Scene II
We are on a high, rounded hilltop ringed with trees. From the now destroyed freeway and all surrounding areas, this hilltop is as bare as its neighbors. From the Compound, however, this hilltop is clearly ringed with trees. Large, old and powerful trees. Each tree has specific plants growing at its base, and each plant is as aware of its purpose in this place as it is aware of the trees and as the trees are aware of their purpose in this place on the hill, and the hill because of the trees is aware of its purpose in this place and how it is different from the other hills around it.
Across the valley from this hill a mountain spews and rages, lava pouring forth to destroy everything in its path. The air is full of smoke and ash: smoke from fires, from the mountain; ash from fires, not so much from the mountain -- but within the circle of trees all smoke and ash are lessened. Filtered.
Down the way from this hillside entire communities burn unchecked, without intervention or assistance. A solar powered radio left on in a house as yet untouched by fire but abandoned for weeks plays the last repeated pre-recorded emergency broadcast for the night before it fades to silence. If the house has not burned by sunrise, it will resume playing this message within moments of first light. The likelihood of this radio's survival beyond the next twenty-four hours is, as of this writing, slim.
RADIO: ... state of emergency has been declared for the state of California. Citizens are asked to avoid the Sacramento area and surrounding delta. Travel to the San Francisco Bay Area is inadvisable at this time. If you are trapped and need assistance, the number to call is on the FEMA website at www.fema.gov/ca. Call this number if you are experiencing the following conditions: lack of phone service; aftershocks; power outages; home invasion; fire; lava flow; bird flu; West Nile virus; gas main explosion; hallucinations; or if your house has burned down and you are trapped inside.
Oh ... God. This is pointless. Who the fuck wrote this copy?
I don't care! We should tell the the truth, Phil.
Oh, really?! You think we still have jobs?! Sacramento is UNDER WATER, asshole! The levees broke, haven't you heard anything ...?
Oh, what, NPR is conspiring to flood Sacramento, now?! Jesus, just because this is an AM broadcast doesn't mean we have to pretend the Central Valley is still dry.
Directive? What directive? We're supposed to help people!
Well that's just ridiculous, Phil. I am not a part of your Prophet's Circle.
What the fuck -- ? Is that a gun? Jesus, Phil!
No, I'm not letting you in here.
[muffled gunshot]
Californians, please, we hope and pray you're still alive, just get the hell out of there and stay safe.
[glass breaking]
God be with you.
[gunshot. static. beep.]
... Message repeating. A state of emergency has been declared for the state of California ...
This message has been playing since before the house was abandoned. Nobody is there to hear it. Even now, the one individual who can hear it lies asleep here in the Tor, snuggled into a cozy ball; the emergency broadcast from a house far down below the Compound has become part of the background noise he hears, just part of the fabric of sound to which he has grown accustomed in the night and the day and the twilight at either end. He waits. As he was told. His feet twitch. He dreams of chasing kitties. Muffled barking in his sleep as he corners the largest kitty in the world and tells it to play with him. If he wakes in the night, he will mark the trees. He senses the sigils, he does not see them. He keeps his vigil at the Northernmost edge of the circle of trees, with a clear view North and East. And though now he sleeps, still his mind is alert for the least variation in the soundscape of the night.
Presently, a thump-thumpthump is heard. His left ear raises, though he remains asleep.
Rustling in the brush outside the Tor.
Sleeping dog eyes crack open slightly.
Skip-rustle, skip-rustle, skip-rustle from the underbrush.
His eyes are open. He lays still, listening.
Skip-rustle, skip rustle.
He raises his head.
Skip rustle.
Max: You?
Silence.
Then with a final skip-rustle, a small figure emerges from the tall dry summer grass at the Western edge of the Tor.
Max: Mmm, smells tasty.
He stands, stretching and yawning, nostrils working as he zeroes in on the source of the tasty smell.
Max: Tasty?
Skip-hop.
Bucephalas: Would you again seek to eat your fate? Do you remember nothing?
Max: You smell so tasty.
Bucephalas: Even if you could catch me, do you think you could eat me? Did you give Chauncey my message?
Max: Chauncey? Chauncey?! So lonely! Do you know. Do you know.
Bucephalas: Do. Not. Lick. Me.
Max: I sit. I stay.
Bucephalas: Thank you. Did you give him my message?
Max: Yes I am Maxwell. I good boy yes. I good boy say.
Bucephalas: Did he say anything in return?
Max: ...
Bucephalas: Did he give you a message for me?
Max: Chauncey good boy also say.
Bucephalas: And?
Max: He good boy yes. He good bunny. He good boy go, good boy stay, good boy all the time.
Bucephalas relaxes, tucking his feet under him and breathing a little sigh.
Bucephalas: Finally. All we have worked for may come to pass. Are you ready, Maxwell?
Max: I am good! I sit stay!
Bucephalas: Yes. Good.
The ground shakes and fire rips into the night, an explosion so loud that both animals freeze for a moment, internally registering and evaluating fight-or-flight.
When it is clear that the explosion is some miles to the North and that they are in no direct danger, Bucephalas skip-hop, skip-hops to the Northern edge of the Tor. Max follows.
Bucephalas: Do you remember what I told you?
Max: Yes. I am Max. I good boy go.
Bucephalas: Not just yet. Be ready. The signal comes soon.
Max: Max good boy ready, Busfloss.
Bucephalas: Ah, you remembered. How nice.
Max and Bucephalas sit in companionable silence for a time, both animals' ears twitching at the sounds of fire and gunshots and screaming that come from closer to that giant of fire raging East of that hill far to the North. There are roaring sounds, keening screech sounds. Sounds that say, 'We will eat the people you love if you do not stop us! Only a Good Boy can save the people you love!' Max shifts, licks his chops. His legs twitch. He is itching to run.
Bucephalas tucks his feet under him and begins to speak:
Bucephalas: Do you remember Raider, Maxwell?
Max sighs.
Max: Raider good boy Gone. Sleep now forever.
Max lies down, crossing his paws, and rests his head on them. Bucephalas skip-hop, skip-hops closer, right next to him.
Bucephalas: Raider is always with you. Whenever you are a Good Boy, Raider is there. Did you know that?
Max sighs.
Max: I am Max. I love Raider. I love Alpha. I love Pack.
Max turns and touches his nose to that of Bucephalas.
Max: Where is Raider? Where is Pack?
Bucephalas: Your pack is scattered to the winds of time, Maxwell. You are possibly their only hope. But we must wait. For the moment, I suppose we can just wait together. Is that alright with you?
Max: I do my best. I good boy sit stay. I wait. I wait. I wait with Busfloss.
Bucephalas: Well, that's something, then.
Max: Busfloss good boy stay. I love Busfloss. Busfloss good boy. Busfloss Pack.
Bucephalas cocks his ears slightly.
Bucephalas: Yes, I -- ... Thank you.
Bucephalas stands on his hind legs, listening to the North. Max shifts, moving his left front leg.
Bucephalas: Don't put your paw on me. I want to live.
Max smiles, panting.
Max: Busfloss Pack.
Max knocks Bucephalas over.
Bucephalas: Damn you, Maxwell.
Max smiles, panting.
A howl sounds, now, far to the North, close to the fire giant.
Max sits up.
Max: I know that voice.
Bucephalas: That is the signal. It is time. Do you remember, when you were a puppy, how I promised to let you chase me?
Bucephalas stands to his full height, ears erect.
Max: I am Max. I remember. I love to chase.
Bucephalas: Tonight is the night, Maxwell. I shall lead you on the merriest of chases. I dare you to catch me, snap my legs; I dare you to kill me, snap my neck; I dare you to eat me: rend my flesh!
Max howls. Both animals feel that howl fly North. They feel it affect other small animals in the brush. They sense its movement over hills and dales and trees, toward the fire. They feel it land among creatures to whom it gives pause. They sense friends to the West of the fire. Friends in danger. Max senses other friends who cannot find the people they seek. 'I will help them,' he thinks.
The howl from the North is repeated.
Max: Mommy.
Bucephalas: Fly, Maxwell! Now is the hour! Fly in the shadow and form of Malop-Fenrir-Kerberos! Catch me if you can!
Bucephalas shoots off down the hillside as only a ghost rabbit can, and Max leaps from within the circle of trees, bounding after Bucephalas and howling a second and greater howl -- a howl that stills the heart of flame for a moment, calling it to crackle, tame, in the hearth; a howl that draws the attention of three travelers above an abandoned dairy farm as they are surrounded by creatures intent on devouring them; a howl that causes those same creatures to wonder, however briefly, if they will not get their dinner after all.
And even as those are some of the effects of the howl on most who hear it, the words of his howl are so simple, so clear, that they pierce right to the heart of the one for whom it is intended:
Max: I hear You! I'm coming! You good stay! You good stay! I am Max! I come when you call!
So it is that the hill itself sees, as Bucephalas launches from the Northern edge of the hidden Tor, that Maximilian Schnell bounds through the night, swift as a shadow, Malop imbuing every paw with certainty and grace.
To chase the ghost rabbit.
So it is that the hill senses, as Talmadge and his two citified companions are surrounded by beastling creatures, that Max VonSitDown, blessed of Fenrir, has the scent of certainty and follows it as sure as night follows day.
To catch the ghost rabbit.
So it is that the hill hears, as another -- and yet another -- gas main unleash giant fireballs into the night on the hills just East of the northern field in which an oaken madwoman devours every living thing with her second and splintery mouth, Kerberos unleashes his own triple-headed canine harmony, straight up through the earth and into this bounding, blessed dog. Every strength, every power, every heroic quality of every hero ever devoured by Kerberos as he guards the gates to Hades is woven into that harmony, filling, igniting and transforming this humble Labrador / Boxer mix.
To eat the ghost rabbit.
So it is that Max The Wonderdog is born.
And Bucephalas, dashing ahead of Max in a chase he has waited lifetimes to lead, utters the words which seal, set and bind them to their task:
Bucephalas: So Mote It Be.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
NFTF: Rancher III
"Do we have any ammunition that may work better?" the wife asks, bow drawn taut again, the point of her razor-sharp arrow never wavering.
They are silent. There is nothing. Then it hits him, bubbling up from within the memory of that Halloween night, in 1946. The thing that had come in to their party, the thing that had come through.
"It's one of the reasons we're being looked for," she'd whispered. "Now tell me, Tal: what did he say?"
"Not ... not much. He -- I promised, Bet -- Leah," he had stammered.
"I will show you a more secret secret, Tal," she'd whispered and he'd known, in that moment, the first crackling arc of desire in his soul, utterly different from his craving for berry cobbler or root beer or near-burnt chocolate chip cookies. Who was this girl, and how could she do these things with her voice and with paper and symbols?
Before he could speak, she had moved another paper on top of the first, this one dominated by a large symbol, unfamiliar in the whole but comprised of a variety of geometric shapes he'd seen before. Their specific arrangement, and the shapes that twined around them, made his eyes swim, forcing him to shut them tight and shake his head.
"Shhh," Leah had whispered, putting her fingers on his forehead. "When I tell you to, unfocus your eyes. The way to do this is make a triangle with your thumbs and pointers put together in front of you, and focus on the point in the middle of that triangle. Do this and breathe deeply, Tal. Do it over the paper, and when you're ready, take your hands away. Let the symbol sink into your mind. Don't look at anything. Just let it sink in. Breathe and do nothing."
He had opened his eyes and done as she asked. It had been a struggle at first, he'd had to blink and re-start a few times. Then something had clicked in and, when he felt himself sink deep into this unfocused, relaxed state, he had put his hands at his side and allowed the symbol to sink in.
After a time, it began to change color. Lighting up a deep blue, at first, the color moving clockwise through the symbol from a point near the bottom. He had taken a breath to speak, but Leah's whispered, "Shhhh, focus now ..." had kept him in the moment.
The symbol in blue had floated, then, raising up off the paper and hovering in the air before him. The physical pain of his goosebumps had felt electric. The symbol had begun to light up a brighter, blue-white lightning color, in the same pattern that it had first changed color. Trying to follow it with his eyes, he had lost focus for a moment. Leah had leaned in close, her breath warm on his neck and ear, whispering, "Keep going, Tal. You've almost got it. Focus inward, let your eyes be soft."
Against all odds, this had galvanized him. The symbol had lightningn-ed and she had taught him to trace one specific part of it in the air, the wispy, trailing through-line, whispering specific words to him as the candle burned low and clouds gathered over their small town on that late Halloween afternoon.
Nine times they had traced it, until Talmadge had learned the words and the gesture and could trace it easily.
"This is a sigil," she had said, pleased with him. "It's bright today, tonight, because this is Halloween and the veil between worlds is so thin. Mama says this sigil is for revealing hidden things. It opens doors that have been shut with spirits' help, it --"
"Leah?" her mother's voice, from downstairs. "Are you two in the attic?"
"Tell me quick, Tal," she'd said, smiling. "What did your friend tell you before he ... disappeared?"
And he had told her, of course. He told her everything. The treasure, the journey -- the quest -- to get it where it was destined to go. How so many stories remained unfinished as a result of its loss, how a rightness could be restored to the world once it reached its destination. Little things, like individual lives -- either through inheritance or correspondence long-lost, and big things like bridges and skyscrapers and whole cities that hadn't thrived or had moved in the wrong direction, or were destined to destroy that which was best in their hearts and infrastructure, all in the name of greed. So many things could be re-shaped by its safe arrival, and Ben was the Steward, now. "One of the last," was how Tal had finished his telling, and then Leah's mother was at the bottom of the attic stairs, "Come down, my little Halloween spellweavers," she'd sung to them. "Your guests are beginning to arrive, dear."
Descending the ladder, Tal had begun to see things clearly for the first time: other symbols -- sigils -- etched in the glass of every window in Leah's home. Similar shapes over doorways, on newel posts. A very intricate sigil in the glass of the front door. Leah's mother smiled at him and he knew Leah would grow even more beautiful -- and powerful -- than her already mesmerizing mother. So many things had become clear that night.
Then, as they'd danced the Halloween dances Leah taught them, all of the other kids innocent and Tal himself only beginning to suspect the meaning, something had come through. Something large. Something dark. Something uninvited. He remembered the screams, the other children running, the parents so still, in shock, all of them.
All except for Leah's mother who had run to the kitchen and screamed one word as she threw a blue cardboard box from within the pantry directly at Tal's head. He'd caught it at a strange angle, and the box had broken open, much of its contents spilling over him. The word she'd shouted, one word so colored in his mind by that Halloween, that he had allowed himself to live a life devoid of it for the last fifty years.
"Salt," he says now. "Salt will kill 'em dead."
They are silent. There is nothing. Then it hits him, bubbling up from within the memory of that Halloween night, in 1946. The thing that had come in to their party, the thing that had come through.
"It's one of the reasons we're being looked for," she'd whispered. "Now tell me, Tal: what did he say?"
"Not ... not much. He -- I promised, Bet -- Leah," he had stammered.
"I will show you a more secret secret, Tal," she'd whispered and he'd known, in that moment, the first crackling arc of desire in his soul, utterly different from his craving for berry cobbler or root beer or near-burnt chocolate chip cookies. Who was this girl, and how could she do these things with her voice and with paper and symbols?
Before he could speak, she had moved another paper on top of the first, this one dominated by a large symbol, unfamiliar in the whole but comprised of a variety of geometric shapes he'd seen before. Their specific arrangement, and the shapes that twined around them, made his eyes swim, forcing him to shut them tight and shake his head.
"Shhh," Leah had whispered, putting her fingers on his forehead. "When I tell you to, unfocus your eyes. The way to do this is make a triangle with your thumbs and pointers put together in front of you, and focus on the point in the middle of that triangle. Do this and breathe deeply, Tal. Do it over the paper, and when you're ready, take your hands away. Let the symbol sink into your mind. Don't look at anything. Just let it sink in. Breathe and do nothing."
He had opened his eyes and done as she asked. It had been a struggle at first, he'd had to blink and re-start a few times. Then something had clicked in and, when he felt himself sink deep into this unfocused, relaxed state, he had put his hands at his side and allowed the symbol to sink in.
After a time, it began to change color. Lighting up a deep blue, at first, the color moving clockwise through the symbol from a point near the bottom. He had taken a breath to speak, but Leah's whispered, "Shhhh, focus now ..." had kept him in the moment.
The symbol in blue had floated, then, raising up off the paper and hovering in the air before him. The physical pain of his goosebumps had felt electric. The symbol had begun to light up a brighter, blue-white lightning color, in the same pattern that it had first changed color. Trying to follow it with his eyes, he had lost focus for a moment. Leah had leaned in close, her breath warm on his neck and ear, whispering, "Keep going, Tal. You've almost got it. Focus inward, let your eyes be soft."
Against all odds, this had galvanized him. The symbol had lightningn-ed and she had taught him to trace one specific part of it in the air, the wispy, trailing through-line, whispering specific words to him as the candle burned low and clouds gathered over their small town on that late Halloween afternoon.
Nine times they had traced it, until Talmadge had learned the words and the gesture and could trace it easily.
"This is a sigil," she had said, pleased with him. "It's bright today, tonight, because this is Halloween and the veil between worlds is so thin. Mama says this sigil is for revealing hidden things. It opens doors that have been shut with spirits' help, it --"
"Leah?" her mother's voice, from downstairs. "Are you two in the attic?"
"Tell me quick, Tal," she'd said, smiling. "What did your friend tell you before he ... disappeared?"
And he had told her, of course. He told her everything. The treasure, the journey -- the quest -- to get it where it was destined to go. How so many stories remained unfinished as a result of its loss, how a rightness could be restored to the world once it reached its destination. Little things, like individual lives -- either through inheritance or correspondence long-lost, and big things like bridges and skyscrapers and whole cities that hadn't thrived or had moved in the wrong direction, or were destined to destroy that which was best in their hearts and infrastructure, all in the name of greed. So many things could be re-shaped by its safe arrival, and Ben was the Steward, now. "One of the last," was how Tal had finished his telling, and then Leah's mother was at the bottom of the attic stairs, "Come down, my little Halloween spellweavers," she'd sung to them. "Your guests are beginning to arrive, dear."
Descending the ladder, Tal had begun to see things clearly for the first time: other symbols -- sigils -- etched in the glass of every window in Leah's home. Similar shapes over doorways, on newel posts. A very intricate sigil in the glass of the front door. Leah's mother smiled at him and he knew Leah would grow even more beautiful -- and powerful -- than her already mesmerizing mother. So many things had become clear that night.
Then, as they'd danced the Halloween dances Leah taught them, all of the other kids innocent and Tal himself only beginning to suspect the meaning, something had come through. Something large. Something dark. Something uninvited. He remembered the screams, the other children running, the parents so still, in shock, all of them.
All except for Leah's mother who had run to the kitchen and screamed one word as she threw a blue cardboard box from within the pantry directly at Tal's head. He'd caught it at a strange angle, and the box had broken open, much of its contents spilling over him. The word she'd shouted, one word so colored in his mind by that Halloween, that he had allowed himself to live a life devoid of it for the last fifty years.
"Salt," he says now. "Salt will kill 'em dead."
Thursday, August 15, 2013
NFTF: Max III
>>POP<<
"Maxwell."
YOU! YOU! YOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOU!
You smell strong! I LOVE YOU!
Leap in air. Turn in air.
You smell old! I LOVE YOU!
Land, leap again. Turn again.
Stop. Look.
Your fur: white.
Old like Raider.
I LOVE YOU!
Give kisses! Give kisses to YOU!
"Who is a good boy? Yes. Yes. You are such a good boy. Oh, kisses. Yes. Drool in my beard. Thanks so much. Some scratches? Yes? You love having Dog Loves? Yes. I love you so, Maxwell. I have been gone so long. Lifetimes within lifetimes. And my time is short. Now settle. Good, settle stay. Good."
Treat? Treat?
Lick dog chops.
Treat?
Hands mean treat.
I love you.
Eyes mean treat.
I love you.
So hungry.
I am Max.
I wait.
I am good.
I wait.
I love you.
So hungry.
"I see you licking your chops. I think I have something for you. Ah-ah-ah, stay. Good boy."
More than treat! I LOVE YOU!
"I said stay!"
I stay. Yes. I love you stay.
I good boy stay. Lick dog chops stay.
Drool. Can't help it. Drool.
Love.
Drool.
"I'm sorry this has taken so long, Mister Jizzjowls. I -- aaaugh, wow, I'm -- much older than the last time you saw me. Right? Hold on there, Mister, I need to unfold this bowl and pour the food. Have you ... where the hell did I put the food ... ah. Here. Okay. Now. Have you been a good boy? Listening for Mommy?"
MOMMY?!
Lick chops. Wag wag wag.
I LOVE MOMMY!
Drool. Wag wag.
IS MOMMY HERE?!
Shift feet. Wag.
MOMMY?!?!
Drool. Wag-wag-wag-wag-wag!
Lick chops.
"Sorry. No, she's not here. Not close by. But soon, Max. Soon. Keep listening. When she calls, you will know. And you must go to her, no matter what she says. Okay. I'm setting your food here, you stay. Aaaugh, my knees ... okay ..."
Eyes wide. Ears up. I watch you.
Now is proof: I good boy stay.
I love you.
I earn my food.
I stay. Yes.
Now is proof.
Yes.
Drool.
I good boy stay.
Yes. Love.
Drool.
Lick dog chops.
Drool.
Shift legs. Yes.
Drool.
I wait. I wait.
Long time.
Drool.
I wait.
Loooong tiiiiime.
Drool.
Wait.
Yes.
I am Max.
I love You.
Drool.
"Good boy, Max, get your dinner!"
Leap! To food!
Yum-so-crunchy!
Gomf gomf gomf crunchy!
Crunch crunch crunch yum yum.
Oh so tasty.
I love You.
I love food.
You bring food.
I LOOOOVE YOU!
Eat yum crunch gomf yum eating good yum ...
"Soon the fire will crest the hills to the East. Eruptions of gas mains in the last houses still standing in the hills of Danville and San Ramon. When the fireball lights the eastern sky, Max, that is when you must be ready. That is when Mommy will call."
Gomf gomf I love Mommy.
Gomf Gomf I good boy wait.
Food good. Almost gone.
Lick dog chops.
More food?
"That's all there is. You'd better eat it up, Mister Stinks-a-lot."
Gomf gomf gomf yum.
Lick bowl for morsels: one morsel. Good.
Two morsels! Yum!
Gomf. Gomf.
Lick bowl.
Crumbs.
Lick bowl. Yum.
Lick chops.
Thirsty.
"Here's water. Wait -- ah-ah -- let me ... there. Drink up. Good boy."
Water.
Oh.
Yes.
So delicious.
"Take your time. I have more water. Special things in water for Mister Maxwell. I just need to mark these trees. Clockwise."
Look at water.
Smell water.
Good smell. Plant smell.
You drink?
"Keep drinking, Mister. No, no need to follow me: you stay and drink. It's all for you. Something special, something from long ago and far away. See? I'm just circling the trees. Drink up. Good boy."
Water is good!
Lick dog chops.
Drool.
Sated.
"You sure you're done?"
I love You.
"Oh, kisses. Yes. Pffaw, wow, thanks for that -- Jesus --"
Fart.
"Okay. Go potty."
You go potty?
"Go ahead. I trust you. I'm just going to sit here. It's nice to just sit, these days."
Peeing. Trees. Peeing here. Long pee. Nice.
"Yes, feed the trees. They need it. They've been here a long time. Not visible from the freeway, Max. Not that that means much to you. But this Tor, these trees. Sigils. Blocking. This Redwood, that Ash: an entire Druidic alphabet, an unintentional Entmoot, and nobody knows."
Potty now.
Was peeing there.
Now squatting here.
Glance at you.
Ahhh ...
Good.
Ahhh ...
I good boy go potty.
Bury. Bury. Potty bury.
YAY! Time to run.
"What I wouldn't give for half your energy, Mister Stinks."
I run this way!
Play?
I run that way?
PLAY?!
I give you kisses.
"Okay. Yes."
I LOVE YOU.
"What a good smoochface."
I run this way.
PLAY?!
"Shhh, Max, no no, settle. Settle. Sit. Lie down. Settle. Good. Stay."
I run that way.
You play now.
I need play.
"I'm sorry I was gone so long, I didn't mean to just pop out like that, Max, STAY."
Yes. I stay.
I good boy stay.
"Listen to me."
Kisses.
"Listen to me: you must stay here. I have marked the trees. Do not pass that boundary. Trees are marked. Do not pass. Do not pass marked trees until I come for you, or until you hear Mommy call for you."
I love you.
Kisses.
"Now ... hold still ... [click, jingle] ... there. This will keep me tuned to you, like an anchor."
Jingle jingle I have new jingle!
"I will always, always, always come back for you, my boy."
You.
New jingle. Good.
I love You.
Good new jingle help good boy Maxwell.
I sit stay.
"I love you so. I do."
I good boy lie down stay.
You? You stay.
Head on lap.
SIGH.
You.
I love You.
"I'm sorry I have to go now, I'm so sorry I have to leave you and Mommy like this."
Eyes only: look right, look left.
SIGH.
Roll onto back.
Tummy, please. For scratching?
Ooohhh yes good I love You.
"But I promise, I will come back. I promise."
Good.
Scratching Loves.
You.
"Mommy has an anchor, you have an anchor, and I must set sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars, until I ... until I can ... oh shit, here it goes -- so dizzy -- be good, Max."
SIGH.
Sleepy times.
"Be good for Mommy. Listen for her call and go to her if you hear her voice."
Mommy?
I love Mommy.
... I love You ...
Snore.
"Listen for Mommy and ask her to sing for you, she sings like an angel --"
>>POP<<
"Maxwell."
YOU! YOU! YOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOUYOU!
You smell strong! I LOVE YOU!
Leap in air. Turn in air.
You smell old! I LOVE YOU!
Land, leap again. Turn again.
Stop. Look.
Your fur: white.
Old like Raider.
I LOVE YOU!
Give kisses! Give kisses to YOU!
"Who is a good boy? Yes. Yes. You are such a good boy. Oh, kisses. Yes. Drool in my beard. Thanks so much. Some scratches? Yes? You love having Dog Loves? Yes. I love you so, Maxwell. I have been gone so long. Lifetimes within lifetimes. And my time is short. Now settle. Good, settle stay. Good."
Treat? Treat?
Lick dog chops.
Treat?
Hands mean treat.
I love you.
Eyes mean treat.
I love you.
So hungry.
I am Max.
I wait.
I am good.
I wait.
I love you.
So hungry.
"I see you licking your chops. I think I have something for you. Ah-ah-ah, stay. Good boy."
More than treat! I LOVE YOU!
"I said stay!"
I stay. Yes. I love you stay.
I good boy stay. Lick dog chops stay.
Drool. Can't help it. Drool.
Love.
Drool.
"I'm sorry this has taken so long, Mister Jizzjowls. I -- aaaugh, wow, I'm -- much older than the last time you saw me. Right? Hold on there, Mister, I need to unfold this bowl and pour the food. Have you ... where the hell did I put the food ... ah. Here. Okay. Now. Have you been a good boy? Listening for Mommy?"
MOMMY?!
Lick chops. Wag wag wag.
I LOVE MOMMY!
Drool. Wag wag.
IS MOMMY HERE?!
Shift feet. Wag.
MOMMY?!?!
Drool. Wag-wag-wag-wag-wag!
Lick chops.
"Sorry. No, she's not here. Not close by. But soon, Max. Soon. Keep listening. When she calls, you will know. And you must go to her, no matter what she says. Okay. I'm setting your food here, you stay. Aaaugh, my knees ... okay ..."
Eyes wide. Ears up. I watch you.
Now is proof: I good boy stay.
I love you.
I earn my food.
I stay. Yes.
Now is proof.
Yes.
Drool.
I good boy stay.
Yes. Love.
Drool.
Lick dog chops.
Drool.
Shift legs. Yes.
Drool.
I wait. I wait.
Long time.
Drool.
I wait.
Loooong tiiiiime.
Drool.
Wait.
Yes.
I am Max.
I love You.
Drool.
"Good boy, Max, get your dinner!"
Leap! To food!
Yum-so-crunchy!
Gomf gomf gomf crunchy!
Crunch crunch crunch yum yum.
Oh so tasty.
I love You.
I love food.
You bring food.
I LOOOOVE YOU!
Eat yum crunch gomf yum eating good yum ...
"Soon the fire will crest the hills to the East. Eruptions of gas mains in the last houses still standing in the hills of Danville and San Ramon. When the fireball lights the eastern sky, Max, that is when you must be ready. That is when Mommy will call."
Gomf gomf I love Mommy.
Gomf Gomf I good boy wait.
Food good. Almost gone.
Lick dog chops.
More food?
"That's all there is. You'd better eat it up, Mister Stinks-a-lot."
Gomf gomf gomf yum.
Lick bowl for morsels: one morsel. Good.
Two morsels! Yum!
Gomf. Gomf.
Lick bowl.
Crumbs.
Lick bowl. Yum.
Lick chops.
Thirsty.
"Here's water. Wait -- ah-ah -- let me ... there. Drink up. Good boy."
Water.
Oh.
Yes.
So delicious.
"Take your time. I have more water. Special things in water for Mister Maxwell. I just need to mark these trees. Clockwise."
Look at water.
Smell water.
Good smell. Plant smell.
You drink?
"Keep drinking, Mister. No, no need to follow me: you stay and drink. It's all for you. Something special, something from long ago and far away. See? I'm just circling the trees. Drink up. Good boy."
Water is good!
Lick dog chops.
Drool.
Sated.
"You sure you're done?"
I love You.
"Oh, kisses. Yes. Pffaw, wow, thanks for that -- Jesus --"
Fart.
"Okay. Go potty."
You go potty?
"Go ahead. I trust you. I'm just going to sit here. It's nice to just sit, these days."
Peeing. Trees. Peeing here. Long pee. Nice.
"Yes, feed the trees. They need it. They've been here a long time. Not visible from the freeway, Max. Not that that means much to you. But this Tor, these trees. Sigils. Blocking. This Redwood, that Ash: an entire Druidic alphabet, an unintentional Entmoot, and nobody knows."
Potty now.
Was peeing there.
Now squatting here.
Glance at you.
Ahhh ...
Good.
Ahhh ...
I good boy go potty.
Bury. Bury. Potty bury.
YAY! Time to run.
"What I wouldn't give for half your energy, Mister Stinks."
I run this way!
Play?
I run that way?
PLAY?!
I give you kisses.
"Okay. Yes."
I LOVE YOU.
"What a good smoochface."
I run this way.
PLAY?!
"Shhh, Max, no no, settle. Settle. Sit. Lie down. Settle. Good. Stay."
I run that way.
You play now.
I need play.
"I'm sorry I was gone so long, I didn't mean to just pop out like that, Max, STAY."
Yes. I stay.
I good boy stay.
"Listen to me."
Kisses.
"Listen to me: you must stay here. I have marked the trees. Do not pass that boundary. Trees are marked. Do not pass. Do not pass marked trees until I come for you, or until you hear Mommy call for you."
I love you.
Kisses.
"Now ... hold still ... [click, jingle] ... there. This will keep me tuned to you, like an anchor."
Jingle jingle I have new jingle!
"I will always, always, always come back for you, my boy."
You.
New jingle. Good.
I love You.
Good new jingle help good boy Maxwell.
I sit stay.
"I love you so. I do."
I good boy lie down stay.
You? You stay.
Head on lap.
SIGH.
You.
I love You.
"I'm sorry I have to go now, I'm so sorry I have to leave you and Mommy like this."
Eyes only: look right, look left.
SIGH.
Roll onto back.
Tummy, please. For scratching?
Ooohhh yes good I love You.
"But I promise, I will come back. I promise."
Good.
Scratching Loves.
You.
"Mommy has an anchor, you have an anchor, and I must set sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars, until I ... until I can ... oh shit, here it goes -- so dizzy -- be good, Max."
SIGH.
Sleepy times.
"Be good for Mommy. Listen for her call and go to her if you hear her voice."
Mommy?
I love Mommy.
... I love You ...
Snore.
"Listen for Mommy and ask her to sing for you, she sings like an angel --"
>>POP<<
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
NFTF: Rancher II
"That's our signal," the woman says. The husband takes his shotgun from the scabbard on his saddle, checks it, his wife doing the same with her longbow. Silent, competent, prepared. This couple might not be as city-slick as they pretended. Jury's still out.
Shaking his head, he grabs his Winchester and joins them on the stony outcropping at the edge of the ridge. "What now?" he asks.
They're silent for a time, the roar of the fire loud and getting louder. The husband looks at him, a little smile in his eyes:
"We wait."
A howl sounds, far off to the South, and they all three turn their heads in that direction. The woman has given a little gasp, whispering a word he doesn't hear clearly, and he wonders again if they know about anything beyond the freeways and coffeehouses of the young.
"Not a cayute," he says, but his words are lost under the keening whine of something to the North. The horses are disturbed, whickering and stamping. Turning to look for the source of the noise, he sees only that there is something moving in the grass, coming toward them. The light of the fires to the East is not enough to make anything clear at that distance.
"Why would anything that small be running toward us?" he murmurs. It reaches a low, pebbly hillock and they see it more clearly: small, maybe the size of a small child, but somewhat hairy and oddly shaped -- and its face ... something is wrong, there. It stands, panting, sniffing the air, tongue lolling between what look like very sharp teeth.
"Is that ... a little kid?" the woman asks.
"I think it's one of the things we were warned about," the husband says.
"It looks like a toddler in a monster mask," she says, and her voice is a little loud, a little mocking. The rancher would never have spoken so loudly, but then he also wouldn't have come here on a lark. The thing seems to hear her, its head snaps in their direction and it licks its chops, hunkering down, one hand going to its crotch where it fiddles as it shits out a pile of something greasy and foul enough to make their eyes hurt from a hundred yards away. The horses are near panicked, and he glances back to see even Beulah with her eyes wide, pulling and stamping.
Smiling at them, the creature reaches back for a handful of shit which it then smears over the tip of what is clearly a very erect cock. Raising its head with a high, screeching, keening howl, the creature points at them -- but more at the woman.
Instinct sets in and he has raised his rifle and sighted the tiny creature, when he realizes that the woman and her husband have done the same with their weapons.
"Should we just kill it?" she asks, calm, her bow drawn taut.
"Probably," her husband responds.
"Ladies first," he murmurs.
Two more creatures step from the grass behind it, already stroking engorged cocks. One of them drops to the ground and actually fucks the pile of shit for a few thrusts, as the third dances about with its fists in the air, uttering guttural barks that sound like laughter.
"He wasn't kidding about the shitfuckers," the husband breathes.
"He wasn't kidding about any of it," the woman sounds a little annoyed.
"I'll take the one on the right," the rancher murmurs.
Three more creatures step from the grass, heading directly for the shit, which only seems to be growing stronger in intensity, burning the eyes as well as the nose and lungs, now. He coughs, his eyes watering.
"Fuck this shit," the wife says, then gives a little laugh and looses an arrow. Her aim is true: it plows through the head of the creature in the lead, as well as two behind it. Two more! Where did they come from?
All of the creatures stop what they are doing.
He sets his sights on another one, shifting his stance, sensing more than seeing that the couple to his left have done the same.
The creatures fall on their former leader and the two behind, ripping, biting, devouring, tearing, even greedy in the gobbling of entrails -- unleashing a wave of stench so foul that he is fighting back puke. The horses are screaming their alarm, and he glances back at them to see if he should go cut them free. But Beulah, blessed Beulah, is watching him. Stamping, whickering, but calm.
The wind changes for a moment, smoke less burning than the shit of these creatures, and he realizes he smells sage. He breathes deep. The urge to vomit passes, his eyes are clear.
"Breathe," he says. "Deep. That sage will help."
They do, and he again senses them resetting their stance, more secure now.
Focusing fully on the creatures with eyes clear, he sees that they have made quick work of their three fallen comrades and ...
"Good Lord," he breathes.
"They're growing," she whispers.
A new creature takes the lead at the top of the low hillock, this one appearing to have eaten the most of its dead fellows: it is large and growing larger than the creatures around it, its bones cracking and growing and realigning as its flesh tears and re-heals around them until it is the size of an adolescent human. For a moment its face is bare bone as the flesh and other tissue is torn away before re-growing, the eyes receded to embers in the hollow sockets, but still smiling at them as it rocks its head from side to side like a carnival automaton.
Like a Halloween nightmare.
October, 1946, Betty's attic.
"Mama says it's heavy enough to cut off a finger," she'd said, and he'd held the trunk open as she rooted around inside of it, finally coming up with an old, leather-bound volume, the binding broken and papers bulging from the front and back, held together with an iron band which clasped and locked in the front of the book.
"You have to promise not to tell," she'd said, looking at him with the book on the wooden floorboards between them.
"I promise," he'd said, his crush on Betty strong enough to get him to promise anything.
"You also have to share a secret with me, since I'm sharing a secret with you," she'd said. His first and fervent hope had been that this secret would involve a kiss. "Do you promise to share a secret with me?" she had asked.
"Yes, I'll share any secret you want," he'd said.
From down below, music: someone, Betty's mother probably, had put on a record. It was Dunkelheit's Dance Of Lost Shadows, the perfect music for that late Halloween afternoon. A little scratchy. He shivered.
"Tell me what Ben said to you before he ran away," she had whispered. A violin shriek in the music had sent goosebumps up his arms. He'd needed, then, to pee, but had no idea how to tell her that.
"I can't --" he'd started, but Betty had laid a finger across his lips.
"Here's a free secret. My name isn't Betty," she'd said. "My name is Leah. My family, we're ... different. We're being looked for. There's someone out there in the world who wants to find us, and Mama says it's very important that we not be found. I think this book is one of the reasons that we have to hide."
She had unlocked the iron binding on the book -- he hadn't seen a key -- and had opened the cover to reveal a page covered in handwritten symbols and shapes, words surrounding every image written in a precise, beautiful, and incomprehensible language. He had reached for the paper, but she had stopped his hand. Then, with her left hand, she had tapped three times in the center of the largest symbol on the page -- circular, with points extending like an X -- three times, tap - tap - tap, and whispered a word that sounded like Abracadabra but was older, thicker, made him think of twisted roots clinging to bright gemstones deep underground.
Then she'd said, "Show me what I saw."
From the circular symbol arose a globe of blue light. Bright enough to light the entire attic, though it affected their candle: the flame had begun to sputter and send little sparks into the air. Presently, the center of the blue globe, no larger itself than a grapefruit, resolved itself into a picture: a window, looking out into a gloomy September evening. Focusing on a house that looked familiar.
"My house," he'd blurted. "That's my house ..." His words faded as he recognized the boy sitting on the porch, the car pulling up and himself getting out, Mr. Packer helping him with his knapsack. This was not his house anymore. Betty lived near his new house.
"How did you ... how did you see this?" he asked.
"Shhh," she'd said, and the picture in the globe took on what little color that dark evening had carried. He'd unlocked the door, run inside, Ben waiting outside as his first cry of, 'Mom, I'm home ... !' had echoed in the now-empty foyer. He'd dropped his pack and run through every room, more frantic with every step. He knew he'd been yelling 'Mommy?! Where are you!?' and the realization that Ben was on the front steps sent a spike of shame from his balls to his heart. But maybe he was in the wrong house? Maybe it was all a mistake. He returned to the front door to find Ben. He checked the house number, he looked around at the neighborhood: it was all as he knew it should be.
In the globe of light, they saw him run in. They saw Ben watching, waiting, dressed in rugged travel clothes but wearing, oddly, a yellow rain slicker and hat over it. Ben never looked around, standing now. Patient.
When he comes outside, they speak for a moment after he has looked around. He sits down, tears unavoidable. Ben sits next to him. After a time, Ben says something. He turns to Ben, his tears sliding into a scowl of disbelief.
They'd watched the conversation from a distance, through a window, through a globe, Talmadge and Betty -- Leah -- in the oddly lit attic as her mother put the finishing touches on the best -- and last -- Halloween party he'd ever attended.
The two boys head off together, both wearing knapsacks -- the one returning from a journey, the other only just beginning -- and the bubble bursts, a flash of blue light, shadows leaping high as the attic returns to darkness lit by a single stub of candle in an old saucer.
"Betty --"
"Leah," she'd corrected.
"Leah. Right. Sorry," he'd mumbled, abashed. He had looked her directly in the eyes, quiet for a moment before asking, "How did you do that?"
"It's one of the reasons we're being looked for," she'd whispered. "Now tell me, Tal: what did he say?"
He is snapped back to the present by another howl, from the South again, closer this time. Nothing like the keening, shrieking howls of these creatures amassing on the hillock to the North of them. The howl from the South sends a susurration of alarm through the creatures; they begin looking around, suspicion clear in their torn, half human faces. The horses calm, but only a little.
"If we kill them, they eat each other and get stronger," the husband says. "We were not aware of that."
"Do we have any ammunition that may work better?" the wife asks, bow drawn taut again, the point of her razor-sharp arrow never wavering.
They are silent. There is nothing. Then it hits him, bubbling up from within the memory of that Halloween night, in 1946. The thing that had come in to their party, the thing that had come through.
Shaking his head, he grabs his Winchester and joins them on the stony outcropping at the edge of the ridge. "What now?" he asks.
They're silent for a time, the roar of the fire loud and getting louder. The husband looks at him, a little smile in his eyes:
"We wait."
A howl sounds, far off to the South, and they all three turn their heads in that direction. The woman has given a little gasp, whispering a word he doesn't hear clearly, and he wonders again if they know about anything beyond the freeways and coffeehouses of the young.
"Not a cayute," he says, but his words are lost under the keening whine of something to the North. The horses are disturbed, whickering and stamping. Turning to look for the source of the noise, he sees only that there is something moving in the grass, coming toward them. The light of the fires to the East is not enough to make anything clear at that distance.
"Why would anything that small be running toward us?" he murmurs. It reaches a low, pebbly hillock and they see it more clearly: small, maybe the size of a small child, but somewhat hairy and oddly shaped -- and its face ... something is wrong, there. It stands, panting, sniffing the air, tongue lolling between what look like very sharp teeth.
"Is that ... a little kid?" the woman asks.
"I think it's one of the things we were warned about," the husband says.
"It looks like a toddler in a monster mask," she says, and her voice is a little loud, a little mocking. The rancher would never have spoken so loudly, but then he also wouldn't have come here on a lark. The thing seems to hear her, its head snaps in their direction and it licks its chops, hunkering down, one hand going to its crotch where it fiddles as it shits out a pile of something greasy and foul enough to make their eyes hurt from a hundred yards away. The horses are near panicked, and he glances back to see even Beulah with her eyes wide, pulling and stamping.
Smiling at them, the creature reaches back for a handful of shit which it then smears over the tip of what is clearly a very erect cock. Raising its head with a high, screeching, keening howl, the creature points at them -- but more at the woman.
Instinct sets in and he has raised his rifle and sighted the tiny creature, when he realizes that the woman and her husband have done the same with their weapons.
"Should we just kill it?" she asks, calm, her bow drawn taut.
"Probably," her husband responds.
"Ladies first," he murmurs.
Two more creatures step from the grass behind it, already stroking engorged cocks. One of them drops to the ground and actually fucks the pile of shit for a few thrusts, as the third dances about with its fists in the air, uttering guttural barks that sound like laughter.
"He wasn't kidding about the shitfuckers," the husband breathes.
"He wasn't kidding about any of it," the woman sounds a little annoyed.
"I'll take the one on the right," the rancher murmurs.
Three more creatures step from the grass, heading directly for the shit, which only seems to be growing stronger in intensity, burning the eyes as well as the nose and lungs, now. He coughs, his eyes watering.
"Fuck this shit," the wife says, then gives a little laugh and looses an arrow. Her aim is true: it plows through the head of the creature in the lead, as well as two behind it. Two more! Where did they come from?
All of the creatures stop what they are doing.
He sets his sights on another one, shifting his stance, sensing more than seeing that the couple to his left have done the same.
The creatures fall on their former leader and the two behind, ripping, biting, devouring, tearing, even greedy in the gobbling of entrails -- unleashing a wave of stench so foul that he is fighting back puke. The horses are screaming their alarm, and he glances back at them to see if he should go cut them free. But Beulah, blessed Beulah, is watching him. Stamping, whickering, but calm.
The wind changes for a moment, smoke less burning than the shit of these creatures, and he realizes he smells sage. He breathes deep. The urge to vomit passes, his eyes are clear.
"Breathe," he says. "Deep. That sage will help."
They do, and he again senses them resetting their stance, more secure now.
Focusing fully on the creatures with eyes clear, he sees that they have made quick work of their three fallen comrades and ...
"Good Lord," he breathes.
"They're growing," she whispers.
A new creature takes the lead at the top of the low hillock, this one appearing to have eaten the most of its dead fellows: it is large and growing larger than the creatures around it, its bones cracking and growing and realigning as its flesh tears and re-heals around them until it is the size of an adolescent human. For a moment its face is bare bone as the flesh and other tissue is torn away before re-growing, the eyes receded to embers in the hollow sockets, but still smiling at them as it rocks its head from side to side like a carnival automaton.
Like a Halloween nightmare.
October, 1946, Betty's attic.
"Mama says it's heavy enough to cut off a finger," she'd said, and he'd held the trunk open as she rooted around inside of it, finally coming up with an old, leather-bound volume, the binding broken and papers bulging from the front and back, held together with an iron band which clasped and locked in the front of the book.
"You have to promise not to tell," she'd said, looking at him with the book on the wooden floorboards between them.
"I promise," he'd said, his crush on Betty strong enough to get him to promise anything.
"You also have to share a secret with me, since I'm sharing a secret with you," she'd said. His first and fervent hope had been that this secret would involve a kiss. "Do you promise to share a secret with me?" she had asked.
"Yes, I'll share any secret you want," he'd said.
From down below, music: someone, Betty's mother probably, had put on a record. It was Dunkelheit's Dance Of Lost Shadows, the perfect music for that late Halloween afternoon. A little scratchy. He shivered.
"Tell me what Ben said to you before he ran away," she had whispered. A violin shriek in the music had sent goosebumps up his arms. He'd needed, then, to pee, but had no idea how to tell her that.
"I can't --" he'd started, but Betty had laid a finger across his lips.
"Here's a free secret. My name isn't Betty," she'd said. "My name is Leah. My family, we're ... different. We're being looked for. There's someone out there in the world who wants to find us, and Mama says it's very important that we not be found. I think this book is one of the reasons that we have to hide."
She had unlocked the iron binding on the book -- he hadn't seen a key -- and had opened the cover to reveal a page covered in handwritten symbols and shapes, words surrounding every image written in a precise, beautiful, and incomprehensible language. He had reached for the paper, but she had stopped his hand. Then, with her left hand, she had tapped three times in the center of the largest symbol on the page -- circular, with points extending like an X -- three times, tap - tap - tap, and whispered a word that sounded like Abracadabra but was older, thicker, made him think of twisted roots clinging to bright gemstones deep underground.
Then she'd said, "Show me what I saw."
From the circular symbol arose a globe of blue light. Bright enough to light the entire attic, though it affected their candle: the flame had begun to sputter and send little sparks into the air. Presently, the center of the blue globe, no larger itself than a grapefruit, resolved itself into a picture: a window, looking out into a gloomy September evening. Focusing on a house that looked familiar.
"My house," he'd blurted. "That's my house ..." His words faded as he recognized the boy sitting on the porch, the car pulling up and himself getting out, Mr. Packer helping him with his knapsack. This was not his house anymore. Betty lived near his new house.
"How did you ... how did you see this?" he asked.
"Shhh," she'd said, and the picture in the globe took on what little color that dark evening had carried. He'd unlocked the door, run inside, Ben waiting outside as his first cry of, 'Mom, I'm home ... !' had echoed in the now-empty foyer. He'd dropped his pack and run through every room, more frantic with every step. He knew he'd been yelling 'Mommy?! Where are you!?' and the realization that Ben was on the front steps sent a spike of shame from his balls to his heart. But maybe he was in the wrong house? Maybe it was all a mistake. He returned to the front door to find Ben. He checked the house number, he looked around at the neighborhood: it was all as he knew it should be.
In the globe of light, they saw him run in. They saw Ben watching, waiting, dressed in rugged travel clothes but wearing, oddly, a yellow rain slicker and hat over it. Ben never looked around, standing now. Patient.
When he comes outside, they speak for a moment after he has looked around. He sits down, tears unavoidable. Ben sits next to him. After a time, Ben says something. He turns to Ben, his tears sliding into a scowl of disbelief.
They'd watched the conversation from a distance, through a window, through a globe, Talmadge and Betty -- Leah -- in the oddly lit attic as her mother put the finishing touches on the best -- and last -- Halloween party he'd ever attended.
The two boys head off together, both wearing knapsacks -- the one returning from a journey, the other only just beginning -- and the bubble bursts, a flash of blue light, shadows leaping high as the attic returns to darkness lit by a single stub of candle in an old saucer.
"Betty --"
"Leah," she'd corrected.
"Leah. Right. Sorry," he'd mumbled, abashed. He had looked her directly in the eyes, quiet for a moment before asking, "How did you do that?"
"It's one of the reasons we're being looked for," she'd whispered. "Now tell me, Tal: what did he say?"
He is snapped back to the present by another howl, from the South again, closer this time. Nothing like the keening, shrieking howls of these creatures amassing on the hillock to the North of them. The howl from the South sends a susurration of alarm through the creatures; they begin looking around, suspicion clear in their torn, half human faces. The horses calm, but only a little.
"If we kill them, they eat each other and get stronger," the husband says. "We were not aware of that."
"Do we have any ammunition that may work better?" the wife asks, bow drawn taut again, the point of her razor-sharp arrow never wavering.
They are silent. There is nothing. Then it hits him, bubbling up from within the memory of that Halloween night, in 1946. The thing that had come in to their party, the thing that had come through.
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