Strange Omens

by Jim Stein

  The township planning office gave us the key code and permission to conduct an out of cycle raid on the waterfront. New Philly occasional needed specialized vehicles and maintained this monstrous cargo ship so they had access to more than just the cars and pickups pulled from storage containers. The mayor saw the band’s tour as an opportunity to promote our little community and possibly open some lucrative trading. His support meant we could look at the “good stuff” the town kept in a controlled environment instead of sifting through rust buckets out in the holding yard.

  “Nothing important. I’ll tell you later.” I pointed past Quinn to Billy, who waved us on. “Let’s go.”

  Behind the curtain was an inner roller door big enough for vehicles. We entered through an oval doorway off to the side. Banks of lighting flickered to life overhead, illuminating one section after another of the cavernous cargo deck with the click of distant relays. Smells of dust, oil, and rubber drifted on air notably dryer than outside.

  “Color me yellow,” Billy said with a grin.

  A veritable sea of yellow equipment spread out before us. Industrial construction rigs stood in neat rows to either side of a central roadway outlined in reflective tape. Straps anchored each piece to tie down points in the gray non-skid flooring. An excavator and road scraper sat askew with dirt clinging to their wheels, evidence they had been recently pressed into service.

  “Nothing here for us, let’s move on.” Quinn brushed past, making me wonder if I’d said something to offend her.

  There were several levels and separate areas to the giant cargo hold. We easily walked a couple of miles, crisscrossing the ship and plodding up and down ramps. It was anyone’s guess as to what deck we were on when we found a bay full of buses. We all whooped and hollered as the lights blinked on, but our elation was short lived.

  “City transit.” Billy huffed out a breath and jogged down the row of vehicles. “Double decker tour buses…propane powered airport shuttles…school buses? Aw, give me a break!”

  The last vehicles formed a cheery yellow line of school busses sorted by length and placidly waiting for a generation of children that would never come. Unless we missed a ramp, this room was our last hope. We fanned out, searching for a better option.

  “These suck. Nobody wants to ride thousands of miles in a city bus. You’d all be in traction before the end of the tour.” Pete knelt to look under the nearest one. “I could probably retrofit a better suspension, but those seats just won’t cut it. I think you’ll be better off with a convoy of cars.”

  “No we won’t!” Quinn panted as she rushed over, grabbed Pete by the arm, and hauled him toward the back wall. “Tell me what you think of these.”

  She pulled back a heavy blackout curtain. Rather than hanging against the outer wall, it blocked off another bay. The area beyond was stacked with sleek shiny vehicles. They ranged from short with simple graphics to outrageously long and decorative.

  “Well, that’ll work.” Pete whistled into the stunned silence.

  “Motorhomes!” Billy yanked open the door of the first rig and swung up into the driver’s seat.

  Some of the RVs were nicer than my house, and a few were damned near as big. After an hour of poking around, Billy and Quinn settled on what I would call a high-end, mid-sized unit. The front looked like an eighteen-wheeler, but the floorplan boasted couches, a full kitchen, and a frickin’ fireplace! Rear and side slide outs increased floor space by about thirty percent when parked, and there was sufficient convertible bedding to accommodate the band and even a small private bedroom for Quinn.

  Pete recommended a diesel engine for the power, basement storage compartments, and towing capacity. Even with the nation’s spotty infrastructure, long haul trucking and farms in the grain belt demanded diesel, making it the fuel of choice for heading cross-country.

  I didn’t get a say in their selection, wasn’t going with them, and had no useful mechanical abilities. It left me feeling useless and slipping into a familiar moroseness as I imagined a summer without Quinn.

  Billy jotted down the rig’s location and snapped some pics. The township would haul out what we needed and have New Philly’s tiny public works department get it running.

  “Gonna need new tires and hoses at a minimum,” Pete said as we stepped back onto the pier and Billy locked up.

  Dusk had chased away all the seagulls except for one big bloke perched on a corroded streetlight. He was happy to take up the wailing alert, even though none of his friends were around to hear. The seabird’s cry faded behind as we walked to our cars. I still had the Toyota RAV4, its powder-blue paint looking dark in the muted light. Quinn angled toward Billy’s red crossover.

  “Aren’t you riding with us?” I asked.

  After last fall’s excitement, Quinn moved in to my place. Don’t get any ideas; it’s a big house, and my sister lives there too. Quinn’s room is an offshoot over the garage with its own entrance.

  “I want to discuss the motor coach with the guys. We only have three weeks to work out what to take and sleeping arrangements.”

  My ought-to-be girlfriend gave me an apologetic smile and hopped into the car before I could think of a response. I sagged against my driver’s door as they pulled away. The gull still called mournfully, and the ring sat heavy in my pocket. I started to get the feeling it would be there permanently.

  The buzz of knobby tires on concrete brought my head up. A truck roared toward us across the open lot at the foot of the pier. This wasn’t a slick designer pickup like Pete’s. The old beater trailed smoke and dust, more rust than olive-green paint. I couldn’t tell if the dust plume blew up from the road surface or off the chassis of the encrusted vehicle.

  “Melissa?” Pete squinted into the gloom.

  She came in too fast. I scurried around the hood to put a bit of metal between myself and the careening pickup. The truck skidded to a stop twenty feet short. Pete was made of sterner stuff, or was simply used to his sister’s heavy-footed driving. He stood his ground, smiling into the billowing dust as two people hopped out. Melissa was an Easton through and through, though slightly taller and so much more feminine than Pete. Her face was not as square, her jaw not as angular, and those generous curves had given me a few restless nights. She wore her sandy blond hair longer this year, well past her shoulders.

  “You’re supposed to meet me at Ed’s place,” Pete said. “What gives?”

  “Couldn’t wait. You need to see this.” Melissa spoke over her shoulder as she loosened the ropes holding down the bed cover. “Guys, this is Brent Clark.”

  Brent extended a big freckled hand, and I shook it. He was buff, with curly, red hair—Irish red rather than my sister’s darker shade. He was in his twenties and about my height, but thick and muscular. If he wore an ascot and sport coat instead of the blue plaid shirt, his look would scream Biff. But I liked him instantly. His face was open and friendly, despite a strained smile. Something had him nervous as a turkey in November.

  “So, what is this thing?”

  Melissa whipped off the cover to reveal a large mesh trap, the kind where bait sits on a scale in the center. Your pesky varmint steps up, and a plate drops over the opening. The trap was large enough for an adult raccoon, but what stood inside was no coon.

  For one thing, it crouched on its hind legs and clutched a tiny stone knife in its left hand—or rather claw. Its gray-green skin was smooth, like the thing was made of plastic stretched over well-defined muscle, though the proportions of those seemed off—with odd bulges at elbow, knee, and along its back. It hunched in the cage, holding the weapon and what looked like a handful of marshmallows. If it could stand fully upright, I think it would have been about twenty inches tall not counting the whip of barbed tail. Beady, black eyes regarded us from a narrow face topped with long pointy ears. He didn’t have a scrap of clothing or hair, so there was no question it was male.

  “Oh geez.” Brent looked like he might be sick.

  “I have…no i
dea.” And I’d encountered more than my share of strange creatures. “Who else knows about this?”

  “Just me and Brent.” She waved a dismissive hand to where the redhead studied the ship rather than face whatever they’d caught. “The tractor and lights kept giving us problems out by the new soybean field. The boys found chewed wiring, so I set a couple of traps. This guy showed up just after sunset.”

  “Why does he have marshmallows?” Brent wailed, apparently drawn back in by the use of his name.

  “Raccoons love sweets,” Pete said. “Best bait there is.”

  It was good no one else had seen the creature. Our community remained blissfully unaware of last year’s supernatural events. Melissa and her brother had been knee-deep in the fun, as had my sister and Quinn, but very few others even suspected there were things beyond their understanding running amuck. The recent peace and quiet was an illusion lulling us—lulling me—into complacency. Could the attack by the river and appearance of this odd little creature mean the dark forces had found me? I peered closer as the light faded. It didn’t snarl or attack, but its quiet gaze grew unnerving. The thing didn’t exactly look evil, but it certainly wasn’t a fluffy bunny either.

  “We need Pina,” I declared, then remembered. “But she’s been gone all week. Do you want to stash this at my place until she shows up?”

  Our friendly forest-turned-house sprite would certainly know what we were dealing with, or she would know how to find out. The thing in the cage regarded me with beady eyes and a tilt of the head that made me wonder if he understood us. He lowered the knife and took a slow, deliberate bite of marshmallow.

  “You gonna be okay?” Pete asked Brent.

  “S—s—sure,” Brent stammered. “I—”

  “Aw, he’s fine.” Melissa huffed. “We already had the discussion about keeping this quiet for a while. Lead the way, Ed. We’ll follow you home.”

  ***

  Max met us at the kitchen door and went insane. The big guy just had to get his nose on that cage. Melissa entered last, carrying the trap draped with a towel. I grabbed Max’s collar, but he dragged me across the entryway. Melissa turned away to keep our critter out of reach. I know he didn’t mean to, but my dog bowled her over trying to get a good whiff. The trap clattered to the tile floor, and a green blur shot from under the towel. Dog nails clattered on tile as Max slewed around in pursuit.

  “Get him!” Pete cried. “It’s heading to the back porch.”

  “No, there it is in the kitchen.” Brent pointed at the blender on my granite countertop.

  What the hell? Clearly the thing scurried through to the living room. Melissa pushed to her feet. I gave her a steadying hand and scooped up the scattered marshmallows.

  “Trap still works. The latch just popped off one end when it landed,” she said.

  I planned to house the critter in a metal storage locker in the garage. It was out of the way, had vents for fresh air, and most importantly would be secure. I opened the door to the garage area, trying to think of a way to herd him closer to the locker. Aside from an old fridge, scrap material and tools left over from the basement construction lined the walls.

  “Set the trap up in the kitchen. Maybe he’s hungry enough to fall for it again.”

  The scene inside was baffling, to put it mildly. Pete jabbed a table lamp at the empty corner by the patio doors. Brent poked my broom at the blender, pushing it toward the sink with cautious taps. Max barked in a sort of doggie falsetto, his tail wagging and front paws down in a play crouch facing the sofa in the next room.

  “What the hell is going on?” Piper staggered in, eyes bleary and her ever-present notebook dangling by its spiral spine. She already had her pajamas on. I vaguely recalled something about her having to do early morning accounts down at the Bureau of Statistics. “What the hell’s that?” Her eyes went wide as she entered the kitchen.

  I thought she was going to take a closer look at Brent’s blender jousting, but she crossed to the big wood table, crouched down, and made little cooing noises at Max’s water bowl. What the hell, indeed.

  “He’s tangled in the curtains. Bring the cage over,” Pete called.

  “A few more steps and he’ll be in the sink.” Brent sounded winded. “I need a laundry basket or something. Quick!”

  “Arf, arf!” That would be Max.

  “Here, little fella.” Piper reached out a tentative hand to stroke the aluminum water bowl.

  “What exactly do you see?” I knelt by Piper.

  “A cute, tiny man-thing. Ed, where did it come from?”

  “There’s nothing there, Sis.” I waved my hand over the bowl, then picked it up.

  Piper pouted and blinked at the empty spot. “Aw, you scared him off.”

  Investigating Pete’s find went about the same, and I managed to save my blender just as Melissa’s friend herded it into the sink with a nervous crow of triumph. Everyone had gone mad, and Max just kept barking. Through the doorway, I could see his butt-end wagging. Our dazed little group walked to the living room where my stupid dog was trying to entice his piled of stuffed toys to play.

  “Give it a rest, Max. Enough!”

  The toys shifted, and Mr. Bunny tumbled from the pile. I froze, studying the jumble of unstuffed animal shapes. Monkey, Puppy, and Squirrel were there too, but no strange hairless creature. The pile moved again as if someone tiptoed thru the furry menagerie. Max shifted his stance and yipped.

  “Let me try something,” I told the others.

  I drew a thin case from my front pocket and took out a feather. The case had been made for darts back in the day. I liked to have a few items on hand to help with spells. Seeking was one of my specialties. My musical focus leapt to mind easy enough, one of the A-Chords’ jazzy numbers. I thought of the odd creature Melissa caught, of the need to find it, and fed a thread of magic into the feather. I released the spell, dropped the feather, and…nothing happened—nothing at all.

  The inch-long bit of down simply dropped to the floor as if I sought something that didn’t exist. Even when I looked for my sister or fought the witch, there had been something there, a target for the magic, but now…nothing. I rocked back on my heels.

  A green blur streaked from under the dog toys and shot back to the kitchen. Max darted after it. We stumbled over each other getting turned around. The creature still clutched his tiny stone knife, which gave me an idea.

  “Quick, put the trap out and throw in the marshmallows.”

  Melissa set the trap by the counter. I wasn’t going to get another chance at this so slid the Earth token from my case. I used the chorus from Awolnation’s “Sail,” picturing the knife’s jagged edge and stone hilt. The token grew warm in my hand. My Spirit seeking hadn’t had anything to grasp, but Earth found the flint with a crust of limestone clinging to the grip. My spell flowed toward the back door and twisted around the knife we couldn’t see. When it wound tight, I pulled, snaring the flint.

  The knife popped into view hovering a foot above the floor by the coatrack. The small creature materialized behind it, his skin shifting to slate gray as he desperately clutched his weapon. I tugged with each pulse of music, dragging the little guy across the tile. He was so intent on keeping the knife that he didn’t notice. His spindly arms jerked forward with each repetition of the song’s title, nailed feet skittering across the floor and tail lashing. One last gentle pull…easy. His feet hit the trigger plate, and the trap closed. Melissa checked the latch and gave me a nod.

  I dropped the spell, let the power flow back to the ground below my house, and sagged against the table. Earth magic took a bigger toll than the others, but that was a minor spell requiring only a pinch of power. I would recover in a moment.

  “He’s pissed.” Pete pointed at the cage.

  The thing snarled and flashed pointy teeth—definitely not an herbivore. Perhaps this was a creature of the Dark after all. But then he sniffed, cocked his head down at the puffy white cubes, and bent to collect them.r />
  Twenty minutes later we had Ralph settled in the garage behind locked doors. He had a comfortable old blanket and a sort of litter pan filled with shredded paper since we didn’t exactly know what to expect on that front. Piper insisted on naming him. She threw some carrots and an apple in with the sugary treats, figuring he would eat what he liked. Remembering those choppers, I knew he would eventually need some meat. We held a conference at the kitchen table while picking at leftovers.

  “So what’s Ralphy-boy’s pedigree?” Pete asked.

  “He has to be magical,” Melissa said. “Like Pina or—”

  She cut off with a sideways look at Brent. Her friend recovered pretty well from his panic attacks and now seemed interested. I shrugged and gave a resigned nod, urging her to continue. It wasn’t like the guy was going to forget what he’d seen.

  “Like Pina or the toads,” Melissa finished. “They went invisible too.”

  “It’s more than that,” I said. “Everyone thought they saw him in different spots.”

  “I swear he was clawing at the curtains over there,” Pete said. “Then he jumped for the door handle.”

  “Mine was just eating marshmallows on the counter,” Brent added.

  “For me, he sat under the table.” Piper scratched her head. “I didn’t even see Max’s dish until you picked it up. It was like the bowl was him…at least in my mind. I think this thing can cast illusions!”

  “Like Pina?” If our new houseguest had abilities as strong as the sprite’s we were in for a boatload of trouble.

  “He’s smart too.” Melissa pointed to the empty trap. “He waited until he was free. Your dog was the only one who knew what was going on.”

  “True.” I vowed to strike the phrase “stupid dog” from my internal monologue. “Big doofus” was certainly still fair game though.

  Everyone promised not to unlock the cage no matter what they thought they saw, unless another person and Max were present. Piper and I took turns checking on the little—Ralph. Piper didn’t know any more than I did about Pina’s whereabouts, so we would just have to just cross our fingers and hope she’d show. If Quinn ever got home, we could fill her in on our new guest.