NFTF: Conflagration II

For a time, there is only silence. The world is breathing, taking stock of its injuries.

A great rumbling is heard, then felt. Several of the soldiers, the two wounded monks, even the creatures being herded toward the barns and their pursuers are thrown to the ground. 

The monks feel it the moment their hands touch earth. 

East of them, beyond the raging inferno of Mt. Diablo, another fault has slipped. Reaching well into the delta via Marsh Creek, this fault has opened a gorge larger and deeper than the one which devoured 580. It extends from the delta along that fault into the far eastern end of Livermore and Trevarno (the town that time forgot, clearly sensed by the monks, a mystery within a Quincunx conundrum), right up toward Del Valle and along the canyon next to Mines Road where it curves up toward San Antonio Valley. Old gas mains under vineyards are ruptured. Entire neighborhoods are destroyed in seconds.

Water from the delta rushes into the gorge. It will begin to fill the valley from that end within hours. 

An old man, his beard grown long in the time it has taken him to get back to this place and step into a house recently vacated by his younger self, sips his tea as the walls crack and just keeps writing. If I can only get to her in time, he writes. Can the rift hold?

A canny old witch in Trevarno sees all of this in her obsidian scrying ball. The monks see her see them. She winks. They've heard her radio show.

Hordes of beastling creatures swarm into the area between the barns, and battle is engaged. The monks stagger to their feet, dizzy and disorientated. All around them are vintage soldiers and nurses, the howling wolflings in various sizes, and two elephant-sized dogs, both favoring their back left legs.

The monks stumble to the dairy barn, pulling open the very door Veronica used to get in. A great deep bark sounds and the wall is blasted apart as Max the Wonderdog leaps through.

Veronica sits astride his shoulders, holding tight his gigantic red collar. A shiny brass dog tag jingles against two copper amulets covered in esoteric symbols. He howls. The other two Wonderdogs howl. 

The sky bellows thunder of the gods, ripping open as a vast zeppelin noses through, wreathed in lightning and firing precise bolts of copper-colored energy from galvanized Tesla guns. Wolflings are incinerated by the hundreds.

A man's voice cries out from the firelit night in the field, "Dirigibles, now?! Really?!" This is followed by a woman's laugh.

The monks sink to their knees as the three giant dogs, under the command of the fierce crossbow-wielding woman astride one of them, join the forces from another time to lay waste to the creatures of nightmare. 

From within the fire which has devoured most of the field now lumbers the impossibly tall, burning, screeching figure of the Oaken lady. Before the Wonderdog closest to her can smack her back into the fire, she launches herself at the zeppelin, her flaming, jagged branches tearing into the envelope near the aft propellers. The zeppelin bursts into flame, falling to the ground.

Lady Henrietta cries out to her forces to fall back.

The three Wonderdogs leap back toward the barns, one grabbing Petherbridge and Elfie, the other grabbing an old man. These are hunting dogs. Their soft mouths do not hurt the people in their care. 

The man and the woman sprint after Max the Wonderdog as he picks up Talmadge, the flaming dirigible coming down above them as they run. They can hear its crackling Tesla guns, the shriek and whine of propellers tangled in broken branches. Wielding their machetes in a ballet of deadly grace, they slice through every evil creature they pass, taking off heads, arms, faces, engorged and thorny cocks. This pair are torn, ragged, bloody, bruised. But they run. They run and they do not stop, even as they hear the back end of the zeppelin crashing to the ground just behind them, even as they know that it must fall and crush them in the next few seconds.

The world is fire and ash and screaming metal. An old stile still stands next to a cattle fence and the couple throw themselves up it, leaping from the highest step and simultaneously beheading two full-grown wolfbeasts who rear up to attack from where they've been devouring vintage nurses.

The zeppelin, caught in the branches of Oaken Iron Rachel, misses crushing their skulls by milimeters. They land, rolling forward, coming to their feet in battle stance as the airship crashes to the earth behind them, dealing death to the majority of the nightmares still on the field. Just as it erupts in a final ball of fire, the front hatch explodes open in smoke and sparks, slamming to the ground a little tilted, its inner side a set of steps now leading to the burned and bloody earth beneath.

The woman astride the giant dog raises her crossbow.

The Rancher hefts the axe he's acquired since leaving the ridge.

The man and woman crouch, ready to attack.

Lady Henrietta inhales to give the order.

A man in a aviator cap, goggles and flight leathers steps with his back to them from within the control car, coughing and waving at the smoke with his white silk scarf. The control car is belching smoke. He turns, takes a step down, holding on to the railing of the hatch door. 

Every weapon in the hands of every survivor is pointed at this man.

He laughs aloud, tossing his head.

"Now how's that for a Deus Ex Machina!?" he shouts. Something explodes behind him and he's thrown forward to the ground, shouting, "Motherfucker!" 

The assembled survivors make a collective gasping whoa sound at the explosion. All but three of them. One of those three is hardly breathing, trying to keep her crossbow still. 

The man climbs to his feet, shaking his head. Once he's steady, he lifts his goggles. There is at least one gasp from within the assembled crowd.

"Oh, come on," he says, grinning from within his singed goatee and moustache, his face clean around his eyes, blackened by soot and dirt where the goggles didn't cover. "Isn't anyone going to acknowledge the inherent awesomeness of me landing in a dirigible?"

"Tad?!" this from at least two voices.

"Hold your fire!" shouts Lady Henrietta.

The three giant Wonderdogs leap forward, knocking him to the ground and kissing him with many good dog kisses, pinning him down. Veronica is trying to dismount, but her steed is too full of canine exuberance.

"Good God, there's three of you!" he shouts. "Pfaaaawh, are you all determined to put your tongue in my -- khougggh -- I guess that's a yes."

The burning airship sends up another gout of flame. Veronica's mount carries the newcomer in his mouth toward the barns, away from the heat; the other dogs and the remaining survivors follow. Veronica throws herself to the ground and into the newcomer's arms as the warrior wife and her husband arrive behind her. Lady Henrietta stands a little behind them.

"Edward's trajectory has changed," she says. "New growth from the very old bark of this saga." One of the Wonderdogs turns, looking her in the eyes, and grins, drooling. Dogs are the only species who can drool and look intelligent at the same time, she thinks.

At long, long last, Edward and Veronica kiss. And though his facial hair is burned and their faces are smeared with blood and soot and dirt, their tears make it the sweetest and best kiss, the most true kiss either of them has ever known. Or ever will.

"I told you I would come back," he says, and she hugs him so hard his back pops like a stretchy straw. "Wow. Thanks, I needed that," he says, and sees the couple behind her. "Joshua," he says to the man. "I see you got here on time."

"We had a little trouble on the ridge," Josh says. "Your sister almost beheaded me twice."

"I told him to bring the fucking rock salt," says the woman. 

Veronica has only had eyes for Edward. She turns at the sound of this voice and cries out, delighted, throwing her arms around the other woman. "Hillary!"

"Damn right," says Hillary. "Sorry it took us so fucking long. Oakland? Obstacles. That's all I'm sayin'."

They laugh, the burning airship sends up another gout of flame. Some of the crowd laugh too, and they all move back toward the barns, away from the heat. Quiet voices murmur amazement, too uncertain of their victory to speak loudly. Edward steps up onto an old wagon, limping a little. Veronica and Lady Henrietta each see this, exchanging a glance that says, It's really him. Veronica sees something in Lady Henrietta's eyes that makes her wonder exactly where Tad has been while he's been elsewhere. Then he holds his hand out to her and she takes it, stepping up onto the wagon next to him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he calls out. The murmuring ceases. "We have limited time. By now, the Greenville / Marsh Creek Fault has broken open at the eastern end of the valley. The Livermore end of the valley will flood entirely within the next three days. If any of you are Rachels or Ezekiels who still have family or loved ones in the region, we need to send rescue parties to them immediately. This is, I'm sorry to tell you, only the beginning. The coming changes will alter this nation, and this world, forever."

One of the Rachels speaks. Veronica sees that it's Nice Rachel, the first one to help her back, what was that, a week ago? Before the world went insane, at any rate.

"How do you know all this?" Nice Rachel calls out. Edward turns to her, smiling, his left hand around Veronica's waist.

"Rachel, don't you know?" he asks, grinning and cocky as ever, his arm suddenly light on Veronica's hip. She turns to look at it, sees his hand growing translucent. She turns to look at his face as he says, "I'm a Time Traveler, and I don't even need a little blue box!" 

Edward throws his head back, laughing.

Then he disappears. Not with a pop, like before. He simply winks out of existence.

*********

[The following is an excerpt from an audio journal of voice memos made some days after the quake. It was made while driving around to every known road out of Livermore, including those leading into Trevarno, to see which would be the best route. Though originally posted some time ago, it is included here because the transcriber has noted some slight alterations in the text. Any theories aimed at an explanation are welcome. Only the altered portion of the transcript is included.]

[Sound: We hear Veronica walk around to trunk of car. As she does, we hear the engine of a large pickup truck as it pulls up nearby.]

Voice in Truck: Now, are you folks okay?

Edward: We're ... fine. I just got a little dizzy, is all.

Voice: In trying times like these, faith ... can be its own reward.

Edward: Thank you. 
              I'm Edward. Edward --

Veronica: (interrupting) Water.
                                   Who's this?

Voice: Mayberry. Torvald Mayberry. Doctor of Divinity.

Veronica: Like the candy?

Mayberry: Oh, sweeter. Surely. And the Lord's work may be done any day. No matter the weather.

[A silence. Ravens cry in the distance.]

Mayberry (cont.): The candy, I understand, requires low humidity.

Edward: Dr. Mayberry is correct, honey.

Veronica: We should be on our way.

Mayberry: Wouldn't want to keep you.

Edward: Do you ... do you know the best way West from here? We're trying to get to Hayward.

Mayberry: I hear Bollinger is the safest way across 680. Head there directly, the sooner the better. I can't guarantee that it will be safe when you arrive, of course. We all have our trials to bear, don't we, Veronica?

Veronica: Yes ... of course.

Mayberry: And they do ... take their toll ...

Veronica: We should go.

Edward: Yes.

Mayberry: See you farther on down the road, then.

Edward: The way things are going since the quake, I'm not so sure.

Mayberry: Oh ... it's a date. I promise.


Veronica: Dr. Mayberry, are you okay?

Mayberry: I can honestly say that I haven't felt this good in a long, long time. Why do you ask?

Veronica: For a moment, you looked like you were in pain. Your face, it looked ...

Mayberry: I have this beast of a headache. Sometimes it feels like my skull's fit to crack open. I'm actually headed back to stop it right now, good people.
     For Lo, he did see that the harlot was perceptive
     And it did fill him with lustful dread.
So saith the Prophet ...

[Nobody speaks for a moment. Ravens cry in greater numbers, closer.]

Mayberry (cont.): So Saith The Lord. You would do well to remember that.

Veronica: Thanks. Drive carefully.

[Sound of car door opening.]

Mayberry: Bye, now, Tad.

[Sound: pickup truck revs, drives away.
We hear Edward and Veronica getting back into the Honda. Edward in driver's seat. Honda starts, pulls forward to stop sign, brakes, left turn signal clicking.]

Veronica:That guy was creepy.

Edward: Did you hear what he just said? He called me Tad.

Veronica: What? No.

Edward: He did. He called me Tad. How did you not hear that?

Veronica: Definitely a weirdo. But maybe you were hearing things.

Edward: People who are sane do not just "hear things."

Veronica: And you would be ...

Edward: Hey, I'm not the one advocating a trip to Hayward. Did we introduce you? I think he called you by name as well.

Veronica: Huh. Wow. I think you're right. Creeper of Divinty.

Edward: This makes me reconsider heading to Hayward.

Veronica: I thought we'd agreed.

Edward: When Reverend Creepy grins at me like he wants to tongue my soul, I question the validity of his directions. 

Veronica: You have a point. Maybe we can cross 680 farther North?

Edward: Maybe. 

Veronica: We'll discuss it. For now, let's go to Safeway, see if the lines for gas are too long. Then I think it's lunchtime.

[Sound: Honda accelerates, turning left, turn signal stops clicking.
Wind in open car windows.
Alison Krauss, 'I Will'. Veronica hums along.]
When the song is over, Veronica sighs.]

Edward: Why such a sigh?

Veronica: Because even when it feels like the world is ending, I am happy just to be here with you.

[Sound: a smooch on a cheek.
Driving. 
Ravens via Doppler effect. 
Recording cuts out.]

The End

NFTF: Rancher IV

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."

"Salt!" the wife shouts. "See? I fucking told you we should bring the rock salt!" Unleashing another arrow, she cores the largest creature's head and all those around it leap and devour before it's finished dying. Each creature that eats the largest one begins to grow larger than those around it. All of this in about three seconds, followed by more shots from both man and wife.

"As it happens," Talmadge begins, turning to head toward Beulah, but he never gets any farther in that sentence: a group of creatures is approaching the horses from behind a stand of trees to the East. He gives a shout and runs toward them and, as the woman and man behind him kill more of these things, he heads to his right and fires off a shot at the creatures closest to the horses. The first two creatures are down and the rest fall on them, devouring, giving the rancher enough time to reach Beulah.

In her saddlebags he keeps something special, in case he ever needs to run off an interloper or two. He grabs the sack and sprints back to the man and his wife, marveling for a moment at how the creaks and groans of his ramshackle old body could disappear in excitement. He decides to stick around these two as long as he can as he tosses the sack to the man. "See if this helps at all!" he shouts, then runs back to the horses, rounding them in time to see a creature launch itself at the fourth horse's left foreleg. The horse screams, trying to rear, snapping the dead branch it's tied to from the tree. The branch, wrapped in the horse's reins, swings wildly toward Talmadge just as he is ducking in toward the creature whose mouth is tearing flesh from the horse's leg. He sees it coming, raising the butt of his rifle to crush the skull of the little terror and hoping that his timing is just right.

The branch catches him in the side of the head, tearing into the left side of his face and his left eye. He feels the dry, jagged twigs jammed into his eye socket and pulling out with the force of the horse's panicked rearing. Clutching his left bicep up over his eye, he cries out as the last of the twigs tears through his eyelid and is trapped between his arm and the exposed, tender flesh. Lashing out in rage and pain, he swings the butt of his rifle toward where he last saw the creature, his grip on the rifle not so strong as it should be: it connects but doesn't kill the thing, and the rifle flies from his grasp, skidding across the earth to a spot about twenty feet behind the horses. As he lurches toward it, removing his left arm from its protective place over his bleeding eye socket, a creature lands on his back, digging its jagged claws into his right side and left chest as its teeth tear into the back of his neck. The pain is excruciating. He forgets about his eye, spins on the spot and falls heavily onto the little monster, thinking to crush it with his weight. Dimly, he hears the woman cry out and he is aware of a set of hooves galloping past his head too close for safety and just far enough away that he is still alive and can feel the creature struggling, still alive as well, beneath him. 

Just as he realizes what it's doing -- "Are you humping me, you little bastard?!" -- three more creatures launch themselves at him: one on his right leg, one aiming for his soft belly, the third with jaws thrown wide and black tongue lolling as it dives in to eat his face. For a moment, everything slows down and he sees:

Husband and wife, back to back, surrounded by an increasing number of creatures whose size has risen to about five and a half feet tall; the pair are turning, firing, the woman having switched from arrows to a pair of Glocks, from the look of things. The man is firing his shotgun with calm precision. These two move like they're dancing, seeming to know when the other needs to reload, reaching behind to give what's needed, turning to shoot what's attacking. He sees this and he is filled with loneliness: this is the kind of woman he should have married, instead of a bitter school marm librarian; he is also filled with pride: he knows he is going to die, and he has died fighting with two actual warriors. He knows a kind of love in that moment, and he wonders for the fist time in years if his children miss him at all.

He sees also that three of the horses are gone; branches broken from the tree tell him there's a chance they escaped. But there's Beulah, rearing up, coming down to crush a creature near the wife, then kicking three of them behind her. Good old Beulah.

The last thing he sees before the creature's jaws close on his face is a sturdy chunk of broken branch. It's just out of reach and he finds himself stretching toward it in this long billionth of a second, stretching his right hand out as he brings his left elbow up toward the throat of the creature attacking his face.

If he can only reach it in time ...

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.