by Ike Hamill
“You made me go to the crawl space,” pouted Charlie. Fat tears rolled down his drawn cheeks.
“You didn’t catch it from the crawl space,” Mike protested. “Mom said so.”
“She said prolly,” corrected Charlie. “You know it’s true.”
“I can’t stay,” said Mike. “You’re trying to trick me.”
“You owe me, you said so. Just stay until I fall asleep.”
“No, Charlie,” said Mike. He turned back to the doorknob and exhaled with relief to see that it had returned to its normal size. When he touched the knob, Mike heard the splintering crash of the roof collapsing. He turned and pulled, collapsing through the door and away from the devastating heat, into the night.
Rough hands plunged under Mike’s armpits and he blinked against the heat of the burning building as he was dragged down Bill’s driveway. Katie and the news crew clustered in the lawn. Both Leslie and her producer had their cell phones clamped to their ears. The cameraman looked naked with nothing on his shoulder.
“What happened?” asked Mike, looking up at Bill.
“You tell me,” said Bill.
Conversation was impossible for the next minute—an explosion from the house pushed warm air over the group and showered down glowing debris. The ringing in Mike’s ears was replaced with the sound of distant sirens as he regained his hearing.
“Where’s Gary?” Mike yelled, coughing and choking, still spitting out chunks of lunch. He blinked several times to clear his eyes and propped himself up to look at the house. The top half of the house looked like a bite had been taken from the roof. Flames flowed up through a ragged, burned hole that stretched from the two outer dormers. The center window, the one Gary had plunged through, was completely gone, burned away with the surrounding roof.
Mike’s research van, parked just to the right of the front porch, had rolled right and leaned heavily against the news van. Both vehicles were gutted by flame.
Katie knelt next to Mike and fixed her cold eyes on him. “He’s gone,” she said.
“Gone? Are you sure that…” he was cut off by another explosion. The rear wheels of the news van lifted several feet as a fireball shot out from under its frame. A wave of heat made Mike blink and he scrambled away from the noise and debris. Mike glanced back and saw that Bill and the news crew had retreated farther across the lawn. Except for Gary, everyone was present.
“He fell out of that window and crashed through the windshield of your van,” said Katie.
Mike panicked and jumped to his feet. He overbalanced and almost crashed to the ground, but caught himself and stood up. “Where is he? We’ve got to help him,” he said to Katie.
She folded her arms and shook her head. “It’s too late. He was dead when he hit the van. Dead and on fire.”
“Oh my god,” said Mike. He had to struggle to stay upright. Mike propped himself up with his hands against his knees for a moment and then turned back to Katie. “Do you have any idea of what happened? Did you get any readings at all?”
“No evidence of the paranormal, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said, sneering.
Mike sunk to the ground as the first fire truck pulled up.
- Stage of Hunger -
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Crooked Tree - 3141 B.C.
THE PREDATOR PUSHED UP from the tree branch and shifted to the left. He had a perfect starlit view of the path, but couldn’t afford to have his muscles go numb from inactivity. When the wind picked up, and started the tree swaying, he clenched and released the muscles of his legs in time with the creaking of the limbs.
The moving air brought a new scent—the one he had been waiting for. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his back, preparing for his attack. This moment was the culmination of several days of careful observation, and he didn’t want to waste the opportunity because of a careless mistake.
Leaning forward and looking back between his legs, he was able just make out the path behind him. At the edge of perception, he saw a woman adjust her stance. Could she have seen him? Was she getting ready to cry for help? Was it time to run? His mind raced—his calm confidence eroded instantly.
He braced his feet and prepared to flee, but took one more look down the path. This time he saw the reason for the woman’s delay: another set of legs. She hadn’t seen him, she was just engaged in a conversation. As he watched, she pulled away from the other woman and continued up the path, directly towards his tree. He shielded his eyes and refocused, where her back would be to him in his tree.
She moved quickly. Perhaps, he thought, she had heard reports from other families, and knew that a predator lurked in these woods. The thought excited him, and he held his breath while he waited for his opportunity. Her step was light and quiet, but he heard every footfall.
His luck served him well—just as she passed under his tree the wind rose and masked the sound of his movement. He pushed away from his branch and swung towards the ground, hitting the path with soundless feet and dropping to his hands to absorb the fall.
Her feet didn’t pause. She continued north, away from her family, into the darkest part of the woods without detecting the predator who had dropped to the ground just five paces behind her.
He crept on hands and knees for the first few steps and then rose to a crouch, waiting for his prey to round the next corner where the path swung around a large rock. If she managed to make noise, he figured this rock would block the sound from traveling back to her family and give him the extra few seconds he would need.
Accelerating to close the distance, he rounded the corner and found nothing. She was gone.
The man stood, confused, swinging his head up and down the path, eyes wide in the dark. He closed his eyes and stilled his body, listening. To his left, he heard his prey running quietly up the steep hill. He gave chase.
At the top of the ridge he finally spotted her just on the other side of the crest. The trees stood more sparse up here and he easily picked her out in the starlight. No longer trying to conceal his movement, he ran fast across the top of the hill, feet beating a hard rhythm across the rocks and leaf-litter.
She heard him gaining and bolted to her left, down the hill. He grinned at her mistake. If she hadn’t moved to the other side of the hill, she might have drawn the attention of her family. But here, on the far side, she was alone.
His course cut off her escape and she tried to turn back uphill. Faster and stronger, he closed the distance. At the last second she turned, brandishing something in an outstretched hand. The predator circled right, moving into the shadow of a bushy tree. His face and body were painted to conceal his identity, but he didn’t want to take needless risks.
When he backed into the shadows she turned and tried to run again, but he was ready. He sprung out and grabbed her long hair, pulling her backwards to the ground. She managed a small scream before he clamped a rough hand over her mouth and pressed a sharp flint edge against her neck.
“Make a noise and I’ll kill you,” he growled low into her ear, trying to disguise his northern accent.
He shoved her face to the ground and pulled her arms behind her back, wrapping them in a leather strap and using his leverage to keep her hips raised in the air. Her body made an uncomfortable triangle with the ground. She tried to take the weight off her face by pressing her shoulder into the ground, but her neck bent awkwardly as he kicked her feet apart and pushed up behind her. He took another deep whiff of her ripe feminine scent, and summoned his desire.
Despite his earlier threat, she barked a small cry as he forced himself into her. She tried to tilt her hips forward to reduce his penetration, but he pulled a fist up into her belly, moving her back into position.
His grunting and thrusting seemed to continue forever as she spit leaves and dirt out of her mouth and tried to breathe. He paused. She turned her head and tried to hear what he was listening to. He pulled out slowly and released his grip on her arms. She slumped forward and clawed the ground t
o get away. When she had scrambled a few paces from the rapist, she rolled over and saw him clearly in the starlight, head cocked, looking off into the night. He hadn’t finished, she was almost certain; his erect member protruded absurdly, its business incomplete.
She started to rise and then heard what he heard—a low growl from the woods. It didn’t sound like any animal she knew, but it was unmistakably dangerous. Suddenly the leaves rustled. She heard two steps—only two steps took the thing from deep in the woods to atop her attacker.
Her rapist crumpled to the ground under the weight of this giant creature. The beast’s bare skin flashed and something flew off the crumpled form and rolled to a stop near her feet. She pressed back against the tree as she realized the object was the head of her attacker. His painted face showed only surprise.
The creature rose from the decapitated body to its full height. She gauged that it stood at least one-and-a-half times taller than a full-grown man. At the creature’s feet the rapist’s erection finally wilted as blood jetted from its neck.
With one graceful step, the creature approached the prone woman. She didn’t recognize the hulk as human until it spoke.
“You’re impregnated,” it said, pointing at her midsection. She had never heard the word it used, but knew exactly what the creature meant.
“I’m not,” she put a protective hand on her bellybutton. “He didn’t even finish,” she protested.
The monster bent at the waist and lowered its massive head towards her. She cowered as it aimed its nose at her and tilted its head from side to side, as if examining her from all angles.
Finally, the monster raised its head slightly and looked into her eyes. She stared back, so transfixed by its gaze that she didn’t see its hands come up on either side of her face. It cupped her head between its massive palms and tugged her gently to her feet. Still bending over, so their eyes remained locked, the creature released its gentle touch from the sides of her head.
She exhaled and relaxed slightly, glad to be free of the monster’s touch.
The monster, formerly known as Crooked Tree, now calling himself The Hunting Tree, surviving son of a powerful hunter and warrior, raised his hands like an eagle spreading its wings and brought them together with a thunderous clap, crushing the young woman’s head.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Davey
“HEY, YOU BETTER START getting ready,” said Melanie as she leaned in Davey’s door.
He sat on his bed propped against the headboard with several pillows and schoolbooks scattered around. Davey wrote a final figure in his workbook before closing it on his pencil and looking up at his mom.
“I’m only halfway done though,” he lied. So far that week he had finished most of the math problems for the year and it was still April. With one or two more days at home he figured he could complete most of the reading and vocabulary assignments as well. The only thing he couldn’t anticipate were the special projects that Mrs. Roberts kept in the cabinet near the window.
“You can bring it with you and work in the waiting room. Are you going to get dressed, or just go in your PJs?”
“All right,” Davey said with a groan.
“I’ll be down in my office,” Melanie said. “We have to leave by quarter of. I expect you to be ready by the door then.” She disappeared around the corner.
Davey looked up at his clock and saw that he only had minutes to take a shower and get dressed. He pushed his books away and lunged for his dresser. The quick movement made him grab his chest in pain. Davey stopped until he could breathe deeply once more without the hot stab to his lung. Picking through his dresser and pulling out clothes to wear, Davey thought about how much his outlook had changed in the past year. This time alone, while his lung recovered, had brought a new introspection that made him feel like he was becoming an adult.
The first time he had noticed the change, he had been talking to the woman who lived next door, Mrs. Bevelaqua. They had sat in the backyard on a nice summer day. Davey’s mom had been inside, getting everyone some lemonade. Mrs. Bevelaqua related a story about how her brother had been employed by the Army. His job had been to crash cars so they could determine how they would fail.
“That’s crazy,” Davey had said, laughing. “Why would anyone do that?”
Mrs. Bevelaqua had regarded Davey carefully. He realized that she was trying to assess how much a boy of his age could comprehend. “Yes, Davey,” she said finally. “That’s what we would call a ‘Man Bites Dog’ story when I used to work in the news room. You think it’s going to be one thing, but then it’s another.”
He remembered the way she had folded her hands in her lap and waited for his mother to return.
Davey had been insulted and angry. He knew that she and her husband had never “been blessed with children,” but didn’t she understand that having no experience didn’t make him stupid? The realization hit him like a brick—sometimes grownups were just rude. Other occasions of people talking down to him had occurred to Davey as he sat next to Mrs. Bevelaqua in the backyard that day.
This week had brought similar revelations. He visualized his brain moving small steps back from his body. He still experienced what was happening, but he had a new perspective and saw the world at arm’s length. With this new outlook he realized that he liked being alone, but he also missed his friends and the social aspects of school. He knew that he would need to find another way to occupy his brain or he would be bored out of his skull once he returned to class.
* * * * *
DAVEY GOT TO THE DOOR just one minute after his mom’s deadline. She was still in her office; he could hear her talking on the phone. He ambled over to the doorway to her office and regarded his mom, sitting at her desk.
She listened to her earpiece for several moments before delivering her decision—“I know you’re tapped, but I need to know how many hours you can give me next quarter." She paused. “It’s part of your job,” she said. “If you’re not estimating your capacity then you’re not doing your job.”
“Mom?” he asked during her pause.
She sighed deeply and then swiveled her chair to face Davey. Her eyes stared off over his head. “I know. Yes, I understand that, Peter." She paused again.
That’s what it’s like, thought Davey. That’s what it’s like when you disconnect from your body and live in your head. That’s what adults do all the time. I’ll never do that. I’ll stay connected.
“Goodbye,” she said as she reached up and removed her headset. “Sorry Davey,” she said. “I’m all set until two. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“That’s okay,” said Davey. He watched his mother collect her wallet and phone into her big purse. “Mom?”
“Yeah?” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
“What do you do exactly?” he asked.
She laughed and herded him towards the door. “Some people would say not very much.”
“How come?”
“My job is to be the glue; to stick together all the things that need sticking,” she said.
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ll give you an example,” said Melanie. “Let’s say you have a test next week, but you also have to send a letter to your grandmother." She waited for him to catch up—Davey moved slowly to make sure he didn’t have to breathe too deeply. When he made it to the car, she continued: “My job would be to write down that you have a test and a letter. Then, when you get really wrapped up worrying about your test, I make sure you don’t forget about your grandmother.”
“How do you do that?”
“Mostly just by having meetings. I keep a list and then I ask everyone around the table about all the stuff they were supposed to do since the last meeting.”
“Couldn’t everyone just keep track of what they were supposed to do for themselves?” asked Davey. He clicked his seatbelt as Melanie started the car.
“One would think,” she said, laughing again. “I guess they would, but the
y have competing priorities, so they get really focused on one thing and forget about everything else. Why the sudden interest in my job, Davey?” She smiled at him as she turned around to back out of the driveway.
“I just was wondering how you can do your job at home when I’m sick. You don’t have to stay home with me. I can take care of myself.”
“You’re funny,” Melanie said as she smiled again. She put the car into drive. “I don’t even think it’s legal to leave a nine-year-old home alone." She glanced at her son in the rearview mirror. “Are you still having bad dreams?”
“Not too much,” Davey lied for the second time that day. His dreams had increased in both frequency and detail, but he had adjusted to them. They still scared him, but he didn’t wake up screaming, like before.
Melanie glanced to the rearview and saw the cloud pass over Davey’s face. She regretted her question. Her son had been happy and smiling, asking her intelligent questions about her job and now he sat tight-lipped and upset. Her well-intentioned query had caused him to drop into the condition she was worried about.
She attempted to changed the subject. “How’s Paul doing?”
“He’s still grou…” he cut himself off. After the hospital, Davey had never been punished for sneaking out of school. Paul hadn’t been so lucky. He had been denied television and video games for a week, and fully blamed Davey. “He’s fine,” Davey said.
“Wait a sec. Didn’t you bring anything to do in the waiting room?”
“I’ve got ‘The Hobbit,’” he said.
“What’s that, a game?”
“No,” he said, giggling. “The book?”
“Oh, good for you!”
* * * * *
“ANY HEADACHES?” DR. STUART FINISHED his examination of Davey with a look in his ears.
“Nuh-uh,” Davey shook his head.
“You’d tell me if you did, right?” asked the doctor.
