by Caleb Casey
The Winged Things
A Short Story
by Caleb Casey
This is a work of fiction.
Copyright Caleb Casey, 2012
Cover designed and created by the author using a variety of programs.
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The Winged Things
I don’t where the winged things came from, but there seems to be a lot of them. They’re tapping at the windows, occasionally peering inside with their black eyes, scratching at the doors, scraping against the walls, walking across the roof with their clawed feet.
We’re holed up in a dead guy’s house. It’s dark except for the old man’s kerosene lantern; I like the smell of the burning oil. There’s no power and nothing mechanical seems to work anymore. Wristwatches have stopped, cars won’t start, TVs are quiet, every light bulb is dark, phones are useless. The others are bickering and panicking, trying to cope with an impossible situation with false logic and empty assurances. I refuse to join the hysteria.
The only other quiet one is Desmond, who won’t stop staring at me. He’s creepy and ugly and fat and I’d like to gouge out his eyes.
Part of it’s my own fault I guess for being dressed like this – pink sweat pants, sandals, tank top, no bra – but it feels like it’s 120 degrees even though it has to be past midnight and it’s never this hot in this part of the country, even during the apex of summer. I feel like I’m glistening.
“Those things are going to get in here eventually!” someone yells.
How did we end up in such a mess? I don’t know that either. I was trying to sleep, wearing nothing but the tank top and underwear, watching a bad monster movie – Jurassic Croc vs. Land Octopus, or something like that – on the cable station that specializes in those sorts of flicks. It was dreadfully hot, even then, but it would get hotter as the night went on.
Suddenly the TV died. The bulb in the lamp next to my bed went out. I noticed that the digital alarm clock next to lamp was no longer displaying its red digits. It was dark. I thought the power had gone out, no huge thing, but it turned out to be far worse than that. I had a scented jar candle on top of the TV, a lighter next to it. The lighter was stubborn, but I got the candle lit, and soon the bedroom was filled with the pleasant aroma of cinnamon and just enough illumination to see. I hoped the power would come back on soon; I had to work in the morning – boring job as a receptionist for a small law firm – and would need a shower after bathing in sweat all night. (Okay, I admit it. I wanted to see the end of the movie; the promised showdown between a giant crocodile and an octopus that can survive on land – both the result of crazy genetic scientists and their typical B-movie shenanigans – wasn’t far away and I wanted to see how it turned out.)
I’m not sure how long it took the commotion to start up outside after the power went out. I think I was almost asleep, on the precipice of it. Maybe I’d even nodded off for a moment. I couldn’t tell. I could hear people talking outside in the street. I grabbed the pink sweat pants – I’d taken them off earlier when it started to get ridiculously hot – and put them back on. Sandals. I left the bedroom and went out the front door…
Desmond won’t stop looking at me. His expression makes me think of creeps in trench coats who frequent XXX movie theatres.
I go into the kitchen, feeling my way past the furniture in the dim light, and see what the late Martin Howard has in his refrigerator. It’s still cool inside, and the touch of chilly air feels great on my face and chest; I allow myself to bask in it for a moment. What I would really like is an ice-cold Coke, but the only beverages available seem to be of the alcoholic variety. I grab a Corona.
Back in the living room, they’re still carrying on. Desmond’s eyes are on me and I can practically hear his bad thoughts.
“Hey honey, how about you bring me one of those?” he says. Ugly face, worse manners.
“Desmond, you’re a toad. Stop staring at me or I’ll break this bottle over your head.” I take a sip of cold beer.
Mrs. Prendergast, evidently overhearing our stimulating conversation, sees the beer in my hand and gasps, an exaggerated look of shock on her face. Her eyeglasses are large, round, and thick. She has the pointy face of a turtle.
“You’re drinking Marty’s beer?” She does her best to sound mortified. Seems a little forced.
“He doesn’t need it anymore.” It’s a response that only a jerk would use, I guess, but Mrs. Prendergast has been getting on my nerves ever since we came into this house.
What happened to Mr. Howard wasn’t pretty.
The winged things tore him apart.
People were gathered outside, looking up at the sky, talking, obviously scared. The black clouds above us were tinged with crimson; the sky looked like the inside of an active volcano. Someone – the guy who lived next door to me, Mason, a bald guy, mailman, I think – was trying to start his Jeep, no luck. He opened the hood and started tinkering around. The others in the street had nothing interesting to say, foolishness about the power coming back on soon and “everything’s going to be fine if we just stay calm.”
That’s when the winged things came…
They appeared on roofs and in between houses; they crawled from behind bushes and trees. We heard the flapping of huge leathery wings, like an invasion of man-sized bats. The “just stay calm” plan got chucked right into the trash when the first winged thing shrieked. It was loud. Others joined in. The things seemed to be surrounding us, inching closer, some crawling on all fours like wolves, teeth bared. People started babbling in a mad panic. I looked back and saw one of the winged things near my front door.
Lovely apocalypse we’re having, I thought.
Mayhem took over.
“This way!” I heard someone yell. They were clumsily spilling towards Mr. Howard’s house across the street. The way looked clear. I bolted after them.
Not all of us made it. The mailman continued to tinker with his Jeep, thinking he was close to a breakthrough. Wrong. Nothing worked anymore! Why couldn’t he comprehend that? Two reached him at once. I heard his screams. Mr. Howard, near his front door, was waving people into his home. I tried to warn him but it was too late. The winged thing reached down from the roof and pulled him up with two clawed hands. Two others joined in, moving to the edge of the roof, turning poor Mr. Howard into the rope in a three-way tug-of-war. I saw him start to split apart right before I plunged through his front door. I was the last one. Someone slammed the door shut behind me. They’ve been bickering and whining ever since.
“It’s a shame you can’t show a little respect for the departed,” Mrs. Prendergast said. “You’ll go to the bad place for that.”
“The bad place? You mean hell? Seems like hell has already come to us, doesn’t it? You’re sweating.” I wipe my own forehead lightly with one finger. It’s moist. Mrs. Prendergast’s gray-flecked black hair is matted to her head, soaked through with perspiration.
Mrs. Prendergast, as she seems to do every ten seconds, clutches at the oversized silver crucifix hanging at her neck. She’s mumbling either a prayer to God or a curse against me, perhaps both. The winged things are still clawing at the doors and tapping at the windows, offering an occasional shriek that overshadows the bickering that’s going on between some of the humans I’m trapped in here with. The winged things seem to be biding their time, enjoying the torment that they’re inflicting. I
’m sure they could bust in here if they wanted to.
“What are these things?” someone asks. “And where is everyone else?”
“Maybe everyone else turned into these things,” says the old man with the lantern.
They argue, stacking useless speculation upon hollow logic, expecting it to amount to something. I sit down in one of Mr. Howard’s recliners and drink the Corona.
I finish the last sip of beer and wonder if I should have another. I would still prefer a Coke. My internal struggle is interrupted by a statement from someone near the front door.
“There’s somebody outside!” It’s a man’s voice. Mr. McCarthy, a small, bearded guy who works at the grocery store.
I stand up. A few of the others go to the door to peer out the small window at the top; a few of them are too scared to do the same. I push my way through.
A debate flares up. “Let him in!” “No, don’t open the door! Those things will get in!” “What if it were you out there?” Nothing useful.
I can see a young man outside; he’s swinging something – it almost looks like a lance – at one of the winged things. He’s cursing and fighting furiously. He dodges an attack and spears the thing in the neck, piercing it. The thing’s wings shudder violently and it goes limp. He pulls his spear free, triumphant, yelling a battle cry full
