by now. He was planning a night raid into the town, soon, too. Night after night, the light had scoured Harrow, Kansas, and he doubted that many people were left by now. The same was true of the Smokes. It came here every night, seeking and probing, and those other things came, too, the shadowy things that he’d encountered when he was a follower.
Thunder bellowed. Another storm was coming. Soon, there would be more rain. Methane releases from permafrost, the collapse of the Greenland and Antarctic glaciers, the flooding of polar oceans with fresh water from the melt, the wild state of the sun—all of these things were combining to make the weather turn dangerous just when this horrific attack occurred.
For years, the U.S. had pleaded with the empires to curtail pollution, but they would not touch their development zones. Industrializing regions of Africa and South Asia had completely overwhelmed the planet’s ability to maintain balance.
More planning on the part of these invaders? He feared so. He feared that they might have infiltrated every colonial administration on earth. No doubt they would turn out to be comfortable in an atmosphere choked with what we thought of as pollution.
Despite the sodden cold of the crawlspace, he sweated.
The silence was deep, now. His watch told him that sunset was not far away. He had a mission tonight— aside from avoiding the light and the other menaces. He intended to track down a sound he’d heard off and on, that came from down toward the Saunders. Drumming, he thought. Somebody down there, perhaps.
Of course, in this world it was impossible to tell. Could be anything. Some creature from hell, or an alien machine. Or it could be people, and if so, there were more than one or two of them.
He stirred a little, just moving his body slightly. Then he waited. There was no sound from above. He raised his left hand and pressed it against the trapdoor.
After a moment, he pressed harder, causing the door to move just slightly. When there was no reaction, he pushed the door all the way open.
He made his way through the dining room, then the living room where he had spent so much time in his chair reading, where he had read to his kids, where he had listened to the music he loved.
The front door gaped. As he went through, he tried to push it closed, but it was no use, they’d torn it off its hinges. He stepped into the grass, in the long shadows of evening. He listened, heard nothing.
No, it was a night sound, that drumming, and finding its source was about the only thing he could conceive of that would draw him outside after the sun went down.
Then he heard another sound, a great whooshing overhead that was familiar to him from his night as a follower. He glimpsed, turning hard against the clouds that raged above, what looked like a gigantic bat.
He could feel it watching him. Knew that it was. And then he heard from the woods behind the house that familiar mechanical clatter.
The sun was not yet down, but the alien animals were already stalking him. The bird was the spotter, and whatever was in those woods, he suspected, was there to tear him apart.
He scrambled down the hill toward the stream, and then moved along its bank, rattling the dry autumn brush as he went through it. Tears swarmed his eyes, he was that afraid, as above him the wheeling bird wailed, and the woods behind him and around him echoed with the noise of whatever monstrosities were there.
He came to the little lake, really just a widening of the Saunders, where he sometimes swam in the summer, and ran out onto its pier. Forcing himself not to dive, he slipped into the frigid water and moved under the pier, clinging to one of its slippery pilings, concealed by the three rowboats that were there, old Mrs. Lane’s little white dingy that she used to fish for crappies, and his boat that could be fitted with a small sail and go racing across the thirty-acre lake, and the third boat, a duck hunter’s craft, camouflaged, that had not been used by anybody in years.
Then he heard his pursuers, their feet splashing softly, and heard their sounds, mutterings, clatterings, small whistles that he realized were a language and a complex one, and he wondered, then, if these might be the real aliens, or if they were creatures that had been trained like dogs or were smarter than dogs, and then if they might be constructed things, machines brought to life.
There came tapping, a claw tip on the wooden dock above his head. He heard the eager whisper of their breath, and the more intimate clattering of what he thought now must be mouth parts. There was a whisper in that clattering that suggested knife blades, steel against steel. From high overhead there came the long wail again, and he could hear in it quite clearly a tone of angry question.
Had they lost him?
Something slid into the water. It was clear and deep, the little lake, with tall water weeds that rose up from its darkness, and he saw, sailing below him, a huge shadow, blacker than black, with eight great legs outstretched around it.
He watched it sailing above the gently waving fronds, coming toward him, and felt as it came closer, more frozen, more helpless.
This was his death, then, his ugly destiny, and he’d done nothing to deserve it.
The thing in the water made a graceful turn and then came back toward the dock. He watched the shadow glide closer.
He’d lost, he’d been captured, and now, he thought, his lot must be to share the fate of the mangled boy he’d seen in the field. Perhaps he should fight more, but he didn’t know how. If he swam, the thing would be on him in a second. If he got out, he’d have to confront the ones crowding the dock.
Something brushed his leg, feeling like a whipping frond of water weed, and he saw the shadow darting there. It was closing in, it was about to strike.
He shut his eyes. Waited. Heard a sloshing sound, very light. Sick with fear but unable to bear the feeling that he was about to sustain an attack he opened them again.
There was a girl in the water beside him.
She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows, then held a long finger across her lips. She looked sketched by a Dutch master, she was so flawless, so full of glow. And also, she looked familiar, very much so, but he couldn’t place her.
He was trembling with the cold of the water. She reached a hand like a sparrow to his shoulder, and warmth came from it, soothing him and bringing him a startling sense of protection.
She raised a finger beside her ear and shook her head. Don’t listen, the gesture said. Then she held her hand out before her, palm toward him. The message was clear, don’t listen and don’t move a muscle.
But how could he not listen to that hideous wailing in the sky? It was the most terrifying sound he’d ever heard. And the mechanical chuckling of what appeared to be gigantic spiders gnashing their mouth parts—it caused sickening dread, visceral terror as it conjured thoughts of agonizing mutilation.
She frowned at him. What was she getting at, and who was she? So familiar, the face.
She smiled softly, and he thought that certain female looks define the very essence of beauty for the male, and she reached out as if she had heard that thought, and touched his cheek so very kindly, and his mind went to Lindy, and his heart almost broke in half.
This all happened in an instant, during which time she touched her temple and nodded and smiled, and that gesture, one he had seen her make before, caused him to realize who she was. This was Louise Wright’s daughter Pammy, manager of the Target…and he thought she could read his mind.
He noticed, also, that as he had become distracted by her, the things in the water seemed to have lost track of him.
There was a crackle, a huge noise. Electronic crackle.
Pammy Wright frowned.
A voice echoed, electronically amplified. “Martin Winters, I am Captain Jennifer Mazle of the United States Air Force. Please come up on the dock.”
Pammy shook her head. Then she pointed downward, and disappeared.
“Doctor Winters, I am Captain Jennifer Mazle of the United States Air Force. The situation has been stabilized and it’s safe to come out. Please come up on the dock.”
He saw Pammy’s pale body disappearing down among the water weeds. She swam right through a line of black shapes, which simply hung there, not moving.
