by Dan Padavona
A vile sound from beyond Katy's vision froze her in place. It sounded like a laugh.
As her heart pounded, she could feel blood pulsing through her temples. She was sure someone was watching her, observing her descent through the trees, waiting at the edge of the backyard for her to walk into his grasp.
Straining her eyes against the black, she scanned the horizon.
Nothing. Only silence and the skeletal sentries of the tree copse.
She remained still for another minute. Noise had a tendency to echo against the trees inside the copse, often distorting its sound. She was no longer sure of what she had heard. She was famished and injured, and her mind may have played tricks on her.
She cautiously moved forward. After two steps she stopped and listened.
Still nothing.
Another two steps.
Silence.
Resuming her slow descent, she was comforted by the return of chirping crickets. They began a few at a time, then the song swelled all around her in the night air. She took small comfort in knowing that she was not the only thing alive inside the trees.
The way forward appeared less dark. When tree silhouettes became stark against what she perceived as growing gray beyond, she hoped that she was near the end of the copse. She contained her optimism, not daring to rush through the overgrowth.
Finally, the first sign of civilization appeared through the dense tree line. Thinking she saw a flashlight bobbing up the hill toward her, she paused, recalling the laughter she thought she had heard. The light went still when she stopped, then activated again with her movement. Of course, it wasn't a flashlight. It was just a street lamp above the roofs.
I’m almost out of the copse. I’ll be safe once I reach the neighborhood.
She continued the steady descent, planting her front foot sideways to ensure balance. With each step forward the horizon became clearer, and now she could see three more street lamps along Maple Street. The warm glow of incandescent lighting through residential windows welcomed her like lighthouse beacons, and she could discern roof outlines.
As Katy broke into the backyards of Maple Street through the border trees, houses sat in a row at the bottom of the yards, beckoning her forward with their promise of safety. Her thoughts returned to getting a good night's sleep and starting her final journey out of town tomorrow morning.
She recognized some of the houses. The Barrows' home was straight ahead—a two-story, cobalt under the night sky. The first floor flooded with light, while the top floor slumbered in silent darkness. A paint-chipped garage was off to the right. She recalled that it had an upper floor or crawlspace, but that wouldn’t help her. She had played with Jen Barrows a few times during grade school and recalled that the upper floor was boarded shut.
She liked Jen. She was one of the kids who had treated her kindly after her home life fell apart. Katy considered knocking on the door and asking Jen to lend her some clothes. Jen would have helped her. She would have given her something to eat and drink, too. Katy was sure of it. But asking was out of the question.
A retaining wall of layered stones circled the back of the garage. Blooming flowers and ornamental grasses rose up, creating an area of concealment that she might use for sleep. She preferred a garage or shed to keep the mosquitoes off of her.
For the first time she noticed that the boards over the back window to the crawlspace were torn free, but the window was several feet off the ground with no way to climb to the ledge. Light mist clung to her skin like sticky, wet clothing.
She had stopped behind the garage when the stench hit her. The odor, which was of carrion and decay, seemed to come from everywhere and once and reminded her of dead animals along the highway.
The insect songs had stopped again. The only sound she heard was the ghostly cry of a fire engine’s siren somewhere on the east end of town.
Katy turned and looked up the backyard toward the tree line. Her eyes had adjusted to the residential lighting and could no longer cut through the shadows which spilled down the hillside.
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Suddenly she realized that she was not alone.
The retaining wall behind the garage was all that stood between her and the safety of the Barrows’ house. No more than a short run, if it came to it. But the back reaches of her mind warned her not to step forward.
The ghostly silhouettes of the retaining wall fauna regarded her in silence. Something was out of place. As her mind raced to process the shapes and shadows, she felt a pall descend on her.
It looked like a dead tree. A full two feet taller than her, it was frozen in time with its wretched boughs stretching through the night air. But it wasn't a tree. Its shape suggested something else, almost human. Her mind screamed at her to run.
Then it moved.
It came out of the camouflage with alarming quickness, crashing at her through the brush. A scream perished at the back of her parched throat, as the dim light revealed the nightmare scene. It was huge. Seven, maybe eight feet tall. Its vermilion eyes were wide with hunger.
She turned to run, but a clawed hand gripped her arm and wrenched it from its socket. Pain seared through her body, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
As it lifted her off the ground, her legs and uninjured arm beat at its body with no effect. Her legs kicked uselessly as it held her suspended with inhuman strength. It was crushing her. Hearing her bones crack like cap firecrackers, she drifted into unconsciousness.
Her eyes closed before the hideous face came into the light. Its maw opened to reveal two fangs as incisors extending below its lower lip.
The fangs tore into her carotid artery, and torrents of crimson poured out of her. Her body quivered.
Its thirst was unquenchable. It lapped at her blood and tore slabs of meat away from her neck.
Her body shook violently and finally fell limp.
It breathed deeply and smacked its blackened lips, feeling strength returning to its body.
The wail of the fire engine grew soft in the distance. A dog barked, and a lone vehicle traveled east on Maple Street, unaware of the macabre scene behind the Barrows’ home.
The monstrous figure carried her lifeless body into the shadows to feed.
Eleven
Rory Dickson had just sat down on his backyard deck on Randolph Road when the chaos started.
Settled seven houses south of Mary Giovanni, the beige-sided ranch home was bordered by a meadow of wild grasses and small ponds. His wife Evelyn had just finished roasting a duck, and the air was fragrant with cooked onion. As dusk settled on the western horizon in swatches of burnt orange, a brilliant magenta kissed the underside of wispy cirrus.
While the deck boards creaked under the rocking chair, he lifted the beer bottle to his lips and drank contentedly to the flawless sky.
The ham radio in the adjoining dining room rested on a cherry wood chest, despite Evelyn's insistence that he move it to the basement. It was turned on perpetually in the unlikely event of an emergency, though Evelyn always turned the sound off while Rory was at work—the darn thing interrupted her soaps. Tonight it crackled with the occasional burst of static, like lightning on an AM radio signal, but otherwise remained inactive.
He had just finished his first beer and was dreaming about the second when the radio came to life. An agitated voice shouted something about wind damage on the southwest side of town. It made no sense to Rory, and he was about to chalk it up to a stupid prank when a second voice overrode the first. There was extensive damage to downtown—a plate glass window had exploded on Main, and people were injured in the street.
The voice of Pete Cutler came next, which caused Rory to cringe. Cutler was a good man, but he often overreacted during emergency events. Cutler was frantic, claiming a tree had crushed the roof of his garage and that someone needed to contact the National Weather Service to tell them to issue a tornado warning.
The idea was ridiculous. There were no fronts or storm sys
tems in the area. Hell, there wasn't a cumulus cloud in sight.
He couldn't allow Cutler to force the weather folks into issuing an erroneous warning, but he wanted to see for himself. As he bolted off the deck around the side of the house, he found a clear view of the southwestern edge of town. The sky was serene, yet he could hear wind roaring in the distance like a faraway freight train. The sound seemed to pour off the hill forest a few miles to the south, down Jensen toward downtown.
Rory couldn't understand what was happening, but he knew he would be needed to run his post at the police station immediately.
When he entered the house, the ham radio signal went dead. He grabbed the radio and identified himself with his ID.
“This is Rory Dickson. Can anyone hear me?”
There was only the low hum of static.
“Repeat. This is Rory Dickson in West Storberry. Do you receive?”
Again no answer.
Evelyn's face was strained with worry when she came into the dining room. While she wrung her hands and looked back and forth between her husband and the radio, Rory checked the cables running out of the back of the unit and ensured it was powered. He scanned for additional frequencies but could not find an active signal.
“What's happening?”
Evelyn feared something terrible had occurred.
“Don't know. I should get to the department. We may have lost the tower.”
“From the wind? There isn't even a storm out there, Rory!”
“Hell, I know that. But I heard the wind out there. There isn't a goddamn cloud in the sky, but I heard it.”
He fumbled for his keys and stuffed his wallet into his jeans pocket.
“Call them first. See what's happening before you rush out there like a fool.”
He knew she was right. He needed to know where the damage was and if any roads were impassible. It was senseless to drive blindly into the coming darkness without a plan.
He moved to the kitchen with Evelyn following behind him. He picked the touch tone phone off of its wall base and pressed the speed dial for the police department. Rory put the phone to his ear and listened. He heard nothing.
He pressed the reset button and dialed the phone number manually this time but was again met with silence.
“The phone lines are down.”
Twelve
The south window of the Storberry Public Library had imploded half a minute earlier. Shards of glass littered the floor and were embedded into bookcases, like bullets.
Renee Tennant emerged from under the front desk near the eastern doors with her mind spinning through the possibilities.
Are any of the student workers still in the building? Have the last of the guests departed the library, or is someone still here? Is anybody seated at the quiet study table under the south window?
As she ran for the south wall, the sound of her footfalls echoing hollow, she dreaded what she might find. The glass had blown in with such force that it would have torn through skin and bone alike. She was aware of small pieces of glass stuck in her hair. The glass had missed her eyes by mere inches.
“Is anyone hurt?”
Her voice reverberated off the walls without answer.
She sighed in relief when she saw the empty study table. A wooden chair lay shattered against the end of the bookcase. A large chunk of glass had fallen through the table and stood embedded in the wood like some sort of insane statue. She imagined what the scene would have looked like had someone been at the table. Part of the ceiling was exposed, and insulation dust floated in the air like a swarm of gnats. The dust irritated her lungs, and she began to cough.
Looking between the stacks for signs of life, she ran through the empty library. She checked the young reader’s wing and verified that the bathrooms were unoccupied. Again she called out to anyone still in the library. She silently uttered thanks that people had found better things to do on the picturesque evening. Then her stomach lurched as she imagined all of the people who had been outside, exposed to the violence.
Renee had returned to her desk when she heard the soft cries of a child from the outside the library. She grabbed her car keys and purse and exited the building down the concrete steps to the sidewalk. She saw two huge uprooted oaks splayed across Court Street, creating a street blockade between the library and the police department.
As a procession of emergency vehicles raced eastward on Jensen, their shrill screams falling in pitch as they crossed her vision, she heard people crying near the corner of Washington and Main. Distant horns blared, like cattle.
The cries came from around the corner to her right.
“I hear you. I'm coming.”
She followed the cries to the Washington Street library entrance and found a young boy with red hair and freckles sprawled on the sidewalk. The wind had ripped him from his bike, and he had landed a few feet from the glass entrance door. His knees and elbows were scraped, but she could not see any sign of broken bones. The boy's eyes were wild with fright and confusion.
“It's okay, it's okay,” she said.
The boy hugged her hard, and his shoulders shook from sobbing.
“My name is Renee. What's your name?”
“Benny,” he said, crying into her shoulder.
“Can you tell me your last name, Benny?”
“Marks. Benny Marks.”
“Marks? Do you know a boy named Randy Marks?”
“Yes,” he said. There was relief in his eyes. “He's my brother.”
“That's good, Benny. Randy lives with my friend, Mr. Moran.”
“At the f-f-farm.”
“Yes, that's right. He lives at the farm with him. Are your parents around?”
He shook his head.
“They're home.”
Looking up the side of the building, she saw that they were directly under the broken window. Two large pieces of glass hung off the pane. They could fall at any moment.
“It's not safe here, Benny. We need to get you up. Can you move?”
“Uh-huh.”
As she helped him to his feet, he winced. There were purple bruises on his body, but he had full mobility of his arms and legs.
“Does anything else hurt real bad, like your ribs? Or your neck?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Good. Let's get you inside and call your mommy and daddy.”
He leaned on her for support for the first several steps, and then he got his sea legs and walked on his own up the library steps. As she watched his face, she marveled at Benny’s resemblance to his older brother. Same eyes, same freckles, same boyish features. More sirens echoed through the town, some distant and some close.
The ceiling lights were on as she led him into the library. Renee was relieved that the power still functioned, at least on this grid. The boy's sobs dwindled to the occasional sniffle.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I'm not sure. I guess it was just a bad storm.”
“It didn't rain.”
“It didn't?”
“There weren't even clouds.”
Renee had lived through enough Virginia storms to recognize the fierce winds that had struck town. The boy was probably scared and confused.
But he had said that there were no clouds in the sky, and come to think of it, she hadn’t heard a rumble of thunder or raindrops hitting the windows. None of it made sense to her.
She sat Benny in her chair behind the front desk. She picked up the phone and was about to ask him for his phone number when she realized there was no dial tone. She pressed the hang-up button repeatedly. The receiver was dead.
“The phone isn't working,” she said. “But I can drive you home. Where is your house?”
“Randolph Road. Near the car place.”
“Near the big car dealership?” He nodded. “Okay, Benny. I know where that is. Let's get you home.”
She hung her purse strap over her shoulder, and he followed her down the front steps. Her hatchback was parked
in the small Washington Street lot which served the library and the flower shop next door. There were pieces of glass from the library window on the car hood, and a tree branch was wedged underneath the driver side door. Otherwise the car looked unscathed. Cursing under her breath, she yanked the branch out from under the car and unlocked the doors.
Ensuring Benny was safely seated, Renee started the car and headed west on Washington Street. The traffic light at the intersection of Main and Washington was out. Green, yellow, and red flashed concurrently, reflecting off the blacktop in a blurred kaleidoscope of confusion. She edged the car into the intersection; and when she saw the road was clear, she turned left onto Main.
An ambulance with flashing lights was parked on the right side of the street. Emergency workers loaded an old woman with gauze wrapped around her leg onto a stretcher. A man with mussed hair and a dazed look on his face stumbled down the west-side sidewalk like Frankenstein’s monster.
She saw Greg Madsen stringing police tape around a block of sidewalk where a plate glass window had exploded on the eastern side of the street.
“I’m going to pull in here for a second, Benny.”
She brought the hatchback into a parking space near Madsen. Looking curiously at the young boy in the passenger seat, Madsen waved to her.
She leaned out the window and asked, “Got any idea what happened?”
“None,” he said. “Not that I’ve had time to think about it. It all hit the fan at once.”
“It had to be some kind of freak storm, right?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy. Rory Dickson knows some of the weather folks, but he isn’t answering his radio. Tower must have gotten hit.”
“That’s interesting, because I tried to make a call, and it sounded like the phone lines were down, too.”
“The lines are up around the station and the library, but they may have taken a hit further down the road. Shit, I hope the telephone exchange building didn't get nailed.”