by Hunter Shea
By the time they were done, they had also grown in height, now well over five and a half feet tall. Their muscles swelled out, limbs thickening.
And they were tired. Satiated.
They fled from the house, silently padding out the door, slinking down the dark street and slipping into the sewer.
Because all of the surrounding neighbors had been at the key party, there was no one left to report the disturbance to the police.
Chapter Seven
“This sucks if we have to forfeit,” Patrick said.
He and David had gotten to the field early. They wanted some extra time to scope the area for any pets. David even brought a collar and leash with him. They had belonged to his dog, Bartie. Bartie, a super cool Labrador that lived to hang around the boys, had been hit by a car last year. He had to be put to sleep. David didn’t cry, but he wasn’t himself for weeks after.
Unfortunately, Coach Clay arrived early, too. He saw them walking the outfield and made them unload the gear from his trunk. Instead of searching for reward money, they got to take grounders and extra batting practice. Joy.
“We’ll lose anyway. The Bobcats are undefeated,” David said, eyeing the full team from the next town over.
“Yeah, but I’d rather lose playing than just going home. Where’s Alan and Chris?”
David looked around. The parents of the kids on the Bobcats were in full force on their side of the field.
Alan and Chris’s parents never missed a game. They were kind of cheesy that way. But they were nowhere to be found today.
“No clue,” Patrick said.
The umpire was talking with Coach. Patrick didn’t like the body language.
“That’s a forfeit,” the ump, Mr. Preston, who worked in the hardware store, announced.
“Damn,” Patrick said, tossing his mitt to the ground, kicking up a plume of dirt.
“At least now we have more time to look for dogs,” David reminded him. “And then there’s Godzilla.”
Patrick brightened a tad. “I heard they’re gonna give out free Godzilla comics in the theater.”
“The ones Marvel puts out?”
“No, a special one by the movie studio. Could end up being a big-time collectible.”
David punched Patrick’s arm. “See, who needs baseball when you have Godzilla and comics?”
“Boys, help me get everything loaded up,” Coach Clay called out to the five members of the team that had showed up.
He wasn’t happy with the forfeit, either. He’d gone as far as AA ball for the Cleveland Indians and was still insanely competitive. Since the boys who didn’t show weren’t around to bear the brunt of his tirade, he took his frustrations out on David, Patrick and the other three boys, triplets who manned every outfield position.
“Why the hell do I even bother?” he shouted once all of the parents were gone. The field had cleared out pretty quick, the Bobcats calling them chickens for not playing. “You know how many forfeits I was a part of when I played? And I’m talking from Little League all the way to double A. None. Zero. That’s right. It never happened. And you know why? Because we gave a shit. We knew what it meant to be a team.”
He threw an olive-colored bag of bats at the backstop. The boys flinched. It looked like every bulging vein in his red neck was going to pop like water balloons. The thought of it almost made David chuckle, but he was smart enough to keep a poker face.
“This is the most humiliating moment of my baseball career.”
One of the triplets, a tow-headed kid named Samson, dared to say, “I thought coaching was voluntary, not a career.”
Coach Clay turned a venomous glare his way.
“What did you say?”
Samson stammered. “I . . . I . . . I’ll g-g-get that bag and put it in the trunk.” He ran like lightning, lugging the heavy bag into the car and taking off on foot, leaving his brothers behind.
“Tell him he has ten laps waiting for him next practice,” Coach Clay told Samson’s brothers. They nodded, keeping their eyes on the ground.
After a few more choice words, he told them to get the hell home and show up for an extra night of practice on Monday.
David and Patrick walked home with their bats over their shoulders, gloves hanging off the knobs.
“That was total bullshit,” David said. “Why was he ragging on us? At least we showed up.”
“He can be a real hammer,” Patrick replied. “Maybe we should go to Alan and Chris’s house and find out what happened to them.”
“Yeah. And then I can chew their butts out like Coach.”
* * *
Coach Clay stood on the pitcher’s mound, staring at the empty outfield, fuming.
A fucking forfeit!
He felt bad for taking it out on the boys, but he could have been so much worse. You didn’t know what it was like to get your ass handed to you until you screwed up for a minor league coach. Now that was a pro level beat down.
“Hey, Coach!”
It was Samson. He trotted over from the third base side of the field, a ring of keys on his finger.
“I took your car keys by accident.”
“Thanks.” He wanted to say more, to sound more appreciative, but he was just too wound up.
The smell of garbage—rotted fish and dirty diapers—floated on the breeze. He crinkled his nose.
Who opened the lid on their filthy garbage cans?
He turned to look at the row of houses behind home plate. Someone must have had a fish fry two weeks ago and forgot to bring the pail to the curb.
Samson screamed.
When Coach Clay saw the trio of onyx-colored creatures galloping his way, he joined the boy.
He watched in horror as one of the beasts leaped onto Samson. The boy’s shouts were cut short as the thing bit his face off as if it were an overripe apple. The coach saw one of the kid’s eyes roll out of the mess of gore in the monster’s mouth. It hit the dirt, rolling hard and fast until it stopped at his feet. The graying eye looked up at him, as if to say, Why couldn’t you save me?
There was barely time to look up before he was tackled by the remaining two. He flailed, a wild punch ending with his fist in one of their mouths, bear-trap jaws severing it from his wrist with a horrendous crunch.
The other bit right into his balls. Blood exploded from his punctured groin.
Coach Clay tried to scream, but no sound would come out.
Two seconds later, he didn’t have a mouth or throat anyway.
Chapter Eight
While David changed out of his uniform, Patrick went to Alan and Chris’s house. Alan answered the door.
“Man, where were you guys?” Patrick nearly shouted. “We had to forfeit the game and Coach Clay went berserk!”
Chris, younger than Alan by less than a year—they were true Irish twins—sidled up next to his brother.
“We couldn’t go,” Chris said. “We don’t know where our parents are.”
Patrick laughed. “What, did they run away from home?”
Alan shook his head. His expression was dead serious. “They said they were going to a party last night and they never came back. I called my grandfather and he’s coming over. He should be here soon.”
The smile dropped from Patrick’s face. “That is so weird. I’m sorry.”
“My grandfather said they’re probably just sleeping it off at whatever house they went to, but I have a weird feeling,” Alan said.
“Well, let me know when they come home, okay?”
“Yeah.”
The door closed with a soft click.
Alan and Chris were the loudest kids on the block. It was unsettling, seeing them like that.
David called over to him from his porch. “Get your butt changed, bozak! I checked the paper. We can catch the early show if we hurry.”
Patrick dipped into his house and got out of his uniform. By the time he met David in the middle of the quiet street, his mind was off his friends and on the king of
the monsters.
The Kendall movie theater was only a three-block walk from their house. It was a little on the worn side, but it had a balcony where you could throw candy from and the manager didn’t care much if you stayed in there all day.
“What did Alan and Chris say?” David asked, pulling small berries from a bush and tossing them at a parked car, leaving purple splat marks.
Patrick felt guilty for already putting them out of his mind. “They said their parents are missing.”
“What?”
“I know. Weird, right?”
“I wouldn’t mind if my parents disappeared . . . at least for a few days. But only after my mom shopped, so I’d have a house full of food.”
Patrick recalled the look on his friends’ faces. He wasn’t so sure getting a break from his parents would be such a cool thing.
The last block to the Kendall was a long, steep hill. Full trees on the corners below obscured the theater.
Virginia Avenue was always busy on a Saturday, but it sounded like there was something really big going on.
“It’s too early for the fair,” Patrick said. The Virginia Avenue street fair was an annual classic, but that wasn’t going to happen until the very end of summer.
“Why is everyone screaming?” David asked.
The boys slowed their pace.
They could hear the commotion loud and clear, but they couldn’t make out a damn thing.
There were a lot of shops on Virginia Avenue. Suppose one of them got robbed and there was a whole scene going on with hostages and cops and people running for cover?
Patrick damned his overactive imagination.
But he wasn’t imagining those panicked cries.
“Maybe we should just go home,” he said.
“Not before we see what the heck is going on,” David said, leading the way. Patrick reluctantly followed.
When the Kendall came into view, they stopped, shocked.
Yes, people were running in every direction, screaming their heads off.
But what was causing the riot put the boys’ heads in a spin cycle.
“What the hell are those things?” Patrick said breathlessly.
The things trying to grab people outside the Kendall were as black as night, with huge mouths. They had strong legs and thick tails, but their arms were small, like a T. rex’s. From here, they looked an awful lot like people in rubber monster suits.
David must have been thinking the same thing, because he started laughing.
“I’ll bet that’s part of the promotion for the Godzilla movies. They hired some guys to dress up as monsters and scare the balls off everyone. Too cool.”
“But wouldn’t they just scare people in the theater?” Patrick asked, reluctant to start walking again.
“Nah. This way, the whole neighborhood is focused on the Kendall. Watch. I bet they tell everyone it’s all just for fun. Those same monster guys will be handing out the comics when we go inside.”
“You’re probably right.”
“No. I’m always right.”
They resumed their pilgrimage to the holy Kendall, now the scene of the greatest Godzilla double-feature promotion of all time.
Until they spotted Mrs. Gilchrist, their English teacher, stumble into the middle of the street. Her face smacked right off the asphalt. When she lifted her head up, her nose was smashed flat, blood everywhere.
“Holy cow,” Patrick gasped. Now people were getting hurt. She’d end up suing the Kendall and they’d have no more movie theater.
“We should go down there and help her up,” David said. No one was paying attention to the older woman. She was on her knees, staring at the blood on her hands.
The boys made it as far as the corner when one of the black creatures grabbed Mrs. Gilchrist from behind, opened its dripping maw and bit her head clean off. When it pulled away, they stared in horror as blood skyrocketed from the stump of her neck.
Patrick grabbed David’s shirt, preventing him from taking one step closer.
“What the hell?” David shouted.
This was no promotion.
In their panic, other people were stumbling over one another. As soon as they fell, a creature was there to pounce on them, taking great hunks of flesh as souvenirs.
People were dying!
The beasts were feeding on them!
“We . . . we have to get out of here,” Patrick said, dragging David with him.
“What are those things?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t stay here.”
The creatures had no visible ears. But one of them must have heard Patrick, because it stopped chewing on the back of a man’s neck and looked straight at them.
It opened its mouth wide. They saw the rows of pointy teeth, the red, fleshy tongue. Thick, bloody mucous dripped from its narrow bottom lip.
They turned and ran as fast as they could, not daring to look back, not even pausing to vomit, just letting it run freely from their open, gasping mouths as they struggled to get away.
Chapter Nine
First, they ran to David’s house.
“Mom! Dad! Where are you?”
The house was silent.
Struggling to catch his breath, Patrick noticed the note on the kitchen table. He picked it up.
“Hey, your mother took your father to the doctor. Says they’ll be home soon.”
David’s eyes were as white and round as hard-boiled eggs. He looked like he was about to cry.
“They left me?”
“It’s not like they knew what’s happening on Virginia. Come on, let’s go to my house.”
When they emerged from David’s, they heard the caterwauling of sirens. It sounded like every police car and fire engine was racing toward the carnage outside the Kendall.
Thank God, Patrick thought.
Despite terrible stitches in their sides, they sprinted to Patrick’s house across the street. His father was home, sitting at the kitchen table eating a ham and cheese sandwich.
“Dad! Where’s Mom?” Patrick blurted.
“Out shopping. What’s got you two all riled up? You cause whatever all those sirens are running to?” He smiled and took a bite. A talk show about financial investing played on the palm-sized transistor radio that never left his father’s side.
Patrick couldn’t stop himself from blurting out everything in one long run-on sentence. David just nodded assent next to him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down. Did you just say monsters are eating people outside the Kendall?”
“Yes!” they said in unison.
His father shook his head, then took another bite of his sandwich.
“I may be old to you, but I’m not senile. Nice try.”
Patrick pulled on his dad’s arm, making him drop the sandwich on the floor. His father’s right eye twitched. That was always a sign he was getting pissed.
“Thank you for ruining my lunch,” he said, swiping his food off the floor and tossing it into the garbage.
David said, “We’re not lying and we’re not kidding. That’s why all the cops are headed down there. These . . . these things are everywhere and they’re attacking everyone.”
Even Patrick’s father couldn’t deny the constant bleating of emergency responders.
“What is going on down there?” he said, walking to the front porch. The sirens were even more ear splitting outside. “You guys stay here. I’m going to check it out.”
Patrick jumped in front of him. “Don’t go! It’s not safe.”
Now, there was the crackle of gunfire. Or it could have been firecrackers. Ever since the Fourth of July, kids had been setting off anything left behind a little bit each day.
“You kids stay inside. I’ll be right back.”
“But Dad, the monsters!”
His father sighed. “Enough about that! I told you, go in the house and wait for me. You got that?”
Patrick saw there was no convincing him or stopping him. His father work
ed as an emergency medical technician in the city. He was drawn to sirens and bad stuff.
He just had no idea how bad this really was.
“Can you please take your car?” Patrick said.
“Fine. Now do what I said.”
They watched him get in the Buick Century and head down the block. Patrick figured once his dad saw the rampaging monsters, he would turn right back and lock the house down.
He was wrong.
They never saw his father again.
* * *
“I don’t hear any more shooting,” David whispered.
The sirens were still going strong. Most of the parents had gone to see what was happening, leaving the kids behind. They stood on porches and front lawns, staring down the street.
No one spoke to one another. There was an air of dread that held their tongues.
Here were all the kids they played ball with, and the little kids they had fun ignoring. It was if they were all strangers to one another.
David couldn’t stop looking in the other direction, waiting for his parents’ Pacer to come around the corner.
None of the adults were coming back.
“What do we do?” Patrick said so softly David could barely hear him.
“We can’t call the police. Who else is there?”
“The army?”
“Doesn’t the president have to call in the army?”
“I don’t know.”
David looked around. “This is freaking me out.” He wasn’t alone in that department.
“Wait, I think I see someone,” Patrick said, pointing.
Sure enough, they spotted a man running, his arms flailing. It looked like he was having a hard time keeping on his feet. The closer he got, the more the boys were able to make out. His face was awash in blood. His shirt was torn down the middle, revealing a jagged line of flayed flesh.
“It’s Mr. Gilligan,” Patrick said.
Mr. Gilligan was their friend Jimmy’s father. He was a bit older than the other fathers, but he was always friendly and never complained about them going in his yard for foul balls or Frisbees.
Now, he looked insane, desperate to flee the terror of what was happening down at the Kendall.
