A dearth of oxygen foiled Rich’s attempt to scream.
'…we are facing something that is disrupting what we know about our existence…'
The lack of light frustrated his mind’s feeble attempt to discern the body of the thing. Rat-like, maybe, but nearly the size of the Malibu. Fur? A short snout? Whiskers? All guesses fueled more by imagination than vision. Nevertheless, one inescapable conclusion broke through the confusion: the animal on the far side of the cracked window did not belong to Rich’s reality. It was something different.
The thing nearly as big as his vehicle and not of his world staggered as though it were a quarterback after a blind-side sack. Rich absently reached another conclusion: the collision had not been intentional. The rat-like creature had been running from something.
That other something was coming.
'…reality itself is being called into question…'
The rat-thing squealed…maybe hissed. Rich swallowed air in big thirsty gulps.
A second dark silhouette descended upon the scene.
The first-the rat-like thing-tried to adjust its flight around the car.
Too late.
The darkness kept the second entity as well hidden as the first. Rich could see only a little of its shape. Mercifully little. He saw-he thought he saw-a shambling mass of tendrils…or worms…or something like that: a hundred sickening, squirming appendages.
Those appendages grabbed the rat-thing. It squealed again.
Despite the darkness, despite his hysteria, Rich saw those tendrils puncture the victim’s hide and drag away the rat-thing’s writhing body which disappeared into the larger monstrosity.
'…our science arrogantly claims to know so much but we are being taught a terrifying lesson…'
The squeals faded into a garbled, mumbled groan as if drowning in the predator's feelers.
'…and now we are faced with an issue of survival not only as nations and governments, but as a species…'
Somehow, his foot found the gas pedal and pushed. The sedan kicked dirt and gravel and sticks as it tore off along the drive. Rich did not take his foot off the accelerator until he arrived at the front stairs.
'…whatever this new world will be, apparently all of mankind’s power and strength is insignificant…'
He leapt from the car.
No mindful consideration; only the instinct for flight. Richard’s sanity went on temporary leave and his inborn survival mechanism carried him onto the porch and into his home.
The dogs came running again, this time doing something his Elkhounds rarely did; they barked fiercely. Not at him, but at what they knew lurked outside.
Richard Stone bolted up the front stairwell and to the second floor. His dad walked from the master bedroom tying a robe over boxer shorts as he moved.
'Rich?'
The son ignored his father and opened the door to the second floor storage room, a holding pen for various boxes, old furniture, and assorted odds and ends. Richard’s mind-his crazed, confused, and terrified mind- managed to send one reminder: his father’s old shotgun and hunting rifle waited in a cabinet in that storage room.
'Honey? What is it?' His mother called from the bedroom.
Dick had already opened the old metal cabinet when his father’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder. George Stone saw his son’s objective.
'Richard!' He shouted but Dick grabbed the shotgun that his dad had used long ago to hunt wild turkey.
Before he could do anything with the weapon, George’s other hand snagged the barrel and pulled it easily from his son’s clutches.
Mom turned on the ceiling light and gasped.
Richard backed away from his father and fell on his ass to the floor of the room. He curled into a ball and threw his hands over his eyes.
'Jesus Christ, son, what the hell are you doing?'
Tears ran along his cheeks. He provided no explanation; only heaves.
George, carrying the gun by the barrel, left his son’s side for the top of the stairs. He stood still and listened. The dogs stopped barking.
Tyr trotted upstairs and went straight into the storage room where he licked Rich’s hands.
'Yes…' Rich sucked in air as well as dust from the neglected room as he spoke to the dog. 'Yes, yes, I’m okay…I think.'
'George, I’m frightened,' Kelly told her husband when he re-entered the room.
Rich uncovered his eyes in reaction to the dog's attention. He said, 'You should go back down with Odin and keep a watch out.'
Tyr trotted away.
George returned the shotgun to the cabinet and then knelt in front of his boy who still sat on the floor between a milk crate of books and an old office chair wrapped in a garbage bag.
'What…happened?'
Kelly said, 'We heard a noise. A crash. Did you have an accident?'
'Something ran into my car.'
George prompted. 'A deer?'
'No…no deer. Something, Dad, oh God,' Rich trembled so violently it sapped his voice.
'Easy…easy…' George rested a reassuring hand on his kid’s shoulder.
It was physically impossible for Richard to speak, so his father did.
'Whatever it was, it sure put a scare in you. Hell, son, you’ve never held a gun before, let alone fired one. You’d probably shoot your foot off.'
Dad drew a dumb-ass sarcastic smirk on his face. Rich allowed his gasps for breath to turn into a chuckle, then a laugh. He leaned forward, threw an arm around his father, and squeezed. Mom joined them and they all sat together on the floor in one big group hug.
– Mr. Munroe blew nasty-smelling cigar smoke into the air as he surveyed the damage to the Malibu.
Rich’s hope that he might catch a break over the smashed car faded. He should have known that even the news reports could not save him from his manager’s wrath. Those news reports had tallied an estimate of the disappearances in the United States: somewhere between eighty-five and one hundred thousand people, all gone without a trace.
Other reports-ranging from strange flying creatures downing a traffic chopper in Charlotte to the fact that no one had heard from Taiwan in twelve hours-added to the sense of approaching doom.
Richard’s parents had urged him to skip work not only because of world events but also because he had barely slept last night.
However, he had a strong sense of responsibility for the damaged demo car, mixed with a healthy dose of denial. Besides, after two encounters in two days on his family’s property he did not feel safer at home.
In any case, Stone followed Mr. Munroe as the latter paced along the passenger side of the sedan parked in the service lot behind the main Chevy showroom. A handful of lonely, puffy white clouds drifted overhead. The calm beauty of the late-June morning sky contrasted sharply with the storm of fear brewing below.
Mr. Munroe removed his cigar, exhaled, and re-stated what Dick had already told him.
'So something ran into you, eh? A deer?'
'Yes, something like that. It was dark. You can see there’s fur stuck in the door.'
Mr. Munroe stooped to inspect the badly bent side panel.
'Yep. Some kind of fur… strange, though…more like needles…'
'I really feel bad but you can see it wasn’t my fault.'
Rich’s boss stood straight and jammed his cigar into the corner of his mouth. He spoke in the tone of a Drill Sergeant.
'Not your fault? For Christ’s sake, son, you need to face the music. This was your demo car.'
Richard closed his eyes and pinched his nose with his fingertips. He felt a head ache blooming.
'I realize that, Mr. Munroe.'
