“Look out!” she screamed as it dove for Trevor. He dropped and rolled across the ground, narrowly escaping the attack. It shrieked again, and its massive wings flapped as it took flight, ruffling their clothes and hair in the wake of its powerful ascent into the star-filled sky. Moonlight shone on its translucent black wings, making them appear gray as it glided through the air. Ty could see the long, skinny arms and spindly fingers that powered the leathery flesh.
The carnivorous mammal swooped around, a dark, furry boomerang headed straight back to where Trevor lay on the roof. It did a nose dive, its eyes shining light onyx marbles in the moonlight, fangs glistening in the pointed slope of its hairy snout.
Trevor focused on the shotgun that lay just ahead. His gloves left bloody hand prints on the ground as he scrambled forward on all fours. The bat’s shadow grew large around him. He reached out, gripped the handle of the gun.
Pain exploded through Trevor’s back and side as the creature sank needle-point teeth into his body. He cried out. It felt like a bear trap had closed around his torso. The bat’s strong jaws and dagger-like fangs made it impossible for Trevor to scramble free without ripping himself to shreds.
He held the gun in both shaky hands and was preparing to aim it when he saw the ground pulling away from his face. The bat was lifting him, trying to take flight. His heart pounded in his temples. Trevor dropped his right hand away from the gun and stretched his arm out as far as he could. His injuries tore open, and he winced but managed to wrap a hand around the railing of the fire escape. He thought the bloody glove might be too slippery to hold on, but was relieved to find it had some traction.
Trevor craned his neck to look at the winged beast. It shook its head, attempting to yank its meal from where it clung to the fire escape. Drool leaked from the bat’s mouth, a viscous fluid that oozed down its angular snout, dripping into the holes of Trevor’s ripped T-shirt. It felt warm and thick against his skin and mixed with the blood that ran from his aching wounds.
He still held the gun in his left hand, but he screamed, “Ty! I need your help. Shoot it! Shoot—”
A spear plunged through the top of the bat’s head. Blood rained over Trevor as the creature released him, shrieking with such fury that he smelled the rotted meat on its breath. Ty ran around the side of the creature, reaching for Trevor’s hand. “I got your back.”
The rabid predator spread its wings and pumped them feebly. It gained a few yards of height, but its movement was slow and disoriented. The harpoon dangled from its head, whipping around with the jerky motion of its clumsy ascent into the air.
Ty helped Trevor to his feet. A searing pain burned in his puncture wounds, but he ignored it. He raised the gun. Tried to steady his trembling arms.
A shotgun blast hit the creature in its wing, tearing a jagged hole. A flap of loose material, like a ripped movie theater screen, hung limply from its leathery flesh. Through the hole, Trevor saw a dozen stars shining.
It screeched again. This time it curdled Trevor’s blood. It was a war cry. The bat was getting pissed.
It narrowed its onyx eyes, lips drawn back to expose two rows of sharp yellow fangs. It was Ty’s turn to scream, “Shoot it! Shoot it!” Trevor grimaced at the pain caused by the shotgun’s weight. Every movement he made filled his torso with agony.
He steadied the barrel and aimed. Boom. The bat’s cranium shattered. One side of its face went missing. Chunks of bone and furry flesh exploded outward from its head like a Fourth Of July firework. Its wings stopped pumping, and it fell, convulsing on its way down.
Crunching metal and shattering glass echoed from below, like the sound of cars crashing together. Ty gulped. She and Trevor connected eyes, and they stepped toward the railing. Trevor lagged behind.
Ty looked down at the fallen creature. Its neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. It twitched for a moment before finally going limp. Even from up here, it looked massive. It had struck a car, the roof completely flattened, the metal frame so smashed that the windshield was nothing but a haphazard slit surrounded by splintered glass.
Ty considered, yet again, where these creatures might have come from. She wondered if she’d ever know the answer. There were theories, of course—speculation among various groups of scientists, government officials, and conspiracy theorists. But the human race dwindled so quickly, and in such devastating numbers, that even the nation’s leading scientists had not discovered a reason before most of the humans died out.
The disease that spread after the bats arrived . . . it was too deadly for the world to fight. Everyone was gone. And all she had left was Trevor.
She looked over at him as he slumped against the railing, resting his face in the crook of his arms. “Are you okay?” Her voice shook as she studied the tattered cloth of his shirt. She saw bloody lacerations through the holes.
Trevor raised his head and smiled, though his face was tense with fighting back tears. “I’ll live.”
“But—”
“I said I’ll live. It hurts like hell, but I don’t think—” He winced, holding his side. “I don’t think it punctured anything vital. I’m standing, aren’t I?” Ty nodded, but her eyes lingered on his blood-soaked abdomen.
“The gift was for you,” he added.
She raised her eyes to meet his. “What?”
His words were strained as he pulled away from the railing and stumbled back toward the butchered bat. “I said . . . the gift . . . was for you.”
She thought about this as she removed her gloves and threw them into the backpack. She found the knife she had dropped and returned it to the sheath, then said, “But we weren’t even dating before—” she circled her hand in the air, “all this.”
“I wanted to date you.” He found his knife and tucked it into the pack “I just didn’t have the guts to ask.”
Ty rolled her eyes. “Yeah right. So you bought me a present without even asking me out?”
“When I saw it, I thought of you. I thought maybe some day, when the time was right, I would give it to you.” He moved closer, peeling the gloves from his fingers and stuffing them into his pockets. He grabbed both of her hands in his. “I know you, Ty. I know you shortened your name because your hippie parents named you Tiger Lilly and you hate it.” She closed her eyes and cringed, a half smirk on her lips. He smiled. “I know you’re a sweet, beautiful person who deserves better than the last jerk you dated.” Now it was Trevor’s turn to cringe as he realized that the “last jerk” was probably a dead man by now. Ty didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Okay . . . ” She pursed her lips. “Then why haven’t you given it to me?”
A grin spread across Trevor’s face. He chuckled, slow and deep, like he knew something hilarious that Ty didn’t understand. “Open it,” he said and laughed again.
Ty gave him a puzzled look and slid the box from her jacket pocket. She opened the lid. A silver necklace glimmered in the moonlight. Hanging from the chain was an onyx pendant outlined in thin, polished silver. The black stone was in the shape of . . . a bat.
Ty snorted, and the corners of her lips curled upward. She giggled breathily, shaking her head. “Oh,” she said. “I see your point.”
They both exploded into laughter. “Under different circumstances,” she managed to say with some effort, “This would be a very gorgeous necklace.” They both smiled.
The sound of wings flapping in the distance and bats chattering in a colony killed the moment for the two young lovers. “C’mon,” he said and kissed her forehead. “Let’s get inside before we get a guano shower.” Ty laughed. Even bleeding from a bite wound and with an empty stomach, Trevor always found a way to make her smile.
They gathered their things and headed for the stairs. Ty carried the plastic bags as Trevor shuffled along, clutching his side. She loved him, she knew that now as she watched him stumbling towards safety, in pain. Ty hoped he’d be okay, and she wondered if she would have loved him this way before the world came to an end.
Or maybe the world hadn’t ended. Not yet.
LOST AND FOUND
Patrick Lacey
Patrick Lacey is an Editorial Assistant in the healthcare industry. When he's not reading about blood clots and infectious diseases, he writes about things that make the general public uncomfortable. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife, his pomeranian, and his muse, who he's pretty sure is trying to kill him. Follow him on Twitter (@PatLacey)
The night he left it rained hard, the drops hitting the roof like machine gun fire. His grandmother was dying in what had once served as a playroom for him and his sister.
They were all saying their last words. His mother knelt before grandma and whispered. “I love you, Mom. It’s over. The pain is over, so you can go now.”
His father was next, standing up from the bedside chair and bending down. Henry had never seen his father seem so short. He was well over six feet and even though he wasn’t standing tall, he was still intimidating. “Shh, just let go. You’ve fought hard, and that’s all that matters.” His voice was low and rough, almost lost in the sound of the storm.
His sister, eyes drenched with tears, stepped toward their father and nodded. “He’s right, Grandma. We all love you and that will never change. Please don’t hang on just for us. Just go to sleep.”
Henry’s heart beat steadily in his chest. He’d been practicing what he would say to his grandmother all day, had rehearsed it in front of the mirror because he knew this was it, knew that there was no second chance. Last words were as final as you could get.
His father called him over. “It’s time,” he said. His eyes were grave and earlier he’d promised Henry that he would be grounded for at least two weeks if he didn’t be a man and say his final words to his grandmother without stuttering over every goddamn word.
Henry’s heart beat faster as his father motioned him. He took in long breaths, feeling his shoulders roll back and concentrating on calming himself, just like his speech coach had told him. He walked slowly over to the bed and bowed down so that his face would be level with his grandmother. An oxygen mask rested across her face and she looked more robot than human. The sunken back cheeks, the short, labored breathing: she was dying, and Henry could feel his family’s eyes on his back.
This was it.
He cleared his throat, opened his mouth.
And froze. No sounds came out and it was as if his rehearsals, all the words he had spoken, every last syllable, had flown away in the wind.
He tried again to calm down but his pulse was working against him.
When his father put a firm hand on his shoulder, he knew that failure was not an option, yet he could not foresee a way to say goodbye without stumbling over his words.
“Make me proud, Henry,” he said from behind. It sounded like a threat.
He opened his mouth once more and spoke the words, “Grandma, I love you.”
The hand released his shoulder.
He paused to breathe. “Grandma, I don’t w-w-w,” His heart raced and the room began to seem distant. He tried again. “W-w-w.”
But it was no use. His stuttering was a waterfall and it only got worse once it began.
“Goddamn it,” his father said. “You can’t even get past a sentence. One tiny simple sentence. Why the hell am I paying for speech classes if you’re going to sound like a fucking dying motor for the rest of your life?”
His mother began to cry, lifting a hand to her mouth and looking at the floor.
His sister shook her head like he was a living, breathing disappointment, which, right about now, he thought was apt.
“Go to your room,” his father said, pointing a finger that was almost as red as his face had become. “Go to your room and stay there until your grandmother has passed because, if she can hear you, she sure as hell doesn’t want to hear whatever incoherent nonsense that’s going to spill out of your mouth.
Henry ran upstairs, but instead of going to his room, he went in the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He ran the faucet until the water was cold and splashed his face.
He looked at the tub, and pictured his grandmother lying there, dead and shriveled. She shook her head at him and then looked down, unable to give him even a second glance.
Henry rubbed his eyes, now wet with tears, and saw that the tub was empty.
He ran downstairs, didn’t bother to look in the playroom, and went outside into the storm.
The house was set back in the woods, and the ocean was not far. He could hear crashing waves, steady rain, and thunder. He started to run, not quite knowing where he would go, but knowing that anywhere was better than home.
His father’s words echoed somewhere inside of him: She sure as hell doesn’t want to hear whatever incoherent nonsense that’s going to spill out of your mouth.
It had always been this way. Words had always seemed too far away to grasp onto. By the third grade, school had been too difficult for Henry and he’d been home schooled ever since, his father complaining about how much more expensive it was.
At some point along the way, he realized he was out of breath, and was deep in the woods, deeper than he’d ever ventured in daylight. In the shadows, it was almost impossible to see. That was fine, though, because he didn’t want to see anything. He just wanted everything to go away.
The rain trickled down to a sprinkle and the warm night returned. The trees eventually thinned out and he saw that he was on a small beach that looked onto the ocean. The moon broke out of the clouds and was mirrored in the water. He sat down against a rock and watched the sea until his eyes closed.
At some point during the night, his father and mother called his name, but he didn’t stir.
What woke him were the girl’s screams.
His eyes opened and he almost screamed, not remembering where he was or anything from the night before. His first thought was that he’d been kidnapped, taken away to some foreign place that was far from home.
But his memory drifted back and soon he realized he was at the beach, not too far from home after all.
There were more screams and he jumped up, running toward the sounds. It wasn’t long before he found the source.
A woman was tied to a tree, naked and bleeding from her head. He ran over to untie her but ducked down behind a rock when he saw the man with the paper bag over his head. There were two holes in the center that served as eyes. Those eyes were not nice. That was the only way his mind could describe them.
“Please,” the girl said through tears and sobs. “I can get you money. My father is rich. He works for the city.”
The man cocked his head, and in any other circumstance the sight would’ve been funny: a man with a paper bag over his head looking puzzled like a curious puppy. But there was nothing funny about it now. Out here in the woods, that one motion, the tilting of his head, made Henry want to be back home, safe in his room, no matter how much his parents disciplined him.
The man held up the knife and brought it to her cheek.
She screamed and pleaded, but the man didn’t move until she quieted down some. When he did move, it was to drag the point of the blade across her face slowly, just hard enough for blood to drip down from a small incision.
She opened her mouth, head bobbing because she wasn’t fully conscious, and said nothing, speechless.
Henry opened his mouth to scream, to tell the man to stop. The plan played out quickly in his head: scream, get his attention, and run like hell.
Except nothing came out, as usual, just a choked sound in the back of his throat. When he tried again, it was too late.
The man began to carve her in ways that made Henry sick to his stomach. He closed his eyes and covered his ears as he slid back down to the ground to hide.
The woman did not die speechless.
When the man was done, he untied her, dragged her down to the beach, and threw her into the ocean.
He turned around and for an awful moment, Henry was sure he’d been spot
ted. Henry ducked back down behind the rock and waited until the footsteps passed him. When he dared to peek, he saw the man walking slowly away from him, knife still in hand, bag still on head.
The thought of a killer came to him, walking around his town with a paper bag hanging neatly over his face, looking in windows while people slept, and waiting patiently to find doors that were unlocked.
It was a long time before he could move.
***
He knocked on his front door a half hour later and his mother answered. Her eyes were blood red and she looked tired enough to faint. “Henry?”
His father appeared from behind and there was a moment where he looked relieved—actually relieved—but then it was gone and was replaced by anger. His mouth and eyebrows curled and he began to shake. “You little bastard. Your mother hasn’t slept, and after all we’ve been through this week, you go ahead and run away? Get the hell in here.”
He grabbed Henry by his collar and dragged him upstairs. In the silence of his room he wondered if they would’ve cared if he’d never come back.
Then he started to think about the girl.
***
At some point, he fell asleep and dreamed something was wrong. Someone was near that shouldn’t be and it was this feeling that made his bones cold. He was outside his home, looking at the front door, waiting—for what?
There was a noise up ahead and someone began to creep out of shadows, moving toward the door.
He opened his mouth to say something, but even in his dreams, no words found their way out.
When he woke, he saw his ceiling. His clothes were drenched and he changed into dry ones: shorts and a polo shirt his grandmother had bought him. It made him think of her sickly face.
He opened his door, hoping it wouldn’t creak.
When he felt certain no one stirred, he walked downstairs and into the playroom. His grandmother lay in the hospital bed, letting out erratic breaths from beneath her mask. His sister had fallen asleep in the chair next to the bed. He walked over and ducked down to his grandmother’s ears to try his last words again.
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