They Came With the Rain

by Christopher Coleman

  But as quickly as his eyes were moving, Ramon’s feet had already failed him, and the delay in moving to the edge of the cargo bed had cost him dearly. The creature was moving toward him now, only twenty yards from the truck and advancing quickly.

  Ramon focused on the opening of the truck now, but it was too late, he would never make it to the edge in time. And even if he did, it would be by a hair, leaving him no time to hop down and create the necessary distance to get up the pace to escape.

  “Fine, come on then,” Ramon said with resolve, knowing the day would be settled for at least one of them in a matter of seconds.

  He licked his lips lightly and reached for his sidearm, and in an instant, the air of confidence in Ramon’s gut turned to sickness. His stomach seized and his throat turned to sandpaper.

  The holster was empty.

  Ramon’s eyes quickly shifted to the box at the top of the dolly, and there his Glock lay sleeping like a sunning cat, adorning the stack of boxes like the topper on a wedding cake.

  “Dammit!”

  Ramon considered again bolting for the opening, but it was far too late now, suicide at this point, so he retreated, pacing only four or five steps in reverse before his back hit the rear wall that housed the refrigeration unit.

  He turned toward the wall in desperation, beginning a frantic search of the gaps between the boxes, hoping to find some door that led from the cargo space to the cab, or perhaps to the ground below, a secret trap door that certain trucks installed for special deliveries perhaps. Instead, he found only the cruel flatness of bolted metal. There was nowhere else to go now. He was trapped.

  “Come on, Ray!” he barked at himself. “No!”

  The black figure reached the edge of truck’s cargo space, looming now in the opening like a silhouette, the bright sun providing an intense backlight. The tops of the creature’s legs were nearly even with the height of the cargo bed’s door rails as it continued to fade in and out of focus, always seeming to be on the verge of dissipating into the ether before reforming to a more distinct mass of horror. Something resembling a face appeared for just a moment and then shimmered to blurriness. Then nothingness.

  Ramon searched the truck for a weapon, and though there was nothing that fit that proper description, there was an empty palate leaning against the side of the truck, old and blackened, slightly molded. Ramon was in full emergency mode now, no longer spellbound by the monster, and he wasted little time in lifting his foot karate-style and smashing the sole of his boot into the center of three of the wooden planks. Two of the long thin boards broke almost perfectly in half, and Ramon quickly gripped one of the pieces and pulled it toward him, tearing it free from the rest of the supporting structure.

  The creature was oblivious to Ramon’s actions and had now placed its massive hands on the surface of the cargo floor, the long appendages stretching forward like lava, extensive and searching, climbing toward him like black ivy. Its movements were impossible, dreamy and fluid, as if the creature were made of ink, or molasses that had been heated and diluted with water. Within seconds, the beast was inside the truck and standing tall, its menacing shape casting a shadow over Ramon like the moon eclipsing the sun.

  Ramon lifted the broken board and held it wide with his trembling right hand, poised like a nervous tennis player about to volley a return at the net, trying to gauge the perfect timing for the swing.

  The beast moved forward another pace, its advancement a hair slower now, proceeding with what Ramon considered might be caution, perhaps recognizing the potential threat of the board in his hand.

  Or maybe it was the final slow measurement a snake makes just before its fatal strike on the mouse, and with that image in his mind, Ramon suddenly considered this was likely the last moment of his life, the last few seconds of breath on earth. He said a silent prayer, a request to the universe that whatever was to come wouldn’t be too painful, and then a brief sense of peace fell over him as he considered the afterlife.

  “Come on, demon,” he said softly, “let’s see what you got.”

  Demon! That’s what it is!

  But Ramon had barely a second to explore the discovery further before the thought was replaced aggressively by another presence in his mind, a voice so powerful it was as if the Devil himself had spoken it into his brain.

  Tell me your ev—

  But as quickly as the voice arrived, it was broken by the sound of another one, the voice of a person, the man who had been shouting to him moments ago.

  “Hey!” the man repeated once more.

  Ramon’s transfixion was broken, the wicked voice in his head now drowned by the new audible call from the street.

  He shot his eyes from the demon, which was now less than five feet from him, to the road outside, and there, just a few steps past the dumpster, was a man running toward the truck, a shotgun in his hands, the weapon held low by his waist but pointed toward the opening of the truck.

  The man stopped a few yards from the cargo opening and raised the gun, measuring the beast in his sights. “Hey!” he called again, and Ramon now recognized Tony Radowski, the owner of Tony’s Guns and Tackle. Tony repeated the command once more, louder now, demanding of attention.

  The creature’s face, blank and absent a second earlier, suddenly wrinkled into something resembling form, an expression even, some primitive look that Ramon interpreted as a combination of fear and anger, though it was impossible to tell for sure, like trying to construe the look of a jellyfish.

  The monster twisted its full body back toward the opening and took a stride forward, an aggressive, unstructured lunge that seemed to leave its body in pieces before reorganizing again, like a magnet pulling together lead pellets.

  But the creature made it no further than its first step before the blast of the shotgun exploded into the truck, the detonation of metal projectiles appearing to strike the center of the form’s torso, sending the beast hurtling backwards toward Ramon.

  Ramon covered his ears and head with his forearms and dropped to the floor, cowering by the rear wall as the smoky monster careened in his direction, smashing against the metal barrier just to his right and nearly landing on top of him.

  Except it didn’t ‘smash,’ Ramon thought, not exactly, not the way any animal of flesh and bone would have struck the wall. It was more of a dull thud, the way a sock filled with sand would have struck the barrier.

  The black monster was down for only a beat before rising quickly and dashing forward toward the opening of the cargo area again, this time seeming to move on instinct, understanding that the only available escape was in that direction.

  In seconds, the creature leapt from the edge of the truck and was on the street, flattening itself along the ground the instant it landed, in the same way it had back at the forest by the Grieg. It then scuttered in a panic toward safety, moving with the galloping fear of every animal on earth that hears the sound of exploding gunpowder.

  Tony rotated calmly to his left, tracking the retreating demon with his weapon, and then he shot again, this time appearing to miss it, that assessment based on the powder of concrete that exploded just off the creature’s left shoulder.

  Ramon and Tony watched the creature disappear around the corner onto Palmetto, neither taking their gaze away until it was out of sight for at least ten seconds. Finally, Ramon stood and walked to the edge of the truck, staring down at the man who had just saved his life.

  “Tony Radowski,” he said, his breathing heavy with adrenaline. “Thank you, sir.”

  Tony ignored Ramon and walked over to the base of the truck where the creature had retreated seconds earlier, and then he followed its fleeing path for several yards away from the truck, studying the traversed ground like a detective. He then walked back to the truck and climbed inside, passing Ramon without a look, exploring the metal floor with the same intensity as the street. Finally, he sighed and shook his head. “That’s not a good sign,” he said, speaking as much to himself as to R
amon.

  “What’s not?” Ramon asked.

  Tony looked at Ramon now for the first time. “No blood. No skin, no bones. No nothing.”

  Ramon didn’t need to ask what the significance of that meant, and he immediately looked to the ground to verify Tony’s assessment of the scene. It was impossible. Tony had hit the beast squarely, there was no doubt about that, which meant there should have been blood not only on the floor of the truck and on the street, but all over the sides of the truck as well. Yet there was no fluid of any kind, no body parts, and this, Ramon concurred, was, indeed, not good. If the thing couldn’t be injured, it couldn’t be killed. At least not by something as crude as a wad of metal pellets.

  “How do you figure that, Sheriff? No blood from a thing I just sent soaring through the air with a twelve-gauge?”

  Ramon stared Tony in the eye and shook his head. “I can’t, Tony. Can’t figure that or about a thousand other things today.”

  Tony nodded. “It didn’t like something about what just happened though. You think it was the sound?”

  Ramon thought back to the scene in the forest when the creature had fled with the same panic. He was certain he had struck the beast as well, but there was no indication he had hurt it. At least not physically. “You know what, Tony? I think you might be on to something.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two months before the rain

  “WHEN WE PHONE YOU, Mr. Bell, it is imperative that you answer.”

  Winston rotated quickly toward the voice, his torso moving faster than his feet, causing him to stumble forward, only remaining upright by clutching the handle of the full grocery cart in front of him. Today was the first of his bi-monthly trips to Carson’s, the local grocery store, to stock up on supplies that would last him for the next two weeks.

  Tehya stood like a mannequin between two vehicles in the store’s lot—one a tall black van, the other a white truck—the latter of which was the imposter audit vehicle that had appeared like a wraith at Winston’s house two months earlier. The vehicles had hidden the mysterious woman until just that moment, when Winston was parallel with her, and as he met her eyes now, he felt the threat of her presence immediately, the gravity of her stare pulling at his nerves like the vacuum of a black hole.

  “Our mutual success depends largely on communication, which we don’t have when you ignore us.”

  “I’m...I’m sorry,” Winston replied. “I wasn’t ignoring, I was napping when you phoned earlier. I’ve not been feeling—”

  “Please don’t lie to us either, Mr. Bell. Even more important than communication is trust.”

  The fact that Tehya knew Winston was lying meant she had been watching him the day before—they had been watching him—spying when he answered the door to speak with Sheriff Thomas.

  “Of course, I didn’t mean to say—”

  Tehya held up a hand and gave an annoyed shake of her head, instantly stifling Winston’s attempted qualifier. She then cocked her raised hand toward the van beside her, bringing Winston’s eyes to it like a showroom model. “If you please.”

  Winston balked. “Well...I’ve got groceries. Perhaps, I—”

  “Ouray will take care of your bags. This will take only a few moments.” On cue, Ouray appeared from the opposite side of the van, and despite his age and relatively small stature, the man’s appearance intimidated Winston. Tehya nodded toward the van again, a more insistent motion this time. “Please.”

  The woman slid the van door wide, and Winston reluctantly stepped to the vehicle and through the opening. At the back of the van, Zander sat in the middle of a bench seat, his back stiff, hands folded across his lap like a nervous schoolgirl’s. But his face was stern, confident, and when the door closed behind Winston a second later, the full threat of the man was realized.

  “Please, Mr. Bell,” Zander said softly, extending a hand toward a sole captain’s chair that had been modified so that it faced backward in the van, toward the bench seat on which Zander sat.

  Winston swallowed and gave a deferential nod before following the order.

  “I will get right to the point of our visit today, Mr. Bell,” Zander started. “Your time is as valuable as ours, I’m sure.”

  Winston nodded, his face tense, anticipatory, indifferent as to whether there was any sarcasm in Zander’s remark.

  “They’re coming, Mr. Bell. The Arali will be here soon.”

  The nervous lump in Winston’s throat turned to one of surprise, eagerness, and he forced it down quickly, trying to contain his emotions. “When?”

  “Two months. Perhaps to the day.”

  “Two months?” Winston’s words were a recital, nonjudgmental, testing the sound of the time frame as it flowed from his own lips.

  “We wanted to make you aware. Allow you time to prepare.”

  Winston slowly raised a hand to his mouth and gazed absently toward the floor, considering the news in silence, digesting it fully. After several beats, a smile sprouted across his face and he lifted his gaze back to Zander, his eyes broad, glimmering. “Thank god.”

  Zander nodded, the suggestion of a grin on his face as well.

  Winston held his smile for several seconds, unmoving, and then he began to laugh. “I can’t believe it! I thought...I thought you might not return.”

  “You ignored our call.”

  Winston swallowed nervously, but his smile remained. “I know, I...I think I was afraid if I answered that...that it would end. That I would find out everything you told me before was just a myth, an elaborate hoax maybe. Maybe some sophisticated psychological experiment.”

  Zander was dubious. “Did you really believe that?”

  Winston didn’t, not truly, but he didn’t entirely dismiss the possibility either. He shrugged and his face became somber. “It’s just that it’s...it’s becoming quite taxing, honestly. More difficult than I’d been led to believe frankly. To keep up the constant interference, I mean. You must be aware of the warnings? The police visits? They know it’s me now. The sheriff, he—”

  “We are aware of the challenges,” Zander interrupted. “Rest assured, we do. But your work has not been in vain. There is frustration amongst the analysts. Perhaps not enough to dismiss the Grieg’s readings, but, I suspect, enough to concern them about the reliability of the data. The unusually high frequencies coming from the residents of Garmella have been a topic of priority lately.”

  “But it’s not the residents who are interfering. “It’s me. And they know it’s me.”

  “We are obviously aware of this, Mr. Bell, but there was little we could do about the attention. There was no way to prevent the auditors from discovering you.” Zander clicked his chin up curiously. “They are putting pressure on the town to fine you. Are you aware of this?”

  Winston flipped his hands up and shrugged. “Of course! I mean, I didn’t know for sure, but I suspected as much. The sheriff certainly gives that impression, if not explicitly says so.” He settled. “But does it really matter? I mean, they’ll just issue a fine, right? And I don’t care about the money.”

  “Fines will lead to inspections. Or, perhaps, they will bypass the fines altogether. And that is very much a concern.”

  “Then I have to stop,” Winston said hopefully, wanting to add that he doubted his activities were having any real impact on the Grieg’s data anyway. When the quiet zone was imposed on Garmella, it was done to keep a whole town of people from interfering with signals from the cosmos. The interference of a single resident, on the other hand, though perhaps a minor nuisance to the analysts, wasn’t going to negate the data of a multi-billion-dollar telescope. If there was some special signal emanating from space, some once in a decade beacon from the gods calling to the Arali, the scientists would have known about it by now and detected it. Nothing Winston did was going to affect that.

  “Not entirely, no,” Zander answered. “But you will need to reduce the rate. Two days a week from now on.” He paused and added, “An
d perhaps a generous endowment to the town’s library might be in order, as well. Or the police or firefighter fund, if such a thing exists here. It might create a bit of space for you.”

  Winston nodded as he took in the instruction, and after a moment he verified Zander’s declaration from earlier. “Two months? Is that really true? They’re arriving two months from today?”

  Zander nodded; there was a shine in his eyes that Winston now remembered from his first visit. “Our calculations are sound. Perfect. They’re coming; they should arrive between June 10th and June 12th.”

  Winston took a breath and stared distantly past Zander, toward the back wall of the van, weighing this enormous revelation and the implications of what such news meant to him, ignoring as best he could the consequences to the town at large.

  “And then what?” Winston asked, his eyes wild with eagerness.

  Zander looked at Winston curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what happens on those days in June? What will it...what will it look like when they finally arrive? And what should I do to prepare for them?”

  Zander nodded at the practicality of the question, as if he’d temporarily forgotten that Winston wasn’t privy to all the information he and his colleagues had collected over the years, to the millennia of data he and his compatriots had amassed. “There is not much you’ll have to do to prepare, but there is some. Your home is the last residence before the telescope—you must have figured out that your proximity to the device was one of the criterion upon which we based your selection—so you will be the amongst the last of their collections.”

  The collections.

  Winston recalled Zander’s description of the process from his first visit, but the details were vague, and Winston had been spellbound by his promised prize of eternity, or something close to it. He knew the Arali were bringing with them death—death to the townsfolk, some of whom were his friends—and then the collections of their corpses would follow. And perhaps their souls. This last part Winston was never quite clear on, as Zander had been nothing short of coy on the subject, but he assumed once the bodies were dragged away, something to the effect of soul swallowing occurred in the depths of Perdition.