“Thank God,” Angela said. “When you combine this with the grizzly you guys saw, maybe it means things are headed back to normal.”
Angela watched the pretty butterfly and thought of those rock concert posters from the sixties and the LSD culture which inspired them. Then a horrible thought crept into her mind.
“What if this is all a hallucination?” she asked.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Colbrick asked. “Impossible. No hallucination would last this long. Why would Big J appear normal? Why isn’t the lodge trying to eat us?”
Angela continued to watch the butterfly, fascinated by its erratic but pleasant fluttering in the last mountain light. “You’re right. A shared hallucination is more far-fetched than these animals being real. I don’t think they’re from our planet, so they must have come or been brought here.”
“What about a rip in the fabric of space, like a wormhole?” Bishop asked.
Colbrick laughed. “Shit don’t work like that. No one came here from some zipper in reality. All those bad movies have poisoned your mind.”
“And you know this how?” Bishop asked.
Colbrick waved his sawed-off in the air and paced around the room. “Because this is just air, partner. You can’t pull a lever and hop along to other places. Sure would be a neat trick, but I ain’t buying it.”
“Many top scientists have theorized that exotic matter might be manipulated into doing that,” Bishop shot back.
“How many of those scientists have handled exotic matter?” Colbrick asked.
“None,” Bishop said.
“That’s right. All they’re doing is guessin’, no more than carp looking out of a pond at the shit above it.”
“OK, you’ve shot down everything like some dick on an internet message board, so please tell us what you think this is,” Bishop said.
“I don’t know a thing about it,” Colbrick said. “But if I had to guess, I’d say these bastards come from aliens who wanted to screw with us. Either that, or the aliens are trying to make this place feel all homey before they settle in. And what the hell were those flashin’ tags? Can you say ‘pets,’ anyone? Someone is tracking them.”
“That scenario makes sense. They could’ve been sent here in some type of vessel. There was a show on The Science Channel about how we are looking for planets like ours. Goldilocks planets with oxygen and water. We’re looking. Why couldn’t someone else be looking, too?” Angela said, still watching the butterfly.
“Then where are they? The people doing the tracking? All we’ve seen are animals. We drove into a road dam built by things that stun with sonic blasts,” Bishop said. “Call me crazy, but I don’t think those creatures could build a space ship.”
“I only remember pieces of that,” Angela said. “I was either sleeping or watching your eyes, and what I saw in them I did not like.”
Colbrick turned to them, his face shading red. Angela didn’t think it was directed at them, but rather mounted from his inability to comprehend the situation. They were all at a loss. There were no answers yet. All they could do was to sit, watch, and learn.
The last hint of light fought the growing darkness, and the butterfly disappeared.
Angela told it goodbye in her mind, holding onto the vision of fluttering, fanciful wings.
*
Ten p.m. on the Fourth of July usually held fireworks, celebrations, and the heavy scent of black powder. There were no children running with sparklers and no frogs calling from unseen pools in the woods. There were no dogs running for tennis balls or sticks.
But there was something.
It appeared high in the sky to the south—two objects glowing neon green. At first, Bishop thought they might be the lights of a low-flying plane, but there was no red navigation light nor engine noise. Behind the two glowing objects, a shadow randomly blocked the stars which glimmered with subtle intensity.
Wings, Bishop thought.
Up so very high the black wings beat, always led by the two neon green objects.
Eyes, Bishop thought.
Behind the first shadow, four more followed.
And then twelve more.
Bishop turned to Angela who was napping on the couch and then gestured to Colbrick who was sitting at the kitchen island, head slumped between his arms.
“Colbrick,” Bishop whispered. “Psssst.”
Colbrick grunted, licked his lips and walked over to the living room windows.
“Dear God,” he said.
Their mouths hung open in awe as the night sky filled with flapping, soaring creatures. The dark shapes cast a shifting, honeycombed blockage of stars, while green eyes surveyed the land below. Dozens of fliers swarmed the sky, the beating of their wings like rotten instruments of which only low, sour notes could be played.
As the unknown squadron approached, smaller sets of glowing, green eyes plummeted towards the meadow at astonishing speed. Down they came, hundreds of them, filling the horizon like reverse fireworks. Before the smaller fliers reached the ground, they swooped up in mad U-turns, and a freakish knocking emitted from the horde of them. Once reaching a certain height, the small fliers rocketed towards the lodge, aligning side by side in neat rows. Their green eyes illuminated the grass, casting a surreal glow upon the empty paddocks.
The sound of frantic, beating wings reverberated off the lodge windows, and the incessant knocking increased to intolerable levels.
Thack! Thack! Thack!
“What’s going on?” Angela asked, sitting up on the couch with bed head.
“Don’t come near the windows,” Bishop said, raising his shotgun. “Stay back.”
“Bishop, I want to see.”
“No!”
“Where have we heard that noise before?” Colbrick asked, aiming his sawed-off towards the glass.
“Guys, what’s happening?” Angela asked, her eyes wide, her hand gripping the back of the couch.
“Take cover,” Bishop said. “Take fucking cover NOW!”
Angela dove behind the couch.
The squadron of fliers thumped into the lodge, their colorful, lit eyes bouncing off the logs and onto the grass like demented fireflies. The second row of fliers which observed the first wave pulled up short, and their leathery wings lashed against the logs and windows. An ear- piercing knocking encircled the lodge, coming from every possible angle, like erratic surround sound.
Thack! Thack! Thack!
One of the fliers smashed into a narrow slot between plywood edges, getting trapped between wood and glass. Its distended midsection puffed against the window as its outstretched wings scraped and folded. The knocking sound wailed from the creature and rattled the glass.
Thack! Thack! Thack!
Colbrick went to shoot it.
“No!” Bishop shouted. “If we shoot the glass, these things will have an entrance. Do not shoot the glass!”
The fluttering, noisome creatures surrounded them. Thousands of intrusive eyes cast the lodge in an eerie, green glow.
Thack! Thack! Thack!
“What the hell is that noise?” Bishop asked.
“I can’t believe it,” Colbrick said. “It’s the nail gun.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen. Open your God damn ears and listen.”
At first, Bishop thought Colbrick had gone senile, but he was right. In each wailing flier, a short loop of the nail gun boarding the windows burst forth. Not an exact replica, but close enough. It was unmistakable.
Bishop peered out the window, only to see an endless stream of glowing eyes racing towards the lodge like artillery tracers. The inside of the lodge became a psychedelic light show, the luminance seeping through the skylights and the openings between plywood.
*
“Jesus, the skylights,” Angela said, looking up to see a half dozen of the fliers. They gawked at her as their bloated midsections pulsed and their leathery wings stretched and bundled.
“Keep quiet,
” Colbrick whispered. “Everyone keep quiet. They’re trying to find us.”
Angela froze, hoping the monsters in the skylight would fly away.
“Get out of their view,” Colbrick said. “Get on the ground. No movement, no sound.”
They lay on their backs and stared at the ceiling, weapons clutched across their chests, hearts pounding in their ears.
Thack! Thack! Thack!
“I guess the nail gun wasn’t such a good idea after all,” Bishop whispered as he flipped over and crawled to Angela.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “They can see me.”
Bishop froze.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. Just don’t crawl over here. They’re watching me through the skylight.”
Something big thumped on the roof.
The small fliers on the skylight scattered.
“Dear God,” Colbrick whispered.
“They left the skylight,” Angela whispered.
Another massive thump shook the roof, followed by another. Whooshing air buffeted the skylights, followed by scraping.
“Those might be the first ones we saw,” Bishop said, staring at the ceiling.
“What are you talking about?” Angela asked.
“Before the small fliers, there were bigger ones—much, much bigger,” Bishop said.
“Well folks, I guess if we’re gonna go, this is an exciting way.” Colbrick turned his head and spit onto the floor, then pressed the safety button on his sawed-off.
Bishop crawled over to Angela, snuggled up to her on his back and held her trembling hand.
“Could you ever imagine this in a million years?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Angela whispered, her teeth chattering.
Another thump shook the roof. The looped mimicry of the nail gun relentlessly mocked them.
Thack! Thack! Thack!
Wood and dust particles crumbled to the floor, some of it falling into Angela’s mouth, making her spit.
“I think they might be leaving—”
The skylight filled with an intense, green glow. Then Angela heard elephantine breathing, and the powerful beat of an alien heart thudding onto the aluminum roof. The glow focused into a concentrated ray, like someone twisting a flashlight, and the shaft of illumination searched the floor of the lodge in measured movements. The ray disappeared and reappeared, and Angela realized the pause was created by an unseen, blinking eyelid. She adjusted to the skylight glare and saw three huge, silver pupils in a sea of green gasses like spots on a planet. The pupils rotated, scanning her and then Bishop, the shaft of green scaling up their legs and over their chests, revealing floating dust particles. They remained still and held their breath.
The shaft moved onto the couch like a spotlight and onto the wall.
A hostile utterance erupted from immense, unseen lungs, and the green shaft disappeared.
The looped mimicry of the nail gun ceased, and the thing on the roof grunted once more. Uncountable wings fluttered and slapped, and then fell silent. Whooshing air buffeted the roof, followed by scraping and the trickling of fluid. The stout ceiling logs creaked and groaned as the things pushed off, the rhythmic beating of wings blasting the aluminum like wind from the mountains.
Bishop, Colbrick, and Angela ran to the living room windows. They looked out with a strange combination of horror and wonder as massive, flying beasts as long as city busses thundered away from Big J, their scaled backs serving as holding platforms for the smaller fliers which sat backward, their green eyes glaring at the lodge as they swayed like a brood of penguins. The big fliers lacked tails, their back ends tapering like a sea turtle. Chunks of stool and mists of urine leaked down from them.
Soon, the big fliers reached a dizzying altitude, and the glowing eyes of the passenger fliers clicked off as if someone flipped a switch. Darkness swallowed the backs of the flying beasts, and the great wings once again blocked the stars. Gloomy eyes searched the landscape as long necks craned and adjusted.
“Good pick on the nail gun,” Colbrick said.
“Hey, you agreed to it,” Bishop said.
“Who cares who did what?” Angela asked. “All I care about is what just happened. We didn’t die.” Her strength was improving. “And you know what? We didn’t die because we had shelter. Can you imagine what would’ve happened if we were outside?”
“Never would’ve had a chance,” Bishop said.
“You still want to play Johnny Hiker?” Colbrick asked.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” Angela said. “We need to do both.”
Thump.
“Dear God, another one,” Colbrick said.
Thump Thump.
Bishop aimed his shotgun at the roof, but something wasn’t right. The thumping wasn’t coming from that direction.
Thump.
“You hear that?” Bishop asked Angela.
“Yes,” Angela said, looking at the ground. “I think it’s coming from below the living room rug.”
Colbrick approached the rug and the thumping stopped. He lifted a corner and then pulled it, coffee table and all. As the rug swept over the floor, a rectangular trap door appeared. A metal handle was folded flush within the surface of the door.
“I knew it,” Colbrick said. “They bragged about it in town.” He went to reach for the handle.
“Wait,” Bishop said. “We don’t know what’s down there, and you just want to open the door like we’re walking into an ice cream shop?”
“That’s what Justine is for,” Colbrick said, holding up his sawed-off.
Colbrick pulled the trap door open, revealing clinical light and wooden steps.
“Shhh…” Colbrick said, putting a finger to pursed lips. “Something’s down there.”
*
Bishop listened, and his ears caught faint movement, maybe dragging. His mouth dried and he swallowed. The dragging sound stopped, and then he heard flesh tearing and popping and a smattering of leaking fluid. The scent of loose earth rose from the entrance.
Something clacked and buzzed down below, mixing with the mealy sound of teeth working on flesh.
Angela turned to Bishop with nervous ungulate eyes, her Colt Python shaking as she pointed it towards the bunker entrance.
“Sons a bitches!” Colbrick shouted, running down the steps into the light.
“Colbrick, no!” Angela shouted.
It was too late.
The clacking morphed into a menacing growl, followed by scuffling and shouting.
Like a warning from the pits of hell, deafening shotgun blasts ripped through the room. Muzzle flashes danced on the lodge ceiling, the scent of gunpowder rising to greet them in choking wisps.
Something slumped to the floor below.
A man coughed.
“It’s alright. Come on down,” Colbrick said. “But Angela, you may not want to.”
Bishop crept down the wooden steps. Clinical light revealed a concrete bunker twenty by twenty feet. Along the walls lay cots, heavy duty shelving stacked with canned goods, bags of clothing, and several first-aid kits. In the southeast corner, a gaping hole, three feet wide. Next to the hole lay a puzzling figure with smooth, reddish skin and segmented rings spaced every eight inches down its length. Colbrick stood at its side and kicked it over with his boot. As he did, dozens of reaching, wispy legs folded across the thing’s torso—a postmortem reflexive muscular spasm. Before the underbelly had been covered by the folding arms, Bishop observed some kind of armor plating tinted with red.
The head was a different story.
Two black eyes (each with three silver pupils) the size of golf balls were half-covered by protective membranes similar to chain mail shark-proof dive suits. The odd, wide mouth also contained this veil of protection. Two shovel-like appendages that hinted at horse hooves stuck out between the mouth and eyes. The sturdy hooves bore marks from frequent burrowing, yet retained a dangerous sharpness. At the top of the head was a circular patch the size of a
plate, and every few seconds, the plate changed color from purple to brown and then to crimson. Bishop thought it might be some sort of skin regeneration system—a must for anything spending all that time burrowing deep into the earth.
Bishop walked over to the hole. He reached for one of the flashlights on the industrial shelf and Colbrick stopped him.
“Uh-uh, partner,” Colbrick whispered. “We don’t know where that goes. For all we know, there could be more of them bastards waiting just a few yards in. You shine a light down there, they see it and we’re beetle juice.”
“Then we need to close it,” Bishop said.
“You guys alright down there?” Angela asked, her voice shaky.
“Yes. Do us a favor and keep watch OK?”
“Gotcha,” Angela said.
“Before we came down here…did you hear flesh ripping?” Colbrick asked, checking the bunker.
“Hell yes I did.”
“Yup, so did I. But I don’t see no other body here, just this bastard.”
Colbrick booted the thing again, and they noticed a small wound on its lower back, where the hind of the creature was protected with an overhanging shell like a beetle.
Green ooze dripped from the gash.
“Was this thing eating itself?” Bishop asked.
“Got me,” Colbrick said. “Who knows what these freaks do in their spare time. Maybe old Ringo Starr here got hungry.”
Bishop reached for a mattress to lean against the hole, and their world went black.
“There she goes,” Colbrick said.
It was nice while it lasted, Bishop thought.
“Guys, I think the generator went out,” Angela said.
Colbrick grunted and spit.
“Angela, go in the packs and you’ll find headlamps,” Bishop shouted.
“I’ll try. I can’t even see my hand in front of my face.”
Bishop reached for the flashlight again and grasped the cold, steel handle. His searching fingers found the rubbery button and pressed it, releasing a slicing beam of light that quartered the bunker.
“Let’s get that hole sealed up,” Colbrick said.
The Invasive Page 8
