As we barreled down toward a one-sided fight, a movement on the other side of the highway caught my attention. It was a sudden blurring of the scenery to my left, around thirty meters from where the pack was waiting. Suddenly, two car-sized gray and dark crimson spiders – or spider-like, too many legs plus a forked tail – appeared. The new monsters were still. I guessed disorientation had got to them. But my spirits had sunk so low, I think they’d dropped down to my feet which felt dumped in ice-cold water all of a sudden. Even my hands felt bone-chillingly cold.
“Fuck,” said the professor in a low voice and a small cry of alarm came from Jen. Cooper didn’t say anything, but he was probably focusing on his aiming.
To my surprise and subsequent relief, the moment the pack saw the two newcomers, they all forgot about us, moving quickly across the low concrete barrier dividing the four-lane road. They rushed in a vicious attack, dividing their group as they pounced on the two spider creatures. Inside a few seconds, we’d passed them by and thankfully, Cooper held his fire. They didn’t need reminding of our presence.
Even a momentary glance on my part showed me the brute savagery and incredible quickness of the ongoing battle. I saw one of the doglike beasts skewered on one of the spider tails, but still clawing and biting. Some were on the backs of the giant insects while others attacked the legs.
The movements of the protagonists were almost too fast to follow.
A sober and enormously grateful relief suffused my mind as I turned my attention back to the road, increasing my speed and putting more distance between us and the struggle between the monstrous creatures.
8
More Strange Beasts
As I drove home, the question arose in my mind about what had happened.
The reaction of the pack had been visceral; the instinctive urge to attack the spiders overrode any drive to hunt even easy prey, like us moving toward them. Among living beings, at least of the mobile variety, that only happened when an innate or hereditary murderous characteristic was involved.
Otherwise, the pack would have treated the insect-like creatures and us equally – as prey. Or they would have displayed some wavering on which group to deal with first. Considering their number and intelligence, they could also have divided their group and attacked both simultaneously.
But no, they’d headed straight for the giant insectoids the second they’d seen them. A high degree of homicidal familiarity must have been involved. And that meant they all came from the same place. Or dimension. Or reality.
And what a fuck of a world that must be. I had already decided there was no way those monsters could have come from this world. At the very least, they could have been aliens. And if they are, fuck all that ‘come home’ shit!
Nearing our destination, I suddenly caught sight of several specks flying in the distance. They were too slow to be jets. Our military jet aircraft were called fast movers for a reason. That got me out of my reverie. Apparently, the professor saw it too. He looked at me.
“No, not choppers. Seen a lifetime of them to know the difference. Unfortunately, they’re headed our way. The town probably,” the professor advised.
I pulled over immediately but couldn’t hide under the trees; the road’s steel barrier made sure of that. Of all the places to have intact roadside protection, we had to be in one. A lot of the steel rails we passed were either broken or rusted to the point of having the strength of paper.
I turned off the engine and we all tried our best to be as inconspicuous as possible. It was difficult to do that in a cramped car. Our two-armed passengers prepared their weapons. But at the back of my mind was the thought that if those flying monsters emitted the same kind of metal-affecting aura, then we’d be fillet. The car would be rusted to pieces, we’d be hunted down, and the pistol and rifle wouldn’t do squat.
In a few minutes, the creatures flew overhead, several feet above the treetops. They didn’t even give us a glance. If we’d been moving, then I believed we would have attracted them. They were huge, four-winged creatures, black in color and looking like giant caricatures of bats. That was what I could see from my crouched position, and the shape of the body did remind me of those winged rats. But the talons on the frontal tips of all four wings were quite prominent.
They made no sound, only following a purposeful flight toward the town. The nightmare form was their only similarity with their small, blind and distant cousins. And unlike Earth bats, these bad dreams could see in the day.
We gave the flock several minutes before I started the car. Stragglers were a genuine concern and there was also no telling whether the flying creatures were just the vanguard of a large horde, not only of their kind but also of other yet unknown nightmarish beasts. Slowly, I moved forward at first, wary of any error in the calculated risk I just took. Fortunately, nothing happened.
The miles passed slowly though we were doing sixty already. Abruptly, a group of rusted and dilapidated wrecks appeared on the other side of the road near a sharp curve we locally called Coleman’s Bend, an ignominious claim to fame by a drunken resident nobody liked. There’d been a fender-bender resulting in a mile-long traffic jam on both sides of the road. The severely damaged vehicles were military, consisting of an Abrams tank, a Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle, and two Humvees.
The Abrams and the Bradley were lying on their side while the Humvees were squashed flat. But this time, there were several bodies around them. We could see skeletons under the torn uniforms and other protective gear. In contrast to what we’d seen before, the flesh and even the blood were gone, the bones cleanly scraped of whatever flesh they’d had.
“Second squad, First Platoon, Bravo Company,” Cooper piped up.
“Huh?” I reacted.
“I heard they were positioned somewhere along the highway, in the suburbs. Forward post. That must be them,” said Cooper. Nobody had a reply to that statement.
Finally, we reached the turn-off to our subdivision, Greenwood Acres.
As we got nearer, I saw with relief that it was unscathed. For the moment. I had no doubt other terrible incidents were happening in other parts of the area, though it seemed, from what I had seen of the spiders and the pack on the road, that the presence or arrival of at least some of the creatures was random.
Their disoriented and confused behavior upon manifesting appeared to support my theory. But as a friend doing his doctoral thesis had once said – data, evidence, data. It was a giant puzzle and I’d only glimpsed the shadow of the edge of a single side.
We passed empty streets and closed windows. I could see people peeking through their curtains or window blinds in some houses. A few cars were in the driveways. It was a workday. A lot of inhabitants must have been caught in the terror maelstrom while at their offices. A few houses showed evidence of hurried evacuation, if the open doors and items scattered all over the place were any indication. Where would they have run? To town? To the cities? Along the open road?
I wished them all well and sent them my prayers, but I knew whoever had left had no chance even in the coldest Hell.
We turned into the road that led home. Our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac and I could clearly see that Mom’s car was not there.
I immediately felt the fear clamp itself around my heart but consoled myself that it didn’t mean she was dead. Or she could have been at home, having left her car somewhere. As we neared our house, I saw the residence on the right was closed with no car in the driveway. The Benjamins owned it, who worked at an IT company housed in a building on the road leading to town.
The one on the left was evidently evacuated too – the windows and the main door were closed. Locked, I presumed, and no car was in the driveway there either. The Everests were usually sticklers for order, yet they’d left their garage door open and I could see the mess they’d left behind.
In contrast, Ms. Adley, a widow and an elderly retiree, was at home. She waved through her window and her door opened. But when she saw I
had company, she went back inside. She and her husband had been the first residents of the subdivision. After her husband died, she refused to go and live with a daughter in Chicago or the eldest daughter in Florida. Even the offer of her son in Virginia to buy her a new house near his place didn’t appeal to her.
Ms. Adley was pleasant enough. I liked her lively personality, though she could be a bit senile at times. Mom and I usually tried to check on her from time to time.
The other house to our immediate left was vacant and being offered for sale.
The car entered the driveway and we got out. As I turned off the engine, I picked up faint sounds of detonations and firing from the town.
Apparently, fighting was still going on which could be good or bad depending on how one looked at it. It was good because it meant humans were still resisting. Or bad, because a heavily armed military force, equipped with the most modern weapons, still had not pacified or cleared the area.
Against that “musical” background, I looked at the house waiting for us. A wave of apprehension came over me. Was she home? Or was she still out there? Or maybe dead because of those monstrous creatures? My home had never looked so lonely. No, I didn’t shout out “Mom” to see if she was about; that only happened in the movies.
“We need a thick blanket as a backboard,” advised the professor. “A patient carrier,” he explained when he noticed my blank look. “I don’t want the lieutenant to move. If he has fractured ribs, it might make things worse.”
“Okay,” I mumbled as I fished out the house key. Jen was beside me, holding onto my arm. She knew what I was thinking. I wanted to rush inside to see if Mom had arrived but somehow, I didn’t want to see the truth yet.
“Eric, I hope you don’t mind, but I do have some experience in this sort of thing. Let’s call it emergency management. Is it alright if I take care of our preparations?” asked the professor.
“No problem,” I replied. The truth was, I was still dazed by the entire experience. A sense of reality was back. A small voice kept insisting there were no monsters, no weird events, no horrific scenes, and Mom was on her way home, having just finished her meetings. Denial, that was what the shrinks called it.
I hurriedly and forcibly kicked it back into the garbage bin of my mind.
It would have been the death of me.
9
Rock Salt and Cocktails
We got inside the house, Jen opening the door. I knew she felt my hesitation and that I was worried about Mom. I immediately walked into the kitchen; my note was still where I’d left it. Disappointment and fear rushed through me but nothing like the genuinely miserable sensation of not knowing whether she was home or not when we arrived.
As I stood there, Jen wrapped her reassuring arms around me. At least one of the two women I loved was with me. I still didn’t know what had happened to my mother, but until I knew for sure, there was some hope she was making her way home.
“Eric, the blanket?” a soft voice inquired. It was the professor. I think he’d seen the note and knew what it meant.
I pointed to the room at the top of the stairs. I had no idea about the kind of blanket required, so it was better to let the man choose what he needed. Before he went up, he didn’t waste any time in preparing for our stay.
“Jen, do a check on our food and water situation. Gather all the canned goods you find and place them on the kitchen tabletop. There, right beside the sink. But first, start filling the bathtubs with water as well as fill any spare container you can find,” the professor told Jen. Then he turned to me. “Eric, please start covering the windows with thick blankets, ones that won’t let light through. I guess the power is still on, but I doubt if that will last. Though, if you have battery-powered emergency lamps and flashlights, it’s a good idea to bring them out now. But one preparation at a time.”
He clearly intended to keep us busy to prevent us brooding too much on things we couldn’t do anything about. Then he turned and quickly ran up the stairs.
I noticed Cooper didn’t come in with him, but the soldier was probably standing guard over Stan. I followed him up and headed straight for the linen closet. It was a small room connected to the master bedroom. The professor had apparently got what he needed as I heard him rushing down.
Selecting what I needed from the piles of blankets, I went to the small closet under the stairs and brought out the hammer and a bag of nails. Taping heavy sheets was a flimsy arrangement. I started first on the windows overlooking the road. From there, we could see down to the intersection, and whoever was in that corner of the connecting streets could also see the house.
Not a good idea if you wanted to hide your presence at night.
As I was nailing the first blanket in place, the professor and Cooper came in, bringing Stan with them. They laid him on the large couch and the professor started to examine his injuries.
“His right side is really cold,” I heard the professor say out loud. “First time I’ve seen such a thing outside of freezing temperatures. And only the right side. Cooper, look for hot water packs or bags. And a large basin together with a towel. Let’s see if we can arrest the spreading coldness. He’s injured, but I don’t want that bizarre iciness to reach the atria and ventricles. I’m going to start heating some water.”
I let go of the blanket I was working on, leaving it hanging, and told Cooper where to find the items. The professor already had all four burners of the stove working, having made use of pots and pans he’d found under the sink, in addition to the kettle. Noticing me, he asked if we had a medicine cabinet. I directed him toward the stairs closet. I went back to hanging blanket covers.
By the time I was finished with the kitchen covers, I went to see how they were doing. Stan was still unconscious but looked slightly better – more color in his face, for one. His entire right side was covered with three rubber water bags as well as wet towels in cling wrap. Cooper was continuously wiping Stan’s cold side with another damp cloth from a basin filled with hot water. The professor looked at me.
“Well, the improvised treatment appears to be working but don’t ask me why. On the injuries I do understand, he might have minor fractures in the rib area, but only an x-ray could determine the extent of any thoracic injuries. Could be soft tissue damage. But the spine is okay and I don’t see any obvious head injury. His helmet must have absorbed the impact. Cuts and abrasions have already been treated. My concern now is hydration, but I am preparing a saline solution.”
Then he appraised me with a thoughtful glance.
“There were hypodermic needles in your cabinet. For medication?” he asked.
“No, no. Leftovers from Dad’s treatments. Mom didn’t throw them away after he died. And no, nobody here is a user or diabetic needing insulin,” I explained.
“Sorry to hear about your loss, Eric. My sympathies. No, I am not judging you. But the presence of illegal substances does require more care in the use of medical equipment in treating a patient,” he answered, holding up a syringe still in its plastic wrapping.
“Dad passed away several years ago and don’t worry about the needle issue, I fully understand. Though I didn’t know you could make your own saline solution.”
“You can. A bit of a bother though. All that preparation. The simplest way is to use juice from coconuts, but it appears to be out of stock,” he replied with a wry smile.
We all decided to go to bed as early as possible. The day’s events and all the preparations had taken a lot from all of us. I did take time to visit Ms. Adley and advised the worried woman not to go out until we knew what was happening.
Her morning habit of taking a brisk stroll around the block would be a lethal exercise under the circumstances, and she seemed to accept the advice. With her permission, I blocked off her windows. She was upset and nervous, fidgeting all the while, but not for herself. It was for her children and grandchildren.
Job done and conscience assuaged, I went back to the house. I had finished cov
ering all the windows including those on the second floor and gotten the emergency flashlights and lamp. As I got back from the second floor, everybody got the notice that sleeping quarters would be at ground floor level.
The professor — or Henry as he preferred being called – and Cooper shared watch duty. They didn’t include me, advising me that for tonight, I’d better get some rest.
Henry did ask me if I had guns around the house. Dad’s Mossberg Maverick and Glock 17 pistol were hauled out of their hidden compartment. After checking and cleaning them, he asked if he could modify some of the shotgun shells. I nodded and found myself looking at a very quickly done modification of around twenty rounds of buckshot. He removed the pellets and replaced them with rock salt. After giving the weapons a last look, he smiled at me.
“Well, we know bullets don’t do shit against them, except make them angry. The load on this double-aught buckshot is essentially nine bullets of roughly 9mm caliber being thrown against an unbelievably quick-acting, rusting aura. Anything metal would be ineffective. I figured rock salt would give a better option and the thick plastic wad of each shell is no slouch either. But keep your distance; the shotgun is still made of metal.”
I knew then that Henry did have a military background. I guessed Cooper had sensed it too as he’d kept calling Henry “sir.” The professor didn’t correct him. Quite telling. Not to mention his medical background, calm demeanor under difficult circumstances, knowledge of firearms, and all those other nuances only a veteran officer with combat experience could exhibit.
The details of that background, though, were another matter. No way was I going to pry. He could tell me when and if he wanted to.
“Thanks,” I said after he gave me back the now loaded shotgun. He also quickly took the three magazines of the pistol, loaded them all, slammed one into the pistol, and gave the weapon back to me, handle first.
“You do know how to use those things?” he asked. I merely nodded.
Planar Wars: Apertures (Book 1) Page 5
