"Wait a sec," Rich whispered in Ashley’s ear.
She groaned and opened her eyes.
"What?"
"I think I heard something. I think your dad got out of bed."
Ashley grew frustrated. She was almost where she needed to be and he went and stopped. His weight already felt heavy and it was too hot to have his sticky, naked body lying on her any longer than necessary, especially with the extra ten pounds he carried.
"Who cares? He’s probably going to the bathroom. They never come down stairs."
Still, Dick did not start again. He cocked an ear toward the ceiling.
The flickering glow from the television danced across the couch and their intertwined bodies. That TV relayed the same news over and over: disappearances at West Point, the Citadel, and Naval Academy. Overseas, the Russians admitted that the better part of an infantry division had gone missing and they had lost contact with hundreds of small communities along the Ural Mountains.
"Yeah, well if he does come down stairs you’re not the one he’s going to kill," Rich said.
"Are you kidding?" she giggled. "The sight of you screwing his little girl would give him a heart attack."
"Is that part of the fun? Is that why-"
"Listen, I had something good coming along and I’m about to lose it if you don’t get the show on the road again. That is…unless you really want to stop…?"
She stroked a finger along his chin, batted her eyes bashfully, and stuck out her lower lip. The well-orchestrated expression served as much a seduction as a pout.
He lost concern for the upstairs footfalls. He could not resist. For a girl as beautiful as Ashley to want him…how could he resist?
And-oh-how the last few weeks had been a paradise for Rich’s libido: sex nearly every night, perhaps her way of releasing the tension surrounding the wedding. Whatever the reason, he approved.
Dick started again.
Soon she bit her lip to muffle her noise but Rich suspected Ashley really wanted to wail the loudest, window-rattling moan she could conjure…if only to be heard upstairs.
When he finished, she wiggled away and ran to the bathroom. A few minutes later, they shared hugs and whispers. She cuddled against his chest and accepted his assurances that the world and the wedding would be all right. Rich found satisfaction in comforting her, even if he did not believe his own words.
Sometimes she could be that little princess Lori Brewer thought Ashley to be, but that night Ashley was a scared human being watching her world unravel.
Dante had suggested that television and ball games and their daily routines had been fantasy and that a new reality waited on the doorstep. Richard wondered if Ashley could live in a world without shopping trips, American Idol, or VH-1. Then again, he doubted he could, either.
He was a mediocre car salesman.
He had never been a good student.
He could not fix a leaky toilet on his own nor do his taxes without an accountant.
Convincing such a tender creature as Ashley to marry him ranked as Richard’s most noteworthy accomplishment in twenty-three years of life.
Nevertheless, the delusion remained; the feeling that his life waited on hold, like a flower preparing to bloom.
The time came for him to leave.
"Rich," she said as they stood on the porch. "I know everything is going to be all right." A tremble in her voice suggested otherwise. "But just in case…you know…you know I love you, right? I mean, I can be a real-"
He silenced her with a kiss on the forehead.
"I know. And I love you, too…Mrs. Stone."
Rich hopped down the stairs, walked across the driveway, and entered his car. He started the engine, waved, and drove off.
Ashley watched from her porch until the Malibu’s taillights faded from sight.
– Another late night drive; another bout of weirdness on the radio.
This time he listened not to an AM talk show host handling conspiracy theorists, religious zealots, and other assorted shut-ins but, instead, twenty-four hour continuous live network coverage.
Scientific ‘experts’ replaced the conspiracy theorists. Respected clergy replaced the religious zealots. Military and political analysts now played the role of the assorted shut-ins.
Richard Trevor Stone grew convinced that the new voices on the radio did not know any more than the old voices.
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 neglected 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 protege, 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.
Other cars stopped because they were under attack.
Richard witnessed one woman sucked from an old Chrysler convertible by a bulbous jellyfish creature. He could see her shocked face inside the thing’s belly as corrosive digestive acids went to work.
Further along he saw a Camaro t-boned by a hippopotamus beast with eyes on stalks. The collision sent the car over an embankment and the creature-clearly a predator-disappeared into the gully in pursuit.
He weaved between smashed vans and overturned pick up trucks. He dodged packs of panicked people and gassed the car to avoid a second slithering jellyfish monster.
A cloud of thick, oily black smoke hovered over the street from a burning tour bus. A swarm of cat-sized, acid spitting cockroaches had ignited the bus’ fuel tank. A dozen roasting passengers banged futilely on the windows.
After clearing the smoke, Dick happened upon a battle at a major intersection. Five leather-clad humanoids brandishing high tech crossbows squared off against the Wilkes-Barre police.
One of the leather-clad invaders lay dead in the intersection among a pile of human bodies. Two police officers found refuge behind their squad car where they reloaded side arms.
Fortunately, he avoided the crossfire by changing course and heading for an expressway on-ramp.
Wilkes-Barre and the rest of the Wyoming Valley is essentially a big bowl between two moderate mountain ranges. A river runs through the middle of that bowl. The raised "Cross Valley Expressway" travels roughly east/west from one end of that bowl to the other, bridging the Susquehanna River on its way toward the rural countryside of the "Back Mountain."
Richard drove that expressway. From the highway, he could see the eclectic mix of old and new buildings downtown, the rotunda of the massive Luzerne County Courthouse along the river, and the quiet neighborhoods of surrounding suburbs.
Fires…distant dots flying in the sky…emergency vehicles… loud booms… those were the things he saw and heard as he cut across the valley.
Temporarily clear of the carnage, his mind finally offered sentient advice. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he used the other to hit the speed dial on his cell phone and heard an automated "all circuits are busy," three times before a ring.
Ashley answered. She spoke in an eerily calm voice.
"Hello, Richard, are you coming over?"
"Wh-what? Oh God, Ashley, things are…things are going crazy," he sobbed as he swerved to avoid a Mustang that had slowed to get a better view of the large spider-thing crawling on the courthouse dome.
"I know," she said, distantly. "I’m wearing my wedding dress. I look beautiful… you should see it."
His heart raced. The steering wheel nearly slipped from his grasp as his palms grew greasy with sweat.
"Ashley, are you safe there?"
"Safe? Oh yes, my daddy is downstairs. We can hear…we can hear stuff but it's all far away. This dress is so beautiful."
"I’m coming, honey. I’m coming."
"Richard, there’s something you need to-" Her voice switched off.
"Ashley? Ashley!"
He slammed the brakes to stop for the red light at the end of the exit ramp. No traffic moved in any direction, yet he waited five full seconds until realizing how ridiculous that was.
Richard Stone ran the red light.
– The Trumps lived in Kingston, one of half-a-dozen small boroughs lining the western banks of the Susquehanna. Rich drove slow and cautious into the quiet neighborhood. He saw not one soul. Nothing.
After parking in the half-circle driveway, he raced to the porch. The only noises that reached his ear were noises drifting in on the wind from afar.
The front door stood ajar creaking softly in a gentle breeze. He went inside.
"Ashley? Mr. Trump?"
Rich stumbled over coveralls piled on the floor. A breast patch read "Trump Fences".
Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God…
Dick ran the first floor hall ignoring the television news broadcasting to an empty living room. He frantically climbed the stairs and burst into her room.
A wedding dress lay on the floor in a haphazard bundle. Singe marks stained the delicate white fabric near the straps.
Ashley had been right.
The dress was beautiful.