It Devours!

by Joseph Fink

  One of the boys near the wheelchair looked up toward the bleachers. He kept scanning but could not spot Josh. Josh stood in place, not doing anything.

  “Oh, dammit,” he said. “I don’t have visible wings like this. He can’t see me wave. Also when we arrived at school this morning, I was a brown bear.”

  Nilanjana waved to Grant and pointed to Josh. Grant seemed to get it and gave a slight smile, but then the smile was lost again in the shock.

  “What happened to the floor, Josh?”

  “I felt the building shaking, and the floor got hot. Scalding even. I was in the bleachers, but it was radiating all the way up. I didn’t say anything because I thought it was just me, but then I looked down at the guys on the court and they were all staring at the floor and moving their legs and arms up and down frantically. I panicked and didn’t move. I couldn’t react in time. I could have saved people.”

  “Josh, it’s natural to not know what to do in a moment like that. Don’t feel bad.”

  “Janice Palmer reacted in time, though—that’s her over there. She started shouting at the players to get in the bleachers. She was, like, really on it. Getting everyone she could off the hardwood. And then the whole floor was gone. Janice was right on the edge. I was sure I was going to watch her fall. And Michael Shoemaker—he’s the tall one; he plays center—he held out his arm, and she grabbed it and pulled herself up into the bleachers. That’s Michael down there with Grant fixing her wheelchair.”

  “Did you see any movement, or anything else, when the hole appeared?”

  “Movement?”

  “Like an animal, or machine, or anything else moving underground that could have caused the hole.”

  Josh clacked his beak thoughtfully.

  “No, I don’t think so. It happened so fast though. I heard that sound and then the floor was gone.”

  “What sound? What did you hear?”

  “It was like—”

  “Josh.” A voice came from below. A crying woman in her mid-thirties ran right at them along the third row of the bleachers. “Oh, god, you’re okay. Josh. Josh. Come here.”

  “Mom!” Josh protested as she picked up the kiwi and held it tight to her chest and neck. She stroked his head. “Mom,” he grunted.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t grab you when you are in a smaller physical state like that. Motherly instincts and all.”

  “I’m not a kid.” He was embarrassed to have this happen in front of an adult with whom he had just been having an adult conversation.

  “Twice, Josh. That’s twice you could have been killed by one of these pits,” she said and then turned to Nilanjana. “Hi. Diane Crayton.”

  “Nilanjana Sikdar. I’m a scientist. I’m researching what’s causing these pits. I was interviewing Josh about what happened here.”

  “I know you. You’re from Carlos’s lab? I guess we’re both lucky today. Thanks for keeping my son company.” Diane embraced her son once more, kissing his tiny feathered head. “I know I said you’re not allowed to grow wings and fly without an adult around, but if another one of these pits forms, you grow the biggest wings you can and fly far away.”

  “Okay, Mom. Can you put me down?”

  “Promise?” Diane put him down.

  “Mom,” he whined.

  At that moment, Jackie Fierro tore through the gym door and joined the embrace.

  “Dude, you’re okay,” she said. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m a shitty sister. I was driving Laura on some errands on account of I offended her a few days ago. Man, I’m so glad to see your feathered ass in one piece.”

  Nilanjana felt it was better to let them have the moment alone. Also, there was a commotion out on the asphalt.

  Pamela Winchell stepped up onto a tall podium for a press conference. Nilanjana walked closer to hear her speech, as did most everyone else. A few camera flashes went off.

  “No pictures, please,” Pamela said. The cameras stopped flashing. She frowned.

  “This doesn’t feel right. Something doesn’t feel right. There are usually a bunch of bright flashes and clicking sounds when I’m on a podium, but I don’t see or hear them now.”

  Her assistant, a woman named Trish Hidge, loudly whispered: “You told them no pictures. Those flashes and clicks are pictures.”

  “Ah. I see,” Pamela said into the mic. “No pictures, but please make your cameras click and flash. I need the clicks and flashes in order to do this. But no pictures.”

  A few moments passed as the photographers in the group tried to figure out how to make their cameras do that without taking pictures. Then the press conference proceeded.

  “Hello, people of Night Vale. Hello, people of earth. Hello, ghost people of the heavens and hells and in-betweens. Hello, starry gods of the night sky hidden by the bright blue sky and the bright yellow sun. I have called this press conference to . . .”

  She paused.

  “Why is the sky blue when the sun is yellow? Shouldn’t the sky be yellow?” A strong touch of frustration in her voice. “This makes no sense. Trish. Trish! Find out why that is, and get back to me. Interrupt whatever I’m doing to tell me. It doesn’t matter if I’m delivering a press conference or sleeping or dying.

  “I apologize for that tangent. Where was I? Right. I was at home, then I was in my car. Next, I was at the high school. I’m still at the high school. That helps. See what I did? I examined history to find out more about the present. As the saying goes, ‘Those who fail to understand history are doomed, as are those who do understand it.’ It was Emma Goldman who said that. And Emma Goldman should know, for she eventually died, and we still don’t know what she had to do with today’s tragedy.

  “Sheriff Sam and their Secret Police are doing a fine job investigating this disaster. They’ve been shouting at the pit, and I believe Sam has tried shooting at it. The mayor and her staff are also doing a great job. Everyone’s doing well at their jobs. You are too, maybe. I haven’t investigated you as much as I maybe should have.”

  Trish leaned to the podium again and whispered.

  “I am being told to take questions,” Pamela sighed. “Give me some questions, I suppose.”

  One reporter asked, “What caused the floor of the gym to get destroyed?”

  “How would I know? Next question.”

  “Have any witnesses of the accident described what happened?”

  “I’m positive they have. If you were part of something like this, wouldn’t you want to describe it?”

  “What does the city plan to do next?”

  “I can’t speak for the city, but I am hoping to finally read Liu Cixin’s Remembrance of Earth’s Past trilogy.”

  “Speaking for the city is literally your job.”

  “No more questions.”

  Pamela spotted Nilanjana in the crowd, and, after a tense moment of eye contact, Pamela gestured at her. The gesture was something like finger scissors, followed by a bobbling of the head, followed by an attempt to touch her neck with her tongue (which she did easily). Nilanjana was clearly confused, so Pamela shouted across everyone, “Meet me in a less populated part of the school yard where I can talk to you secretly.

  “What have you done?” Pamela demanded to know, once they were alone. She was leaning sharply into Nilanjana’s personal space. Pamela had one finger held out only inches from Nilanjana as if she were about to start poking her in the chest, but the finger came no closer.

  “What have I done? What have you done?” Nilanjana pointed her own finger back. She had had it up to here with this city and most everyone who lived here. “You are trying to stop Carlos from doing his experiments, but is it worth all this?”

  “Of course we’re trying to stop Carlos. To prevent his relentless poking around from letting that thing into Night Vale.”

  “The centipede?”

  “I don’t know all of your big scientific words. That thing the Wordsmith warned us about.”

  “Darryl?”

 
“You just said it was a centipede.”

  “No, Darryl is the Wordsmith.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Pamela slapped her head. Hard. A little bit of blood bubbled above her ear. “Wordsmith was way easier to remember. Darryl’s such a dull name. Dull Darryl. Huh. An alliteration. That’ll help. Dull Darryl!”

  She slapped her head again. There was now a thin stream of blood running down her neck onto her blouse.

  “You said he warned you about us. What did Darryl tell you?”

  “He didn’t tell us anything. He didn’t need to. We interpreted the warning. He thought he was there to convert us. Gave us a pamphlet describing the Smiling God. But the City Council, they themselves are otherworldly monsters, so they recognize one when it’s described. They understood from the pamphlet that a terrible creature lives in the desert otherworld, and so no one must interact with that place or do anything at all that might let that creature enter our world. What did you call it? Darryl?”

  “Centipede. Darryl is a human.”

  “Whatever. Let that creature be. Let the otherworld be.”

  Nilanjana had to take a moment to restructure her hypothesis around this new piece of data.

  “Wait. You’re trying to stop the creature from attacking Night Vale this way? So none of these pits have been caused by you?”

  “Of course not,” said Pamela. “We’re trying to stop giant whatever-you-call-thems from coming into this world. You think I want to see kids eaten by a monster? What kind of person do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nilanjana. “I don’t know what kind of person I think you are.”

  “That’s terrible if you thought I would do this.” Pamela seemed truly hurt.

  “But then we’re on the same side. We’re both trying to stop that creature from doing this.”

  “Let your government take care of it,” Pamela said.

  “You’ve been handling it for two weeks, and people are dying. It’s because of how you’re handling it that people are dying.”

  Pamela’s face sagged; she was trying to keep herself together.

  “You’re a hurtful person,” she managed after a deep, careful breath and walked away.

  What a strange woman, Nilanjana thought. And, she also thought, if the city is also trying to prevent the attacks, then I am left with one possible party with an interest in keeping these events going. The church and its monstrous insect have been devouring Night Vale, bit by bit. It was time to end that, and to end them.

  She returned to the gym to check on Carlos. He was leaning into Cecil’s chest. It was just the two of them, alone and together. She let them be.

  Carlos was particular about how he liked to be touched. Only in certain places. Only for so long. Sometimes it felt nice when Cecil stroked his ears. Then the next day the feeling of anyone touching his ears was unbearable. He could not predict his own responses. In this moment, all he knew was that he wanted to be inside that combination of hair and skin and scent that was Cecil’s chest. He put his face right into the breastbone and breathed in. It smelled like home.

  “This has to be stopped,” Carlos murmured. “Almost Janice. Almost Janice.”

  Cecil placed a hand atop Carlos’s head, a kind of shelter over his frightened husband. Cecil’s eyes were closed and his face calm. His voice was soothing and firm.

  “Janice is strong,” said Cecil. “Stronger than us. She’ll be okay. And your science has saved Night Vale so many times. You’ll find a solution.”

  “No matter what,” said Carlos. “I’ve been letting whoever is trying to distract me and sabotage me win. Nothing will stop me from here on out. I won’t let Janice down. I won’t let you down.”

  Cecil drew Carlos’s face up with a gentle hand.

  “We believe in you,” Cecil said and kissed his left cheek. “We love you.” He kissed his right cheek. “I love you.” He kissed his lips.

  For the first time in weeks, Carlos forgot his work, his worries, and his world. His universe was a kiss, and he explored that universe thoroughly.

  30

  As she drove back home from the high school, Nilanjana passed a white van parked a few houses down. It was the van from the Joyous Congregation. When she passed, its engine started and it slid into traffic behind her.

  “Goddammit,” she thought. “Not this time.”

  She pulled into the parking lot at Staples (“Life is a hallucination. Buy some pens. Who cares?”). The van pulled in after her. She drove toward the entrance as if going to park, but then pulled a quick U-turn and drove toward the street again. The van, in its slower, bulkier way, turned after her. But she had no interest in losing them. Quite the opposite.

  She accelerated toward the entrance of the lot, and just before rocketing out into traffic, she slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel hard. Her car skidded sideways and blocked the van’s path. The van stopped. It seemed the driver was uncertain what to do next. There was no other exit back to the main street. The van couldn’t leave. Plus she was not behaving in a normal person-being-followed-by-an-unmarked-van sort of way. She turned the car toward the van and gunned the engine. The van started reversing. A car in the street honked at her, trying to turn in to the lot. She gave them a gesture that indicated, in a direct way, that their concerns were not her priority. She let off the brake and lurched after the reversing van.

  The curbs around the lot were high, and there were wide planters between the lot and its surroundings. The van couldn’t get through that way. Instead it shifted into drive and turned toward the Staples. For a moment, she thought the van was going to drive right through the glass front doors, but they cut left at the last second. She could see them turning in to the delivery lane at the end of the building, which led to the loading docks in back.

  Instead of continuing the chase, she decided she could cut them off. She left her car behind and ran into the store. As the doors of Staples slid open, she felt the artificial winter of retail air-conditioning. Inside, the psychological experts of capitalism had created a meandering path that forced the customer through a maze of products to get from entrance to cashier. She didn’t have time for that. She started pushing over racks as she ran, heading straight for the back.

  “Hey!” shouted Hank, the sentient patch of haze who was floor manager that day. “You can’t do that!”

  She already had done it. She broke through into one of the wide aisles and tore to the back wall, where she pushed open the door into the employees-only area.

  “You can’t go in there!” Hank drifted after her. “And you need to move your car.”

  Her reply was the slap of the employee door closing.

  “I hate this place,” Hank muttered, sending out a tendril of haze to clean up the racks she had tipped over. “I need to get a job where I don’t have to interact with humans.”

  Nilanjana beat the van to the back delivery area. Behind the store there was a low concrete-block wall, which she leapt over, landing in shrubs and tripping herself onto an asphalt alley road. She fell hard on her shoulder, but scrambled up and ran. The van had made it around the building, she could see it coming from behind the dumpsters.

  Nilanjana wasn’t much of an exercise enthusiast. Plus she had had no breakfast and almost no quality sleep. She could feel her leg muscles quivering under the stress and lack of nutrition and regular exertion.

  There was a line of young trees that the van could easily plow through to escape into the suburban neighborhood behind the store. Analyzing the data available to her, she eliminated possibility after possibility until she was left with her one course of action. She ran directly into the van’s path and stood defiantly. She felt its immense size and speed. A breeze that in other contexts would be pleasant, but here indicated displacement of air from a large, fast-moving object.

  She closed her eyes. Her pounding heart and ragged breath gave her a rhythm. The pulse of fear and creeping exhaustion. They weren’t going to stop. They weren’t going to st
op. There was a screech. The van skidded to a stop a few feet from her.

  She gasped, trying to regain herself after giving all of her mind and body over to the chase.

  The church wanted to get to her? Here she was.

  She grabbed the van door and swung it open defiantly. The group of people inside flinched back. She recognized them from her visit to the church. Stephanie. That one with the power drill, Jamillah. And of course:

  “Hi,” said Darryl. “I guess we should talk.”

  31

  This was it then. The true direction of Darryl’s loyalties made clear. Probably the guard from the church was waiting nearby. The pastor too, and her shouty sidekick.

  But there was no lunging, no mask placed over her head, no threat to stop her scientific inquiries into the church. Instead, Darryl showed her what he was holding. A huge book, bound with what appeared, to a quick glance from her scientist eyes, to be centipede skin.

  “Can we go someplace private to talk to you about this?” Darryl said.

  “Just as many monitoring microphones inside as outside,” said Nilanjana, quoting the famous line from A Streetcar Named Desire.

  “It’s not the government microphones we’re worried about,” said Stephanie, from the driver’s seat.

  “Get in,” said Jamillah. “We’ll go to your lab.”

  A trap surely. Or in any case a bad idea.

  “Nilanjana,” Darryl said calmly. “When the pastor first caught me investigating the church, I went to Stephanie and Jamillah and asked them to help me with a problem. I felt that if there was any chance that any of the leaders of the church were doing something bad, then as members of the church we should be working to inform ourselves. But there was no way to do that on my own without risking being an apostate, a heretic. I told Stephanie and Jamillah everything and trusted them as friends and as fellow believers in the Smiling God.”

  “How’d that go over?”

  “We were all suspicious of your accusations, but we were willing to look into them. I was willing because I trust you. Stephanie and Jamillah were willing because they trust me. When you snuck into services, I texted them to let them know. They did their best to cover for you, and delayed the rest of the Congregation after you pretended to lock yourself in the bathroom. Now, I’m asking you to trust me. Can we go to your lab and talk?”