Marin's Dale

I

Moonshire Lake. 10:08 p.m.

Stars were crystals bobbing in a pool of tar. Nearby, the half-moon hung like a tarnished orange peel, like at any moment it would go lopsided and tumble forever from its cosmic seat. This was where lovers came to meet.

Under the watch of celestial eyes, the lake shimmered. Evergreen trees were everywhere. The body of water itself was like a small ocean, sealed by the trees, and as far as the eye could see, cliffs shot up from the lake. But the lake was still.

But then, the water bubbled. In the dark distance, random swells pushed upwards through the lake. In most places, the water lapped beneath the moon. Undisturbed.

But more and more humps were appearing, like bulges along the spine of a great beast, coming to surface.

The whole lake was simmering.

People on the dark shores rose from their folly. The teenagers stared. The older couples with their glasses of Pinot noir and Zinfandel stopped and pointed. Human murmurs came aside the chirping crickets.

The frozen humps, if not pods, were too dark; too black. A glossy, glowing black.

And then there was a low grade hum.

And that’s when they fired. They fired with the ferocity of rocket shells, exploding on trees, rocks and land; dissipating in crimson, sizzling capillaries of electricity.

Blinding

A searing scream came off trees and rocks. The rest of the lake shot up—reversed rain. As if sucked by a massive, unseen vacuum.

And then:

Gusts of wind. Trees tossed like toys. Flashes of red. Exploding pods. And humans running and spinning and tossing in the air like ragdolls.

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Corn husks whispered in the wind. Fireflies glowed and faded. Crickets buzzed.

A tractor trailer cab stopped on a windy dirt road. As the car lights went out, the vehicle rocked slightly and the door opened.

Nearby corn stalks began to sway in circles, as a small, hunched figure moved through the field.

Inside the dingy cab, where pepsi bottles and ruffled magazines littered the floor, a radio dial flipped to life. The scratchy, unnerving static of an empty station hit the air:

White noise

Outside the vehicle, the world was quiet. Only the corn stalks made a noise. The fireflies no longer flashed, the crickets no longer buzzed—the creatures of nature had taken to rest.

And then a mutilated cry severed the air like knives on a chalkboard. From the woods, from the night and the sky and the air—it came without restraint.

Miles away, the metropolis of Marin's Dale slept soundly beneath the fold of stars and the plume of night. In a valley surrounded 360 degrees by the evergreens of Colorado, the crisp spring air laid like a safety net.

But that quiet veil would soon be ripped.

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"Stop!"

Michael Petrone jerked up, half expecting to see the perpetrator in front of him, with the black blood and the ghoulish face. But instead there was silence. The white, unpainted walls surrounded him on all sides. The air was cool but pressing, and his dry mouth like sandpaper. His chiseled muscles, emboldened from years of manual labor, flickered right beneath the flesh.