They Have Arrived (1219 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryLabels: Sci-fi Ubermadness_II
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Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2004-12-01 18:07:58 EST
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
There was a lot of talk in the Cooler the night after it all began.
Alan Leider was behind the bar taking in all the diverse opinions but too busy pouring draft to add his own.
Old Farley Tiber sat at his usual place in the corner, sharing a table with two sons and a grandson, hollering about 'them fuckin nips' and tossing back glasses of Bud while rapping the head of his cane on the edge of the table.
Alan shook his head, hoping the old fart would tone it down a little, knowing that Sam was in tonight.
Sam Itsu, manager and owner of the only real men's saloon in Alton, stayed in the office behind the bar, but Alan had noticed the door open just a crack so Sam could hear what was going on.
A lot of the Cooler's regulars were getting tanked and expressing warped, racist, and downright foolish points of view with booming voices, stamping feet and meaty hands slapping on the polished dark oak of the bar, drowning out the voice of the CNN anchor on the old RCA bolted to the far wall.
"Them Japs got disintegrated!" Farley bellowed, spittle flying from his lips. "And now all that shit is falling out of the sky! It isn't a mistake. It's an attack! Fuckin Japs!"
Young Peter Tiber shook his head, sipping Coke and watching a news feed on the tiny screen of his cell phone.
Andy Wharton was sitting on his usual stool at the end of the bar just under the TV, his tremendous frame quivering whenever he raised his voice over the other men. Alan didn't think he had ever seen anyone so damned fat.
Everyone was watching the tube. Flaming specks and chunks of material had been dropping out of the sky for twenty-four hours now,
Harry Aymes came in around nine o'clock and said that his son Kevin and Kevin's younger buddy Galt had gone up into the hills west of Alton to try and track down a piece of the 'Jappo firecracker' which had come down over Low River earlier in the evening, trailing fire and screaming like a kettle boiling over.
The talk rose and fell after that. Until ten-twenty. Alan remembered looking at the clock as Kevin and Galt burst through the Cooler's front door covered in soot and ash, Kevin carrying something in an asbestos oven mitt.
"I got it," Kevin said breathlessly, Galt asking him if it was still hotter than hell.
They were wearing identical Aymes Landscaping t-shirts under their coats. Kevin was Galt's supervisor, and they were close friends despite the fact that Galt was nearly ten years younger than Kevin.
"The ridge is burnin' up," Kevin said. "We got in and got out in a hurry, following a long trench torn up by the thing as it hit. Found it bored into a big slab of granite by the river. We dug it out with a crowbar and threw it in a tin pail. And here it is."
Someone rasped, "Here's what?"
Kevin grinned and said, "It's cooled down, so take a look." He opened the glove and set the thing on the bar. It was a scorched rectangular box, just a bit smaller than a loaf of bread.
"Hey, what's inside?" Andy asked.
Alan sensed Sam standing behind him.
Farley and his offspring watched silently.
"Inside?" Kevin muttered, "Hell, let's take a look." He pulled a jackknife out of his pocket and began working at a seam in the pitted surface.
Galt raised a hand to Alan. "Gimme two fingers."
An old joke between the two of them. Alan had lost the ring and little fingers of his left hand in Desert Storm. Alan had only been working in the Cooler a week when Galt had finally been old enough to order anything stronger than soda. Galt had asked for two fingers of Jim Beam and turned beet red when Alan set down the shot glass with a diminished hand. Later, they'd laughed about it.
"You got it, college boy." Alan poured the shot.
The men around the bar crowded in to get a better look, and Alan found himself tensing and wondering —as he took a step back— what the hell would happen if the box suddenly exploded.
Kevin strained and pried with the knife, but the seam was solid. Until a lid suddenly popped up like a jack-in-the-box, and the hungry horror sprang out at them.
<>
Many said the trouble was caused by the Japanese satellite which exploded during routine maintenance and dropped through the earth's atmosphere as a cluster of white-hot shards that rained down on the darkening shorelines of northern California.
Of course, the Japanese denied any liability. As far as they were concerned the two men who had been sent into orbit to do some patch-up work on six Daijuro 'communications devices' had performed their jobs without error, and the explosion had been caused by an outside agent and not the satellite's screwed-up propulsion system. Besides, the Japanese argued, nobody had been harmed— except the two technicians who had been instantly cremated, their scattered remains committed to the cold tomb of outer space.
The major networks had covered the story, tracking the shattered Daijuro Corporation's Anjin II as it fell and broke apart, sprinkling the coasts of Sonoma and Mendocino with debris, most of which fell into the sea. CNN had reporters in many seaside towns in the area, and they were usually the first with live reports of any damage- which didn't amount to much despite the network hype.
A woman in Salmon Creek was preparing supper when she heard a sound like a hammer striking an oil drum. She went out into the driveway and found that something had pierced the hood and engine block of the family's 1977 Oldsmobile station-wagon. The something in question turned out to be a plug of blackened metal the size of a sugar cube (which the woman's husband pried out of the driveway with a screwdriver and displayed with pride, until three weeks later when he made the local papers by donating both the tidbit of Anjin II and the Oldsmobile to the Smithsonian.)
A young law student in Mendocino planned to sue Daijuro for injuries purportedly caused by the falling debris, a burn along the side of one arm which looked like the trail of a hot knife through butter. He told a few friends he was going to ask for two million dollars, even as he admitted that the burn was actually the result of falling asleep beside his Hibachi after too many bottles of Anchor Steam and leaning against one narrow, hot metal edge of the barbecue. He wouldn't see his day in court. Like many thousands of others across the country, he would be dead within two days.
A streetlight on a quiet avenue in Fort Bragg was struck by one of the spacecraft's fragments. The element was just beginning to glow when the casing blew apart, spewing out a streamer of sparks which brought cheers from a group of kids who were nearby playing marbles in the fading daylight.
As far as anyone could tell that was the extent of the damage caused by the satellite. NASA officials, local and Federal law enforcement, and individuals who knew what kind of harm an incident like this could cause breathed a sigh of relief when the reports came in. No one had been killed within the time-frame in which all of the debris was expected to strike down, and the problem was not a problem any more.
One cable channel in Northern California which carried programs for the Japanese population had a clip from a news conference in Tokyo in which the chairman of the Daijuro Corporation denied his company was responsible. As far as he was concerned, the explosion was caused by a 'foreign object.'
He was closer to the truth than anyone could have suspected.
<>
The first one came out of the box fast, too fast for anyone to understand what they were up against.
A pale shape appeared in the open end of the box, filled the opening, and then began to bulge outward in an obscene fashion. As the shape began to push itself out of the box, a vulgar sucking noise filled the bar. A few men laughed. Until the shape popped free, and everyone saw that it was a head.
The head was soft at first, like a squeezed marshmallow.
The body followed quickly— the head had been the widest part of it. It was dirty white in color, hunched over, and thin as an undernourished child. It fell off of the bar and onto the floor.
Alan leaped back and nearly bowled Sam over. He could almost see bones or cartilage stiffening under that off-color skin as the thing got to its feet.
Farley Tiber had a clear view of the bar and cried, "What in the Christ is that?"
The thing cocked its head. It was aware.
The men who had been gathered around Kevin and Galt jerked away in surprise, over-turning tables and chairs.
A mouth had opened in the featureless face with a moist tearing sound, the jaws clamping shut and swallowing the knife and Kevin's hand up to his wrist. The thing began to chew rapidly, Kevin staring in dumb shock. One of the creature's small hands grabbed his t-shirt and the other wrapped around his waist as the thing began eating Kevin where he stood.
A sound filled the bar. It made Alan think of the last time he had been home, when the whole family had gathered around the dinner table to eat mom's corn on the cob. A dozen mouths working on a dozen ears of corn.
The sound of the eating was harsh and raw. Alan glimpsed a ring of what looked like serrated bone inside the creature's mouth.
Kevin didn't begin to scream until the thing had passed his elbow and began accelerating and working its way toward his shoulder- which was about thirty seconds after it had popped free of the box.
Kevin fell to his knees and the men around him backed further away, a few of them running out of the bar without a word and disappearing into the night, their faces white with shock.
The creature was eating faster now, its mouth engulfing chunks of the young man's chest cavity and swallowing them like a kid sucking up Jell-O. A few drops of blood hit the floor, but that was all. The thing didn't miss much.
Alan looked at the men who stood and watched Kevin die. They did not speak. No one moved. They stared in horror, as fascinated as an audience at a carnival sideshow.
Kevin's head and neck drooped and collapsed, and the creature chewed them up in a half-dozen quick bites. It rapidly ate its way down to his trunk and then quickly munched up both legs as if they were nothing more than a few pretzels from the big glass bowl on the bar.
One fellow let out a high, hysterical laugh when the thing bent over and sucked the blood up off of the floor. The creature had consumed Kevin in less than three minutes, boots and all.
With a soft sound a single dull black eye opened in the center of the creature's forehead. It looked around the room, studying each man for a moment before examining the next.
Alan noticed that the thing's abdomen had a noticeable bulge, while its arms and legs remained thin and fragile in appearance. A part of him which seemed far away wondered why none of the men who remained had tried to call for help or had run out of the bar screaming. They were all as fascinated as he was. Watching the thing eat had been like watching a TV show, like playing a video on fast-forward, except...
Alan remembered his first day at Pacific High School. He and Kevin had been in the same class that morning almost twenty years ago. And now Kevin was in the stomach of a thing that ate like a goddamned cartoon character. Except this was no Saturday morning kid's show. He saw its single eye fix on someone and looked in that direction. The thing was staring at Andy Wharton. Impossible, Alan thought. There's no way it can eat Andy too. His asshole alone must weigh fifty pounds.
The thing took a step and convulsed, its body shuddering as it hunkered down on its hands and knees. With a sound like tearing wet canvas, the thing retched.
Alan leaned over the bar for a better view. It's sick. It's gonna puke. Maybe it's gonna die. Maybe that's why nobody has gone for help yet. It's gonna die.
The thing's body heaved, and up came Kevin's heavy work boots, the leather peeled and discolored. One after another they hit the floor with a hollow thud. The thing gagged again, and spat out a knotted ball of partially dissolved cloth that had been Kevin's shirt and jeans. It looked at Alan and he responded with a shiver, and then it vomited a final time. Kevin's jackknife rattled against the bony serrations it used for teeth and slid past its lips blade first, sticking upright in a varnished pine floorboard. Everything the creature had vomited up was covered in a transparent foam which seemed to glitter and bubble as it dissipated.
Alan thought it was a trick of the light. The thing's skin seemed to be the palest shade of grey now. He was wondering if the thing was going to go for Andy, and was not at all surprised when it took a step towards Wharton's shivering bulk. He came close to shitting his pants in a violent burst at the sound of a gunshot over his left shoulder.
Sam had returned to his desk to get a .38 revolver which was taped to the underside of his desk drawer. He came out of his office, saw it heading for Andy, and shot it.
The bullet tore into the thing's right arm. It leaped backwards and three more men broke away and ran into the street. The rest of them took a few unsteady backward steps and stood staring like cattle as the thing raised its long-fingered left hand and pried the lead slug out of its arm.
It put the expended bullet in its mouth. The jaws worked briefly. It spit the bullet out a moment later. Then it went for Andy.
In three quick bounds it was across the room and up on the bar, running down the polished surface toward Andy who sat watching in terror, his hands still gripping his beer glass.
Sam fired at the thing four times. And missed four times. One stray bullet shattered the big plate glass window facing the street, and the impact of two others raised little clouds of dust when they hit the wall. The fourth shot shattered Sam's neon Budweiser sign.
Sam was pissed. He had one round left in the .38. He saw the thing leap at Andy and took a bead on the little bastard. He grinned and squeezed the trigger.
And shot Andy right between the eyes.
The bullet hit with a moist thump. A pink wash of Andy's blood and brain sprayed up and across the TV screen as the back of his head opened like a door, and his beer glass dropped out of his hand as his body began to sag on the barstool.
"You dirty little prick!" Sam said, shaking the pistol and gritting his teeth in anger.
Jesus Sam, Alan thought, looking at the .38, what the fuck do you use that thing for, a paperweight?
The creature stood on Andy's shoulder's, and before the fat man even began to fall off of the stool the thing had bitten the top of his skull off and scooped out his brains as if his head were the shell of a hard-boiled egg.
Andy's immense body hit the floor with a boom that rattled the shot glasses on the glass shelf behind Alan. The thing disappeared from sight. Having consumed Andy's head, it was now burrowing into Wharton's rotund corpse, the loud chewing sounds becoming muffled as it burrowed deeper into the fat man's torso.
Alan decided that he did not want to be the next course.
The thing began eating Andy from the inside out, and his grossly overweight body seemed to be deflating like a balloon. Everyone watched in silence. There were perhaps fifteen people still in the bar, and they were held fast by their horror.
All that remained of Andy was a large slack sack of flesh. They could see the thing moving about under the skin like a kid crawling around in a collapsed pup tent. It backed out of Wharton's corpse on its hands and knees, grabbed the lax flesh of Andy's neck and pulled hard. It shook Andy's empty skin free of his clothing and gobbled it up. Then it turned to look for another victim. It had been free of the box for nine minutes.
There was no doubt in Alan's mind that the thing was stronger now, and darker in color, the bulge in its middle disappearing within seconds. He wondered if it wasn't a little smarter as well. It sure as hell was a quick learner. No more sicking up clothes and shoes and pocket change. Alan looked down at the bar.
Oh Jesus. Not another one.
A white bulge had appeared in the opening of the scarred and charred box, a protrusion which grew quickly, filling the bar with a familiar vulgar sucking sound.
No one else noticed the second creature escaping the box, because the first had bounded across the room at a blindingly quick pace and swallowed Farley Tiber's left foot. It set to eating in a four-step cycle which Alan could follow easily for the first few seconds: bite, chew, spit (shoe leather and khaki) and swallow. The cycle picked up speed until the thing's head was a blur and the bar was again filled with that terrible tearing, feeding sound.
Farley, a Korean War vet who was known as one of the toughest old bastards in town, began to scream. The other men in the bar seemed to snap into awareness and began to panic, running into each other and jamming themselves in the doorway like a bunch of Keystone Kops. Farley's teenaged grandson Pete backed against the wall while his dad and uncle cursed and kicked at the thing in a crazy jig.
Alan backed away from the bar as the second creature's torso appeared.
"Grab it!" Sam shouted. "Shut the lid!"
"Fuck you!" Alan whispered. "It's already out!"
Farley's voice was like a crash of thunder filling the bar. The creature had already eaten his leg to the knee, and he was beating at it with his cane. "Goblins! Goblins! Hellsent fucking goblins!"
He screeched when he saw that the thing was at mid-thigh, it jaws stretching like rubber as it chewed and swallowed, pausing briefly now and then to hack up anything that wasn't a part of Farley.
Not Goblins, Alan thought, as the second creature stood on the bar with its back to him, Gobblens.
Gobble gobble gobble.
The second thing leaped off of the bar and scuttled towards the Tibers.
Farley saw a jet of blood shoot out of his hip were his leg had been a minute before, and he cried out in a delirious, screeching laugh when he saw the creature's mouth shut on his right foot. He had lost his right leg fighting in Korea, and while the thing busied itself on his prosthesis he would beat its brains out.
He shifted his grip on his oak cane and whapped the creature over the head. It's single eye blinked, and its body shuddered. Farley began hammering at it, screaming and trying to shake it off of his leg.
The creature grimaced- not in pain, but because it apparently didn't like the taste of the artificial limb. It raised its head slowly, facing Farley who was still beating it with the cane. Every time the length of oak hit it's skull the creature squinted, its head rocking up and down. A thin grey fluid which seemed to bubble and evaporate began to seep out of its wounds.
The creature looked Farley in the eye and his arm was stayed a moment, the cane held high. Then the thing grabbed Farley's false leg with both hands and pulled it free, the straps and wrappings snapping and tearing.
Farley's legless body collapsed on the floor of the bar and he rolled over onto his back. The thing stood over him, its bashed-in skull bubbling and steaming.
Pete saw the second thing leap at his uncle Dave. Mitch stepped forward to help his brother. Dave caught it in mid-air and it struggled weakly, but before it could swallow one of his hands he threw it away. Threw it into his brother's face.
Mitch couldn't even get off a scream. When Dave heard the raucous eating noises and saw the thing burrowing into his brother's skull he ran. The thing was eating Mitch face first.
Pete ran across the room and jumped over the bar beside Alan. "We've got to do something!"
"What?" Alan asked, "Serve dessert?"
"But," Pete shivered, "There's no such thing as a goblin."
"Tell that to your dad!" Alan snapped.
Pete's mouth worked soundlessly, and that was when Alan saw a third white shape move towards the opening in the box on the bar. He stepped forward and slammed the lid down. It seemed be secure. To be certain, Alan put the heavy glass bowl of pretzels on the box, holding the lid shut.
"...just receiving confusing reports from Northern California. We're going to CNN's San Francisco bureau for..."
Alan glanced at the TV. Through the congealing mess on the TV screen Aaron Brown looked perplexed. He was replaced by a brassy blonde sitting in front of a backdrop of the Golden Gate Bridge.
"Thanks, Aaron. CNN has received news of two outbreaks of violence north of San Francisco, in the City of Petaluma and the small town of Booneville. Both reports indicate that police and fire-rescue crews have been scrambled in the wake of attacks by unknown assailants. The Petaluma Chief of Police has asked for assistance from the California Highway Patrol, and in a phone call to CNN only moments ago a resident pleaded with us, begging us to send for help. All attempts to contact Booneville officials have failed, and—"
The picture briefly cut back to Aaron. "Do we know who is behind these alleged attacks?"
The reporter hesitated. "Well... according to some eyewitness descriptions the attackers are small, blue-skinned, naked, and unarmed, and there have been reports of cannibalistic activities..."
Farley was dead, the cane falling from his grip and his eyes rolling up to show whites by the time the first creature chewed through his groin and into his stomach, spitting a stream of shredded clothing like a lawnmower spewing grass.
Dave jerked and danced as the second thing consumed his brain, and then collapsed, the creature burrowing into his body as the first had done to Andy.
"Well, I've seen enough," Sam said in an eerily calm voice while he stepped into his office. "I have seen quite fucking enough, thank you very much!" He opened the back door and quickly slipped outside.
"Let's move." Alan grabbed Pete and shook him. "Those gobblens are going to be wanting a second helping any minute now, and I don't want to be on the fucking menu."
The kid was watching the first creature snap up the remains of Farley, its body turning a dark grey shade.
"Wait for me!" a voice said from behind an overturned table.
Alan saw Galt stand and run to the bar, vaulting over it. He took one last glance at the TV. Aaron Brown looked almost bemused.
"We have just confirmed that Governor Schwarzenegger has declared a state of emergency in Northern California, dispatching National Guard units to San Francisco and Oakland to quell outbreaks of violence in those cities, and asking the White House for any military assistance they can spare. With so many troops in the Middle East it looks like Arnold is in for..."
Alan and Galt went into Sam's office, Pete following slowly and looking over his shoulder. The thing that had hollowed out his father's body and was now slurping up folds of skin turned its head towards Pete, and a single black eye opened in its bland face as its skin darkened slightly. Pete followed the others out into the night.
In the alley behind The Cooler, Sam was sitting behind the wheel of his black Chevy. The driver's side window was down, and they could hear him cursing with rage. "Start you lousy fuck! Don't flood on me! Goddamn you START!" He stomped on the gas pedal and flooded it.
"Sam," Alan said, "We've got to call for help."
"You call for help," Sam snapped, fiddling with his seatbelt a moment and then giving up. "I'm getting the fuck out!" he locked the doors.
Alan was knocked aside as Pete suddenly lunged forward, thrusting his arm through the open window and laying a punch on Sam's jaw. There was a crack, and Sam's eyes rolled.
"You aren't going anywhere!" Pete shouted. "Those things killed my dad! We've got to stop them!"
Sam rubbed his jaw and laughed, tears in his eyes. "You must be fucking crazy, kid. If you think I'm going back in there..." He shook his head, and raised his window. "Not a chance," he said, his voice muffled by the glass.
Alan put a hand on Pete's shoulder, to calm him, and to restrain him if necessary. "Sam, couldn't we at least call the cops? If those things get loose and make their way into town, Jesus Christ, who knows what'll happen?"
"Call the cops?" Sam grinned, spittle and tears making his teeth and eyes gleam in the near-darkness. "And tell them what? Geez officer, some kid brought this box into the Cooler tonight. They said it fell out of the sky, and when we opened it these little white people came out and started eating all of my customers and cutting into the nightly take. Something tells me they'll have a hard time buying it." Sam tried the engine again, and this time it started with a roar. He let out a gleeful chuckle and tears squirted out of his terrified eyes.
He's cracking up, Alan thought, he's going completely bugfuck.
"Sam, you can't run out on us like this!"
"Watch me Al," he said, raising his window. "Just fucking watch me."
Alan opened his mouth to speak when a scream rang out in the darkness. It came from the street, in front of the Cooler.
Sam threw the car in gear. He always backed into his parking space behind the bar, and now all he had to do was drive down the narrow alleyway onto the street. He stepped on the gas, and the needle on the speedometer had jumped up to 40mph by the time the Chevy's front wheels hit the sidewalk in front of the bar. Sam was screaming with laughter.
The screams turned to cries of horror a moment later when a man in his early twenties, running down the sidewalk and looking back over his shoulder in fear, passed the alleyway just as Sam's car shot out of it. Sam slammed the brake down, too late. The young man hit the windshield. Sam heard a thud on the roof and one on the trunk. The car rolled to a stop in the middle of Regal Street.
He heard something pulling at the starred windshield and thought it was Alan. He also thought he still had time to get away, but time, time to live, had suddenly become a luxury beyond the grasp of Sam Itsu.
Alan, Pete and Galt had watched the Chevy speed down the alley and hit Willy Clayman.
Alan had served Willy a beer a few hours earlier. He stepped forward and looked the kid over. He looked back at Galt and Pete and shook his head.
Through the driver's side window they could see that Sam was still sitting in the front seat. And they saw one of the slim white creatures slowly approach the wrecked car, while the other one passed within their view on the far side of the street. Alan shouted Sam's name.
The windshield was pulled apart. Sam caught a breath of fresh air and looked up. One of those damn things was kneeling on the hood of his car.
Holy Christ! Sam gripped the steering wheel with one hand and reached for the gearshift lever on the steering column with the other, just as the thing darted forward. Sam missed the gearshift and cursed. The chrome lever was almost a foot long. He wondered how the hell he could have missed it, and then looked at the stump where his hand had been. Blood was jetting from his right wrist in rapid spurts which matched his fierce heartbeat; blood was splashing against the roof of the car and dripping down on him.
The creature squeezed through a hole in the windshield and put its small hands on the dashboard.
"My hand," Sam whispered, "Did you eat my hand?" His voice was toneless; he could have been asking a stranger if he had the time. "Why did you eat my hand?"
Sam felt sleepy. He could hear the creature breathing. It sounded like a small dog panting very fast. He could feel his blood streaming down his arm, soaking his trousers, dripping off on the roof of the car onto his face." That's not very nice," he breathed, feeling sleepy. The thing was much darker now, a deep blue-grey shade. Its single eye gleamed like a black jewel. A gullet rimed with sharp bone gaped wide, and Sam fell down into it.
Alan was grateful for the red spatters that obscured the car window a moment later. He didn't want to see any more.
<>
Alton was too small a town to have its own police force. Instead, like many small California towns, they had a contract with the county Sheriff. Both the Mendocino County Sheriff's Central Operations in Ukiah and Coastal Ops in Fort Bragg were flooded with confusing, disturbing calls, as were County Sheriff's offices in Sonoma and Humboldt Counties.
911 lines were jammed, most callers getting recordings and voice menus. Callers were overloading the switchboards of local police stations and the California Office of Emergency Services as well, at their headquarters in Mather, and the coastal division HQ in Oakland.
Those in charge, those with the power to contain and correct a diverse array of emergencies, had no idea what was going on. Those who did know what was happening were so close to the danger they had to fight just to survive.
<>
"This is bad," Pete said. He was still holding his cell phone, listening to news feeds through an earpiece. "It's happening all over. Those things are everywhere. The boxes, I mean."
Alan was leading the younger men along a side street. They had been following hedges, running low along ditches, and keeping out of sight for a few hours now. Without being conscious of it, Alan was falling back on the basic training that had kept him alive during the war.
"All over California?"
Pete was as white as a sheet. "Yeah, but I mean the whole country. Fox News is saying that boxes have been found in Colorado, Idaho, and Florida. One just came down in Central Park."
"Jesus," Galt said, "How can there be more than one of those things? What the fuck were the Japanese doing up there?"
Pete made a face. "It's not the Japanese, you dickhead. It's an invasion. Aliens. They have arrived. Art Bell talks about this stuff all the time. He says—"
"Let's can the chatter, guys." Alan stopped, studied his surroundings. They were at the intersection of Ocean Avenue and Washington Street. Not far away was the Full Platter, a greasy spoon favored by truckers who came for the hamburgers. Most of the homes in the area were quiet, a few windows flickering with the light of televisions. There weren't many cars in the driveways. A lot of people must have cleared out.
They had gone to the small town square first, finding the Sheriff's station deserted. People were in full panic, demanding to know what was going on, but the mayor and his deputy were gone as well. Alan had decided then that it would be best to get out of town. Away from other people. Away from food for those things... until they knew how to protect themselves, how to fight back.
They had gone by Pete's house. His mom was gone, but so was the car. He hoped she was okay. Galt's parent's lived out of state. Alan didn't have anyone to worry about but himself.
A pickup truck roared by them, heading for the parking lot in front of the Full Platter.
Alan got just a glimpse of the driver, a wild-eyed man screaming into a CB radio. He had the windows rolled up. In the truck bed were two of the things he thought of as gobblens. These ones were bigger and darker than the ones back in the Cooler, their skin almost blue. They also had two eyes. One in the front of the head, one in the back. Christ, this was all happening so damned fast!
One gobblen was beating at the window in the back of the cab. The other was slamming a pipe wrench against a big white tank.
The pickup kept rolling, bouncing over the speed bumps and crashing through the big window facing the road as diners inside leaped out of the booths.
The truck slammed into the counter. Metal rang against metal. The sound of breaking glass was lost in the sound of an alarm bell. A woman screamed.
"Holy fuck," Galt said, taking a step forward. "Let's go—"
Alan stopped him with a steady hand. "Hang back a minute." He pointed to the cab of the pickup, almost hidden in the wreckage of the diner. "Propane tank. It could—"
It did. A ball of fire swelled out of the diner and then drew back inside. Indistinct figures moved within the smoke and flames.
Pete looked like he was going to cry. Alan couldn't blame him; he was still just a kid.
"What do we do now? Should we just find a car and drive?"
Since Alan and both boys lived within a few minutes walk of the Cooler, they had all left their cars at home.
"Drive where?" Alan asked. "If these things are all over, where the hell should we go?" He rubbed his chin. "We need guns, first." Alan said. "Then maybe a truck."
Galt was mesmerized by the fire. He winced when he heard a wavering shriek. "We gonna kill these things?"
Alan shrugged. "Let's leave that to the big boys, if they ever get here. Bullets may not kill these little bastards, but they'll slow them down. Right now I'll settle for just staying alive."
"Balours" Pete said. "My Grandad... he took me there a lot. Balours Outdoor Outfitting. It's about ten minutes from here."
Alan had no idea Balours sold guns. He thought it was just a gardening outlet with a bait and tackle shop. He saw movement in the corner of his eye and grabbed Pete and Galt and pulled them down by their collars, all of them lying flat on the sidewalk.
The two dark-skinned humanoids dashed out of the diner, their movements unsteady. Their flesh was charred and bubbling with that glittery foam. One collapsed and stopped moving. The other bent and began consuming the first. It seemed to rest, just for a moment, and then began limping down the street.
"Maybe we could torch these things," Pete whispered.
"Are you nuts?" Galt asked. "They're all over the place. We torch them and we torch ourselves. We haven't had much rain, and we're surrounded by forests. Hell, even in town we've got too much overgrowth, a fire hazard that should have been trimmed back long ago. No money in the budget for that, I guess. We could be looking at a big burn."
Alan gave Galt a look. "Were is all this coming from?"
"University of the Redwoods," Galt said. "I studied horticulture, forestry, land management. Wanted to be a forest ranger. Ended up landscaping summer homes and retirement cottages at thirty bucks an hour."
"Sell-out," Pete muttered.
"Ideals take precedence over paying the bills every time, kid." Galt pointed to a home two houses down from the burning truck stop. The white picket fence surrounding the yard was almost hidden by flowering plants, rose bushes, and a variety of small trees. "Got a couple of car payments out of that job.
Alan saw something coming down the street and rubbed his eyes. "You have got to be shitting me," he said.
As the burned gobblen still limped slowly down the street, it was being stalked by another. If this second creature was like the first, and it looked similar, these things were evolving fast.
The stalker had blue skin so dark it was almost black. The eyes in the front and back of its head were huge, and the only other feature on its face was a gaping mouth full of flat teeth the size of fists and a lower jaw that almost looked like a scoop.
"Jesus," Pete hissed. He shut his eyes and turned away.
Galt shook his head. "We're fucked."
They were looking at a creature that stood at least twelve feet tall. It had a disproportionate lower body, the legs thick and solid, the feet broad and flat. It didn't move very fast, but it had a hell of a stride.
"This is interesting," Alan said, pointing at the limping gobblen. "Check it out."
The injured creature stopped and turned to face the bigger one. It looked up. They made eye contact and the smaller let the larger approach.
The bigger humanoid picked up the smaller one and eased it into that gaping mouth. The small one did not struggle at all. The large one handled its prey gently. The huge jaws closed, and those flat teeth began to chew.
The large creature swallowed, and then looked over the street, its head slowly moving from side to side.
"No movement, no sound," Alan breathed.
The gaze of the big humanoid passed over them, surveyed the street again, and settled on the landscaped yard Galt had once worked on. The thing moved forward, shattering the fence and ripping a rose bush out of the ground. It began crushing and twisting the bush into a ball. Alan was reminded of a kid messing with cotton candy. The thing opened its mouth and began to chew.
"Hey," Pete whispered. "This one has flat teeth. The little ones had that ring of sharp-edged bone.
The others looked at him, wondering what he was talking about.
"You know. Like the dinosaurs. Sharps and flats. Or... carnivores and herbivores."
"Yeah," Galt said. "Crushing teeth. Mulching teeth. A plant-eater."
Alan looked ahead and said, "Oh, you dumb fuck."
The front door of the house slammed open. An elderly man stepped onto the porch, raised a shotgun, and began hollering.
"Get the fuck outta my wife's roses, you goddamned alien scum!"
The shotgun boomed. Points of bubbling glitter appeared on the big humanoid's skin. It took two big steps across the yard and grabbed the old man. It folded the man in half.
A woman appeared in the doorway holding a little dog. She screamed.
The creature stuffed the man into its mouth even as it reached for the old lady. She dropped the dog, and the dog ran like hell.
When the thing finished chewing and swallowing the old couple, it bent slightly and began tearing the garden apart, uprooting bushes and trees and eating at a steady pace. A car shot through an intersection a block away. The creature stood tall a moment watching the car, and then returned to its feast. When it had stood fully erect, its head had been higher than the roof of the house. It was still growing.
"Wow," Galt breathed. "I guess they can digest clothes and anything else by this stage, huh?"
Lying on his belly, Alan put a hand on Pete and Galt's shoulders, and they all crawled backwards out of sight of the monstrosity across the street.
<>
It took an hour, not the expected ten minutes, for Alan, Galt and Pete to reach Balours. They had to dodge a half dozen of the gobblens along the way, various sizes and colors. They passed a toppled, burning telephone pole, and on the sidewalk beside it, a box exactly like the one Kevin and Galt had found. The lid was open, the box empty. The inside of the box was smooth and dirty white.
"Looks like this pod is missing its peas," Alan said.
By the light of the burning telephone pole they studied a footprint near a ruined house. The print was roughly six by four feet, impressed into the dark exposed soil of the lawn.
"This is nuts," Galt said. He grabbed a handful of raw earth, watching an earthworm twist and turn. "It ate everything, even the grass."
In his mind Alan could see a massive scoop-like lower jaw clearing the ground like a backhoe.
Balours was a shambles. The store had been looted, every gun and shell taken.
Alan switched on the lights, found an axe, and took it with him as he wandered the store. He grabbed a backpack and put a few flashlights in it. Pete and Galt picked up a pair of machetes. They were cheaply made and not very sharp, but they would still do some damage. Pete knocked over a shelf of big plastic jugs holding Balours Own Weed Kill, making one hell of a racket.
"Thanks, you little asshole," Galt hissed. "I think I just shit my drawers."
Sitting on top of a display case near the cash register was one of the scorched boxes. The lid was open. The box was empty.
"Stick that in your pack," Galt said.
Alan raised his eyebrows. "Fuck you, college-boy."
"I want to look at it later, see what the hell it is."
Alan stepped away, and reappeared with another pack. He unzipped the canvas bag, wrapping it around the charred box, letting the object fall inside. He didn't want to touch the damned thing. He zipped the pack shut and tossed it to Galt.
"If another one of those gobblens appears and starts sucking your lungs out through your asshole, don't say I didn't warn you."
In a back room they found a darkened loading dock, and bays filled with containers of fertilizer and tools, and shelves holding bottles of plant food and bitter-smelling chemicals.
They also found one of the creatures, when it stepped out of a shadow and grabbed at Pete.
The kid stumbled and that saved his life. He fell out of its grasp.
This one was almost black, and as big as Alan. It reached for the boy again and Galt moved up behind it, swinging the machete. The eye in the back of its head opened wide and it ducked, snagging one of Pete's feet and lowering its head, mouth open.
Alan stepped up and swung the axe. The creature's head was lopped off and it bounced away. The body stood straight, completely still.
"Outta the fucking park," Galt said, helping Pete up.
Alan was watching the head. The severed neck was bubbling with that glittery foam. He found a light switch and when the overhead fluorescents began to flicker he started checking the shelves for anything useful.
The foam coming out of the gobblen's neck was releasing little bubbles. Pete laughed. The bubbles went everywhere, following unseen currents in the air.
One of the bubbles drifted towards the creature's still-standing body. The bubble grazed the gobblen's arm. It burst, and was absorbed. The body jerked, and turned in a circle, arms outstretched.
"No fucking way," Galt said.
The air was crazy with bubbles now. Two more struck the headless body.
A moment later the body began walking directly towards the head.
"Holy shit," Pete said. "Alan!"
Alan took in what was happening with a quick glance. He didn't know why it was happening, and didn't care. Stopping it was more important.
He saw half of a label on one big brown bottle. The half he could read had the word 'acid' in dark letters. He grabbed the bottle, and unscrewed the top.
The creature's body was on its hands and knees and reaching for its head when Alan stood over it and poured out the contents of the bottle. Some of it splashed into the open neck and the gaping mouth.
Black skin bubbled where the liquid made contact, but the thing was still moving, raising the head to its neck.
Galt took the empty bottle.
"Some kind of acid," Alan said. "I thought it would kill this thing."
Galt gave his head a shake. "No, man. This is just acetic acid. It's basically strong vinegar. It won't do shit."
Alan was wondering how many pieces he would have to chop the thing into before it would stop when it went into convulsions. It flopped around for a few seconds and then stopped moving.
Pete nudged it with one toe. The thing was as stiff as deadwood. "I don't get it," he said. "These things can survive gunshots and burns and getting their heads cut off, but vinegar kills them?"
Galt scratched his head. He felt like he was missing something. What was it?
Alan checked the shelf. He found three more bottles of acetic acid. He slipped them into the pack.
He went back to the loading dock and found Galt poking at the dead gobblen with the blade of a Swiss Army knife.
"Where's the kid?"
Pete joined them a moment later, holding another pack. "I got these." He opened the pack to show them bottles of spring water and a whole box of Power Bars.
They quickly wolfed down a couple of bars, facing each other and watching over each other's shoulders.
Galt took a deep drink of water and wiped his chin. "Let's hope we don't have to shit like this."
"Let's go," Alan said. "We need to find transportation."
Finding a suitable car was another chore.
They passed four cars parked in driveways as they walked down a quiet residential street.
"What was wrong with those?" Pete asked.
"Modern cars are a bitch to hotwire unless you have the right tools," Alan said. "We don't have the tools."
"And they all had alarm systems," Galt added. "The last thing we want to do is attract attention to ourselves."
They kept moving. They didn't bother knocking on any doors. Who knew if there was someone with a shotgun on the other side, completely wired and ready to shoot at the slightest sound?
The lawn and garden of every house they passed had been stripped down to the soil.
"So much for the stereotypical American," Galt muttered at one point. "No cars, no guns."
"And none of us is fat," Pete said, in a thoughtful tone.
For the first time that night, Alan laughed.
They came to a darkened house where the big picture window had been broken outwards. There was a pickup in the drive, a beaten-up Ford that had to be forty years old. Alan liked it. It was a working man's truck. It looked like shit, but it was probably a hell of a lot more solid and reliable that the plastic lozenges zipping up and down the highways these days.
Alan eased the door open slowly. He got behind the wheel. Pete slid in on the passenger side, and Galt sat next to him. The seat was big and broad.
After rooting in his pack, Alan took out a small flashlight. "Knife," he said to Galt.
Galt handed it over.
Alan hunkered down. His long legs were hanging out of the cab as he turned nearly upside down.
"This always goes faster on TV," Pete said.
Galt whispered "Shaddap," out of the side of his mouth.
Alan slipped the flashlight into his mouth. "Uk," he said.
A few minutes later, the engine roared to life.
"Nice," Alan said, as he put the truck in gear and pulled out onto the street. "We've even got a full tank."
"No radio," Pete said. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and slipped an earpiece into one ear. "Still no service. And all the news stations are the same, MSNBC, FOX, CNN. It's just text telling people to stay indoors and... stay clear of San Francisco."
"Screw 'em," Alan said.
Alan explained that he wanted one more look at the center of town, to see if anyone had gathered there.
"And then what?" Galt asked.
"We head South," Alan replied. "We head for a city, and hope we find a more organized response to whatever the hell is happening."
<>
Alton was a ghost town.
Alan headed inland, wanting a look at Highway 101. He figured that if the panic in Alton was typical, 101 would be jammed with cars, and he was right. He followed secondary roads, the headlights of hundreds of cars glowing in the sky to his left. A few small helicopters passed overhead, most likely privately owned or one of those eyes in the sky carrying a cameraman for a news station.
Santa Rosa was burning.
A red glow filled the sky over the city, and a column of smoke rose into the dark sky, obscuring the stars.
Helicopters hovered over the city, military craft firing missiles at unseen targets even as other choppers were dumping water on the fires.
The secondary roads were at a standstill here, and Alan bypassed the area on sidewalks, suburban lawns and open fields. At an interchange just past Santa Rosa they saw over a hundred cars jammed onto a highway access ramp. They could hear screams and the occasional gunshot, and see dozens of what they were all now calling gobblens darting from car to car and eating their fill.
They stopped for a piss break on a quiet rural lane.
Pete went back to the truck.
Galt pulled a beat-to-hell pack of Marlboros out of his jacket and lit up.
"Got another?"
Galt handed a cigarette to Alan.
Alan lit up and inhaled. "You hear something?"
"Just Pete," Galt replied. He looked over his shoulder. "What the fuck are you doing back there, kid? We—"
Alan grabbed Galt by the lapels and yanked him out of the path of a cow.
The cow raced by them, lowing madly. Three dark-skinned gobblens were on its back, eating it as it ran. The cow kicked out with its rear legs and one of the gobblens tumbled to the ground. The creature stood, saw the men watching it, and went for them.
The machetes and the ax were back in the truck.
"Run," Alan said.
They raced back to the truck with the gobblen at their heels.
Alan was wondering where the hell he put the ax, wondering how close that damned gobblen was, when he suddenly heard a soft squeaking hissing sound.
By the time Alan found the axe the gobblen was on its back, thrashing, dying.
"Now that's how you do it," Pete said. He was holding a cheap plastic bottle with a trigger sprayer. "I put some of that acid stuff in this, set the nozzle on 'stream,' and shot this shit right down that little fucker's throat."
"God damn," Galt said.
"And I grabbed a few more of these bottles back at Balours," Pete added. "Now we'll all be packing. Fuckers. Killed my family."
Galt didn't say anything, but he gave Pete a pat on the back.
Alan gave Pete a nod. "Thanks, kid. Let's get back on the road."
<>
They moved South.
On the outskirts of Petaluma they saw something looming in the darkness near the center of town. It was fifty feet tall, maybe more, very wide near the bottom, tapering to what might have been a small head at the top.
Galt blinked in disbelief. "Is that one of those things?"
"No way." Pete said. "No way, man. That thing is too big. It's impossible."
Alan didn't say a thing. They weren't far from San Francisco. He was sure that things would be better there. He was also sure that if the roads continued to be littered with cars, most of them empty now, the Golden Gate Bridge would be a mess. Crossing on foot would be a hell of a risky option.
While they drove, Galt took the charred box from his pocket and took out his Swiss Army knife. He got a flashlight from Alan's pack and switched it on.
Pete moved closer to Alan. "Get that shit away from me. Why don't you get rid of it?"
Galt played with the lid of the box, opening it and closing it. "I wouldn't mind know what makes these bastards tick."
Alan glanced over at Galt. "How can the vinegar act as fast as it does?"
Galt shrugged. "Dunno. At the rate they grow they obviously have super-fast metabolisms. Food, as a basic building block, goes to work in them quickly. In the case of the acetic acid they could be victims of their own metabolism. As to 'why vinegar,' I'm working on it."
He looked for a hinge on the lid, but there was none. The lid was held on by a thick gray strip of something sinewy and fibrous. It took some effort for Galt to cut it free. He ran the tip of the knife blade along the pitted surface of the lid, and a narrow, smoother section inside.
"I thought this was some kind of metal," he said. "It isn't. It's more like bone, or a shell. Weird."
Galt stuck his hand inside the box and examined the dirty white interior with his fingertips.
Pete shook his head. "You're fucking crazy."
"It feels like..."
Novato was dark, silent. They passed by.
Galt took the knife and began cutting into the material lining the box. There were no seams or stitches or joins. It was all one piece. The material was tough, and when cut bled a clear sticky fluid. Galt cut the material into small pieces and long strips, holding them up to his eyes, inspecting them closely, working slowly. He tasted one piece with the tip of his tongue and looked astonished.
Pete gagged. "You fucking freak!"
"Jesus Christ," Galt said. "Alan, you were right when you said this was a pod missing its peas."
"People on the road," Alan said.
San Rafael was burning. There was a road block on the side street Alan was using to bypass the town. In the distance they could see two of the towering shapes like the one in Petaluma.
"It's about fucking time," Galt said. I don't care if it's the cops or the Marines."
"These guys aren't either one," Pete said.
It was a bunch of kids, mostly Latinos. Maybe they were part of a gang. They were all acting tough, like they though they were hard-ass cholos. They were all scared. And they all had guns.
Alan brought the truck to a stop as one of the kids approached. He was holding an automatic, heavy with silver plate.
"The fuck you think you're goin, homes?"
"Right on through," Alan said. "Heading for San Francisco."
The kid gestured with the gun. Alan could have grabbed it then, but he needed information. "You crazy, man. City's fucked up. Everything's fucked up. This is the end of everything, man."
"Then you won't mind if we go ahead?" Alan asked. "Since we're all about to die, anyhow."
The kid scratched at one ear with the gun. Once again, Alan decided to let him hang on to it.
"Yeah, well I got bad news, ese. My crew needs the truck. We movin our families outta here. We need every ride we can get."
Alan made a move. The kid made a choking sound. Alan was now holding the gun, the barrel pressed against the kid's forehead.
Pete looked at Galt and mouthed the words 'holy shit.'
"Listen, little man. Tell your boys to stand down."
The kid's hands fluttered. The others surrounding the truck took this as a sign to back off.
Alan gave the kid a grim smile. "That's better. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not disrespecting you in front of your crew. You're doing a good thing, getting your family out of the area. I just need to get to the city. To someone in charge."
Galt had been watching the two tall shapes in the distance. "Alan," he said softly, "This is bad. Those things are definitely bigger versions of the ones that came out of the boxes."
The kid looked Alan in the eye. "You just gonna die over there man."
Alan put the truck in gear. "Maybe. Here's a tip. Look for vinegar. Acetic acid. Whatever these things are, it poisons them, fast. Use it."
"My piece?"
Alan set the gaudy handgun on the dashboard. "Let's call it a loan."
The kid looked pissed, and the others with him started closing in on the car when a sound filled the air, a roar that they could hear and feel.
One of the two things towering over the town like a monolith had parted at the waist, the upper half roaring into the sky on a column of white vapor.
"Shit," the kid said, "There goes another one!"
"Another one?" Galt asked.
"Yeah man. We seen a couple of them already. They taking off all over."
"We have to go," Alan said.
The kid gave Alan a doubtful look. "Vinegar, huh?"
Alan nodded.
The kid waved Alan through, and the road block parted. "Nice knowing your ass, ese!"
<>
They were passing through Marin. The town was deserted, the streets relatively clear. Sunrise wasn't long away, and the sky was filling with light.
Galt stuck his right hand out the window and raised his middle finger. "Figures that the rich folks would get the word and get clear without a fuss."
Pete started to say, "Hey, what is—"
Alan hit the brakes. "I thought I was looking at trees. I was sure I was going to see a curve in the road."
It was one of the towering, monolithic gobblens. They were already referring to them monos, having seen more and more as they got closer to San Francisco.
The creature's massive feet were planted in the road, blocking both lanes. Dozens of smaller gobblens, jet-black and dirty-white, were standing in line at the mono's feet. The small gobblens were climbing up the legs and trunk of the mono, pulling themselves up to its head, and climbing into its mouth.
The gobblens had an easy climb. The mono's skin was covered with countless small bumps that they used as handholds.
"I don't get it," Pete said. "Why are they doing this?"
Alan was even more confused by the fact that most of the gobblens still on the ground had seen the truck, and the men inside, but were still patiently waiting for their turn to begin their upward climb.
Galt stuck his head out the passenger window and looked up.
"They're feeding it," he said. "Fueling it. Look, it's gonna blow."
Mist was leaking out of the mono in streamers and jets, an indistinct white ring encircling the mono's waist.
Alan told Pete to slide behind the wheel, and then grabbed two of the three spray bottles Pete had filled with acetic acid and stepped out of the car.
"Move in closer," he said, hopping up on the hood.
As Pete pulled up alongside the gobblens, Alan started spraying them down with acetic acid.
The gobblens became frantic, leaping and climbing over each other in their quest for the mono's mouth.
When the spray bottles were empty, Alan told Pete to back off.
When they were a hundred yards away, Alan got behind the wheel. They sat back and waited to see what happened.
The last of the small gobblens that had been sprayed down reached the mouth of the mono and crawled inside. The mono chewed stoically, as more and more mist leaked out of it. Then it raised its face to the stars.
"Here we go," Galt said.
A rumbled filled the air. The truck shook, and they all covered their ears when the roaring began.
The mono's head twitched.
Alan had to yell to be heard. "Is that normal?"
Galt shouted, "How the fuck should I know?"
The mono's head twitched again, violently, and then the upper and lower body separated, the torso rising on a column of white.
"Some kind of chemical rocket," Galt hollered.
Alan gave him a questioning look.
Galt pointed to the surrounding trees. Whatever was launching the mono into the air, it wasn't hot. The trees weren't burning.
The mono's flight stopped at a thousand feet. It seemed to hang in the air a moment, then it blew apart.
"Jesus!" Alan said. "Was that supposed to happen?"
"Believe it or not," Galt replied, "Yes, it was supposed to happen. Just not yet... if my guess is correct."
The sky was full of objects.
"We better get under the truck," Galt said.
They got out of the truck and rolled under it just as the falling objects began raining down on the road.
Galt grabbed one that bounced and rolled under the Ford. It was a box much like the one he had found with Kevin, hours ago.
Yet this box had differences. It was softer. Smaller. Malformed. The lid opened , and a slender dirty-white hand flopped out.
"Dead." Galt said. He touched the hand. "Premature."
Alan pounded a fist on the road. "Are you going to tell us what the hell you are thinking?"
"Yeah," Galt said. "These things we've been fighting? They're weeds. Flowering weeds."
"Man," Pete said, "You've fucking lost it."
<>
They got back in the truck once the sky was clear.
Alan put it in gear and headed down the road toward San Francisco.
"We've just seen the life cycle of these things," Galt said. "The boxes that hit here were nothing more than seed pods. One of them must have hit that Japanese satellite and blown it apart. They land, they open. The seeds take in nourishment, and grow. Eventually, the mature plant fertilizes itself, and blooms."
They were only a few minutes from the Golden Gate bridge now, but they had no idea what lay ahead. There was a hill between them and the bay. They could only see the bridge towers, silhouetted against the riding sun. They followed a curve in the road.
"Maybe the little ones pollinate the big ones," Galt said. "Maybe it's self-pollination. And it's probably a crap shoot to see which one grows big enough to be the first to bloom."
Galt picked up the box he had been messing with earlier. "This isn't metal. It's more like shell or bone. And the material inside is plant fiber, tough as hell, smooth as silk. The sap tastes sweet. Sugary."
"The vinegar?" Alan asked.
Galt nudged Pete. "Remember the jugs of Balour's Own Weed Kill you knocked over?" Pete nodded. "They were making that stuff themselves. That's why they had the acetic acid. You want to use an environmentally-friendly weed-killer? Use vinegar. Maybe their fast metabolisms and alien chemistry make them even more susceptible to the stuff."
"But these things are smart," Pete said.
"Are they?" Galt asked. "Think about it. All they really did was eat and grow and eat and grow."
"But they are aliens."
"Yeah, kid. They are."
The truck entered the last stretch of open road before the bridge, and they found another roadblock. This wasn't a bunch of kids. It was a pair of armored vehicles.
Soldiers wearing biohazard gear were watching the road, and they surrounded the Ford.
Every lane of the Golden Gate Bridge was filled with cars, almost all of them heading north towards Marin, many vehicles having tried to use the almost deserted southbound lanes into the city.
On this side of the bridge, Alan could just see the head and shoulders of one of the monos. There was part of an old fort down by the water on a concrete pier, and an access road leading to it that ran right alongside the bridge. It must have been standing on that. He could just make out the small shapes of gobblens climbing into the mono's mouth... and white vapor rising up around it.
A soldier approached the truck, and Alan saw young, frightened eyes behind the biohazard mask.
"Sir, you will have to turn your vehicle around and leave this area. The city of San Francisco is under martial law and is under quarantine until—"
"Quarantine?" Alan was outraged. "These people are under attack, but they aren't contagious. If they are kept in the city they aren't going to last long."
The soldier looked over his shoulder, and then leaned close to Alan. "Get clear. Now. They're going to nuke the city. They say it's a small yield, but hell. They say it's a test. To see if we can stop these things."
"What about the shock wave," Alan asked. "And the bridge?"
The soldier looked back at the bridge. People were flashing their headlights and honking their horns. The sounds were faint at this distance.
"You can't evacuate a city the size of San Francisco overnight," Alan said.
The soldier looked away.
Pete looked horrified. "There's still people in the city?"
"We have another way," Galt said. "Another way to stop these things!"
"It's too late," the young soldier said, backing away from the truck. "You've got about ten minutes. Get clear now."
Alan put the truck in gear, and turned around. He drove fifty feet and then stopped. He grabbed his backpack and looked inside. There was one big bottle of acetic acid left. He lifted the automatic from the dashboard and pointed it at Pete and Galt.
"Out of the truck."
"What are you gonna do?" Pete asked.
"Out. Now."
"Come on, dude," Galt said. "You gonna give them some big heroic demo of how the acid works, make them call off the nuclear strike? That dramatic shit only works in the movies."
Alan shrugged. He slid the gun back onto the dashboard. "What else can I do?"
Galt put a hand on Pete's shoulder and pushed open the door on his side. "Let's go."
Pete grabbed for Alan. "No! No goddammit! We need to stick together!"
Galt dragged Pete out onto the road.
"This isn't fair!" Pete's face was red, and he rubbed furiously at his eyes. "Why you?"
Alan shrugged. "It'll be okay, kid," he said. "You two will make it through this. That's what counts."
A few of the soldiers down the road were starting to take notice.
Galt slammed the door shut.
"Good luck," Galt said. He reached in through the open window and shook Alan's hand. "You crazy prick."
"After I do this, pass the word, college-boy. Tell them we have a weapon with this acetic acid, and make sure they believe it."
Alan stepped on the gas and turned the Ford around again. The old truck raced down the road. To his surprise, the soldiers stepped out of the way. Not one of them fired a shot. Maybe they thought he was crazy. Maybe they didn't give a shit. Maybe they'd seen too many people die already.
There was another roadblock. The National Guard had actually erected fences along this side of the bridge. People stood on the other side of the fence a few feet from Alan, pleading with the soldiers and screaming at them.
They would have torn that fence down in a heartbeat if they could see over the railing facing the bay.
Alan jumped out of the truck and ran to the walkway reserved for pedestrians and bicycles. He looked over the railing. The mono was below him standing on the access road, its massive feet wet from the spray of wave dashing against rock. He could see tiny gobblens crawling into its mouth in a steady stream. He could drop a spitball on its head from here.
This mono was the biggest he has seen, almost a hundred feet tall. And he was another hundred feet above its head. That was a hell of a long way. For a brief moment he had thought the mono might be close enough that he could just drop the bottle into its mouth. No such luck. There was only one way to be sure the bottle hit the target.
White mist began venting out of the creature in greater amounts.
Time's up, Alan thought. He climbed over the railing, and jumped.
The mono looked up.
Alan fell fast, shocking himself with a cry of fear. The mono opened its mouth.
Alan threw the bottle.
The bottle went right down the mono's throat.
The massive creature reached up and swatted Alan out of the sky. He was dead before he hit the bay.
A lot of eyes saw what happened. The mono convulsed, and soon died on its feet. Its upper half did not launch.
<>
By the time Alan's body was fished out of the bay, Galt had passed on everything he knew to the combined forces fighting the aliens.
The nuclear strike on San Francisco was called off, and jury-rigged airburst bombs filled with acetic acid were soon being tested on monos. Firetrucks were dispatched with tanks full of acetic acid, hosing down whole armies of gobblens.
Reports were coming in from Asia, India, Africa. Strange boxes had fallen out of the sky. Violent attacks had followed.
It took nine months before the alien threat was neutralized. Galt and Pete, and many others who had first-hand experience fighting gobblens and monos were taken on as consultants by the West coast office of the USGBEI. The United States Government Bureau of Extraterrestrial Infestation had classified 24 distinct stages of development between newly-emerged gobblen and launch-stage mono, but the boys from Alton always used the old names.
On the first anniversary of the night Kevin and Galt carried the charred box into the Cooler, Galt and Pete and one hundred and fifty-three others who had survived gathered in the bar and on the street in front of it. The bar had a new owner and a new bartender. Galt got a couple of beers.
A toast was raised to Alan and to all the other who had died in those first few confusing, horrifying days.
In California alone nearly three million people had been killed by the gobblens, or as a result of their attacks. Some people were shot by their neighbors. Some people were trampled to death by panicking crowds. They were all mourned.
No one objected to the presence of an underage drinker in a licensed establishment, and Pete raised his glass along with everyone else.
After a few more speeches and toasts, Galt and Pete found a quiet table in one corner.
Galt took a drink and set down his glass. There was dirt under his fingernails. "How's school going?"
Pete shrugged. "Okay. No. Boring."
Pete had been reunited with his mom. They only had each other, so Pete worked part time for Galt to help pay the bills. They were almost like brothers now.
After heading out to Colorado to make sure his parents were okay, Galt had returned to Alton and opened his own landscaping business. There was a lot of work to be done in Alton, and surrounding towns. The government had created a special fund to help victims of what was now called 'the infestation' get back on their feet. Galt had gotten a little slice of that pie.
"Really boring," Pete said.
Galt laughed. "I guess reading about the Louisiana Purchase seems kinda dry after what you've been through, huh?"
Pete smiled, and then his smile faded. "I miss him. I hardly knew the guy, but I really miss him."
"Me too," Galt said.
They sat quietly a moment, and then Galt got up and went to the bar. He came back with two shots of Jim Beam. He set one in front of Pete and sat down.
"Two fingers," Galt said, raising his glass.
Pete raised his own glass. "Two fingers."
User Reviews
Submitted by Nyrea (user info) at 2007-09-24 11:17:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Void_Where_Prohibited (user info) at 2007-05-18 16:35:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked it. Very suspenseful. The beginning and middle were very drawn out compared to the ending. The ending seemed rushed. But I still enjoyed it.
Submitted by zwerg (user info) at 2007-05-18 15:48:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by G-prime (user info) at 2006-03-12 16:30:13 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
hahaha
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-03-12 16:16:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
control.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-03-12 16:16:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Damage
Submitted by Spuds002 (user info) at 2005-11-02 02:31:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
ahhh... a classic uber madness post. you know, from when ubermadness was actually a respected event around here.
now never speak of it again
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-08-03 11:20:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Supreme Overlord damage control...
Submitted by Supreme_Overlord (user info) at 2005-07-21 22:15:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
shite
Submitted by Adamdidit2u (user info) at 2005-05-03 16:37:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I remember reading this, and it was indeed awesome. (DQ'ed from voting at the time)
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-01-17 19:18:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by stevie_says (user info) at 2005-01-17 19:12:23 (#)
Ranking: 2
I want to have your babies....
....that means you get to cum inside me.
--
Never gonna happen, my friend.
1- You're Canadian.
2- You're a guy.
3- I only do facials.
Submitted by stevie_says (user info) at 2005-01-17 19:12:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I want to have your babies....
....that means you get to cum inside me.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-01-17 19:06:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by tlozoot (user info) at 2005-01-17 18:58:26 (#)
Ranking: 2
This is my second favorite Uber-post ever, right after Razor's winning post last UM. I liked Domenad's final round post better but you deserved to win for this one alone.
--
Thanks. I had a blast writing it. That's why it turned out so fucking long.
Submitted by tlozoot (user info) at 2005-01-17 18:58:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This is my second favorite Uber-post ever, right after Razor's winning post last UM. I liked Domenad's final round post better but you deserved to win for this one alone.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-01-17 11:45:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by zakalwe (user info) at 2005-01-16 17:02:48 (#)
Ranking: 2
Another +2 for this. Shame your final entry wasn't as good.
--
I agree 100%. Feel-good titles fuck me up.
Submitted by zakalwe (user info) at 2005-01-16 17:02:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Another +2 for this. Shame your final entry wasn't as good.
Submitted by youarsoghey (user info) at 2005-01-16 11:25:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment