by Jeff Strand
″I hope he gets hit in a drive-by,″ Ray said.
Thomas nudged him. ″No, look.″
They watched as the small movement came again in the yard, shaking the weed stalks and vines. There was a scratching sound and then the fence bulged outward with tremendous force.
″It′s the jackalope!″ Ray yelled.
Thomas hissed at him, ″Shut your trap!″
But it was too late. Leo had already been alerted. He′d stopped walking and was turning back around. When he saw the fence shaking, he flinched in surprise and that′s when the creature vaulted over the top, a giant furry floppy thing, with horns pointing up to heaven and teeth filling with drool, eyes like burning fire. It landed squarely on the boy′s chest, driving him to the ground and pinning him to the concrete.
″Jesus!″ Ray and Thomas shirked together.
The jackalope tore into Leo′s chest, spraying blood and guts upward in a grisly geyser.
Thomas felt cold, sick, and he heard Ray vomiting off to the side. ″Come on, that thing is coming after us next!″ he said. ″We gotta″
But the jackalope was already flopping toward them, bounding up the alley. It spoke in a voice that was artificial and corrupted.
″I be the jackalope / You ain′t gotta hope / When you step to me / You betta geta rope″
″Holy shit, it′s talking!″ Ray screamed. He shouldered into Thomas. ″It′s a talking rabbit, man!″
Thomas pushed him away. ″Yo get off me, fool! I already told you it could talk!″
Then the jackalope was only five feet away from them, its fur drenched in blood, entrails and flesh dangling from its teeth. It hacked up one of Leo′s gnawed bones which pinwheeled and skidded out of sight.
″I be the jackalope / You ain′t gotta hope / When you step to me / You betta geta rope / Cuz I′m so dope / You can′t step to this / Play with my horn / You gonna be missed / Cuz I rhyme too fast / And I run with speed / Put you in the ground / Won′t need no deed / I tear you up / Eat your gut / You don′t stand a chance / You can′t say what / So back off / They call me Jackaleezy / I′m so sleazy / Try hard as you can / You can′t know my steezy / I blow up your home / Send you to hell / Ain′t no hope / With jackalope / You need wishing well / Cuz it′s me / The mighty MC / Jackalope / Push yo ass off a slope / You can′t cope″
″What the hell, is it rhyming?″ Ray whimpered.
But Thomas couldn′t answer. He couldn′t possibly speak now, not ever again, for his eyes watched the sky, where the storm clouds had parted with unnatural speed, like paint being wiped from a canvas. Like they weren′t real at all, like they had never been real, like they were only just an illusion.
Great geometrical ships began dropping down through holes in the clouds. The liberated sunlight reflected off their shiny, metallic surfaces. There were hundreds of them, stretching back as far as his eyes could see. A sound, a low electrical hum, filled the air.
One of them descended silently directly over the alley, hovering above the rooftops. Ray looked up, saw the ship, and released a bloodcurdling scream, the cry of someone gone mad.
The ship′s exterior was a flickering field of lights and complex patterns, of alloys and odd angles, and a slowly opening circular hatch, unfurling from the center outward, growing wider by the second.
″Cuz it′s me / The mighty MC / Jackalope / Push yo ass off a slope″ the jackalope said.
Thomas caught one mesmerizing glimpse of the contents of the ship, a surging sea of fur and teeth, a literally endless number of beady-eyed jackalopes stacked one upon the other, like an army amassing for battle, and some of them even wore metallic armor and mighty helmets from which their horns protruded like rifle bayonets.
Ray took a single look and somehow managed to scream louder. Thomas dropped to his knees in awe, and he swore he heard the jackalope standing before him begin to laugh.
JOHNNY VERSUS THE CREATURES
D.T. GRIFFITH
AS IT HAD BECOME CUSTOM EVERY NIGHT before bed, Johnny peered out the bedroom window and looked for the creatures. He could not sleep knowing they might be circling the house. Mom and Dad never noticed them, he thought, it was his duty to protect his family. With his flashlight in hand and his dog Onyx by his side, Johnny opened the window and investigated the backyard from his vantage point.
The moon illuminated the swing set and the woods behind the house. Leaves rustled in the breeze carrying with it the scent of chimney smoke from the neighbor′s house way down the road; the backyard contained no movement. Having satisfied Onyx and himself, Johnny closed the window, climbed into bed and extinguished his flashlight. Onyx took his position across Johnny′s feet and within ten minutes, they were both asleep.
* * *
Bang! The bed and floor vibrated, the windowpanes rattled. Onyx barked and jumped off the bed. Johnny rubbed his eyes and focused on a mass outside the glass. What is that? Onyx stood upright, pressing his nose against the lower windowpane and growled. Johnny screamed for Mom and Dad, but they did not respond. The window continued to rattle and Johnny aimed the flashlight at the object that had obscured the moonlight; it did not move. Dots of light reflected from a pair of small eyes staring at him. He yelled for his parents — no response. He darted to the doorway and called their names again. Nothing. Onyx continued to growl.
A loud thump came from the thing outside the window. Johnny covered his ears and shut his eyes. Chain links crashed as several claws dragged across the glass. The rattling ceased. Onyx stopped growling and barking. He turned back toward the window. The object was gone; he could see the moonlight through the window again.
All was quiet. Did that happen?
Trembling, Johnny returned to his bed and tried to sleep, Onyx resumed his position on Johnny's feet.
* * *
Sunlight filled the bedroom waking Onyx. The dog stepped over Johnny′s chest to lick his face.
Johnny opened his eyes and noticed the windowpanes were smeared in dry mud with scratch marks. He hastened to the window; the entire yard was torn up, mounds of dirt everywhere. His swing set was on its side, a chain from a swing wrapped around a strange mass on the ground, and a pickaxe was stuck in a tree trunk. He backed away and caught his breath. The creatures were here, he thought, they got his parents! He bolted to his parents′ room; it was empty. He repeatedly yelled their names and heard no reply.
He flew down the stairs and could hear something outdoors. Digging, he thought. He checked the kitchen and the living room, no Mom or Dad.
Onyx perched himself on the stairs and growled at the front door. The doorknob twisted. Johnny stood in the foyer, one foot pointed away from the door ready to dash. Mom opened the door, catching her breath and covered in dirt. She wiped her sweat-laden hair and specs of red off her face with her forearm. She wore work gloves and held an axe smeared in wet blood. An odor of earth and decay permeated the entryway. Johnny froze.
Mom dropped the axe and knelt down. She wrapped her arms tightly around Johnny, holding his head against her chest. She gestured to a dark brown lump in the yard behind her, attempting to smile.
Onyx leapt past them out the door and to the yard in one motion. The dog sniffed at the corpse; its head severed from the body. Johnny cleared the tears from his eyes and followed Onyx outside in his pajamas, studying the large rabbit-like thing Onyx was nudging, fascinated by its — antlers? This is one of the creatures, he realized. Dad′s voice called his name from behind. Covered in mud and gore, Dad was filling a hole in the ground with a spade; Johnny could see the jagged tip of another antler still protruding from the loose dirt.
A cool breeze carried the scent of chimney smoke from the neighbor′s house; it was calming and refreshing. Stepping over the piles of dirt, replacing the creatures′ paw prints with his own footprints, Johnny approached his father and hugged him. He looked back as he heard his mother swiftly knock the creature′s head out of the way with the hollow thud of a shovel, and watched as she proceeded to
dig a hole next to the fur-covered corpse in the front yard.
WAYWARD GULCH
ERIK WILLIAMS
TERRY DRUMMED THE STEERING WHEEL to the beat of Metallica′s ″Four Horsemen″ and pushed pedal to the floor. The Challenger′s hemi roared and the tires ate asphalt. The sun dipped toward the horizon. The Arizona desert passed by in a dying beige blur. The sky, flooded in shades of orange, purple, and pink.
Up ahead, a person standing on the side of the road. Just visible. A man with his arm out, thumb up. Terry slowed and pulled over to the shoulder. He threw the car in park about fifty feet down the road.
The guy jogged up and leaned into the passenger window. ″Thanks for stopping. This is the first anyone′s ever stopped.″
Terry nodded. ″I′m only heading as far as Wayward Gulch. You okay with that?″
The guy smiled. ″That′s just where I′m heading.″
″Well get on in.″
The guy opened the door and climbed in and closed the door. ″Name′s Hank.″
″Terry.″ He shook Hank′s hand and floored the gas and spun the back wheels before they bit and the Challenger screamed back down the freeway.
Terry looked Hank over. Young. No bag. Leather jacket and blue jeans. Slicked hair. Almost like the kid was trapped in a time warp from the fifties.
″So what′re you doing out here hitchhiking?″ Terry drank a swig of Mountain Dew and vodka. ″Car break down?″
″Something like that.″
″Either it did or you didn′t.″
″What?″
Terry took another sip. ″Either you did break down or you didn′t. There′s no something like it.″
″I broke down.″
Terry nodded.
″Why are you going to Wayward Gulch?″ Hank said.
″A pit stop on the way to Tucson.″ Terry looked at him. ″Why do you ask?″
″Just curious. Not exactly a place people go visit. Anymore at least.″
Terry shrugged. Glanced over his shoulder at the bag in the backseat. Slightly open, a few bills peeking out. He doubted the kid noticed it but maybe...″I′d thought it be an interesting place to visit with the name and all.″
″People don′t visit Wayward Gulch. People left it. Or tried to.″
Terry chuckled. ″Damn, Hank, you make it sound like it′s haunted or something.″
″Worse than that.″
″What′s worse than that?″
″Haunted isn′t the right word.″
″What is the right word?″
″Infested.″
″With bugs?″
Hank chuckled. ″If only.″
Terry looked from the road to Hank and saw a stark face and lost eyes. ″Why are you heading there if it′s so bad?″
″Don′t have a choice.″
Terry turned back to the road. ″Sure.″
″You′d be wise just to pass on through.″
″Oh would I.″
″Especially with it getting dark.″
″Right, right.″ Terry chuckled. ″Or things worse than bugs and ghosts will get me.″
″On this day, yeah, something worse than bugs or ghosts.″
Terry tapped the jackknife in his pocket. There was something...off about the kid.
Shouldn′t have stopped, he thought. Should have just rolled on by. But you had to, didn′t you. Because he′s young. Because he′s cute. Just couldn′t resist a taste-
″It′s not much further to town,″ Hank said. ″You can drop me off here. I′ll walk the rest of the way.″
Terry moved his hand from his pocket to the wheel. ″Sure.″
He pulled over and parked. The engine idled. Heavy. Hungry.
Hank turned to him. Smirked. ″Seriously, just pass on through.″
Terry noticed a red mark. On Hank′s cheek. It hadn′t been there when he picked him up.
″Something bit you.″ Terry pointed at the spot. ″Looks like it′s swelling up.″
Hank touched it. ″You need to go now.″
Another red mark. Opposite cheek. ″Hey, what the-″
Hank opened the door and jumped out. ″Go. Now.″
He slammed the door shut and started walking. Terry watched as more red marks appeared on the back of Hank′s neck. Then they opened. Like sores. No, like bites had torn the flesh away. Blood oozed and then flowed. Down the back of his jacket. Down his arms and legs.
″What the hell?″
Terry shifted and pulled up alongside Hank. Pieces of his cheeks were gone. Chunks of his ear.
″I told you to go.″ His lips disappeared.
″What the hell is happening?″ Terry yelled through the lowered passenger window.
″The same thing that happens every year.″ Hank pointed down the road toward town. Parts of his jacket disintegrated. ″You got about five minutes to either turn around or make it to the other side. Stay and you′ll be theirs.″
Terry stared, tried to speak but couldn′t find the words. Almost all of the flesh on Hank′s head was gone. So was the hair. Eaten away by some imaginary force.
″It′s the night of the jackalopes.″ Hank stopped and turned. His head, nothing but a bleached skull now. ″Don′t end up like me. Go. Now!″
Terry floored it. The tires spun and spat smoke. The Challenger devoured the road. In the rearview, Hank blew away like ashes on the wind.
″Christ.″ Terry rubbed his head. Rubbed his face. ″All in my head, man. All in my fucking head.″
It took him another minute to realize he was heading toward town instead of away from it. He looked at the horizon. The sun was almost completely gone. The town, no more than a mile ahead.
You can make it, he thought. Too late to turn around now.
He shook his head. It was all bullshit. Too much vodka and Mountain Dew. Hell, the adrenaline was still up from the bank robbery. All in his head.
He slowed as he reached the outskirts of town. Didn′t want to give a cop any reason to pull him over. It took him another minute to realize there were no cops to worry about. Or people.
The Challenger rolled through what had been the business district of Wayward Gulch. Empty buildings. Busted windows. Graffiti covering every square inch of vertical surfaces.
Ghost town, he thought. A relatively recent one. By the looks of the buildings, Terry figured it died sometime in the fifties.
-Hank. The hair cut. The style of dress-
Oh, shit.
He tried to floor it but the engine died. He drifted a few seconds, trying to start the car, slamming his hand on the dash, but the engine wouldn′t turn over. He looked at the horizon. The sun was gone.
Stay and you′ll be theirs.
No, no, no, he thought. Again, trying to start the car.
Terry gave up after a few more minutes. He buried his face in his hands and wondered what the hell he was going to do. No car in a dead town infested with...something bad. Something that apparently ate Hank a long time ago.
Stay in the car, Terry thought. Don′t go anywhere until sunrise. Hank said Night of the Jackalopes, whatever the hell that is. So sit tight and wait.
He reached down under his seat and grabbed the .357. He′d prefer the Mossberg but the shotgun was in the trunk and he was going to. Sit. Tight.
Terry leaned back and rested the .357 on his thigh. Made sure all the doors were locked. And sighed.
Something reflected the headlights. Something small in the middle of the road. Terry squinted, tried to make out what it was. Short, two eyes. Squirrel?
No, bigger than a squirrel. More like a jack rabbit.
Yep, jack rabbit. Hopping up the road toward the Challenger. As it neared, Terry made out more of it. Pale white. Almost spectral looking. Big ears. Big front teeth. Cartoonish. And-
″Antlers?″
He leaned forward and strained his eyes. Two protrusions, no longer than a few inches, grew from the jack rabbit′s head, forward of the ears. Looked like two big sticks, with the ex
ception of the multiple points on each. Terry counted ten.
″A ten point jack rabbit.″ He laughed. But the laughter soon died as he saw several more emerge from the darkness into the light. All hopping toward him.
He lifted the .357. Watched as more poured into the light. Had to be fifty now.
Terry swallowed, glanced in the rearview. In the red of his tail lights, he saw more. More coming toward him. Not jack rabbits at all. Jackalopes.
Sit tight, he thought. They can′t eat through metal.
He could hear them just outside the door. Their feet drumming the asphalt. Thump. Thump.
The front left tire exploded. Terry shrieked and dropped the gun. He pawed on the floor for it as the other front tire blew. The back tires followed.
Terry found the gun and sat up and shrieked and dropped the gun again. This time he didn′t reach down. Instead, he remained locked on the windshield. His hood, covered in jackalopes. Thousands of eyes on him.
Thump. Thump.
The roof. They were on the roof. It dented and sank under their weight. How many could be up there?
Then they stopped moving. The ones on the hood still stared.
″Can′t eat through metal and glass can you, assholes.″ Terry flicked them off. ″Ha, ha!″
One closest to the windshield lifted its left leg and stomped. Lifted and stomped.
″Oooo, scary.″
Another followed suit. Then another. Soon, they became a quartet. Then a chorus. The car started to rock and bounce.
Terry sank into his seat and covered his ears. The car moved like a plane flying through heavy turbulence. His stomach flopped. Dizziness hit his head.
Cracks spider-webbed across the windshield. Across the side windows. Across the back window.
No, Terry thought. This isn′t happening. All in my head. I drove off the road somewhere and crashed and I′m dreaming all this shit.
The thumping stopped. The car stopped bouncing and shaking. Everything went still.
Terry watched the one who started the song. The one staring at him with mirrored eyes even though no light shined in them.
