Them #16
I try to move forward but I trip on my third leg made of black scythe sheen and I look down at myself and I scream with hard, rocky vocal cords every night as I gasp for air because I can’t breathe right can’t breathe right, I can’t breathe right, Adam, I try to tell him but I don’t know how to talk with three jaws and a dozen tongues, so instead I just sit there and I can’t breathe right and they’re going to kill him.
I wake up hyperventilating. Used to throw the covers off and check that my pale, hairy legs were still there, then rush to my high, narrow window to see that, yes, I was still on Earth and I confirmed my rightness with deep breaths of oxygen.
But I don’t have windows anymore. I wake up screaming and the echoes cut through my skull like piano wire and I can’t see in the dark. Can’t see where I am. For a second or two, after I snap from those Adam dreams, I can’t even remember what I am.
The man’s head exploded with pain. He didn’t know where he was. It was too dark, and then the hurt. A scream against the roof of his brain, something crumbling down atop him, the immense weight of rubble bearing down on his bones, and he desperately needed to breathe.
But how? Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. He was tumbling, teetering, tearing through a field of debris. Full dark. Didn’t even know how to open his eyes, or maybe they were already open.
Another flash of pain as something hard collided with his skull… except that wasn’t quite right. He felt like he’d been thrown into a washing machine full of bricks. Something was off.
And then he realized.
It was him that was doing the crashing. Thrashing against some unseen force. Tearing it down.
His hand, but it wasn’t quite the one he knew, curled around something small. Feeble.
The man felt himself pull back, like a fisherman setting the hook, and the storm of dust and rocks fell away.
The debris bounced and skittered off his skin.
No. Not skin. Something else. Something heavier.
He could feel it in the brisk air, feel the heat surging within his bones, and that’s when the man knew that he couldn’t open his eyes.
Because he wasn’t awake. He wasn’t there anymore.
This is a dream.
This isn’t you, he told himself in fitful murmurs. Don’t look. Don’t see it. Don’t ever see it, his ego pleaded. His instincts drove him back, sent him scrambling away on legs that weren’t his own—
three of them
—but the man’s consciousness did not heed his call, and his eyes opened as his appendage, not his hand but a stinger, withdrew from a cloud of ruin, grasping a tiny fragile figure.
The man’s tail rebelled against his dreaming will, reeled back, and flung his prey into the air.
“HUEGHURGA—!” the man shouted as he jerked upright, sending droplets of sweat spraying across the dark room.
He sat there for a few minutes, a gaunt statue, legs and brain tangled, and moved only to lick the perspiration from his chapped lips. The nightmare that had woken him was already gone, immediately forgotten, but it had apparently been a dreadful one.
He looked around and took stock of the living room. The house felt unfamiliar, despite hazy memories of stumbling in the night before. Even his own body felt strange. Foreign.
You have a concussion, he reminded himself. And had a bad dream. Can’t even remember it. Be glad you didn’t walk away with worse. Be glad you walked away at all. Need to rest now.
The man peered out between the curtains.
How far had he come? Since the waterfall?
It felt impossible to even guess. Had to find a safe place to recover, far away from that particular Scorpion nest. His brain still felt like it might burst, a pustule threatening to pop.
He imagined his skull leaking. The gray matter.
Liquified lobes. All of it pouring out from his mouth and nose like some kind of leper of the mind.
Above it all, he felt as though he was forgetting something.
Outside, the sun was beginning to set. Must have slept for more than twenty hours. His head pounded with his own heartbeat. The last remnants of light scalded his eyes and shot razor-thin daggers through his nerves.
The man lay back on the couch. He knew he needed to rest, for a week at least, or the pain would only grow worse. If he wasn’t careful, his brain would begin to bleed. And then that would be it. The hospitals were empty. The doctors were dead. There was no helping him, not if it came to that.
And if it already was bleeding?
Let it, the man thought as he pressed his palms to his forehead, certain that he deserved to spend whatever time he had left drooling and dripping. Certain he hated himself more than he had a few days before.
Just the concussion talking. Let it go. Move on.
With the waterfall basin only a short walk behind him—for he knew he could not have made it far—the man planned to move as soon as darkness fell. But why? Hadn’t he been safe?
No. They didn’t find me. That’s right. They’re still searching for me. They didn’t find anything but my hat. My scent. Bloodhounds on the trail.
He groaned as another pulse of painful static echoed inside his skull.
Desperately wishing for ice, the man grabbed his steel canteen.
The water within was woefully warm, but the cool metal provided a spot of relief to his swollen forehead.
He couldn’t go yet. Even the lighter’s tiny flame sent shock waves through his optic nerve.
He rested his eyes for another hour before finally pushing himself onto his feet.
He gathered his belongings like a shambling mummy, not pausing even to eat.
His body told him he wasn’t hungry, but the man doubted that.
The voices from within couldn’t be trusted.
His nerves were frayed. Eating wasn’t avoidable, not forever, but right now he needed to walk.
Get away from this place. To somewhere safe.
He couldn’t afford to get sick, and even saltines would come crawling right back up his gullet. He was sure of it.
It was time to go.
Outside was dark, the moon but a fingernail sliver in the sky.
The air hung damp and viscous. The scent of dogwood and witch hazel fermented in the slow breeze.
Despite the warm weather and green flora, the night reminded the man of October.
Once upon a time, that was his favorite time of year.
Halloween and woodsmoke and Ray Bradbury stories.
The compass, illuminated by the lighter’s jarring and disquieting flame, pointed him north, and the man abided. Each footfall sent a shuddering vibration up his spine, and he suddenly found walking on the hard country pavement to be quite unple—
Cuckoo!
The sudden sound sent the man leaping forward. His vision blurring, he whirled around and drew his gun.
But there was nothing there.
He took his hand off the grip and rubbed his eyes. He flicked his lighter on and stared into the brush. No, nothing there but—
A clump of high grass began to shift on the far side of the road. The man trained his aim there, watching as a small dark figure stepped out into the firelit street.
The intruder was nothing more than a hen, its vibrant red comb a glowing ruby in the shadowy night. The animal cocked its head at the man, sizing him up, then took a gentle step forward.
Most of the remaining livestock and domestic animals had died off, so far as the man could tell. Never learned how to fend for themselves, or worse yet, they’d perished in confinement. The Scorpions, according to ancient news broadcasts, didn’t prey on animals. Just people. And themselves.
No explanation was ever given for their strict diet, nor did the man ever fabricate one that made any logical sense.
It was as if the Scorpions had been plucked from a cannibal hellscape and spontaneously decided to include humans in on the fun.
Or they were the harbingers of a galactic empire, sent ahead to clear a planet of lesser sentient life before their light speed masters arrived for colonization.
Vengeful angels sent by a frustrated God, come to end the herd’s ceaseless misinterpretations and deliver Earth from human evil.
What does it matter? Whatever the mission was, it’s over now. The unknown stands above.
The man knelt and reached into his backpack. His hand emerged with a Nature Valley granola bar, years past its stated expiration. The man unwrapped it, pocketed the trash, and crumbled part of the snack in his hand. He tossed the grains out onto the road, enticing the chicken.
Wary, the hen hesitated, then began to approach. She pecked at the ground once, twice, testing the flavor, before growing bolder and devouring the remainder of the crumbs. The man scattered another handful, closer this time, and the hen trotted forward once more.
He tossed the remnants of the first bar a few feet in front of him, then broke up the second one and cupped the crumbs in his hands.
The hen began to speak again, but not in the startling voice that had jolted the man earlier.
Now she was cooing. Almost like a purr. She hopped from grain to grain, happily feasting.
When the hen finished with the food on the road, she fluttered closer to the man. Her tiny eyes met his, her nimble neck twisting back and forth, surveying him with beady pupils, and then she started to feed from the palm of his hand.
Her beak was gentler than he’d expected.
If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the hen as a sparrow.
Despite her delicate grace, the chicken ate quickly, and it wasn’t long before there wasn’t much granola left.
The man began to stroke her feathers with his free hand as she finished her meal, all the while carrying on with that strange, avian purring.
“Sorry, pal. That’s all I’ve got.”
The hen sniffed at his hand and found his statement to be true. She backed up and gave the man one final nod of gratitude before returning to the overgrowth.