Prowlers

Part 8

My shift is long; by the end I feel like I am going to die. I find myself wondering from window to window in a daze. The pain from my wound becomes throbbing torment, before turning into a dull annoyance. The only painkillers in the house are a bottle of stuff that you would use for a headache. Daniel awakens after many hours, groggily tells me to go to bed. I offer no objections.

I bolt awake. Half remembered nightmares, visions of pale skin and almond shaped void eyes send me scrambling for my weapon. My mind is slow to catch up with reality. Full awareness is much more sluggish. The pain returns with a vengeance.

Jerry and Daniel are in the living room, talking about something or other. Other than that, things are quiet.

I sit there staring out the kitchen window. A toaster pastry and cold brew coffee helps to bring me back to the closest I can currently get to a hundred percent. I finish, wonder into the living room.

"Did you sleep well?" Jerry askes.

"Yes and no. I can function again, if that is what you mean."

Daniel manages a quick grin, "We've been planning. We figure that we can gather up sacks and things and make sandbags. Maybe set up some barriers."

"Good idea. We should have done it yesterday, to be honest."

"We were in shock, worn out."

"Ya. Well, let's get to it."

A hunt ensues. Plastic bags, cardboard boxes, anything that can hold dirt is rounded up. We carry out the task together, covering each other. We visit the shed for tools. Things get awkward when Daniel wants to do what he calls a "High Shovel" where we knock them together like a high five.

We proceed around the house, putting up our makeshift sandbags in front of the blasted-out windows. Lungs battle against the sting of the cold air. The smell of freshly uncovered dirt brings back memories of doing the same crap in the army. At the time it was punishment, a soft hazing, now it is a life or death thing. The wind blows in, crisp and clean, bringing with it the newly fallen leaves. I hear one crunch underfoot, gifting me an idea.

Back inside. Daniel is assigned the task of stringing empty Coke cans together. Me and Jerry start dragging furniture around, blocking doors and making it more difficult to clamber through windows.

We head outside again. This time we move around the perimeter, setting up our ad hoc alarm system. Then we head back in. Daniel wonders if one of them was keeping watch on us, the same way that we did during the day. He wonders if they have some way of marking the alarms and giving the info to the other beings. I tell him that we can only do so much, and that it will at least make it more difficult for them to move around.

Then Jerry lets out an exclamation, says he has an idea and heads into his son's room. He comes back a few minutes later, several Halloween themed toys in hand.

"We got them at a fast-food place last year. They are motion activated, let out a loud noise when someone walks in front of them.

It doesn't take too long for the two of us to pick up what he is putting down, "That's brilliant!" I declare, "Put them things up by the windows and they won't be able to sneak in."

We change out the batteries. Then start setting them up in key places. There is a finality to the act, as the sun is starting to fall. The wind begins to pick up. The branches sway, the colorful leaves rustling. Distant thunder heralds the night.

***

Rapid flashes light up the horizon. Wind tears at the trees. Thunderclaps pound away.

We patrol the house, moving from one window to the next.

Daniel yells, "That light is back!"

"Where?"

"Right over the house!"

This sends me running back into the living room. I carefully make my way out the side door and down the steps, keeping an eye out in all directions. Beyond the carport, green light bathes the ground. This switches to cold blue and then vibrant purple. My barrel is pointed skyward as I leave the overhang. Daniel follows me.

The light is so bright that I can't look directly at it. It goes red and then orange, before going out completely. My eyes are slow to return to normal. A silver glint slowly grows. I can just make out some hints of color behind it.

Lines shoot down, weird fingers grip me, wrapping around my limbs. I become disoriented as I am rapidly lifted up into the air.

There is a metallic bang below me. The lines are holding me in place in the middle of some sort of chamber. My flashlight moves across the walls, which are covered in strange apertures and robotic arms. Some components seem organic.

Sharp instruments begin to move into position. I hear the sound of a buzzsaw behind me. A horrendous pain in my lower back. A needle tipped arm moves into position, stabs me in the abdomen.

My finger moves into the trigger well. I start squeezing off shots, moving the weapon around randomly. Rounds punch through the walls, flesh is ripped open, metal is torn.

The needle pops out of me; moving in a way that suggests panic. A loud rushing sound under me. The pressure around my arms and legs stops. I am falling.

The next thing that I know I am on the ground, lying there in pain, disorientated. Above me a screeching sound, which moves away. A few seconds later, Jerry and Daniel are there, hauling me to my feet and walking me back into the house.

"You're bleeding pretty bad," Jerry says, looking scared.

"The office, a stapler," I stammer.

Daniel moves to one of the windows, "Go, I'll keep watch."

By the time that we have made it back to the office door I have regained some of my bearings. Jerry enters the room, moving to the side so that he can open the desk drawer. He stops in his tracks.

It stands there, blackout eyes burning deep pits into our souls. The thing that dragged the wounded alien away is still holding the cardboard box that it was in the process of dumping out when we unintentionally interrupted it.

It rushes forward. A blast from both barrels of Jerry's shotgun stops it dead in its tracks. I aim, realize too late that I haven't reloaded yet. It stammers forward, spindly fingers wrap around my neck. I try to pry them off, struggling as those eyes stare into mine. It is then that I see it, feel it, a hate that boarders on madness. I know this illness; I had felt it on the battlefield. I have harmed its people and now it is out for blood.

A metallic thud, followed by many for in rapid succession. It lets go, retreats several feet away, where the buttstock of Jerry's shotgun can't strike it again. I pull my sidearm, empty it into the thing. Jerry has put a shell in both chambers. He moves in close, shoves the weapon into the being's face and ends it.

The pain of the staples are just little pinpricks next to that of the gash itself.