The familiar CBS radio tune chimed, signaling the top of the hour.
"Updating our top stories…," the anchorman reported.
Rich listened but kept his eyes focused ahead. The deep darkness surrounding the road created the illusion of driving through a tunnel.
"…Reports of mass disappearances are continually flowing in to our newsroom. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology and the University of Miami’s Marine Biology building have all been confirmed as sites of large-scale disappearances. As with all of the previous accounts, no witnesses and only piles of clothing left behind.
"There have been reports of additional disappearances in Brooklyn, Iowa City, and Seattle’s famous Space Needle. We are working on confirmation of these stories but our resources are stretched thin."
Richard found the not-so-well-hidden quiver in the newscaster’s voice hypnotizing. He pitied the man as he struggled to report the news—the insanity—with some measure of professional stoicism.
"In addition, the Department of Homeland Security has admitted that various law enforcement agencies are investigating nearly 1,000 accounts of sightings or attacks by unidentifiable animals. This presumably includes the incident in New Mexico where a State Trooper’s dashboard video camera captured footage of the trooper and a car he had pulled over being attacked. Well, um, in actuality, the video shows both the trooper and the entire car full of passengers swallowed whole by a large worm creature."
The newscaster paused for no more than three seconds but on radio three seconds of dead air seemed an eternity.
"I apologize…ladies and gentlemen…but these are not the types of stories we in the news business are accustomed to reporting. Sitting in this studio…it all seems unreal. It is now nearly impossible for our staff to distinguish between prank or hoax stories and the truth because both sound equally absurd."
A thud jarred across the airwaves followed by concerned voices off-microphone and the newscaster protesting "I’m okay…I’m okay."
After some distant cross talk, a female voice gained control of the broadcast.
Dick drove along carefully; he knew he neared his driveway. It would be good to get off the road and out of that tunnel of darkness.
"Now to our next guest, Dr. Richard Ashford, former assistant Science Advisor to two different Presidents. Dr. Ashford, what can you tell us about these events?"
Dr. Ashford—an older voice that sounded a tad tipsy to Richard’s ear—spoke brash and loud.
"It would be comforting if I could tell you that this is all caused by sun spots or the aurora borealis. It would be reassuring if I could blame this on some new terrorist weapon. Then we could fight it; maybe understand it. Even if that Reverend—the one on last hour who wanted everyone to join hands and pray—if he could tell us with certainty that this was God’s judgment then at least we would know. But I don’t know. You don’t know. None of us know."
"That’s not very helpful, doctor."
Richard swung the Malibu off the main road. A shape flashed in the corner of his eye as something bolted from the forest into the driveway. Before he could react—before he even understood that he should react--the car shuddered as the shape slammed the right side of the car. The collision threw Rich’s foot off the accelerator. The passenger’s side window cracked into a spider web.
"That’s because this situation has no historical precedent…"
The car stopped. Rich’s head bounced as if he were a bobble-head doll but the seat belt held his body in place. His mind groggily comprehended that something had hit him…but what?
When he saw what hovered outside the cracked passenger's window, he shivered violently.
Two big round beastly eyes as colorless as granite.
A dearth of oxygen foiled Rich’s attempt to scream.
"...we are facing something that is disrupting what we know about our existence…"
The lack of light frustrated his mind’s feeble attempt to discern the body of the thing. Rat-like, maybe, but nearly the size of the Malibu. Fur? A short snout? Whiskers? All guesses fueled more by imagination than vision. Nevertheless, one inescapable conclusion broke through the confusion: the animal on the far side of the cracked window did not belong to Rich’s reality. It was something different.
The thing nearly as big as his vehicle and not of his world staggered as though it were a quarterback after a blind-side sack. Rich absently reached another conclusion: the collision had not been intentional. The rat-like creature had been running from something.
That other something was coming.
"…reality itself is being called into question…"
The rat-thing squealed…maybe hissed. Rich swallowed air in big thirsty gulps.
A second dark silhouette descended upon the scene.
The first—the rat-like thing—tried to adjust its flight around the car.
Too late.
The darkness kept the second entity as well hidden as the first. Rich could see only a little of its shape. Mercifully little. He saw—he thought he saw--a shambling mass of tendrils…or worms…or something like that: a hundred sickening, squirming appendages.
Those appendages grabbed the rat-thing. It squealed again.
Despite the darkness, despite his hysteria, Rich saw those tendrils puncture the victim’s hide and drag away the rat-thing’s writhing body which disappeared into the larger monstrosity.
"…our science arrogantly claims to know so much but we are being taught a terrifying lesson…"
The squeals faded into a garbled, mumbled groan as if drowning in the predator's feelers.
"…and now we are faced with an issue of survival not only as nations and governments, but as a species…"
Somehow, his foot found the gas pedal and pushed. The sedan kicked dirt and gravel and sticks as it tore off along the drive. Rich did not take his foot off the accelerator until he arrived at the front stairs.
"…whatever this new world will be, apparently all of mankind’s power and strength is insignificant…"
He leapt from the car.
No mindful consideration; only the instinct for flight. Richard’s sanity went on temporary leave and his inborn survival mechanism carried him onto the porch and into his home.
The dogs came running again, this time doing something his Elkhounds rarely did; they barked fiercely. Not at him, but at what they knew lurked outside.
Richard Stone bolted up the front stairwell and to the second floor. His dad walked from the master bedroom tying a robe over boxer shorts as he moved.
"Rich?"
The son ignored his father and opened the door to the second floor storage room, a holding pen for various boxes, old furniture, and assorted odds and ends. Richard’s mind—his crazed, confused, and terrified mind—managed to send one reminder: his father’s old shotgun and hunting rifle waited in a cabinet in that storage room.
"Honey? What is it?" His mother called from the bedroom.
Dick had already opened the old metal cabinet when his father’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder. George Stone saw his son’s objective.
"Richard!" He shouted but Dick grabbed the shotgun that his dad had used long ago to hunt wild turkey.
Before he could do anything with the weapon, George’s other hand snagged the barrel and pulled it easily from his son’s clutches.
Mom turned on the ceiling light and gasped.
Richard backed away from his father and fell on his ass to the floor of the room. He curled into a ball and threw his hands over his eyes.
"Jesus Christ, son, what the hell are you doing?"
Tears ran along his cheeks. He provided no explanation; only heaves.
George, carrying the gun by the barrel, left his son’s side for the top of the stairs. He stood still and listened. The dogs stopped barking.
Tyr trotted upstairs and went straight into the storage room where he licked Rich’s hands.
"Yes…" Rich sucked in air as well as dust from the neglec
ted room as he spoke to the dog. "Yes, yes, I’m okay…I think."
"George, I’m frightened," Kelly told her husband when he re-entered the room.
Rich uncovered his eyes in reaction to the dog's attention. He said, "You should go back down with Odin and keep a watch out."
Tyr trotted away.
George returned the shotgun to the cabinet and then knelt in front of his boy who still sat on the floor between a milk crate of books and an old office chair wrapped in a garbage bag.
"What…happened?"
Kelly said, "We heard a noise. A crash. Did you have an accident?"
"Something ran into my car."
George prompted. "A deer?"
"No…no deer. Something, Dad, oh God," Rich trembled so violently it sapped his voice.
"Easy…easy…" George rested a reassuring hand on his kid’s shoulder.
It was physically impossible for Richard to speak, so his father did.
"Whatever it was, it sure put a scare in you. Hell, son, you’ve never held a gun before, let alone fired one. You’d probably shoot your foot off."
Dad drew a dumb-ass sarcastic smirk on his face. Rich allowed his gasps for breath to turn into a chuckle, then a laugh. He leaned forward, threw an arm around his father, and squeezed. Mom joined them and they all sat together on the floor in one big group hug.
---
Mr. Munroe blew nasty-smelling cigar smoke into the air as he surveyed the damage to the Malibu.
Rich’s hope that he might catch a break over the smashed car faded. He should have known that even the news reports could not save him from his manager’s wrath. Those news reports had tallied an estimate of the disappearances in the United States: somewhere between eighty-five and one hundred thousand people, all gone without a trace.
Other reports—ranging from strange flying creatures downing a traffic chopper in Charlotte to the fact that no one had heard from Taiwan in twelve hours—added to the sense of approaching doom.
Richard’s parents had urged him to skip work not only because of world events but also because he had barely slept last night.
However, he had a strong sense of responsibility for the damaged demo car, mixed with a healthy dose of denial. Besides, after two encounters in two days on his family’s property he did not feel safer at home.
In any case, Stone followed Mr. Munroe as the latter paced along the passenger side of the sedan parked in the service lot behind the main Chevy showroom. A handful of lonely, puffy white clouds drifted overhead. The calm beauty of the late-June morning sky contrasted sharply with the storm of fear brewing below.
Mr. Munroe removed his cigar, exhaled, and re-stated what Dick had already told him.
"So something ran into you, eh? A deer?"
"Yes, something like that. It was dark. You can see there’s fur stuck in the door."
Mr. Munroe stooped to inspect the badly bent side panel.
"Yep. Some kind of fur… strange, though…more like needles…"
"I really feel bad but you can see it wasn’t my fault."
Rich’s boss stood straight and jammed his cigar into the corner of his mouth. He spoke in the tone of a Drill Sergeant.
"Not your fault? For Christ’s sake, son, you need to face the music. This was your demo car."
Richard closed his eyes and pinched his nose with his fingertips. He felt a head ache blooming.
"I realize that, Mr. Munroe."
"Just ‘cause some dumb animal ran into your broad side don’t mean you’re not responsible."
"Holy Shit!"
The shout came from Bobby Weston inside the showroom. More specifically, the cry originated from the customer waiting area where Bobby watched television.
With his cigar firmly wedged in his gums, Mr. Munroe marched inside toward the customer lounge. Stone followed in less determined strides.
Bobby Weston backed out of the lounge. His perfectly groomed hair, perfectly manicured nails, and perfectly ironed dress shirt could not hide the expression of perfect horror draped over his face as he staggered out of the lounge with his eyes still locked on the television therein.
"I am so fucking outta here…" Bobby Weston passed his Chevrolet brethren en route to his demo Impala parked out front in the "Salesman of the Month" slot.
While Mr. Munroe debated chasing after his protégé, Richard entered the lounge to find out why the television had spooked Bobby.
"…smoke is rising from downtown and there are reports of explosions at the air port…"
The video feed came from a camera mounted on the roof of the local NBC affiliate in downtown Wilkes-Barre. It showed smoke amidst the buildings--some tall and some short--at the center of town.
An anchorman—a frantic newscaster who realized the camera showed the scene outside of his building—tried to keep his voice cool while relaying what they knew, or suspected, or guessed.
"We have been unable to get any comments from local law enforcement but our news department is monitoring emergency services radio. We can tell you there is a state of confusion and panic—wait a second…there…"
Something flew in front of the rooftop camera. Something big with wings like a bat, but definitely not a bat.
"There is another of the—of the things that have been flying…okay, no, now we’re getting a report that there is a mob of—what is that? Could you repeat that?"
A ball of fire and smoke rose from somewhere downtown, shaking the rooftop camera. A moment later Richard heard the explosion, not from the television, but through the open showroom door. He stood less than two miles from center city.
"We’re switching to a camera man in the lobby of this building…wait one moment…"
The picture switched from the roof top video feed to the studio. The anchorman, unaware of the change, sat with his head buried in his arms atop the news desk like a tired child. One finger pushed hard against his earpiece as if better hearing might clear away the madness.
"…okay…here we go…"
Again, the picture changed. This time the television framed shaky video from a hand held camera in the lobby of the station. That lobby featured large floor-to-ceiling glass windows affording a view of what Rich knew to be Franklin Street, a primary downtown thoroughfare lined with parked cars and shade trees. An upscale gentleman’s business club situated in a grand old stone building dominated the stretch of city block across from the station.
On that block, a handful of pedestrians stood and gawked; several others ran off camera, discarding briefcases and screaming as they fled the mob that stormed up Franklin Street.
Not a mob of people.
Ghastly white beasts bound along on four limbs not unlike the gait of a primate. Yet these were no Earthly creatures: generally humanoid with protruding ribs and skullish faces, they lumbered forward en masse. Some sort of ravenous ghouls…
Dozens of them.
That fast-moving horde attacked the remaining pedestrians with claws and bites. Then the mob noticed the television station and charged those big windows. The windows smashed. The hand held camera plummeted to the floor. The newscaster’s quivering voice broadcast while the video presented a blurry, tight shot of the lobby carpet.
"Okay…oh dear…we…security?…We are probably going to have to go off the air…I can hear them in the hallway…security!…I have to go…OH CHRIST…"
No more voices. Screams. Crunches.
"Mister…Mister Munroe…"
Sirens blared outside the auto mall.
"I have to go."
Richard walked out of the lounge and into the main Chevrolet showroom. His pace served notice he had no intention of stopping. Mr. Munroe half-heartily pursued.
A summer breeze carrying traces of distant, burning smoke blew in through the dealership’s propped-open front door. Bobby Weston, visible through the showroom glass, fumbled with keys next to his Impala.
"Now wait one second mister," the manager tried to regain control over his employee.
> They both saw what happened to Bobby.
A massive…a massive thing…maybe a ‘leg’ or ‘foot’ but neither seemed the best description…big and round like a California Redwood tree, it could have belonged to an elephant. A really, really big elephant.
The mass stomped down on Bobby and his car, obliterating the man into a red splatter and crushing the vehicle. The impact tremor splintered the plate glass windows. Car alarms blared to life.
Three additional mammoth limbs plodded across the parking lot, all part of some gargantuan creature trespassing on Edgar Chevrolet property.
Synapses in the brains of Mr. Munroe and Richard Trevor Stone fired at a rapid pace.
For Richard, the flight instinct seized command. His legs carried him toward the service parking area and his damaged demo car behind the building. He did not think, his legs remembered the way all on their own.
As Dick ran, he heard Mr. Munroe’s rather interesting reaction. The poor man’s synapses cross-wired and failed him when it counted.
The Sales Manager yelled in an authoritative voice, "Bobby Weston what the hell are you doing?"
Mr. Munroe’s last words joined other noises in Rich’s ears: the sounds of smashing wood and crumbling dry wall and shattering glass, the mix of chirps and horns from a chorus of car alarms.
Stone reached the Malibu, started the ignition on the first try, and drove to the main exit. He did not look back. He did not want to see the rest of the thing that had turned Bobby Weston into a stain. He did not want to watch the thing rip apart the Chevrolet showroom.
No, the beast’s deep, inhuman roars tested his sanity enough as it bellowed above all the other sounds of destruction.
---
Richard completed his escape but his pace slowed to a crawl as a sea of traffic clogged the roads.
Part of the gridlock came from drivers paralyzed by the chaos. They stopped and blocked intersections and side streets, sitting behind their steering wheels with eyes wide open in terrified wonder.
Accidents bore the blame for even more of the stoppage. Fleeing cars crashed together splintering radiators, bending tire rods, and crumpling hoods. Some accident survivors fled on foot; others stayed slumped in their seat unconscious or dazed into inaction.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration Page 4
