Consequence

by C R Langille

  He dialed the number and waited. It went straight to voice mail.

  His blood boiled, and self-control threatened to slip through his grasp. A slight tingle played at his fingertips and a ringing entered his ears. The lights in the kitchen grew brighter for a mere second and then dimmed to normal.

  He returned to the couch and sat down. Calm down. Just calm down. Evard reached for the vodka. Yet at some point he must have already downed it all. The empty glass mocked him. He let out a growl and hurled the cup into the wall. It hit and showered the floor with bits of broken glass.

  Raw energy boiled from his core and threatened to explode. The warning signs were clear; a tingling not unlike a small electrical charge followed by an increased heartbeat. His breathing quickened, and he lost focus. The room seemed to tighten all around him, and the hairs on his arms and neck reached for the sky. If he didn’t get it under control soon, the results would be disastrous. He’d lost control a handful of times before in his life, and it never ended well.

  Evard grabbed his notebook and flipped to a blank page. He let the words flow from his mind onto the paper. Evard didn’t think about what he wrote, he just wrote. What words said didn’t matter. What they meant was most important. As he meditated on the words, the power inside him dulled to a calm spring.

  As a final piece of the pseudo-ritual, he filled his lungs with air and held it in, and then counted backwards from ten before he let the breath go.

  The clock on the wall tick-tocked in the background and provided Evard a rhythm to follow. He let his thoughts latch onto the meter of the ticking. Soon, his mind slowed and then organized into coherency.

  The sun dipped low, and the last ray of sunlight walked across the wall. A couple of cats fought down the street, the whines and growls breaking him from his ponderings.

  Night bathed the small living room in darkness. After hours of concentration, he still didn’t have much to go on, but he made a decision. He couldn’t get to Tobias, but he could get to Linda and Sebastian. Regardless of what they thought of him, he still had a duty to protect family.

  His bedroom mirrored the rest of the house. Once a strict proponent of cleanliness and discipline, Evard ensured his living spaces were neat and tidy. Neat and tidy flew out the window when Kelly died. It didn’t matter as much anymore. His sheets were dirty, and he couldn’t remember the last time he washed them. Clothes littered the floor and chairs, and an odd smell, a cross between mud and compost, emanated from the corner.

  Despite the chaos, Evard knew exactly where everything resided in his bedroom. He grabbed a rucksack from the closet and filled it with extra clothes. Inside his dresser drawer sat a lockbox. He entered the number combo and popped it open. A large Smith & Wesson .357 smiled at him.

  Evard hefted the weapon out of the box and opened the cylinder. It was loaded and ready to spit lead. Satisfied, he put the weapon in his coat pocket. He rummaged in the drawer until he found a small cloth bag of ammunition and put it in the opposite pocket.

  Time ticked by faster than a racecar. They needed to get moving soon if they were going to get to Linda’s safely. Evard didn’t know what would happen if they wasted much more time, and he didn’t want to find out.

  He stopped and listened. Kelly wasn’t getting ready. She always found a way of delaying. He growled, and his face went hot. Maybe he wasn’t clear enough earlier.

  “Kelly! Come on, we’ve—” He stopped short as the memories crashed back into his mind again.

  Evard berated himself and grabbed the rucksack. On his way down the hall, he stopped outside of Kelly’s sewing room. The door remained closed, and he fought the urge to reopen it. Evard brought his hand up to his mouth, kissed his fingers, and placed the kiss on the door.

  He looked to the ground at his feet and remembered Kelly’s smile. Her smile shone on her face like a beacon of hope right until the end.

  Hope. So much for hope. He turned and walked into the kitchen.

  Evard stuffed the remaining space of the rucksack with a jug of water and some canned food. He took care to remember to put the can opener in the bag. Evard used to watch Saturday morning cartoons with Tobias and remembered one cartoon in particular where the main character couldn’t open his only can of food. He didn’t want to be caught in the same situation.

  Before he walked out the door, he double-checked the contents of his pack. It wouldn’t be good to leave something behind due to hastiness and stupidity. Satisfied, he buttoned up the house and went to the garage.

  The garage’s lights flickered to life and cast a sterile glow on a covered vehicle. He’d bought the Chevy Impala SS brand new off the lot in 1966. Evard took immaculate care of the vehicle, and it still held its shiny black luster. Most of the parts were original. A heavy-duty car cover blanketed the vehicle and protected it from the elements. Evard removed the cover and placed it neatly in the trunk of the car. Even though he let the house and yard go to shambles, his car remained pristine.

  Evard placed his ruck in the backseat and turned the ignition. The Impala rumbled to life like a waking lion—half roar, half yawn. The engine purred, and he pressed slightly on the gas pedal, turning the purr into a throaty growl.

  Evard put the car in gear and inched out of the garage. He took it as easy through the residential neighborhoods. However, once he hit the freeway, he stomped on the gas and opened it up. The speedometer raced forward.

  The night sky lit up in an amazing latticework of lightning. Another massive bolt arced in the sky and landed on the mountainside. When the light faded, and the darkness regained its hold, a small fire sprung to life where the bolt struck.

  It was going to be a busy night for a lot of people. He worked the steering wheel like an expert. Evard zipped past cars as fast as he dared in the storm. Traffic became an antagonist and tried its damnedest to stop him, but somehow, he made it through. Rain burst from the clouds and landed on his car in sheets. Evard put the wipers at full speed, but it didn’t help much. The poor visibility forced him to slow down. He wouldn’t be able to help anyone if he died on the road.

  A brilliant light burst from the darkness. The vibrations of the blast shook the windows in his car. From the center of the spinning clouds, a massive column of lightning, thick as a building, crackled and crashed into the foothills near Emigration Canyon.

  Jesus…

  The ground shook and rolled, and the Impala fishtailed in response. Evard gripped the wheel tight and did his best to bring the car to a stop, which only resulted in a spin. The vehicle spun 360 degrees before slamming into a concrete barrier. Sparks showered his view, and the windshield burst, peppering his face with tiny bits of glass. The safety glass spider webbed obscuring his vision with the bits of the windshield that remained.

  …Christ.

  The wind howled at him and took advantage of the opening. He slammed on the brakes and used the barrier as a guiderail. The car rolled to a stop, but the shaking continued. It took Evard a moment to realize the ground beneath him bucked and trembled.

  He looked back toward the mouth of the canyon. Evard had seen a lot of strange things in his lifetime, yet nothing compared to the massive twisting rod of electricity that ground into the earth. The block of houses caught fire under the immense heat and then spun into a tornado, caught up in the lightning’s fierce swirl.

  A tall building situated off the highway gave under the pressure of the quake. Windowpanes broke and shattered. Shards of glass rained onto the streets. The earthquake picked up in intensity as the storm struck its final blow.

  The lightning tornado provided enough light to see. At the moment, Evard wished he couldn’t. The residential area near the bolt vanished as the ground opened up and swallowed houses whole. He watched in horror as dozens of homes disappeared into a large sinkhole.

  Then the lightning dissipated, and the sky returned to its darkened stormy state. The grou
nd stopped trembling, and the loud rumble disappeared. A cacophony of car alarms and sirens wailed in the distance as if they were widowers mourning the recent loss.

  He couldn’t take his eyes away from the empty hole that housed dozens of homes. Whatever sinister actions the storm planned, it finished and moved further north. The clouds rolled unnaturally through the sky.

  Evard continued to stare at the hole, and then he saw it. A dull orange glow sprang to life from the dark. At first, he thought it might be houses burning, but then the light intensified. Seven balls of energy shot into the air; each pulsed with a ginger color. They floated into the sky like flares shot from a distressed ship at sea. Then, they raced and danced around like drunken fireflies. Moments later, they fell back to the earth, some in the valley, some racing beyond Salt Lake City.

  This was it. This was what the storm had awakened.

  He watched the orbs and knew they meant trouble. The familiar tingle of electricity danced across his skin as his power awakened with the presence of the orbs. The strange glowing dots called to him like a pied piper, and he was the rat. His heartbeat picked up speed, and he fought to regain control.

  A car stopped nearby, and a man in a business suit got out. The man started toward Evard with a concerned look etched on his face. Evard didn’t have time for good Samaritans. He put the car back into gear and sped off the down the road toward Linda’s house. Whatever came out of the hole, it brought hell with it.

  Chapter Three

  The ground groaned as it moved for the first time in an age. The terrain shuddered in pain while trees snapped and splintered like bone. The Wasatch Front roared in protest against the corruption of the storm.

  John White woke from his deep sleep when his house started to shake. The dream world still grabbed at his mind as his eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was. John turned to his side and tried to return to his slumber. Yet, the house rumbled, and a crack splintered up the wall near the bed, which blasted the drowsiness from his body.

  His wife, Shelly, shot up and latched onto his arm. She looked at him through wide eyes conveying the same terror that crept through his heart. Pictures rocketed from the walls, and the bookshelf on the other side of the room crashed to the ground. Lightning flashed outside and lit the bedroom in harsh, disjointed bursts.

  “Earthquake,” John yelled as he jumped out of bed.

  Shelly let out a shriek and scrambled after him. The mix of thunder and quake created a loud groan and drowned out Shelly’s cry. The floor buckled as she neared him and sent her rolling into the wall.

  Time seemed to slow down as the floor gave way, and everything in the room fell into utter darkness. Shelly let out a quick chirp of a scream as she disappeared into a deep, dark hole that used to be their bedroom.

  John clutched the doorframe, unsure of what to do. He stared at the chasm with disbelief. Perhaps it was a nightmare and he’d wake up in a cold sweat. Maybe Shelly would be asleep next to him, her body still cuddled up into a little ball. Yet, he knew.

  It was too real. It was too loud.

  “Shelly!”

  Things stopped moving. John crept up to the edge of the hole and let out another call for his wife, but she didn’t answer.

  The storm passed and receded into the distance, and the house grew quiet. The cry of injured neighbors, barking dogs, and car alarms soon replaced the silence. John ignored all of it. The vista before him stole all thoughts from his mind.

  The massive sinkhole started at the edge of his home and stretched halfway across the neighborhood. It was both awe inspiring and terrifying.

  A rank odor slapped him and carried the smells of stagnant water mixed with the pungent stink of skunk. He turned away and pressed his arm against his face, and it took all his willpower to keep the bile down.

  A strange orange light flickered to life deep down in the darkness. It grew in intensity until it blossomed like a spectral ginger rose. The light hurt his eyes and caused them to tear up. John wiped the moisture away and squinted. He hoped to maybe catch a glance of Shelly, but he couldn’t see anything but the light.

  The orange ball grew and grew until it split into seven separate orbs. They circled each other as they raced up and danced out into the night sky. The orbs shot high into the air and then fell to various places around the valley. One drifted back towards the sinkhole, towards his wrecked house.

  John backed away from the crackling ball of light which sizzled and popped like grease in a fry pan. It floated in a slow arc and came to rest at the doorway. A blurred shape of something large and winged was contained within the ball, but the light shifted and morphed. Try as he might, he couldn’t get a good sense of what it was. Intense heat rolled off the orb and forced John back into the hallway. The stench permeated the room, much stronger than before.

  He wanted to run, but all he could manage was a stumble. John was halfway down the hall when the light faded away and the darkness once again enveloped him.

  His eyes weren’t used to the darkness, and he couldn’t see anything. Something else moved through the hallway and echoed the sounds of his shuffling feet. The heavy clip-clop on the hardwood reminded him of horses on a cobblestone street. The stink intensified, and his bladder defied him.

  A large, black shape stood in the hallway, darker than the night. Exposed wiring from his ruined house chose that moment to spark and illuminate the hall. The arc of electricity revealed the thing in front of him, and John screamed. A clawed hand shot out from the dark, and his cry drowned in a gurgle of blood. He fell to the floor and tried to think of Shelly, but pain invaded his thoughts like a hostile force. John tried to fight back, but the thing laughed and tore his arm off.

  ***

  Special Agent Doyle L. Johnson watched as the earth rose up and ate its fill. The tremors of the world’s rage were still strong from his overwatch at “This is the Place” monument. Moments later, seven balls of orange light rose and fell across the valley. It was quite the spectacle. Much better than the Pioneer Days fireworks show in Canyon Shadows, Utah, in any case.

  Agent Johnson terminated the last of his popcorn. He tipped the small, brown paper bag upside down and shook. A couple of buttered pieces fell out and in to his hand. He cocked his head back and tossed the pieces up into the air, but they fell wide. Doyle shrugged and turned his attention back to the valley. Despite the chaos, the moon created a magnificent backdrop for the Great Salt Lake. If the residents only knew what slept at the bottom, covered in ages of salt and muck, they would perhaps choose to live somewhere else. Hopefully this rumble wasn’t enough to wake the beast.

  One of the unearthly balls fell close to his location. He mentally took note of its trajectory and started in the same direction. His tactical trench coat, made completely of silver duct tape, shifted in the wind as he walked down the road.

  He tugged at the locks of his grey hair as he moved. Although the crown of his head was completely bald, he let the rest grow. It sprouted in a horseshoe shape and draped across his shoulders, almost matching the color of his coat. The Bureau wouldn’t approve, but his mission demanded a relaxed grooming standard. Of course, he’d kept this grooming standard for longer than he could remember.

  The coat wasn’t the only thing that made him stand out. He also wore camouflaged Crocs, white, knee high tube socks and yellow cargo shorts decorated in pink pinstripes. Doyle would have stood out in a freak show.

  “Yep, yep, right place, right time,” he muttered.

  Doyle reached into his coat and rummaged around in an oversized pocket.

  “Where is it?”

  Doyle finally stopped under a broken streetlight and let out a sigh of frustration. He pulled the coat open and looked into the pocket.

  “Aha!” He pulled out a handheld radio.

  Doyle turned the knob at the top of the radio.

 
“Break! Break! Break! This is Special Agent Johnson, ID Hockeystick-Papa-Lemming-3-15-3. We have a situation. Alpha protocol. I repeat we have an Alpha protocol.”

  Doyle continued his march toward the orange orb’s landing zone. He walked with a purpose; giant sinkholes and orange Will o’ the Wisps weren’t an everyday occurrence. At least, they weren’t ops norm in Salt Lake City. Screams echoed from a ruined house and confirmed his suspicions.

  “Break! Break! Break! This is Special Agent Doyle Johnson. ID Hernia-Papaya-Lima-3-15-3. Alpha protocol, my location.”

  Nothing, not even static. Doyle studied the device in his hand. None of the lights were on, so he flipped a couple of switches and then let out a soft chuckle.

  “No bueno.”

  He shook the radio a few times and tapped the back with a finger.

  “Hello? Anyone? Phone home and all that rubbish.”

  He looked up to the night sky and smiled.

  “Not going to make this easy, no sir, no way. Just me. Every day. Ranger,” he sang in a military cadence.

  He put the radio back into his duct tape coat pocket and ran towards the screams. When he got closer, Doyle reached into another pocket and drew a long-barreled revolver. It shined in the moonlight. Sigils and runes glowed in a dim blue glow along the barrel.

  “Make my day,” Doyle said.

  Sirens wailed in the distance as the city came alive in response to the storm and quake. The house in front of him teetered on the precipice of the sinkhole. Half of it lay at the bottom, while the rest stood like a shelled building in a war zone. He moved into the house, gun at the ready.

  The darkness called the shell home, but Doyle came prepared. He reached into yet another pocket on the inside of the silver coat and produced a flashlight. It was a traditional night watchman’s Maglite. The device had a leather grip fastened to the handle and a phrase engraved on the end-cap—“Use the Force.”

  Doyle hit the switch, and the darkness gave way to the flashlight’s penetrating beam. The screams had stopped, but something still moved upstairs. The faint clip-clop of hooves bounced off the walls.