Invasion

by Eli Constant

  As soon as I’d popped a piece of the owl meat into my mouth, I’d been reminded of the time David and I had gone to a little bistro a few towns over. We’d had quail meat cakes topped with poached quail eggs all drizzled in a foamy hollandaise-type sauce. There’d been a distinct, almost dark flavor to everything. That seemed… like so long ago.

  Kara couldn’t chew the owl meat, but she did eat canned sweet potatoes—progress that eased my worries over her food fickleness. Megan, on the other hand, refused to eat it on principle, protesting that the bird’s eyes were staring at her. The cook, whatever his name was, hadn’t removed the heads before roasting the two birds on a supple tree branch.

  Megan’s refusal had made me wonder if the undergrounders felt anything when they ate fellow beasties.

  I knew from press releases we’d seen before having to flee that witnesses had seen cannibalistic beasties. There was a reason why the witnesses lived to… well, witness. Attacking humanoids were so distracted by spilt beastie blood that they forgot to kill the leftover humans.

  There were many ideas about why the humanoids ate their dead, but my personal thought on the matter was a different one.

  Flesh memory.

  It was a little off the wall, but not the least probable theory. Baby beastie would eat mommy beastie and be all the smarter for the late-life snack. Did the humanoids even give pause to remember their dead or did they dive right in and begin to munch on grandpa-beastie?

  Not that understanding them mattered. What mattered was that every time I killed an undergrounder, I knew that more would come. They would smell the flesh and the blood and they would come, ready to complete their barbaric circle of life.

  Just another thing to worry over, to add to the list that cycled through my brain on a nonstop real.

  Sunlight may not keep them at bay forever.

  They prefer warmer weather, but that could change.

  Avoid the claws.

  Someone saw one standing upright, on two legs.

  Stay away from dark places.

  They eat their dead. Don’t get their blood on you.

  I never let the girls see how scared I was. I wish I could hide my fear even from myself.

  More days passed and in my mind, I heard the road’s siren call. But everything seemed so oddly normal; it was easy to ignore the prodding of my brain. It was simple to forget that keeping on the move would be safer, that we were pressing our luck staying so long.

  It was Kara that finally made me make up my mind to leave. I’d held her in my arms for hours, her little body not wanting to succumb to sleep after a lovely day of racing through the woods and making charcoal drawings on the rock face—she’d only managed a circle, a line, almost a stick figure. Her little chubby fingers had been darling things, gripping the chunk of charred wood while she tried to imitate her older sister’s lovely lines.

  She’d stared up at me, her face barely visible by the dim firelight outside the tent, and she’d said: “momma, I safe?”

  I don’t know why she’d needed to ask me if she was safe. But the words had struck at me, as if they were a sign that now was the time to say goodbye to the little town of tents and faces.

  Two nights before I’d planned to pack up the girls and head out, our safety was challenged. I’d known better than to stay in one place so long. I’d known better. I shouldn’t have waited for some sign from my toddler to spur me forward. Stupid me.

  I'd just kissed my girls and emerged from our tent to the eerie state of absolute silence. No one was around, all retired early. That had only happened twice before in these past weeks. I didn’t like it. It was too early for things to be so still.

  A kiss of sun even still held onto the horizon. The darkness was just a breath away. It seemed like I was always focusing on the forthcoming night and what dangers it might bring, even during the day when I was trying to feel free.

  I walked several feet forward, but then paused in confusion. I expected the quiet to be broken quickly, for the normal sounds of the surrounding woods to come alive and greet my ears.

  But there was nothing. Not a cricket. Not an owl. Not the soft sound of a breeze pushing past leaves. My hand went to rest on the gun strapped to my side. I hadn’t felt the need to carry it during the past week, but something had told me to get it out of the locked van today.

  Rolling my ankle slightly and flexing my calf, I felt the knife strapped against my skin. I didn’t know where it had come from; it had just appeared at the opening of our tent one day. I could have asked someone, found my secret Santa, but I hadn’t. I was grateful though—one more item for my poor arsenal.

  I stood there for some time, waiting for something to jump at me from the woods. When the sunlight was well and truly gone, the stars beginning to twinkle to life, I moved again until I reached a small gathering of bushes just past the border of rock our tents resided on. I needed to go to the bathroom. This small bit of privacy close to camp was the choice spot for most of the people here.

  Looking up, I smiled at the moon, a crescent sliver hanging low in the sky. My hands rested on my hips—the fingers of one brushing the handle of the gun—as I stood there momentarily ignoring the need of my bladder.

  I started violently as something touched my leg and I gasped involuntarily. Looking downwards, I saw a large figure was crouched against the ground next to the bushes. I hadn’t even noticed the person—so concentrated was my focus on the lights above. Immediately, I tried to move away, but the fingers of the stranger moved quickly and became a cage around my wrist, preventing me from fleeing.

  It was too dark now to make out every detail, but I could see that a finger of the person’s free hand rested on closed lips—a signal to not break the hush. I told my heartbeat to slow and my body to relax. My quickly-adjusting eyes slowly made out more of my captor’s features and I was sure it was the one I’d heard called Jason.

  His finger left his mouth and he pointed forward. My gaze shifted, going to where he indicated.

  A shadow moved stealthily, weaving between tents. Its form existed just beyond the borders of the weak fire that was still burning and putting off a small circle of light. No one had put the flame fully out after dinner, which was unusual. I didn’t know why I hadn’t noticed it when I’d first exited our tent; perhaps I’d been too captivated by the silence.

  The hulking form moved on all fours and made almost no sound as it sliced through the night. Now that I was focused on it though, I could hear the trademark bone against bone; the creepy joint-popping that screamed undergrounder. It was soft, but undeniable.

  I could see by the silhouette that a large, long object was held to this beastie's back. I’d encountered quite a few of the creatures, but I’d seen only one other carrying a crude weapon.

  Jason let go of my wrist. That was good. I needed that hand to unsnap my holster and draw the weapon when the time came. And it would come.

  Even without personal experience, I could have perfectly pictured the skulking form in the dark—its pale skin and curved claws were the stuff of nightmares. As the murders and monster-sightings had intensified, the press had released images of the undergrounders—graphic photographs taken in morgues that showed pale bodies with hard stitches running the length of bony, inert torsos.

  The pictures caused panic. There was reason to panic. These creatures—these pale humanoids that were a mishmash of human and monster—were taking over our world.

  There was one good thing about the beasties though.

  They bled and they died just like us.

  Once you proved that the boogeyman bleeds, you stop being scared. You find your courage. I knew I could kill the monsters in my closet. I’d keep killing them until they killed me.

  The form continued to circle our camp. Its pace slackening gradually. It knew we were there watching it. It knew that it was faster. I heard one of the girls stir in the tent.

  I prayed it wasn’t Kara. She was too young to understand.

&
nbsp; “Mom?” Megan sleepily called behind me.

  “Quiet, baby.” I whispered back. “Quiet.” I spoke with more urgency this time as I heard her shuffle towards the front of the tent. At the tone in my voice, Megan stopped moving. It was too late.

  The animalistic screeches were deafening. It was yelling for others and we only had moments to act. I called behind me for Megan to stay put, stay with her sister. Simultaneously, I lunged forward as fast as humanly possible—which was nothing compared to humanoid fast.

  You can do this, Elise. Concentrate.

  I repeated the mantra, low, almost soundlessly. My legs pumped quicker than my heart. I felt a pain in my chest; I ignored it.

  Jason was on my heels, moving fast and trying to overtake my stride, but I got to it first. Too close for the gun.

  I grabbed for the trench knife strapped to my calf. The blade caught in its sheath. I angled it free, a curse word slipping from between my clenched teeth.

  The beastie was mid-cry, raised into the air about to slam down against me with its powerful forearms. With an unsure, but fierce movement, I uppercut to its midsection. The humanoids had over-developed hearing, but poor sight—a product of dwelling underground for centuries. The minutest of sound was enough to warn the monster of what I was doing. But my knife found purchase anyway.

  The blood oozed in a black waterfall onto the shadowed rock. The injured beastie stumbled onto all fours and turned away from me. But it wasn’t retreating. The screeching stopped abruptly and a powerful foreleg reared backwards. Sharp claw tips narrowly missed my arm as I rocked back boxer-style. But it wasn’t trying to strike. The clever beastie was distracting me while it reached for the pointed wood on its back. I reacted too slowly. The undergrounder had its weapon free and was facing me once more.

  Like lightning, the sharpness was thrust towards my body. I fell to the ground and rolled, the piercing point scratching across the ground and missing. Jason used his body to slam into the beastie’s side as I recovered and more blood gushed as Jason carved out his own piece of trophy flesh.

  The monster reared up again, spear looking like death.

  Standing, my knees aching from the fall, I rushed forward. My knife hand shot out and sliced the air uselessly in front of the undergrounder’s legs. Still, my ineffectual thrust caused it to rock backwards and become unsteady.

  I had to make the kill strike. Someone had to make the kill strike.

  With confusing speed, the injured quadruped found balance and took command of its body once more. It whirled—with nearly the grace of a classical dancer—and fell back on all fours. The spear moved in its hand as it shifted its grip. Then it screeched and reared up on hindquarters again. The beastie targeted Jason’s chest with its front legs and came down with staggering force. Jason sidestepped, but couldn’t entirely avoid the blow. His grunt of protest as he crumpled to the ground was full of surprise and pain.

  The beastie stood over Jason’s body now with unmistakable menace. The spear was raised above its head, the point hovering in such a way that it would embed in Jason’s throat if dropped. It was focused on the life it was about to take. Focused on its victim… and not on me.

  My body vibrating, I moved close enough that the smell of the monster’s skin was an earthy-assault to my senses. It was still distracted, the spear slipping an inch or so closer to Jason, like the undergrounder was taunting his prey. That sent fury scorching through my veins.

  Raising the knife high, I slammed it down into its back and sliced the sharp blade down the length of its knotty spine. Its blood was everywhere now. On my clothes, my hands, my face. It spurted out like fluid from a broken fountain.

  What my eyes could still make out in the dark night was further obscured by a haze of wet. My body felt sticky and repulsive. I convulsed, a shiver running the length of me. But the beastie was no longer moving. Point for me.

  The smell of undergrounder blood was heady, wafting out into the woods. Others would be attracted to the smell of the dead. We would be lucky if more didn’t show up tonight. Would we be lucky? How long had it been screeching for companions? Were more already on their way?

  My arms were sore from the fight, but I dragged the contorted body to a spot several yards from camp and I began to gather wood. I was still on the rock so there was no worry of the fire spreading and there was a depression in the stone that made a perfect fire pit. I filled it with dry needles and branches, and then I rolled the undergrounder body on top.

  It would have burned quicker with gasoline, but that was too precious a commodity to waste. I walked back to camp and grabbed a box of matches from a small container next to the nightly fire site; they were still valuable things I didn’t like to squander, but in this case, their use was necessary.

  I put out the dinner fire and checked on the girls before returning to what would soon become a funeral pyre. Megan was awake, her arm around a sleeping Kara. I gave her the thumbs up sign; she returned the gesture reluctantly. I zipped the tent all the way up when I left this time, like the flimsy material would safeguard my angels.

  As I walked towards the inert monster, I saw a shovel propped against a nearby tree and I was inspired.

  Back at the bloody, waiting carcass, I saw the outline of Jason. He was sat upright, propped against a large tree close by. I could not make out much save for the fact that he was shifting his body around, which meant he was still breathing.

  Our surroundings had dissolved further, everything a deep navy blue, nearly ink-dark. The light given off by stars and moon was not enough to penetrate the forest canopy and provide much illumination now.

  My eyes returned to the unmoving, humanoid body. That I could see. Its skin was so pale, it almost glowed.

  Wielding the shovel, I stood, legs parted with my crotch positioned over the body.

  I raised the instrument, meant for digging and planting and provincial jobs. Its dull metal caught a stray ray of light that had somehow snuck into the shadows.

  With an accurate strike, I drove the point into the beastie’s throat. It was a small disappointment that one strike did not ruin the neck joint.

  Twice more I raised the shovel, made dark with undergrounder blood, and violently thrust its point downwards. The third strike was the charm, severing the head and appeasing my own inner monster. The beastie’s face rolled away from its long, pale neck and rested awkwardly next to the shoulders.

  The adrenaline was wearing off, my arms felt sore, my body spent. There was no reason to decapitate the corpse. It was dead already. I knew it was dead.

  I craved only the sick satisfaction of furthering the ruin I had done to the creature. It made me feel like I had some power, some control over my life and survival.

  Lighting a match, I watched the brilliant flame a moment before letting it fall. The spark died before it reached the ground. I sighed. Lighting a second match, I squatted down and gently pushed it into the dry needles and branches. It caught fire after a few moments of smoldering.

  Everything hurt as I stood back up. My own joints popped and cracked like I, myself, was turning into some sort of beast.

  I couldn’t fight again tonight. If any more of them crept out from the woods tonight, I would be a useless thing.

  My body wanted to return to my girls and snuggle down in the warmth of them, but my brain was captivated by the burning monster. It was such a strange thing.

  The beastie body, its predatory cat-like joints contorted and shoved against the rock, was strong in its compactness and had the appearance of hairlessness—although undergrounder bodies were indeed covered with a thin layer of strong and blunt follicular appendages.

  The dead monster’s pale ‘hairs’ were flaccid against the skin—making it appear rubbery and sleek. I’d seen those hairs stand erect before, revealing glimpses of skeletal structure. Wherever firelight illuminated the skin a latent translucent quality appeared, almost like white opal.

  The scent of burning flesh was filling the air a
round me. Beef a few days past fresh simmering in a frying pan. The undergrounders didn’t have fat, or at least not enough of it to add a side of burning cookout pork to the aroma. And then there was the unusual note of fresh-turned earth added to the mix.

  A pop and I saw one of its eyes burst into a mass of fluid to wet its charred face. Beastie eyes were vaguely egg-shaped, wider towards the ears, narrower towards the nose. Two sets of eyelids, the outer one pale and opaque, the inner one clear and slimy. And the lenses were pale, like that of a blind man’s.

  I didn’t think I’d ever become accustomed to the sight.

  As the fire died down, I realized how tired I was. So I sat down on the rock, legs crossed, and I stared into the dark around me.

  I sat there for so many hours.

  I sat until the first touch of sunlight peered over the horizon and filtered through the scattered pines beyond the rock.

  It would have been beautiful had the rays not illuminated my blood drenched skin and ruined clothing. I had nothing left to change into, wardrobe depleted. The girls were the only ones with more than one set of clothing and those were all ragged and stained too. It looked like we’d be raiding a department store somewhere. And we’d be raiding it soon.

  It didn’t matter how many times I washed what I was wearing. I’d always worry that the beasties would smell their dead brethren on me and start running.

  A rustling alerted me to movement and I whirled from my seated position to a kneeling one facing the opposite direction. My gun was out and aimed reflexively. The knife was still stained and lying on the ground waiting to be cleaned.

  I was so tired; my arm ached with the effort of keeping a steady grip.

  “Whoa! Whoa! Put that thing away lady!” The voice was urgent, raised hands indicated surrender.

  My heartbeat slowed, but only by the smallest measure. I’d forgotten all about Jason. He could have been bleeding out, dying during the night, and I wouldn’t have been the wiser.