This is my only chance. I have to take it.
(Failure was inevitable.)
Failure was inevitable.
My body is moving in slow motion as I plant my hands and jump over the tailgate to fall into darkness. By the time I hit stones and dirt, everything is moving at regular speed again.
I still hear the crickets, the dripping fuel, and the light crackle of the burning box of matches, precariously balanced on the window frame of the driver’s door.
I push off from the truck and my feet crunch once, twice, and three times before I breathe.
That’s when the world ends.
I’m not far enough away. The light reaches me before the sound. It’s a flash of brilliance, plastering my enormous shadow on the side of the house, and then I hear the whoomph. The shockwave hits me an instant later and I’m deaf before my feet leave the packed dirt.
My body flips in the air.
The truck is lifted by the explosion. A jet of flame shoots out from the end of the culvert. There’s a shape under there.
I smash and skid across the dooryard. The shape under the truck emits a horrible screaming squeal. It sounds like rusty metal grinding, fingers on a chalkboard, and the frantic whine of a dentist’s drill all at the same time. Burning, it pulls itself through the ditch as the truck rocks and settles back to rest.
I can’t look away. I want to, but I’m not in control of my body yet.
I hear a pop and it stops screaming and stops moving. It’s still burning as it freezes. It doesn’t have a human shape at all anymore.
I see a shadow streak at the edge of the firelight.
I have to get up.
My ears were stuffed with cotton a moment ago. Now they’re filled with a constant, high-pitched tone. It’s lucky that my hearing was deadened by the explosion. I think if I had heard the scream unmuffled, it would have driven me crazy.
I push up slowly, trying to get my balance as I rise to my knees.
My shadow is still huge against the side of the house, but it’s fading as the fire quickly dies. I stagger into a run. It seems like falling off the shed happened a million years ago, but my shoulder remembers quite well. The pain flares when I try to get the keys out of my pocket. I force my fingers to work and transfer the keys to the other hand as I fall into the door.
There’s another flash and blast from behind me. This explosion sends shrapnel raining down. I unlock the door and push inside just as a chunk hits the house beside me.
I press the door shut behind me and lock it.
My hearing is returning to normal. I hear a deep groan and I shuffle to my right through broken glass. Peering through the shattered panes, it takes me a moment to figure out the source of the sound. The telephone pole is creaking and swaying. Near the base, part of it is burning and a chunk is missing. The cables have picked up a swing and they’re wrenching the pole in two.
It lets out an enormous snap when it goes. I back up a pace as it falls. The pole slams down into the top of the burning truck. Sparks fly when the transformer smashes into the ground. The lights in the house dim, surge, and then extinguish. The kitchen is lit only by the dancing glow of the flames.
Out in the night, I hear another screech. This one doesn’t sound like a cry of pain. This sounds like a war cry. A chill runs down my back.
From the living room, I hear tapping.
They’re tapping on the glass and the walls. They won’t come in through the kitchen—I’m almost certain of that. I have an idea that the broken glass will discourage them. It won’t stop them, but it will discourage them. I have to retreat to the pantry. I’ve re-weighed my options that one is no longer as heavy on my heart as it was before. I’m forgetting something, but I’ll have time to think when I get to…
The door won’t open.
It takes me a moment.
I can’t believe it.
I wedged the door shut with a broom before I fled. It seemed like such a reasonable idea at the time.
With my jaw hanging, I turn. The truck fire is already burning down. The light coming through the broken window used to be yellow. Now it’s orange. Soon it will be little more than a campfire. How much can they endure?
I have to move fast.
(How long has it been?)
How long has it been?
Uncle Walt used to call it David’s door. I never found out why. It’s a black door in the side of the shed and it probably went unlocked for decades before I turned the mechanism a few hours ago. I locked it from the inside. I never checked the outside to make sure that the keyway wasn’t jammed with dirt or rust or whatever. So, of course it is.
The smell of the burning truck is terrible. It scorches my nose and lungs.
I try to quietly work the key into the slot. The other keys are jingling with each movement. I can hear them tapping on the other side of the building, away from the firelight.
The key is halfway in and stuck.
I have no other options.
The truck fire will be gone before long. The power line is down. I had to jump over the dead wire just to get to David’s door.
Something is moving under the shed.
On the other side of the building, the crawlspace is open. On my side, there’s a loose stone foundation. Uncle Walt was planning on sealing up the whole space to keep the porcupines out, but he never got it finished.
In the dancing light, I see a slender finger emerge from between two rocks. Its long fingernail taps on the
