by David Staves
He moved with certainty, instinctual urgency; must keep going. A predator was in pursuit. It was so close, hunting him. Staying in one spot too long would be a fatal mistake. Even slowing down would be doom.
His rational mind was wrestling with the overpowering need to run. Think. Think! THINK! His analytical mind whispered. A strange stalemate gripped him as the exhausted muscles in his thin legs shook. His heartbeat answered: Run. Run! RUN!
His feet encountered the remnants of several roads. None of them headed uphill. The only reason he knew there had been a road was that his bare feet touched rough broken asphalt. Shrubs and trees grew through the cracked remnants of the streets. He chose to ignore these paths and continued running uphill until he came to the creek.
He was thirsty. He knelt at the shallow water, scooped a handful of fresh water, and tasted. It tasted clean. He gulped as much water as he could, slurping greedily, then slowly crossed the ankle-deep creek. The hill rose sharply on the other side of the stream. He ascended the slope, wading through high grass.
Would the creek obscure his tracks? The rain thickened: cats and dogs. He couldn't help but smile at the phrase. Dad said it every time it rained hard. An image of cats and dogs falling from the sky ran through his pounding brain. He covered his mouth, afraid of making a sound. Would he ever be capable of laughing again?
That's when he saw it. A house. It was a crumbling, sad structure that fit the nightmare landscape. He approached the back door. The doorknob jiggled but wouldn't turn. Breathe! Assess! The front door was a solid barrier.
He looked through grime covered windows. Most of the windows had been boarded up, but some of the boards were rotted off. The glass was murky but intact. A chilled wind touched his wet scalp. He had to find somewhere safe, somewhere to rest. The third window was unlocked. He slid the window back on its tracks and jumped inside.
The house was a soggy ruin. He searched for its most central space: its heart. He found a closet whose door still worked. He guessed it might once have been a laundry room.
Ezra curled into the small crook in the musty house.
He hadn't intended to sleep. He was afraid the creature would find him, but his fatigue had overwhelmed his fear, finally. He could not have kept running.
The last time he slept, he was in his own bed, his own room, his own home.
His thoughts fluttered across the events of the day.
Who was the stranger who somehow pulled him out of his collapsing house? He thought he was a fireman, paramedic, or some other first responder, come to rescue him. But no one had called for help, as far as he knew. Unless somehow the house… He let the thought trail away.
The man in the hall had been little more than a shuffling silhouette until their eyes met.
Ezra tried to reconcile his memory of the man in the hallway with the man in the craft. He was confident they were different people. Who was in the hall? Why?
Whatever reason the man had to be in Ezra's family home, it wasn't for rescue. The expression in his eyes was very different from that of the man who brought him to this dark place. Haunting. Familiar. Faint recognition. Unlike his rescuer, the guy in the hall held a different expression on his face. It was not pity. It was prideful.
Gus’ eyes had looked at him with pity. Ezra had seen this kind of pity before. He saw the same look in his sister's eyes when their family dog went to the vet to be euthanized. Mom and dad didn't have the same expression as his older sister.
"He's a good old boy," Dad said with acceptance. "A nice long run of it, fifteen years is more than what most dogs his size get." He scratched Sam behind the ear. It was a dismissal. His father was sad, but he hid it with an air of wise acceptance. Compassion, not pity.
Anya's eyes were filled with pity when she looked at Sam. She couldn't bring herself to speak about it; though she was three years older than Ezra. She might have offered some piece of teenage wisdom for her eleven-year-old brother. She was uncharacteristically quiet.
But that look – the one that says: 'You're already dead, and there's nothing I or anyone else can do about it.' That's how Gus looked at him.
The man in the hallway's expression, if it said anything, it said: This is not the end, this is the beginning. Could a single look communicate so much? Ezra thought so.
Ezra was exhausted. He took refuge in the musty house. He lay there thinking about this house, a huddled shape just up the slope from the creek. Who had lived here? Why had they left? What was wrong with this place? There was something wrong with this world. It was broken. Twisted.
If the creature found him here, he would not be helpless. He listened to the rhythm of the heavy rain feeling the weight of the large metal gun in his lap. Reassurance.
His fingers traced the smooth bevels carved into the barrel, its grip, careful not to touch the trigger. It was a weapon unlike anything Ezra had ever seen, even in the movies. It was more like a blaster than a gun. Part of him wanted to pull the trigger to see what would happen.
He felt calm, and relaxed, in the balmy air, despite the sweat, despite the horror.
He thought of the man, Gus. He told Ezra to call him when he got to the mill. “Gus...” Ezra whispered the name. He trusted the man. He had kind eyes. He saved him twice, once during the landslide then from the monster.
His heavy eyelids closed and sleep embraced, offering no answers, only fitful rest.
Dream.
Memory.
Smell of coffee.
Flavor of stale air crisped in heat rays.
Sunshine.
“Come here, honey…” the mother gestured to her little boy, not so little anymore, “sit with me. Tell me.”
She focused on his appearance. He hadn’t grown into his feet, his lanky limbs, his rib cage, his shoulder blades.
Her regard pierced, green eyes ignited in streams of sun.
The son approached. She pushed a clutter of papers aside.
“Tell you what, Mom?” he sat on the newly cleared sofa cushions. He knew what she wanted. Distraction. Unspoken affection. Peaceful bond.
Mother.
Son.
Father was at work.
Sister was still at school.
They were alone.
She smiled, her thoughts a million miles away, her heart ever-present.
“Well, anything you want to tell me is okay,” fine fingers brushed away the errant bang.
Does she remember her own mother? He wondered.
Did they share such a moment long ago?
Yes.
He didn’t remember his mother’s mother. She died long ago. She lies in repose, up on the hill. Her spirit is present, however, in the atmosphere. The mother saw her own mother in her son’s quiet way, too intense, too gentle, too reflective. Ever silent.
“Well,” he looked around the room, thoughts a hundred miles away, his heart ever-present. “I guess it was a good day. I mean, I finished all my work, no homework tonight. I checked out a new book from the library.”
Silence. She didn’t hear his words. Car keys were in her hand. The coffee cup was empty.
“Okay, sounds good... I need to go to the store sweetie. Would you like to go?” she waited. He didn’t answer right away.
“Isn’t your robotics magazine due to arrive? We can stop by the mailbox on our way out…” sunglasses, purse, keys… Ready.
“Okay…” he hasn’t grown into his ways just yet, she thought.
They headed out to the car.
His magazine was in the mailbox. Excited fingers flipped pages.
He climbed in. His mother started the car. He read.
Tires rolled onto blacktop.
He remembered this as their last time.
Alone.
“Tonight means change,” his whispered voice informed the half-dream, half-memory.
Ezra reclined in the ruined house, stretched on a bed of rotting rags.
His mother was standing in the hall, shimmering, golden. The door had come open
. Was she an angel now, come to help guide him? Sleep smothered the dream, but it had accomplished a great peace in his core.
He awoke in a blanket of night, laying on a pile of musty ruin in the corner of the room. Just like in his dream, the door was ajar. Heavy rain drummed on the roof.
He crept through the house, a small one level structure. The doors were locked, and all but a few windows were boarded up. Debris was scattered throughout. Most of it was disintegrating furniture. Everything in this world was rotten.
His eyes went back to the window. He rubbed some of the muck off of the glass. Most of it was outside, so his view barely improved. He was in a holler, valley-like place between tightly packed hills. He saw a distant light and a flicker of hope caught in his chest. He stared at the gravel lane that sloped up to a narrow road. The road! His eyes squinted up the dusky way. The light stuttered through the thick mist rising from the creek in the evening air. He could see the curve of the road ascending into the distance. This was the road for which he had been searching!
His fingers stroked the cold metal of the doorknob. He saw only the light. He turned the lock, feeling the mechanism slide. The luminescence called him. The click was deafening as the bolt slammed into place, he twisted the doorknob.
His right hand gripped the gun. The door swung silently open. His left hand clenched into a fist. In a sudden rush, he pounded his thin chest three times. He took three gulps of swampy air. The atmosphere seemed to shatter as the coil of his small frame sprang into motion. A thrill of power filled his heart. His lithe body surged forward toward a not too distant electric bulb.
He had always been fast. He thought of the boys on the playground. It seemed like another lifetime, but it had really been only days before. As he ran, his mind wandered to the schoolyard. The boys postured. They jostled with each other. The open field next to the school was wide. From above, the footprint of the school seemed small next to the vast lot. Doug's worn sneaker dug into the damp earth. It bounced, occasionally catching a clot of crabgrass, as it cut a deep crimson line into the soil.
Doug eyeballed the line of rough sneakers as the youngsters placed their feet on the starting line. Ezra was the youngest boy in the row. He had built his reputation quickly. He was the only boy on this field who could claim to be undefeated. Ezra did not boast, though, at least not with words. He let his speed do the talking.
This was a refuge from books and teachers. They met on this proving ground each day at the tolling of the bell. The indigo shadow of a tremendous old elk was their finish line. It hulked at the far northeast side of the field. It watched the generations. Their time here was but a moment to the tree.
This was as far away from the school as one could get, and still be on school property. Ditcher's tree it was dubbed, though Ezra knew few who would dare ditch. There was a campus security monitor in each wing, and cameras in each hall. The name 'ditcher's tree' dated back to a more simple era, when violence and death were less acquainted with the realms of education.
The tree’s memory encompassed far away days: no chain link barriers, no camera’s, no patrolling staff-members, just the rabble of middle school boys, bumming smokes, exchanging vulgarities, attempting to shed innocence. Still today, it watched the rise of young heroes, villains, and their motley sidekicks.
This was the place where Ezra's journey truly began, a place of triumph where he rose to middle school fame. Ezra and Doug were the misfits of this young brotherhood. Ezra was the smallest, and Doug was the largest. Doug's size is what gave him a measure of power. No one would dare mess with Doug. Despite his reputation, Doug was a gentle giant. He wouldn't hurt a fly.
Doug and Ezra were fast friends. They were an unlikely duo, an example of 'opposites attract.' Doug was a legend of size and Ezra was a legend of speed. Doug heavily paced the length of the starting line then silently raised both arms, high over-head.
Doug's gruff voice roared, "Ready! Set!" as his arms shot down he yelled, "GO!”
Ezra reached the tree almost a full minute before the other boys. He leaned against its solid form, rough bark against his back, panting for breath and staring into the woods on the other side of the chain link fence that marked the school's property line.
He had the sense of being watched. He tried to still his heavy breathing, strained his ears to catch a sound. He stepped to the fence and stood stock still, fingers laced through the chain link fence.
Just then the crush and rabble of the arriving boys broke his focus. They appeared in a rough bunching of sweaty knees and elbows. Doug finally arrived, the last boy to finish. They were bickering over who was second.
"It was me, and you know it!" puffed Fred.
Alex would have none of that, "bull crap, Freddy!"
Just then they were shoved aside by Doug's burly frame. "Look!" he said in a hushed tone, gesturing to where Ezra stood at the fence. What mystery was he contemplating?
Ezra turned, gestured for them to come, and held his finger to his lips, a sign saying: shut up already!
The boys slowly and quietly made their way to the chain link fence.
He whispered, "Right there, do you see it? Something's watching us!" The boys squinted thoughtfully at the dark patch of woods. It gaped back. The boys were spooked into silence, each one peering into the blackness, trying to see. Alex tapped Ezra on the shoulder, holding a rock in his right hand, and pointed at the darkest spot in the woods. Everyone knew Alex's prowess with chucking rocks. After school, he would show off in the broadest part of the creek. The creek…
"Don't!” Ezra hissed. But it was too late. The rock was sailing in an arch over the fence and into the woods.
A sudden metallic THUNK rang from within the woods, and then all hell broke loose!
Trees cracked and snapped.
Something huge was in the woods.
The boys were spooked badly. They all sprinted straight for the school building, outpacing all former races of Raven Middle School. Doug, who usually lagged behind, kept pace with the rest of the pack.
There were old stories of bears in the woods. They were from a time before the town had been incorporated. There hadn't been a bear spotted in these parts for over a decade. They rationalized away the sounds. They were well on their way to shedding their innocence, letting go of the imaginary and grasping firmly onto the rational.
There were many rational explanations for what they heard that day:
It was an excavator working on the electrical or sewer lines.
It was a high school kid playing a joke.
It didn't matter.
When they went back the next day, it was gone.
Ezra's feet tore into the gravel of the driveway, he was entirely in the present, fully in possession of his feet, his senses smart and keen. He was on his own now, until he found the mill. And find it he would! Confidence overtook fear, and he was speed, a blur in the darkness.
He sensed danger. Close. Watching. Maybe breathing down his neck… don't look back!
He had no intention of keeping to the ambling driveway. His footfalls muffled as his feet hit the thick grass. He quickly shot up the hill onto the road and made for the tree line.
Panic gripped his chest at the sight of the tangled brush of woods on the other side of the road.
It was cunning. What if it anticipated Ezra's strategy? He imagined hard, boney claws, grabbing, taking him into the starless blackness inside those woods. His feet caught and propelled him at a right angle in the direction of the light he had seen from the window. The cloud of dust hung in the still air and slowly floated away.
Wasp
A New Vespid
Her huge multifaceted, glistening eyes watched the boy as he made his way on the remnants of the ascending road.
She spotted the fleshy thing at the threshold of the forest.
How had such soft, defenseless things ruled a planet, reached the stars? So much like the soft wriggling larvae that were the infants of her race.
She
watched it with cunning intelligence.
Her race had been placed among the new rulers, her and her matriarchs, her sisters. The dark lords had set things right. They had broken their bonds.
She lifted into the air, quickly looping and rolling in the sky. She was aware of the fleshy thing, wanted to descend on it, pierce it with her beautiful stinger, pump it with her delicious poison. But the lords wanted more than its flesh, they wanted the essence.
She listened to the lord's growling, churning speech in the night. Oh, how it hungered for the thing's ethereal substance. She preened the glistening spikes that lined her limbs, sitting high in the canopy of the hive forest, the seat of the first hive.
She smelled the multitude of scents. These were pheromones, some from her sisters, others from lesser beings. She even smelled the human grub: sweet fear-flavored perspiration of prey. His pursuer, only one thus far, the lowliest of lords, an underling, had a reek, distinctly belonging to the harbingers of glory. It was at least glory for spawn such as her and her kind. They were lifted to sentience by the weak ones, elevated to majesty by the shadowed ones.
Quick wings caught the current and lifted her from her perch. A hunt would please. She flexed the muscles around her stinger. A drop of venom rolled off the wicked point.
It’s not for the man-thing. The insect creature's exalted kind would not stoop to sacrilege. Perhaps one of the lesser beings would catch it.
She pictured the tiny human caught in a whisperer's web. What a show that would be!
It would writhe itself deep into the thick web, strumming the cords that would waken a sentient arachnid. Would they have an aversion to feeding on another sentient? Would it feed on an ancient one? She thought not. She was not sure. They were difficult creatures to comprehend. The arachnid-like creatures rose to sentience in the same way as she and her sisters: chosen by humanity to become more than a mere animal. She doubted the whisperers would eat such prey. They were a pretentious breed, ever sniveling to the dark lords.
She knew the histories, but seeing this puny being brought back from the bowels of extinction made the story more poignant.
