“I don’t think it sees us,” Angela whispered.
The flier folded back a rough, leathery wing, momentarily allowing sunlight into the room, then thrust it forward, releasing a rotten note from deep within its elephantine lungs. Glass shattered, and a discolored vestigial claw on the center of the wing groped the room.
Angela screamed.
“Out! Get out now!” Bishop shouted. He grabbed the shotgun and pulled Angela towards the door.
“My gun!” she shouted.
Bishop dove towards the bed and reached for the pistol, and the three-foot claw scraped his arm. He retreated and they left the room, slamming the door behind them as the flier wailed. Yutu was waiting in the hallway, growling.
“We’ll get it later,” he said, chest heaving.
Thump.
“Behind the door,” Angela said, digging her nails into Bishop’s hand.
Yutu glared at the apartment door and released a deep, slow growl.
Thump. Thump.
Wings fluttered against the door, and the looped mimicry of a shotgun blast filled the top level of Fultons.
“You’re kidding me?” Angela asked, backing away. “From yesterday?”
“Probably,” Bishop said, escorting her down the hallway and checking the dark stairwell.
The thumping was relentless, the muffled shrieks nauseating. The door rattled on its hinges, and flashes of green shone through the cracks.
They ran downstairs—Yutu taking the lead—and ducked behind racks of clothing. From crouching positions, they peered between dresses and slacks at the storefront window. Bishop’s stomach knotted when the defined, tree trunk legs of the big flier appeared and the turbulent cloud of small fliers on Main Street. The big flier’s tusk-sized talons scraped along the sidewalk, sending up chalky clouds of keratin and concrete. A small rectangle on its leg pulsated red. Bishop counted it for fifteen seconds and calculated fifty-six beats per minute. The towering flier backed up across Main Street, revealing its complete form and folded its wings. Then it jerked its head upwards and let out a distorted wail that hinted at vague, alien notes. Its wings flattened parking meters and ripped down the awning over M.B. Real Estate. One of the small fliers zipped near its prodigious beak, and it followed the buzzing object with three pupils, then snapped its beak upon the thing, swallowing it whole. The looping shotgun mimicry faded as the small flier traveled down its gullet.
“Great,” Angela said. “They eat their own.”
“Works for me,” Bishop said.
The big flier smashed into the building across the street, angled towards the alley next to Fultons and charged, opening its wings and lifting from the pavement. It disappeared from view, only the rhythmic beat of thunderous wings revealing its presence. The small fliers were right behind, their shotgun mimicry growing faint as they joined the big one somewhere over the valley.
Yutu stopped growling.
“The gun,” Angela whispered.
They went upstairs, and Bishop cracked open the door to their temporary apartment. He went to the bed and retrieved Angela’s .357. He also took the backpack and the headlamp.
Bishop shut the door, and they stood in the hallway. Yutu sniffed the daypack and sneezed while backing away Angela glanced down the hall to the locked door.
“Don’t you want to know?” she asked.
“The door? No, not really.”
“It’s bugging me,” she said.
“It’ll make too much noise.”
“Not if we’re careful. Besides, there may be things we need.”
Bishop looked down the hall, focusing on the dark stairwell.
“You hear that?” he asked.
Angela paused, her cochlea twitching, always expecting the worst.
“I don’t hear anything,” she whispered.
“Oh, well I do. It’s the sound of you being stupid.”
She hit him with a right fist square on the shoulder.
Bishop shook his head and went to the locked door. He retrieved the multi-tool Colbrick had stashed in the backpack and jammed the saw blade between the door and frame, pushing against the steel bolt. The metal clicked, and he turned the knob. A chemical odor emitted from the room, similar to Windex. On the north wall hung newspaper clippings and photographs. A lone, army-style cot rested along the southern wall, with a single burner camp stove and several camping propane tanks on the hardwood floor. A laptop sat on a faded desk in the corner, along with USB card readers.
They studied the pinned photos and articles, Yutu sniffing the room behind them. Angela pulled down one of the newspaper clippings, her mouth agape as she read.
“What?” he asked.
“This was from two weeks ago,” she said, grasping the paper. “And it mentions people seeing unidentified flying objects—especially at night.”
Bishop pulled down another article. It featured a hysterical Elmore resident complaining of something in the leaves biting her the day before.
Gee, what could that have been? Bishop thought.
The photographs were blurry and unprofessional. They showed wooded areas and unidentifiable blurs of some creature, and Bishop guessed them to be pigras or frequency seals.
“Someone was paying attention,” she said.
“Yes, and it wasn’t us. We were clueless.”
“What do you expect? We were on vacation.”
Yutu found a morsel on the floor and wolfed it down.
“I wonder what they were doing?” he asked
“Maybe they were one of those paranormal investigative units like you see on TV.”
“Possibly. Or maybe they know much more than that.”
“Like the scientists in the pristine bunker you and Colbrick joke about?”
Bishop chuckled. “Yeah I see your point.”
Angela turned away from the newspaper clippings and photos. “Jesus, Bishop. How could we be so freaking stupid? Laptop? The internet? Hello?”
Bishop turned on the silver laptop, his hand trembling. A white cord ran from the computer to the wall, and he guessed it to be a DSL line, which was the only kind of high-speed they had in the Valley, if you could call DSL high-speed.
A third of the battery remained—more than enough. He opened the web browser and tried several sites, but there was no connection. The network icon on the taskbar flashed in perpetuity. He clicked the arrow in the browser URL box to view the website history. The top address was strangeoccurences.com.
“The phones are dead, so it makes sense that the DSL is dead too,” Angela said. “Did you get the name of the last site viewed?”
“Yep…strangeoccurrences.com.”
“Sounds like a paranormal website,” she said.
“No doubt about it. Probably just a clever kid who rented this place for the summer and happened to be in the right place at the right time. Whoever it is has a nice single burner camp stove, too. A backpacker for sure.”
“We should search the laptop for more info,” Angela said.
“Yeah but not here.”
Bishop took the laptop and a USB card reader.
“Do you think they will miss them?”
“I don’t think they’re even alive,” Bishop said.
*
Angela cracked the back door to Fultons and peered outside, sunlight stinging her eyes. She felt like a rodent peeking out of its burrow in rattlesnake country. Strange how their lives had changed.
Yutu watched from behind her legs.
“It’s clear.”
They loaded the truck, and Yutu hopped into the backseat.
“Wait,” she said. “I want some new clothes.”
Angela sauntered about the store, smelling the fresh, new clothing and holding it to her face. She folded pants, belts, blouses, and other niceties upon her forearms and entered the vintage dressing room. “If I’m going to die soon, I’m going to have some freaking fun,” she said to herself.
When she opened the back door, Bishop couldn’t believe i
t. She was dolled up, even wearing an extra glamorous application of makeup.
She got in, reeking of sexuality and verve.
“Woah,” Bishop said.
“You like?” she teased.
“Hell yes,” he said.
“Back to Big J?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Bishop, that was the plan.”
“The plan temporarily changed since finding the laptop.”
“Why?”
“Because, sweetheart, there’s one other way to get internet service in the valley.”
“Satellite.”
“Bingo.”
“And where would the best place be for satellite?”
“Streamwood Resort. They have the money.”
“I thought you didn’t want to go west?” Angela asked.
“Streamwood isn’t too far in. Plus, this is as important as it gets. It’s worth the risk.”
They headed north on Main Street which soon morphed into Highway 18. Then they turned right onto Elk Drive and wound their way west amid cedars and tamarack. Mailbox clusters poked out of the woods, marking wide gravel drives that led to groupings of trophy cabins that may or may not have satellites on the roof.
“We need to look for two things,” Angela said. “Satellites and a generator.”
“Big J has a generator,” he said. “We can grab a satellite and bring it back there if need be, but I’m hoping we can find both here.”
“The Big J generator also needs gas,” Angela said.
Bishop looked at the gas gauge and frowned. “That’s one thing we have to find before we head back to Big J. We don’t have a choice, actually.”
The truck passed enormous specimens of old growth hemlock. Soon, the dim outlines of gaudy log cabins loomed between the trunks and over the tops of ferns and huckleberry.
Yutu watched the dark woods flash by, as if searching for something.
*
Streamwood was known for its wealth, and Bishop wouldn’t be surprised if every cabin had satellite. They pulled into an overdeveloped and obsessively maintained property with a bulging log cabin, and sure enough perched on the roof was a satellite dish.
“Bingo,” Bishop said. “What do you think? Clear? Good to go?”
Angela turned, checking every last patch of fern and shade.
“Good to go.”
They got out of the truck, and a glistening leg swiped at Bishop’s face, cutting into his cheek. He fell backward onto the ground, blood streaming down his face and onto his shirt.
“Bishop!” Angela cried.
Yutu barked and scraped his paws high on the side of the truck. Angela followed Yutu’s point to the truck roof and saw a secapod in an aggressive stance. The lone eye bulged above the pancake midsection, the roaming pupils observing her and Bishop as it rotated. It raised two legs, preparing to jump on Bishop as he lay on the other side of the truck.
“No!” Angela shouted, running to the driver’s side and aiming the .357.
The grotesque secapod grunted and clicked, then leaped into the air with the intention of landing on Bishop’s bleeding face. Angela closed her eyes and fired in the secapod’s direction. The.357 kicked hard, stinging her shoulder. She opened her eyes after the last bullet, expecting the worst.
The secapod lay upside down next to the front tire, its squid-like beak grinding as if sand was caught in its hinges. Bishop picked himself up off the ground and stomped on its soft, glistening underbelly, and all four of its legs clamped onto his right leg like a bear trap.
“Shit, wrong move,” he said.
Yutu whimpered and clawed at the ground near the secapod.
Still groggy from the shock, Angela trudged over, bent down, and pried each moist, hairy leg from Bishop.
“You’re free,” she said in a far-off voice.
Yutu wagged his tail and pawed at Bishop, but something wasn’t right. Angela turned her hands palm sides up and screamed when she realized they were sliced open as if she had grabbed a knife by the business end. Thick, wiry clumps that resembled pubic hair poked into the wounds, irritating the damaged flesh.
“Jesus!”
Bishop’s first thoughts were to mash the dead secapod with his heel, and then to grab a weapon and run through the woods shooting every damn one of the things he could find. But he stifled that, and instead went right for the first-aid kit in the glove box. The largest clear pouch contained handy wipes. He ripped them open with his teeth, then applied the wet fabric to Angela’s hands.
She grimaced.
He dabbed another packet.
More screams.
Bishop carefully wiped away the blood and hair, then held her.
She tried to embrace him, but her hands were in so much pain from the cuts and the treatment that they just lay there like hooked claws against his back.
“Rule number one, baby,” he said, rubbing her back.
“We never talked about any rules,” she sobbed.
“We are now. Rule number one is never touch them.”
“Understood.”
“And that goes for me too. This was my fault. Stepping on it got me caught, and you injured.”
Bishop pulled away and wiped his bloody face with one of the handy wipes. When he finished, the material was soaked in blood.
“It’s not that bad,” Angela said, doing everything not to clench her hands.
He looked at the cabin and sighed. “We need to do this.”
“My shots probably alerted the fliers,” Angela said.
“Maybe.”
Bishop took the gauze from the first-aid kit and wrapped it around her hands as she winced.
“You OK?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, her tears smearing her eyeliner which she had so proudly shown off earlier.
“Can you still hold the pistol?”
“I don’t think so. This hurts.”
“You have to carry it.”
“I don’t think I can.”
He finished bandaging her hands and snipped the material with the cheap pair of scissors included in the kit. He took one of the Vicodin and placed it in her mouth, then held a water bottle to her lips.
“I’m going to be comfortably numb, aren’t I?”
“Just like two balloons,” he said.
She smiled through the pain.
“I’ll carry the gun until you heal,” he said.
She looked at Bishop’s face and shivered. He pretended like everything was perfectly normal.
“Let’s go surf the internet,” he said. “There’s a commemorative plate on Ebay that I want.”
Angela laughed.
They followed a manicured trail to the back door of the cabin, Yutu sniffing the ground behind them. To the north, in-between regal hemlocks, the cool waters of Lake Gallatin reflected sunlight. There were no boats on the picturesque lake today.
The backdoor was framed by an awning and porch, with a carved chair on either side. The door was locked, and Bishop kicked it open on four tries, the final effort splintering trim and revealing fresh, bright wood underneath the varnish. The cabin was immaculate, not a single item out of place. A heavy layer of dust indicated the owners did not live here full-time and that they hadn’t been out for the warm season yet. An intertwining antler chandelier hung from the ceiling above a cherry wood dining table. Each chair had a set of outdoor-themed placemats. The north wall was all windows with a view of the lake in-between stout tree trunks. The east wall of the cabin held a spotless kitchen with marble countertops. The west wall contained an open door that led to a bathroom, and to the right of the bathroom, half-log stairs ascended to the second story.
“I guess this is what they call an open design,” Angela said.
“Yeah. Great place,” Bishop said.
He went to the kitchen and tried the phone. Nothing.
Yutu trotted to the pantry and scratched at the door.
In the corner, near the lake view window was a desktop computer,
with several cables running out of it along the hardwood floor.
“Found it,” Angela said.
She pressed the power button, but the computer did not turn on.
“I thought I saw a shed outside,” Bishop said. “If they have a generator, that’s where it would be. Are you OK here for a few?”
“Yes. Don’t you see Yutu over there guarding me fiercely?” Angela asked.
Bishop chuckled. “Yeah, he’s a real pitbull.”
*
The forest was always quiet, and the changes made it even more so, and this frightened him. The short walk to the shed was unpleasant, and for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to be alone in this nightmare. He was lucky to have Angela and Yutu. Of this there was no doubt, and the reality of his love for them punched him in the chest, radiating goodness and light. This he could control, this was important. It gave him power, enough to smash the locked shed door with a force that he’d never tapped into before.
He was changing.
“Found you,” he said to the generator, and pulled its lawnmower-like starter. He shut the door, manipulating it with pine cones and other forest litter to keep it closed. The generator shed had been insulated with foam, and the motor purred as he walked back to the cabin.
Something flickered on the lake.
Curiosity led him through the hemlocks and down the wooden landing until he reached the pier. All three hundred acres of beautiful Lake Gallatin stretched out before him, ponderosa pine blending with hemlock along the shore. Several cabins poked out of the old growth trees, breaking the cohesive texture of the scene.
Bishop stopped where pier met shore. The blue flashed again, and he realized it was a
frog just under the surface, except this wasn’t like any frog he’d seen before. The frog was close to a foot long and kicked the water with six limbs. The back limbs forked into a shape that almost resembled a tail when the limbs drew together. Its sides were pudgy like earth’s frogs, but it had unique, colorful markings down the length of its glistening back. The frog’s mouth appeared too wide for its head, and when it opened its jaws, an elastic tongue shot forth. Bishop watched as the tongue stretched at least four feet and latched onto one of the buzzing mosquito-like creatures he didn’t care for. Before the insect could escape, it was stuck to the frog’s tongue. As the elastic tongue rolled back into the frog’s mouth, the mosquito cut into it with its saw snout and flew away. A chunk of the tongue flopped into the water, but the frog let its tongue loll there. Bishop watched in awe as the tip of the frog’s tongue slowly grew back. Satisfied with the regeneration, the frog recovered its tongue and scrutinized the shoreline vegetation with hungry eyes. A moment later, another invasive mosquito buzzed along the shore and the frog nailed it, this time lurching forward to meet its captured prey halfway before it had time to cut through the tongue. Bishop shivered as he watched the frog swallow the insect. He couldn’t shake the creeping sensation that these things were making their home here. They were behaving as they would in their native ecosystem. Bishop shuddered and turned away from the frog. As he did, he caught a glimpse of a flashing tag under the surface. A minuscule wake rolled from the disturbance as it moved towards him.
The Invasive Page 16