Monstrous

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “Get in here,” the man she recognized as Mr. Deacon, the head of janitorial services, said as he pulled her inside the office and slammed the door shut.

  Just as the monster—monsters—reached the other side.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sidney didn’t know how she’d gotten there—she just was.

  Her father was sitting in the center of a circle of explosives, old dynamite that he’d used to use on his job as a contractor to remove stubborn old tree stumps and boulders from properties he was hired to build on.

  “Dad?” she said, her voice sounding funky in the garage of their home, a garage that had stored everything but a car for as long as she could remember.

  He was playing with the wires of a detonator.

  She knew what it was for—and how it would be used—and felt an icy hand reach into her chest and squeeze her heart so very tightly.

  He looked up and smiled, and she felt the tightness slip away. She missed that smile.

  She missed him.

  “What’s going on, Dad?” she asked. She herself was sitting on a flipped-over bucket of spackle. She remembered whacking the tops of these with paint stirrers, believing that someday she would be in a rock band.

  “Just getting some work done,” he said, going back to his wires.

  She could hear sounds outside the garage. Scurrying, scratching sounds as something—lots of somethings—tried to get in.

  “You need to put that down,” she ordered him, feeling a surge of panic within her. “You need to put that down and come with me.” Sidney stood up and extended her hand.

  “Can’t, Sid,” Dad said, sadness in his tone. “I’m dead.”

  Sidney remembered how he’d always said that after his stroke. It used to make her so angry.

  But something told her—reminded her—that this was different. That maybe he was right this time.

  “No,” she yelled, pushing those thoughts from her confused mind. “You need to come with me before—”

  The sounds on the other side of the garage door grew louder and even more insistent.

  Her father continued to ignore her, playing with the wires that ran from his arms to the detonator positioned precariously on his lap.

  “I need you,” she told him, meaning it to the core of her being.

  He looked up and smiled.

  “I know that, kid,” he assured her, going back to wires. “But you’re far more capable than you think.”

  He’d always told her that with a little hard work she could do whatever she wanted in life. And work hard she did. It was how she’d prepared herself for college and for veterinary school.

  Her dad gave that to her . . . the level of confidence that had gotten her so far.

  “And I think they know it too,” he added.

  “They?” she asked, suddenly confused. He was looking up at her again, even though his fingers still worked on the wires of the detonator. “Who’s they?”

  The sounds of the things outside continued to scratch upon the door, but there was something else now.

  “They’re afraid of you, Sid,” he said, his gaze slowly scanning the crowded garage. “You weren’t supposed to happen.”

  She didn’t know what he was talking about, but a nagging sensation, a strange, uncomfortable tickle told her that she should.

  A tickle that was gradually becoming something more.

  “Ow,” she said, reaching up to touch her head.

  “They don’t know what to do about you,” her father continued.

  His hands worked all the faster on his task, and Sidney suddenly realized how well the hand affected by the stroke was doing. She felt a surge of hope then; maybe things would get better for her father. . . .

  “You’ve got to do something about them before—”

  “Who, Dad?” she demanded.

  The boxes of tools and discarded furniture rattled as the scratching and pounding on the other side of the garage door intensified.

  “Show them how strong you are,” he said, looking suddenly fearful.

  And then the stuff in the cluttered garage fell away, sucked into the black of nothingness that seemed to exist behind them.

  And from within the darkness something watched them.

  Something watched her.

  She couldn’t see them, but she knew they were there . . . felt that they were there.

  Inside her head.

  The room continued to shake, more and more of it breaking away to reveal the sucking void of blackness.

  She was being assaulted from all sides, and she was on the verge of panic. She wanted to run to her father, take the detonator and wires from him, and pull him from the room.

  But again that nagging sensation told her that this had already happened, and an overwhelming sadness spread through her. She had failed.

  The garage was disappearing, replaced by nothing—and the things that hid within it.

  She knew that these were the they her father was talking about, the they that were responsible for all this madness and pain.

  “You gotta go now,” her father said. He was done with the wiring, his finger hovering over the detonator switch.

  “But, Dad, I—”

  “We’ve already done this,” he interrupted her. “You gotta go out there and do your thing. . . .”

  The darkness had eaten up most of the garage, and she could feel their eyes on her.

  Did they even have eyes?

  “You’ve got to show them that they’re right. . . .”

  “I don’t understand what—”

  “You’ve got to show them that they’re right to fear us . . . to fear you.”

  “Dad,” she said, reaching out to touch him one last time.

  “Don’t,” he said, and she saw that bugs were swarming over his body, crawling into his mouth, pulling back the skin to burrow beneath his eyes.

  “Dad . . .”

  Her father smiled. It was a smile that told her he would be fine . . . a smile that told her that she had things to do and she’d better get going.

  “I already know,” he said, and pressed the switch on the detonator.

  The fiery explosion that followed pushed upon the darkness, driving it back from whence it had come.

  But she knew that it would return.

  And when it did, she would be waiting.

  * * *

  The darkness had come back, and this time it stank of burning rubber and jet fuel.

  Sidney slowly fought through the inky black, pulling herself up toward the light.

  “Is everybody . . . is everybody all right?” somebody asked as she fought to open her eyes.

  Something sticky was keeping them closed, and when she moved her hand to rub it away, she sensed that something was very wrong. It took her a moment to figure it out, but finally she realized that she was hanging upside down.

  The smell of spilled fuel made her gag, and she coughed as she struggled with reality. She could hear Snowy’s cries from somewhere close by, followed by her bark.

  At last she managed to focus, and her eyes fell on Snowy staring up from what used to be the ceiling of the aircraft but was now the floor. She fiddled with the buckle on the seat belt until it came undone, and she dropped like a stone to the new floor.

  Snowy was there at once, claws clicking upon the rounded metal, as she crazily kissed and nuzzled Sidney.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Sidney said, still trying to pull it all together.

  Their plane had crashed. The cabin was filled with smoke that seemed to be getting thicker.

  “Hello?” she cried out.

  “Sid?” It sounded like Rich.

  “Hey! You okay?”

  “Freakin’ great.” Yep, it was Rich.

  “I can’t see much in this smoke. Make some noise, and I’ll try to follow it to you.”

  “Ms. Moore?”

  Sidney recognized Sayid’s voice right away, and he appeared before her out of the thick, noxious fu
mes, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth and nose.

  “Everybody all right?” Langridge bellowed.

  “I’ve got Sidney!” Sayid called, reaching out to lead Sidney and Snowy toward Langridge’s voice. “We’re heading to you!”

  Carefully they navigated through the smoke and equipment strewn across the ceiling of the craft and met up with Langridge. She was kneeling beside someone lying at a weird angle, and Sidney realized it was Fitzy.

  “Oh my God,” she said, fearing the worst. “Is he all right?”

  “No,” Langridge replied in her usual matter-of-fact way. “He’s not. Looks like his neck is broken.”

  “C’mon! Everybody up front!” someone called out from somewhere farther forward.

  Sayid moved to get Fitzy’s body, but Langridge reached out and pulled him back.

  “There’s no time for that,” she said. “The whole plane could blow any minute.”

  Sayid hesitated, then pushed forward. They didn’t have to go far before they could feel a rush of air and the smoke seemed to thin. They found themselves at a huge break in the craft’s fuselage, Rich, Cody, Karol, and Bob standing just outside.

  “Hurry up!” Bob urged, motioning with his hands, the smell of jet fuel suddenly very strong.

  “Where’s Fitzy?” Karol asked. She was cradling her left arm with her right.

  “Didn’t make it,” Langridge said with little circumstance. It was just how it was, and that was that.

  Sidney watched Karol’s expression go slack; then she slowly turned and walked away from the group, beyond the break in the plane, farther out onto the tarmac.

  “What the hell happened?” Langridge asked as they reached the pilot.

  “Birds,” the man said. “I’ve never seen so many . . . and so many kinds. They threw themselves into the props and stalled the engines. I tried to bring us in as gently as I could but . . .”

  The scream was short, but bloodcurdling.

  Sidney was already looking straight ahead as the others turned toward the sound of terror.

  The birds that had brought the plane down had descended upon the injured Karol in a silent, voracious cloud. They swarmed around her, a vortex of talons, feathers, and beaks.

  She tried to run back toward the cover of the downed plane, but the attack was too quick.

  Too relentless.

  The poor woman was reduced to a tattered and bloody mass that crumpled to the ground, already dead by the looks of her.

  “Get in here, now!” Langridge screamed, pulling Bob in first, as Rich and Cody joined them inside the smoke-filled fuselage.

  “We can’t stay in here,” Bob said. “It’s only a matter of time before that spilled fuel ignites and—”

  “Yeah, I get it,” Langridge interrupted. “How far down the runway do you think we are?” she asked Bob.

  “I was turning around when I lost everything, I’d say about a quarter of the way down, so three quarters to any cover.”

  Snowy was whining, her eyes riveted to the break in the plane and what might be lurking beyond.

  Rich remained closest to the break, trying to see more outside. “I thought it was over,” he said as clusters of smaller birds darted past. “I thought when we killed that thing . . .”

  “Maybe there was more than one,” Sayid said. “I don’t know.”

  Sidney felt that presence in her head again, a dirty feeling she would have given anything to be free of.

  “There’s something still here,” she said, holding Snowy tightly. “And it doesn’t want anybody to leave.”

  They all looked at her, and she just shrugged.

  “All right,” Langridge said. “We don’t have much time before one of two things happens—one, the plane explodes, or two, those birds find their way past the smoke and say hi.” She paused. “We’ve got to get to the hangar. We should be safe there, and then we can figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “The only way we can get there is to run,” Sayid said. “We’ll need some kind of cover to protect us.” He crawled back through the wreckage of the fuselage and disappeared in the smoke.

  It was as if the birds outside had heard him thinking aloud; they dove down at the plane, slamming their fragile forms against it.

  “I think they’ve figured out that the crash didn’t kill all of us,” Langridge said. “What have you got, Doc?” she yelled. “The clock is ticking.”

  “What about the others?” Sidney suddenly blurted out.

  Langridge looked at her, and by the expression on her face Sidney could tell that she’d already thought of the very same thing.

  “Can’t worry about that right now,” the head of security said. “Sayid, c’mon!” she yelled, just as the scientist emerged from the smoke, coughing, eyes fiercely watering, his arms filled with . . .

  “Rain ponchos?” Langridge said. “Sorry, Doc, but this storm has razor-sharp beaks and talons.”

  “If we keep moving and watch each others’ backs, these should do a pretty good job at protecting us. The surface is slick,” he explained. “It’ll be harder for their talons to take hold. I’ve got these too—to protect our faces.” He held out plastic visors used by surgeons to protect from spatter.

  Langridge ran her fingers over the slick, green surface of the poncho. “This is the best you got?”

  “At least it’s something,” Bob said, grabbing a poncho and visor.

  Everybody followed suit, slipping the ponchos over their heads and slapping the visors on their faces. Sidney grabbed the last one and wrapped it around Snowy, adjusting it so as not to interfere with the dog’s movement.

  “Okay,” Langridge said, smoothing the front of her poncho down as she slid the visor on over her hooded head. “We stay together, help each other when you can.”

  “You have no idea what it’s like,” Cody said suddenly.

  Sidney could see the haunted look in his eyes and knew he was thinking of his father.

  Killed by birds.

  “You had your guns and your flamethrowers,” he said. “But you don’t have any of that now.”

  “Which is why we play this smart,” Langridge said. “We move fast, and we look out for one another.”

  Cody nodded, but Sidney could see that he was unconvinced.

  “It’ll be okay, Cody,” she said, gently touching his arm through the thick plastic.

  Rich came up on Cody’s other side, nodding in agreement, but his face said something very different.

  “I’ll take point,” Langridge said, moving past them to the break in the plane.

  One after the other they followed her, the sounds of birds’ bodies crashing into the skin of the fuselage like a rain of rocks.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The encampment was being moved inside the high school. After the incident with the two scientists and hearing Isaac’s chilling words, Burwell and his team had decided it would be safer to move the operation into the main building rather than remain outside on the soccer field.

  Doc Martin did what she could to help, all the while keeping an eye on Isaac. This new bad radio was clearly taking its toll upon him.

  The little boy whom she’d hugged earlier walked by with his folks and gave her a friendly wave. She could see the look of concern on the parents’ faces and mouthed, It’ll be okay, as they passed. But as the survivors filed past her into the school, she found herself also watching other areas around them—the shadowy corners, the sky. She’d believed that most of the animal and insect life on the island had died when the alien life-form was destroyed.

  But now there was a new wrinkle, and she wondered if any had actually survived, only to be under the influence of this new force.

  This new bad radio.

  “I’m stationing men around the perimeter,” somebody said, and she looked to see Burwell standing near her at the bottom of the school steps. He was looking out over the property as well, as survivors continued to straggle up from the soccer field. “So another one of th
ose things,” he said, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself that it was true.

  “According to Isaac, yeah,” Doc Martin said.

  “Do you think he’s right? Can we trust him?” he asked. “He doesn’t seem all that right in the head.”

  Doc Martin glared at the man. “Can you trust what you saw with those two men?”

  Burwell made a face. “If there’s another one of those things on the island, we can’t just stand around with our thumbs up our butts waiting to see what it does.”

  Doc Martin continued to search for signs that something might be amiss. She even found herself watching the residents for symptoms of anything . . . abnormal.

  “What are you suggesting?” she asked Burwell.

  “I’m thinking we put a small team together and head out there to find it.”

  “Easier said than done,” Doc Martin said. “Isaac said it left the cave. You have no idea where to even begin. Benediction may be a small island, but we’ve got lots of nooks and crannies where things can easily hide.”

  Burwell remained silent, continuing to scan the horizon.

  Doc Martin wanted a cigarette very badly, then remembered she only had the one. Better to save it for an emergency.

  “He seems to have some kind of connection to it,” the security officer said finally.

  “Yeah,” she said, turning to face Burwell directly. “Not sure how or why . . . could be something to do with an injury he had as a child, but I really don’t have a clue.”

  Burwell looked at her. “But he does hear it somehow?”

  “Yeah, he does,” she said slowly, wanting that cigarette all the more.

  “I’m thinking of taking him with me,” Burwell said.

  “Not on your life,” Doc Martin growled. “The kid has already been through enough and managed to survive. I’m not about to let you risk him getting hurt.”

  “That’s not your decision. It’s his,” Burwell said, turning to head into the school.

  Without a word Doc Martin followed, her eyes shooting death beams into the back of the man’s head.

  * * *