop flat to the floor or into the pool. The digesting bodies began to howl as they burned. With pieces of burning clothing stuck to my back, and my hair alight, I pulled myself from the pool and ran towards the street.

I rolled myself into the thick snow banks to extinguish the flames, and then kept running until St. John's was nothing but a pillar of smoke in the distance. I ran through the streets of Montreal until I nearly collapsed, half-naked and smoking. Heavily bundled onlookers watched in pity but refused to help. Sirens rang out in the distance and I knew I'd have to hide, so I dragged myself down the stairs and into a subway station. I was completely numb and shaking. My skin had been burned by both the fire and the cold. I imitated the other vagrants in the station and rested next a large heating strip along the floor.

That night, I would sleep among the invisible, and if I woke up, I would leave the hungry city.

SHORT STORY: From Flesh to Fly

--------------------------------------------------

The orb-weaver sat motionless though her silken trap danced upon a tender breeze. She had eaten well this past week. Cow carcasses dotted the Kansas wheat field for miles, each one swarming with insects. She'd taken advantage of the carnage. Her web bisected an open barn window, a perfect snare for any intruder seeking the decomposed cattle inside.

A captured fly struggled hopelessly against the sticky surface. The desperate jig sent pulses across the web and within seconds the spider was upon him. Soon, another impact. And another. Flies peppered the web'’s surface. The spider hesitated, now unable to distinguish one victim from the next. Then, something unnatural. The web itself became a cloud of flies. Stunned, she lost support beneath her body. As she plummeted, she saw a similar transformation befall the spackled barn walls. They too lost their forms. Wood became insect. Vast sheets of it dispersed into spiraling black specks. The orb-weaver exploded into animated, buzzing life before she could hit the floor.

The people of nearby Belldover marveled at the ominous collective buzz of a billion incoming flies.

#

"It's surrounded by what?"” asked Dale Raleigh. Remembering his manners, he removed his purple K.S.U. cap and exposed a gleaming bald spot.

The sheriff plucked at his impressive sideburns with untrimmed fingernails. "“It'’s a wall. The damnedest thing. An enormous, black wall."

"More of a cube, George. It has a top." added Susie "Scoot"” Gershin. "Although technically we don't know if it has a bottom."

"“How could they build a wall in ...— "

"Cube."

"How could they build a cube around the entire city in just one night? I was up at Moby'’s just yesterday. There wasn'’t any construction--something that big would take months!" said Dale.

"There'’s something else,"” added Scoot. "The cube seems to be moving."

"“Moving where?"

"Not like that ... it'’s staying in place. It's just that the thing ... shimmers."” His embarrassment painted stark reds across his pale cheeks. During emergencies, George tried to adopt the mannerisms of a big screen, small town lawman. He'd lean against walls, gaze away randomly, and take extra time to let his words sink in.

More like Captain Kirk than aything, thought Dale. "“Is there a reason you two are fucking with me today? I'’ve got work to do."”

"It'’s not a joke, Dale. We need you to ... just have a look at it."”

"Why? I build houses, George, what do I know about shimmering cubes? What am I supposed to do about it?"

"You'’ve done demolition. We were hoping you'd help us tear it down,"” said Scoot. Her rugged firefighter suit drooped heavily from her tiny frame. Scoot was a good foot shorter than Dale, but her meager physique had never hampered her ability to run a tight firehouse.

"“Maybe they don'’t want us to--"

"Dale, the phone lines are cut. The power lines too."

"“Did you try cell phones?"

"“No luck there, either. The signals are being blocked by the walls, or--"”

"“Or what?"”

"Let'’s not worry about that yet. Let'’s get that barrier down first. How long would it take you to get your machines out there?"

"It depends on which ones I'll need. Did anyone get a look at what it'’s made of?"

"“Not up close, no ...– just a '‘copter view,"” said Scoot.

"“Why not? Maybe there's a door."

"“Fear, Dale. Nobody has the balls. All kinds of rumors going around. Aliens, disease, biblical prophecies, you name it."

"What about the big boys? Shouldn'’t we wait on them?"

"They'’re on the way ... though I don'’t think they believed my story,"” said George. "“We'’re not expecting them until late. I need to move on this fast. If there'’s any way we can save people in there, we'’re doing it."

"You mean I'’m doing it?"”

The two guests stared uncomfortably at each other, each hoping the other would come up with a convincing reply. There was no avoiding the simple fact that Dale was their "go-to"” guy, and Dale knew it. Dale could run for any office in town and would stand a damn good chance of winning. I've helped George and Scoot so many times that they, hell the whole town for that matter, won't act on something this big without my advice, he thought. "We can get you a bio suit if it will make you feel better,"added Scoot.

"“No, it won'’t."

#

Dale caught a foul whiff of Belldover as he passed over her farms.

"“What the hell is that?"”

"“Sewer pipes. Severed below the ground and bubbling up. Look over there." The pilot, Carlton Jones, pointed towards the opposite helicopter window, indicating the dead cattle below. Kansas still hadn'’t robbed him of his Caribbean lilt.

"Can sewage do that?"” Dale shouted above the whirling blades.

"We're not sure, but it'’s one possibility. We have an autopsy team down there, see them?"

Dale watched two men in clumsy protective suits toss a carcass into the back of a pickup truck.

"Where are the farmers?"

"Gone. Houses are empty," said George.

"This doesn'’t make any sense."

"You haven'’t seen anything yet."

And he hadn'’t. Belldover pushed into focus through a sheet of morning haze. A dark obelisk encased the main portion of the city. Dale was sure that if bad shit could be labeled miraculous, he was staring at a bona fide miracle.

"“It's changed shape," said Scoot.

The surface was undulating, it'’s edges hard to distinguish against the sky. It was as if an enormous, gnarled finger reached skyward from the endless Kansas plains.

"“I said it'’s changed shape. Dale?"

"“I ... uh."

"Yeah, exactly. Take us down, Carlton."

The highway patrol chopper descended behind a large crowd of uniformed workers and its passengers hopped out. Fear had drawn an invisible line across the landscape and nobody crossed it. It wasn'’t long before Dale and Scoot pushed their way to the front. A long stretch of highway, its passing lane paint serving as guidelines straight into chaos, teased Dale. This is your path, buddy. You'’re the go-to guy, so get to going.

"“I'’m going to need a ride,"” said Dale, "“are you coming with me?"

"“She'’s not,"” said George. He hesitated, scratched his chin, then continued, "“I am. Wait here, I'’ll get my car."

The two men drove at a cautious thirty miles per hour towards Belldover. Neither spoke. Once in a while, they would glance into the rearview and watch the line of people grow smaller in the distance. The black wall produced a sharp static noise that made both men squirm, and it was growing worse. Any other time Scoot would have been with them, and, Dale suspected, she was probably fuming back at the staging area. Once, she'd named their trio the Super Friends, but her fire crew lovingly renamed them the Stupid Friends. They'd dubbed Dale their Superman, George claimed Batman, and Scoot decided she'd be the Human Torch. Her friends had cried blasphemy, but you couldn't argue with Scoot.

Dale flipped on the siren, startling the Sheriff.

"“Jesus Christ! Are you trying to kill me Dale?"”

"Sorry, I thought the people inside might hear it and know somebody'’s trying to help."

“"It'’s a good idea ... just give me some warning next time. How close do you want to go?"”

"“All the way, I guess. We need to see what we'’re dealing with."

"We can always count on y--"“

"Yeah, yeah."”

#

Fifteen minutes later, George'’s Crown Victoria barreled towards the crowd, sirens screaming, but this time Dale manned the wheel. He fish-tailed the car before bringing it to an abrupt stop. Dry-heaving, he tumbled out onto the scorching road.

"Dale! Dale ... what happened? Where'’s George?"” Scoot ran to the car.

"“He'’s ... the wall ... pulled him in! Flies! It'’s made of flies!"”

"What?"” She kneeled by his side and gasped when she saw his condition.

Dale tightly gripped the upper portion of his left arm. The bottom portion was missing.

"“Stay away from me!"” The crowd stepped back in unison. The fingers of his right hand began to spasm, the skin blackened, and soon his flesh became flies. Scoot had never seen Dale in pain before; his screaming was unbearable. She rushed to help him, but her effort was pointless. She tried to tourniquet the stump of one arm with his sleeve, but felt the skin beneath become a multitude of insects eager to escape his shirt. His shoes fell empty to the sides and his pant legs gave birth to buzzing black masses. Veins sprayed his life at the pavement, but even his blood took flight. Dale struggled with one final, desperate breath before his chest dissolved. Scoot finally let go when she held only his eyeless head. Seconds later, it too became flies.

Blubbering, Scoot pleaded with the crowd, but most fled to their vehicles and headed back towards normality (something they would likely never have again). Carlton tugged at her suspenders.

"“Come on, Scoot! This is way beyond us. We need to get out of here and wait for the feds."

"I ... tried. There was nothing--"

"You did what you could. We have to go now."

"But George ...— "

"Is dead."

"“We don'’t know that!"

"We don'’t have to know that. You saw what I saw. This is biblical shit, Scoot. Beyond us. Way beyond us."

Scoot recalled a quote from her father, the quote that helped her keep control of her team through the worst situations. He'’d said, "Give me five weak people and nothing gets done. Give me one strong person and I'’ve got four more."

"George wouldn'’t leave us in there. Damnit, we'’re both rescue, aren'’t we?"

"“Do your people run blindly into fires?"

"Sometimes, yes. If we have a chance to save somebody. I have an idea, but I can'’t do it alone."

"What'’s your idea?"

"He said flies. The walls are ... flies. If that's true, we can kill them with the fire engine. There'’s water in the tank. We can cut through those walls, I'’m sure of it."” She made sweeping gestures with her arms to represent the slicing water streams.

The fire chief was usually very composed; Carlton was shocked to see her so close to hysteria.

"That'’s a terrible idea. Do you really want to get that close? You'’re not going to have enough water to last anyway."

"We can push through to Westworn street. There are hydrants on every block once we reach the city."” It was David Ortez, one of Scoot'’s veteran firefighters. David stood taller than anyone else on the team, but his intimidating size was muted by his soft-spoken manner. He seemed calm, but Scoot noticed vomit spatter on his pants.

"“You'’re going, Ortez?"” asked Carlton. He reached into the patrol car and cut the siren.

"“It'’s what we do. And George is a friend."” David hefted an axe onto his shoulder. "“You going home?"”

"“I ... I can'’t let you people kill yourselves. I'’ll go with you, but if things start to look bad, we turn back. Deal?"”

"Start to? What'’s your definition of bad?"

"“Let'’s just be careful."

"“We'’re coming too."” Kevin Cornell spoke for a cluster of mixed rescue employees: cops, EMS, and, of course, some of Scoot'’s boys. Two large fire engines arrived, followed by an ambulance. Somebody cranked up a heavy metal CD and Kevin spun around. "“Please tell me you're not playing post-haircut Metallica in my ambulance!"”

"This is not the time," said Carlton.

It was the perfect time, thought Scoot. Testosterone and levity, two great motivators.

The caravan cruised down the highway, Scoot'’s engine in the lead, Tad Clemens behind the wheel of the second truck, and Kevin'’s ambulance taking up the rear.

"“I never sit in the front car of a roller coaster,"” said David.

"“I hear you, man."” Carlton was squinting for a better view of the wall.

Within a couple minutes of hauling ass, they had nearly reached Belldover. Though she never doubted Dale'’s statement after witnessing his death, actually viewing the obelisk'’s shifting mass shook Scoot. The tip of its grotesque peak now spiraled into the sky and lost form, insects ascending to some unknown destination. The base remained solid despite its constant rippling.

"“Scoot'’s on your tailboard, who's driving?"” Tad'’s voice called through the CB.

"I am. What'’s up?" David answered.

"Look far to your left. Do you see it?"

"What am I looking for?"

"“There'’s a recess in the wall. It seems to be getting bigger."

"“Yeah, I see it now. We'’ll meet you there."”

The vehicles broke from the highway. David ran down a thin wire fence, and then continued onto the flat field beyond. The single-file driving order was broken and Kevin'’s ambulance began to flank far to the left.

The tear in the insect wall curled its edges like lips and exhaled a burst of flies. David rolled up his window.

"This is bad. This is bad. Time to go b--"“ Carlton'’s eyes locked onto a new shape emerging from Belldover. He grabbed the CB. "“Kevin, get the hell out of there! There'’s something coming your way!"”

"We see it. Just a cluster of flies. We'’ll be introducing them to our windshield momentarily."”

Scoot studied the ball of flies. It hung low to the ground--touched it, in fact. It moved towards the trucks at an impressive speed, not with a chaotic looping motion as she expected, but with a clear direction. She caught a glimpse of something ... animal beneath the swarm. Frantic, she waved to the ambulance, but their attention was focused on the swarm. She pounded on the back of the truck, attracting Carlton's attention. Scoot pointed at the incoming monstrosity and Carlton shrugged. David was mesmerized by the impending impact between the two speeding bodies.

The swarm hopped over a rock in its path and for a second everyone saw through the masquerade. A headless, four-legged beast jumped slightly out of its insect escort before vanishing behind the black again. It was mangled and pink, with bones protruding haphazardly from its skin. To Scoot, it looked like a bull turned inside-out.

Carlton'’s CB squawked to life. "“Did you see that? Holy shit, did you see that?"” The ambulance spun to its side to avoid the impact, but only ended up offering the beast a bigger target. The impact was quick and brutal. Displaced metal rippled around the splattered creature'’s shape, spraying the side of the van with crimson wash. The vehicle spun and tipped. Scoot struggled to see through the growing dirt cloud. Carlton shouted something out his window, but she was too shocked to comprehend.

Finally, a figure emerged from the haze--Kevin. His forehead spilled blood down his face and shirt, and he desperately limped away from the wreck. He had taken a gun from one of the cops in his ambulance, but his arm hung limp to the side. David was already steering towards his downed friends.

"Hang on, Kevin!"” called Scoot.

A shadow overtook the ambulance driver from behind. He glanced over his shoulder, screamed, and pulled a pistol from his waistband. There was no time to fire; it easily tackled the wounded man, striking with such force that Kevin nearly folded in half backwards. Scoot'’s fire engine pulled to a stop and she leaped from the back. Arms flailing and mustering the most horrible scream she could, she dashed towards the violent scene. Despite the fire chief'’s best efforts, the beast didn'’t run. There was no moment of confusion or hesitation, it just simply turned and charged her.

In the moments before contact, Scoot realized it wasn'’t like a bull at all. It was even larger and wore a span of tumor-knotted flesh wrapped tautly around engorged muscles. Instead of hooves, its legs peeled away to reveal misshapen clusters of bone. The head was absent, but the gash in its place was lined with spit-slathered, jagged teeth. It loosed a cry that sounded like muffled diarrhea.

Scoot'’s forearms crossed to protect her face. She winced and prepared for the worst, but it never came.

An impressive fire axe whooped end over end across the field and plunged deep into the creature'’s flank. With the beast stunned, David followed up with a steel-toed assault and recovered his weapon. In a stunningly swift motion, David brought the painted axe head down again and again as the creature gurgled in dying protest. The violence ended as quickly as it had begun. David stood silently over his fallen foe for a moment before wiping sweat from his brow.

"I think it's dead now,"” he said.

Scoot could only stare.

The two were interrupted by Carlton's voice. "It killed everyone inside. Kevin'’s dead too!"

"“Wait a minute-- where is Tad'’s crew?"” asked Scoot. She scanned the field and the second fire engine was not in it.

"“They went ... in."” said Carlton.

"“In?"

"“Drove right through the wall, didn'’t even stop."

"That'’s crazy!"” said David. "“Why would they do that?"

"“We'’ll worry about that later ... when we get in there,"” said Scoot.

"Get in there? How many people have to die before you'’ve had enough?"” Carlton pointed at Belldover.

She ignored his question. "“I'’ll get the pump started. David, take the hose. Let'’s do this before another one of those ... things comes out."

David propped his axe against the truck and started to unwind the hose while Scoot focused on the machinery. Cartlon threw his hands up in frustration, but neither noticed. He quietly walked to Kevin's corpse, hesitated for a moment before stepping over the beast's carcass, and then plucked the hand gun from Kevin'’s hand. He returned to the truck and jabbed the gun's nose into David's back.

What the fuck, man?" David dropped the hose and reached for his axe.

"“Carlton! What'’s wrong with you? Put it down!"

Scoot stood frozen.

"Look at us! What are we going to accomplish here? The sound of that thing, which is made out of fucking flies, by the way, is getting worse. We've been attacked by a headless godknowswhat. Most of us are already dead or missing and you want to spray water at it. You want to piss it off more. Well, I'’m stopping this. I'’m saving our lives. Get back into that truck and turn it around, we're leaving."

"“I'’m warning you, friend. Take that gun off me."”

"And I'’m warning you. Get in the truck. I'm not staying here."”

David gripped his axe tightly and closed his eyes. Scoot noticed.

"Stop this! Let's just focus on what we need to do he--"

Carlton pointed his gun upwards to fire a warning shot.

"“No, don'’t!"” Scoot screamed.

Pop!

David flinched. He spun around, using the momentum to drive his fire axe upwards. Carlton dropped the pistol.

"Wait! I--" The axe shaved off Carlton’s face just above the upper jaw. The body crumpled into a twitching pile and the airborne chunk landed several feet away.

"Jesus Christ!"” said Scoot.

David threw up again. "“Am I shot? Scoot! I don't feel where it hit-- do you see anything?"”

"“You aren't hit! It was a warning shot!"”

"“Oh God. I'’m sorry I didn'’t--—"

Scoot spoke through tears. "You had no way of knowing."

"Still, I should have--—"

"David. You had no way of knowing. Come on, we need to get this working."” Scoot picked up Kevin's gun before approaching the pump system.

The powerful stream was more effective than Scoot had imagined. Instead of simply knocking out specific sections of the wall, even untouched areas began to separate into individual insects and disperse. After several minutes, the tank'’s water ran out, but they'd taken down a large portion of the living barrier. The remains of Belldover were exposed. The tops of buildings had vanished, the middle floors blackened with flies. Streams of insects rose towards the sky. To Scoot, each building was like a giant candle with a shivering black flame.

"“It looks like we'’re too late,"” said David. Tad'’s fire engine rested on its side, just a few yards inside the wall.

"We need to get to them," said Scoot. The two firefighters returned to their own vehicle.

"What happens when we cross that edge?"” he indicated where the wall had been. Now only a puddle thick with drowning flies stood in their path.

"“I don'’t know. I can go alone, David. You did your job."

"Not a chance."

They held hands and Scoot gently stepped on the gas. As the fire engine crossed the edge of the city, both firefighters tensed. David held up his hands and watched them carefully, flipping them top to bottom, but there was no transformation.

"“I think we'’re OK,"” said Scoot.

"Yeah, it looks like it. Pull up next to Tad's truck and I'’ll check it out."”

The interior of the vehicle swelled with black motion, a mass so thick there was no way to see inside.

Scoot bowed her head. "“Carlton was right. We never should have come here. I'’m responsible for all these people. What will I tell their families?"

"Tell them they died trying to save lives."

Scoot sighed. Admitting failure meant admitting that lives were wasted. She shifted the truck into reverse. David groaned and held his belly.

"What'’s wrong?"”

"Stomach hurts. It hurt before, but it'’s gotten worse since we drove inside. Are we leaving?"

"Yes." The finality stung.

Something leapt into the side mirror, arms raised high.

"“Is that--George! It'’s George!"” Scoot opened her door.

"“It'’s not safe out here! You have to get off the street!"” The Sherriff had a butcher knife tucked beneath his snakeskin belt. He was panting; a fit of coughing soon overtook him.

"“Hop on! We'’re getting out of here!"” she answered.

"“No, we can'’t leave. There are survivors! Come on, we're going to be seen out here!"”

Though they hesitated a moment, Scoot and David abandoned their vehicle and followed the lawman. They hadn't run far when Scoot realized people were forming a crowd in a nearby intersection. "Look! Survivors!" she said.

"No--those aren't human," said George.

Scoot tried to make out details through the insect haze. Some of the figures were limping and others crawled along the ground. "Look at them! They're injured. George, we have to help!"

"They're not injured, they're deformed."

"“What are they?"” asked Scoot.

"Fuck if I know."

"Shitbags," added David.

"Yeah ... shitbags. Those are slow, but I've seen other kind, even some that fly. I hope you'’re good with that axe, Ortez."”

"I get by. But the one we saw was anything but slow."

"Two or four legs?"

"Four."

"Yeah, I saw one of those. I didn'’t stick around long. How about you, Scoot? Know how to use that gun?"

"“Never fired one in my life,"” she said.

"We'’ll trade, then. He gave Scoot his knife and then checked her weapon'’s ammunition before transferring it into his own empty gun. "“This is police issue. Where did you get this?"”

"There were cops in Kevin'’s ambulance when it ... crashed. He must have taken it from one of them."”

"Who? Were they hu--"” More coughing.

"They'’re dead,"” said David. "“Walker, I knew. The other two were twins."”

"Shit,"” George was better at hiding his emotions, but Scoot saw through it. "“Come on, there'’s a house over there that hasn't started changing yet."”

Something mangled and pink dipped in and out of the maelstrom high above them.

"Come on, move!"” said George. They entered what would have been a pleasant, cream-colored duplex before the disaster. It stood pristine within the chaos. The sheriff advanced with caution, gun raised, and visually cleared each room as they descended to the lower floor. He flicked on his Maglite and painted the room with soft illumination. "“They took people down here ... into the ground below. There's some sort of cave system. I ran out of ammunition before getting far in, so I had to come back out. We need Dale to have a look at this place. It definitely looks man-made. Where is Dale?"

"He'’s ... gone, George." Scoot mentally replayed her friend'’s demise, his hollowed-out eyes still staring.

George bowed his head. "“I keep expecting to wake up from this. Listen, there may still be some of those things down there, but I'm not going to waste bullets on them again. They seem mostly harmless."

"Mostly?"” asked David.

"Watch for the ones with fingers or teeth. The others don'’t really have a way to hurt us. Just stay away from them if you can, push themback if you can'’t, and I'’ll shoot when needed."”

Scoot held the butcher knife downward in imitation of her favorite cinematic slashers, gripping tighter when she heard gurgles from the darkness below.

"Yup, they're still here. Be careful," whispered George.

Squinting, Scoot tried to make sense of the shapeless black. She was pretty sure whatever was down there was more than a match for her imagination. The phlegm-filled whimpering jumped between sounding human and animal. This is as bad as it seems, and probably even worse, she thought, yet she kept moving.

George tried to be merciful with his flashlight, pointing it forward and not directly at the twitching creatures that lined the basement walls, but the soft glow splashed onto the room'’s occupants. Some of the creatures made aggressive, fluidic noises as the group passed. Each beast was uniquely deformed; some were missing pieces while others had stunted limbs jutting randomly from their blistered bodies. Headless, one of the beasts searched the wall with its long, tapered neck.

"Over there," George whispered, "They took them into that hole." He indicated a portion of the ground where the carpet had been peeled back and the planks removed. It was past the creatures.

David held his axe parallel to the floor. There was no room to swing the weapon without hurting his friends, but it would serve as a barrier if needed.

A shape sprouted from the hole. The thing pulled itself up with four sinewy legs, obscene lips uncurled and teeth dripping.

"No!"” David dashed in front of the fire chief and forced the axe handle into the creature'’s mouth. It chomped down, vigorously breaking its own teeth as it continued to chew.

"Give me a shot, Ortez!"” George had taken a trained shooter'’s stance.

David twisted his axe and hurled the creature onto its back, yet the jaws refused to release. George aimed at creature'’s lower neck and fired, spraying wet matter across the room. Holes splayed open across the surface of the convulsing body, revealing countless sets of teeth. The remaining creatures moaned; malformed heads turned and hidden maws opened.

"Oh, shit!"” David was back on his feet.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh."” Head cocked, one of the creatures carried David'’s words from one of its many mouths. Its brothers were advancing.

"Don'’t!"” shouted Scoot. She didn'’t know if she could bring herself to stab another living creature, especially one that looked human.

George fired two shots, each one bursting its target. Red spatter stained a hanging photo of three smiling children. George hesitated. He put a fist to his mouth and coughed violently.

A blistered hand with five bony nubs hammered Scoot'’s back. She turned and sank her knife deep into a creature'’s gullet. It screamed and grabbed her tightly. Mouths across its body tore into her belly, thighs, and shoulder. Her fire suit protected the skin beneath at first, but the pointed fangs soon broke through and stung her flesh. She jammed her blade once into each eye, twisting it on the second stab. The creature hung limp on her clothing for a second before the body'’s weight pulled its teeth free.

George descended beneath the house, flashlight between his teeth, and the basement returned to shadow. A moment later, light flashed up through the hole. "“Get down here, we can outrun them!"

"George, you don'’t kn--"“

"“Hurry, Scoot! I don'’t think they can keep up. Look at them, they'’re crippled!"”

George helped Scoot climb down while David, now free to swing his weapon, cleaved into the advancing crowd.

"David?"” Scoot called to her friend.

No answer.

"“David, please."” It was almost a whisper.

Suddenly, the large man landed hard in front of her. He groaned and held his stomach.

"You're bleeding!"”

"“No, it'’s not mine--I don'’t think. Go!"” He nudged her shoulder and the three of them moved as fast as possible with only the sheriff'’s light to direct their passage through the cavern.

As they ran, the bobbing light revealed not only stone walls, but wooden planks propped up as support beams. There were no industrial tools strewn about or even signs of past mining.

"What is this?"” asked David. When he received no reply, he said, "Hold up a second. I don'’t think they followed. We need to rest."”

"Ortez, I don'’t know how much life my battery has left. We need to get in and get out as fast as possible."”

"Get in and do what?"

"Find those people and free them."

"You said they were taken--taken by what?"

"Well, there were the ... shitbags mostly. But there was a man with them, too. A midget. He was giving them orders."”

"A man? You'’re saying people did this?" Scoot asked.

"I'’m saying I saw a midget with them, that'’s it. Christ, I don't know what any of this is about! All I know is that we have a chance to something that makes sense in this ... madness, and I'’m going to take it."

"Those people are probably dead by now,"” said David.

"“Maybe not, but they probably wish they were,"” a strained voice spoke from ahead.

The trio startled.

Under George'’s light, an elderly man approached with an arm over his eyes. "Can you point that away?"

"“Who are you?"” asked Scoot. She pointed her bloody knife at him.

"“Uh--Lawrence. Did the government send you? It's too late."” He studied their uniforms. Lawrence was completely bald, even his eyebrows were absent. He wore a dirt-stained hospital gown and one battered slipper.

"Not exactly, it'’s just us so far, but the cavalry should be here soon. What are you doing down here?"”

"“They took me, along with the other patients in my wing."

"How many others?"” Scoot spoke with concerned confidence, something she picked up while dealing with fire victims throughout her career.

"“Seven of us. There were more, but ... uh."” His hand gestures indicated explosions.

"“They blew up?"” asked David.

"“No, he means flies,"” said Scoot.

"“Yes. It murdered ... children ... nurses. Didn't touch us. Why? What good are we?"”

"What do you mean?"” asked Scoot.

"“15G. Terminal Cancer Ward. We'’re all dying anyway."”

"How did you escape?"”

"“I didn'’t. He let me go. Said I wasn'’t ... ripe."”

"“Who?" George raised his voice, sending it far into the caverns.

"The dwarf. You said you saw him too."

"“I did. So there are six of your friends still in there?"

"Might be. Might be dead too. Either way, we need to get out of here!"

"We'’re not leaving. And you'’re coming with us." George grabbed Lawrence'’s arm and spun him around.

"There'’s no need to be rough!"” Scoot protested.

"“How far is it?"” asked George.

"“I had no light, so it'’s not far at all. I was slowly finding my way in the dark. The tunnel turns. You won'’t need your flashlight once we turn."

How quickly he backed down, thought Scoot, he'’s given up. He just wants to die.

Eventually the tunnel did turn, and it began to pick up the faint light from a nearby chamber. The group moved close to the wall with their heads low. The same gurgling sounds they had heard in the basement were repeated here, only louder. Creatures squealed and grunted, and every so often the sounds of human agony broke through.

George peaked around the corner and his face went slack.

"What do you see?"” whispered David.

"It'’s ... horrible. So many of them."

"“Do you see any survivors?"

"“No ... only those things. Wait, there's the dw--"

"Oh Larry ... "” A voice beckoned from the chamber.

"No."” Lawrence fell to his knees.

"“I told you ... we're not ready for you yet. Are you trying to cut in line?"

"Please, shoot me."” Lawrence begged George as reached for the sheriff'’s gun.

"“Who are you talking to, Larry? Did you bring friends?"” the voice asked, and then to someone close to him, "“bring them in."”

George's eyes bulged, and he unleashed a horrible scream. He charged into the chamber and began to fire. A second later, David followed. Scoot reached out to Lawrence.

"“Come on, get up!"

"Leave me alone!"

Scoot left the old man on the floor and chased after her friends. Stunned, she stopped at the vast chamber'’s entrance.

The scene before her was a surrealist'’s painting given life. Fleshy creatures melted and merged, some walking bipedal on her level, some in flight, and some impossibly traversing the walls. Above, a great whirlwind of flies orbited a sickening green light. Giants loomed over the smaller creatures, faces blank and pocked breasts dangling. They leaked milk from their foul mammary sacks onto the heads of their brethren. Under the milky deluge, new limbs sprouted and twisted muscles grew. An enormous cavern mouth led to blackness at the back of the chamber. At the center of the chaos, a dwarf sat calmly in a plain lawn chair.

Sprawled on the ground, George was unable to do anything but cough. He fought to catch each breath.

David held his stomach and rocked on the earthen floor, his axe dropped to one side. There were several pink carcasses around him.

Scoot felt a dull ache beneath her left nipple.

"“What is this?"” she demanded.

"You're pretty, but you weren'’t on my shopping list. Oh, I see ... congratulations to all three of you!"

"“For what?"

"One moment. Larry? Are you going to come out?"

There was no answer.

"So be it."” Jarrod closed his eyes and winced. There was a panicked scream before a stream of flies sped into the room and joined the swarm above.

"“Who are you? Why are you doing this?" David could barely speak through the pain.

"“Some call me Charles, but I like Jarrod better. Why am I doing this? Orders. Wait a minute, look--we'’ve got a birth!"

George heaved. Liquid came up between labored breaths. Tissue poured from his quivering mouth and quickly sprung to new life. The mass flopped about on the floor, tore in several places, and then took flight. The newborn creature disappeared into the cavern.

"“Wow! Will you look at the lungs on that guy!"” Jarrod stood on his chair and spun around to see his inhuman audience, but he got no reaction.

The Sherriff twitched and sputtered.

"Son of a--"” David tried to fight through his own pain.

"You're going to do that ... to all of us?"” asked Scoot. She inched towards Jarrod as he spun on his chair. Human or not, she intended to stab him when the moment was right. Too much ground to cover, she thought.

"“Oh no, that'’s not my trick. You'’ve seen mine." He pointed up.

"“I don'’t understand!"

"Because you haven'’t met the big daddy yet."

Behind Jarrod, something in the darkness shifted. Something easily as big as the tunnel that held it.

"Behold, Bavolis!"

"What--"”

Bavolis leaned forward on four arms the size of buildings, rotten hands tipped with enormous black claws. Wrapped in numerous layers of stained cloth, the beast upset thousands of insects with each movement. They danced between the folds of its garb. Its putrid face sat shadowed beneath a ragged hood, but one of its milky eyes seemed to shine with unholy light. Its stench, one of life born from death, filled the chamber. Scoot cringed.

"“Never smelled a god before?"” asked Jarrod.

David sprung to his feet and charged the dwarf, but Jarrod was too fast. The smaller man winced once again, eyes closed. and the ground beneath David'’s feet transformed. Rock buzzed away in a living black spray and David fell several feet into the cored stone.

"“David!" Scoot followed David's lead; she sprinted to the tiny man and sank her blade into Jarrod's gut.

"Bitch!" he screamed, and backhanded her with inhuman force. Scoot tumbled backwards and nearly passed out when her head struck stone. The creatures became agitated, filling the chamber with their hideous cries. Jarrod seemed unconcerned about his new wound.

"You shouldn't have made me do that. Now he's angry with both of us--you'’re special to him, you see. You'’re going to give birth to a mother."”

Scoot tried to focus the giant female creatures through cloudy eyes, gasped, and looked away. She placed the edge of her butcher knife against her throat and prepared to do the unthinkable.

Suddenly, a gunshot. Now wide-eyed, Scoot scanned the chamber. The dwarf had fallen from his chair, a red spatter beneath his right eye and a pool of blood leaking from the back of his head. She checked for David, but only saw the backside of his axe arching up from the hole as he tried to hook an edge to pull himself out.

George.

The sheriff suffocated, smile on his face and gun in his hand.

Bavolis roared with rage. Every one of its children cowered into whatever crack or cave they could find. The flies began to disperse from their vortex above and then reform on the tumor creatures. The grotesque "“mothers"” wailed as the insects pierced their flesh. The creatures had extreme reactions to the flies; skin swelled and burst open. The smaller beasts tried to flee, but were too slow to escape their fates. The chamber filled with ravenous buzzing.

"David! We have to get out of here!"” She reached into the hole and helped him climb out, though the large man did most of the work himself. He was still suffering.

"“I'’m done, Scoot. I can feel it. I can'’t hold it in much longer."”

Bavolis screamed at them in a thousand unknown languages with thousand different voices at once, and then spun back into its cave. It left behind a trail of parasitic life. Maggots wriggled helplessly on the floor while clouds of lice dispersed.

"“Look, it'’s leaving ... and the other ones are all dying! We can do this, David. We can get out of here!"

"“Like hell it'’s leaving. They're not getting away with this. They are not!"” David readied his axe and then charged into the black cavern after the beast.

"“David! David."” No time for this, she thought, you have to get out.

Scoot grabbed George'’s flashlight and his gun, though she wasn'’t sure if she could figure out how to use the latter. Around her, masses of cancerous life howled out their dying gibberish as they were swarmed. A few flies harassed her as she fled, but for the most part they were more interested in the exposed meat of the creatures. The swarm sped ahead of her through the carved tunnel. She hoped the flies would slay the creatures outside as well.

When she finally surfaced, Scoot witnessed the death of the city. The few remaining structures dissolved into insect and roads crisscrossed an empty landscape. Here and there a fence might still stand, or a tree remained untouched, but ultimately, Belldover had been removed from Kansas.

Trucks were already beginning to appear on the horizon. The black walls had dispersed, granting rescue workers a newfound courage to investigate.

Scoot caught a lift back to the main staging area of the operation, but spoke very little. When asked, she feigned amnesia, at least until she could get her head together. She would be questioned, almost certainly detained, but there was something she needed to deal with first. It still pulsated beneath her breast.

Scoot composed herself, removed the emergency blanket they'd wrapped around her, and walked right into the crowd with full confidence. Still in her fire suit, she went unnoticed. It wasn't long before she was able to commandeer one of the fire department's pickup trucks.

She sped away from Belldover'’s corpse, eventually exiting the highway and pulling onto a wooded back road. Once she located a spot where she'’d have privacy beneath the trees, she parked. She removed the butcher knife from her belt and placed it on the seat next to her. With trembling, bloody hands, Scoot began to unbutton her shirt.

SHORT STORY: Sick and Tired

--------------------------------------------------

Miller hadn’t killed for Sonya in over forty years. Hell, he hadn’t even spoken to her for most of that time. Once, he had allowed himself to be swept up by her righteous tempest, had even reveled in the tasks she had given him. After all, he’d had permission from the highest of authorities to commit acts forbidden to most men. Sonya had served as both his divining rod and his moral foundation.

Four decades and the sting of love lost (perhaps even a spot of senility?) had marred his memory. At the time he’d had complete faith in her but after so many murders without miracles, without even one indication from any higher power that he walked the right path, he had begun to doubt--and she had left him for it.

Now her presence stirred within his house again. Her voice waited beneath an insistent, blinking bulb. The machine displayed Gayle, Sonya. With the push of a button, what? Another favor? Forgiveness? Perhaps something more? You’re seventy-two years old, Miller, does she still matter? He couldn’t lie to himself; he pressed the plastic button.

“Miller? It’s Sonya. I need your help. This time it’s bad. Worse than ever before. Call me, my number hasn’t changed.” Her voice was still as sharp as he remembered, her need completely credible. She ended the message with a hook barb, “I miss you, Mil.”

Shit. After all these years, she still had him. It only took one ring before Sonya picked up his return call.

“Mil? Is that you?”

“Yes, I--“

“Hold on, let me get my aid. I can’t hear you.” A hearing aid implied frailty. He had never seen her frail before. She’s in her sixties now, things have changed.

“Sonya?”

“Sorry, I have you on speaker now, so talk louder. How’ve you been, Mil?”

“We both know that’s not why you called. What’s going on? The sickness is back?”

“It never went away.”

“So you’ve ignored it?”

“No, you weren’t the only one, Mil. There have been others. The work had to continue.”

Christ, thought Miller. How many have died since we parted?

“But this time you need me,” said Miller.

“Yes, I know you don’t believe in me anymore and I know you haven’t believed in me for years. I can’t have you dy--I can’t have you living with that kind of regret. You didn’t kill people, Mil. I’ve wanted to show you all this time, but I never had a way. Finally, I found one. I’m so sorry it took so long.”

“You want me to kill somebody.”

“I want you to end something.”

“What’s different about this one? A lazy eye? Does he walk with a limp?”

“That’s not fair. Meet me tomorrow and I’ll show you. Please.”

“Where?”

“Bus 27, the Kensington route north. It stops near you.”

“I know it.”

“I’ll board that bus at the subway station at 9:30 AM. We’ll pass your stop at 10:02, and then his at 10:06.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Mil?”

“What?”

“Do you still have your gun?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I’ll see you there. Get some sleep.”

“Goodbye Sonya.”

He had no intention of killing anyone. He would humor Sonya, follow her victim as they used to do, but once cornered, he would force a conversation. He’d prove to Sonya, and more importantly to himself, that her targets were regular people. What then? Would he turn himself in? Certainly he deserved punishment, but could he bring himself to implicate Sonya? No.

#

Miller waited beneath the harsh morning blaze, an antique man with an empty antique gun stuffed haphazardly into a raincoat pocket. He had dressed warmly on a scorching day due to a slight chance of precipitation, and was now soaked by sweat instead of rain. Once he’d been a warrior. Fearless. Now he felt ridiculous, a retired veteran of an imaginary war. He choked on thick exhaust as the 27 swung up to the curb.

The driver, wired to a miniature radio by matching ear buds, grunted but didn’t bother to look up when Miller flashed his pass. Once Mil passed, the driver’s thumbs continued to assault the steering wheel to a monotonous urban beat.

“Mil!”

He had expected to wade through a crowd of strange faces to pinpoint (and recognize) Sonya, but the two old friends had the bus to themselves. His voice caught when he saw her.

“I, uh ... ”

“I, uh! Same old Mil. You look terrible.”

“And you’re still beautiful.” Damn, that sounded cheesy. I never could talk to her.

“Oh, there’s no need for that.” It was true, though. She’d braided her lustrous red hair into a long tail without even a hint of grey. Freckles still adorned the cheeks beneath focused cerulean eyes. Her skin was age marked, but the lines enhanced her majestic image. Her single flaw was a small device residing in her ear.

Miller took the seat next to her, on the side of her hearing aid. He raised his voice when he spoke. “I thought you--“

“I can hear you just fine with my aid, there’s no need to yell at me.” She smiled.

“You said you had others to help you with your work. Why are you asking me again?”

“Jack isn’t with me anymore.”

“Jack?”

“He died.”

“I’m sorry, were you--“

“Yes.”

“Kids?”

“Two. Jodie and Aaron. I’d like you to meet them, they’ve certainly heard a lot of old stories about you, but they both live in Redwater now. How about you? Surely you have a family?”

“No, I never found anyone.”

“Mil, that’s horrible. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I’ve been busy, haven’t had the time.”

“Busy with what?”

“Thinking, I suppose.”

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go with all that guilt. But that’s why we’re here. Did you bring the gun?”

“Sonya!”

“Oh, he can’t hear us. Did you?”

“Yes.” He patted his pocket.

“You’ll see. There’s no doubt this time. You’ve never seen anything like this before. Two more streets, now. He’s at that stop every weekday.”

“How long have you been following him?” Miller could never rationalize the fact that she could become more obsessed with strangers than with the people closest to her.

“A couple of weeks now. I know where he works, too.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want you to be scared, Mil. It’s going to get really extreme when he boards the bus. I need you to pretend that you’re used to it. Wait--there he is! Do you see him?”

The scrawny man approaching the bus stop appeared to be a teenager. He wore a tattered leather jacket, originally black, but now so cluttered with slogan pins and rock patches that it barely resembled clothing. A dark hood extended from another jacket beneath and covered the top half of his face. His baggy jeans showed gaping holes where knees should have been.

“He’s a looker isn’t he?” Sonya asked.

“He’s probably just a confused kid.”

“No, he’s not a kid. I’ve seen his face.”

The hood boarded the 27 without acknowledging the driver. Wincing, the driver adjusted the volume of his radio. The hood dumped himself into one of the reserved handicap seats near the bus’ front and casually slid back into his seat, arms and legs extended. He seemed uncomfortable, plagued by nervous tics. A junkie?

“Looks human to me,” said Miller. There was no reply.

Sonya’s head lolled and her eyes showed only white. She twitched violently, her quaking much more violent than the hood’s. Miller had seen her do this before, but never so severe.

“You see, M-mil?”

She’s faking this. It’s part of her fantasy.

“You think he’s doing this to you?” he asked, careful to keep his volume lower than the bus’ engine

“Yesss.” Two crimson lines now connected nostrils to lips.

The hood turned towards them. “Lady, you do this every day. Why don’t you go see a fucking doctor?”

“T-tell him I’ll be f-fine, Mil.”

“She’ll be fine,” said Miller, “It will pass.”

The convulsions stayed strong until the hood exited the bus, close the end of the route. Once they were mobile again, Sonya immediately sat up. She fished for a tissue in her purse and dabbed her face.

“Do you believe me now, Mil? See how strong he is?”

“Sonya, I think you need to--“

“This is where we get off. We’ll need to head back a couple blocks, he works at that thrift store we passed.”

“And then what?”

She just stared at him, puzzled.


#
Hands of Help was a squat, uncomfortable building wedged tightly between two government housing projects. Its windows displayed equal parts graffiti and advertising. Statements like Paperbacks: Two for One, Furniture Blowout, and Fuck Your Mother lured in potential buyers. Miller and Sonya found a small span of window between sale stickers thin enough to mask their presence while they spied on the hood.

There were three people in the thrift store, each of them uniquely bizarre. The hood remained hooded, even indoors. He kept shifting positions, entirely too animated. Miller guessed the man was eager for a fix.

The intruders couldn’t hear the conversation, but a muscular dwarf was clearly addressing their target. The smaller man waved his stunted arms about to enhance whatever point he was making, and the hood replied with defiant gestures. The dwarf seemed sick, despite his physique, his skin too milky and his eyes glazed. The dealer’s second in command, thought Miller, and probably a junkie as well. Why hire a dwarf as your enforcer?

The third man seemed uninterested in the conversation. Instead, he paced the perimeter of the shop, knocking on walls, examining floor tiles, and studying the ceiling. He wore a charcoal suit and checkered tie. Miller attempted to construct the third man's story. He's definitely the dealer, and he's searching for a hidden stash. He's ordered the dwarf to keep the hood busy while he has a look around. These are dangerous men, all three of them.

There was a moment of tension when the dwarf pointed a thick finger at the hood. The hood raised his arms, hands pulled into fists and teeth bared. The dealer, however, calmly interrupted them, spoke a few words to each, and then headed for the front door. Miller and Sonya scuttled behind a van.

“Watch for traffic,” said Miller.

Despite protests from his various joints, Miller slowly lowered himself to the asphalt and peered beneath the vehicle. I hope this isn’t your van, thought Miller.

As the two strange men exited the thrift store, Miller noticed that the dealer wore no shoes. Barefoot, he began to stride away from the shop despite the heated sidewalk. Miller felt the heat on his palms even in the van’s shade. The dwarf stopped dangerously close to Sonya.

“Can you smell that?” asked the dwarf. He tilted his head back and put his full body into an exaggerated sniff.

“Smell what?”

“Old people. Smells like aspirin and urine.”

“They know we’re here. Did they see us in the window? Sonya--I don’t have any bullets …Sonya?”

Slumped against the van, Sonya convulsed and struggled for air. Miller pulled her into his arms.

The dealer spoke again, this time loudly, “You really don’t want to go in there, grandpa. Houl’s not big on company. Short temper, too.”

“These two are even stronger, Mil. Too strong. I can’t breathe.”

“Hold on, I’m going to move you.”

“Wait. They’re gone. They’re gone now.”

“You’re OK?”

“I’m OK.”

“We should leave, then. The bus should be back soon.”

“Leave? No, Mil. I need to prove this to you.”

“I’ll prove it to myself, then. You wait here.”

“But you have no bullets!”

“We’re going to have a talk. That’s all.”

“You don’t know what you’re--“

“Wait here!”

Miller walked straight into Hands of Help like any other customer. The door chimed as it swung.

“We’re closed,” said the hood.

“Oh, I didn’t see a sign. Maybe we could talk for a minute?”

“We’re closed, old man.”

“Listen, Houl is it? My friend is convinced that--“

“How do you know about Houl?” Rage replaced apathy. The hood clutched a carving knife from a kitchen bin at his side.

“Hey, wait a minute. I just want to--“

“You were with the sick woman! Who sent you?” He traced erratic arcs in the air with the blade’s tip.

Miller drew his gun. He pointed it at the hood’s forehead. Forty years ago, he could have nailed the shot from across the room. Forty years ago, the gun would have been loaded. “Back off! Now. I just want to talk.”

“Oh, we can talk. I like to talk.” The last word of the hood’s statement caused a ripple in the air around his face. The word had been spoken with thousands of voices in harmony. Soon, his breath was visible, though the store was uncomfortably hot. No, not his breath. It’s something else.

The hood’s body began to vibrate; irregular twitches overtook him first, then pushed into a rhythmic wave. The man-sized blur strode slowly towards Miller, toppling shelves of second-hand records, pulverizing old ceramics, even cracking the very foundations of Hands of Help. The building’s screams, however, were muted by the hood’s own cacophony. The weapons of the duel had changed. The junkie’s knife twisted like rope and fell to the floor. Miller mimicked him, dropping his useless firearm. The aural assault loosened the old man’s muscles and his legs failed him. He could feel his tissues tearing inside but he wasn’t sure if he was actually crying out. The horrible sound seeped into his mind, past his hands, even as they clasped tightly around his ears. The noise was crippling, he could barely remain conscious. This is it, Miller. At least you know.

A new figure entered the building. Sonya. Miller tried to warn her to run, but his voice was impotent. She held her hearing aid in front of her like some holy relic. It screamed feedback.

Though his shape was nearly gone, the hood fell upon his ghost limbs. He rocked in pain.

At first it seemed that Sonya was waving the device in defiance, but Miller soon realized it was pulling her forward. She pointed with her free arm and spoke, but her words were lost in the chaos.

Coils of substance stripped from the hood as they were tugged towards the tiny device. First, sheets of skin danced through the air, but soon muscle and organs joined the flow. Blurred limbs became stable for a moment before they were pulled free of their host. Drenched in the hood's fluids, Sonya hurled the hearing aid into the center of the storm. What remained of the the junkie’s mangled body spiraled into it. The thrift store dripped with remains. Sonya loomed over her fallen friend.

“Mil! Are you OK? I heard the sound outside and it hurt my ears, so I took out my hearing aid. I could feel it tugging at him before I even came in! Did you see that? Oh God, I’m so happy you saw that. You hang in there, Mil. I’m going to take care of you.”

Cradled in her bloodstained arms, Miller put his fists against his ears and then stretched open his hands to indicate he couldn’t hear. The old man smiled.