Page 38 of Them

GRRASH!

Twenty feet away, the stretch of pavement on the other side of the shrubs suddenly splintered and gave way to the Scorpion’s dredging anchor. Up close, the sound was even more hideous, like church bells being dragged through the dirt. A shower of pebbles and small asphalt chunks rained down upon the man in the bushes. As the blue storm swallowed the world, he peered through a gap.

The creature was taller than any house in sight. All six of its eyes were wide open, drowning the road in that labyrinthian blue. It was alone, moving at an almost leisurely pace. Yet it didn’t seem tired. More than anything, with its head sunken into its body and its eyes focused straight ahead, the Scorpion appeared… determined. Thoughtful, even.

As the man watched from the shadows, the alien spun itself down the road and out of sight, taking its glowing blue hurricane with it. The crickets seemed to wait a moment to resume their night song, and only then did the man breathe a sigh of relief.

He’d come across stragglers before, but never this late at night, and never so… alert? No, that wasn’t the right word. He wouldn’t have escaped unnoticed if it was. But it was definitely awake, and that was disturbing enough.

With a pounding heart and a brand-new caveat to contemplate in this never-ending game of survival, the man approached the nearest house, a split-level with matching BMWs in the driveway. A rusty ten-speed bicycle leaning against the porch railing. The man ran his fingers over the handlebars as he walked past and tried the front door. It was unlocked.

Lucky me, he thought as he stepped inside and unshouldered his pack. I run into the one goddamn monster with insomnia.

Then a chill ran up his spine. At least, I hope it’s the only one.

After cooking dinner—more beans and corn—on a fire he’d made in the kitchen sink, the man swallowed three Benadryl to help keep the dreams away. Upstairs, he tucked himself into a canopy bed that had once belonged to a teenage girl named Sara. He knew this because her name was stenciled on the wall above her dresser mirror. Everything in the room was pink. The frilly overhand above the bed, the blanket and sheets and pillowcases, the curtains covering the window. Even the walls were painted pink, as if someone had vomited up a geyser of Pepto-Bismol.

He would’ve slept in the main bedroom, but Sara’s parents were right there, still tucked into bed, cobwebs over their eye sockets and an empty pill bottle on the nightstand. There was no sign of Sara.

It rained the next night, number six since his departure for the capital, a steady drizzle that lowered the temperature by ten degrees at least. Shivering and soaked to the bone, the man stumbled upon an aging farmhouse. It stood guard at the northern edge of yet another cookie-cutter subdivision. Fifty years ago, it was probably all farmland. Even from a distance, the man could make out a patchwork of wooden beams and bricks and plastic siding that told of a very old thing kept new. Multiple additions sprawled out from an ancient center like a living blueprint adorning itself with the latest styles while refusing to relinquish the old ones. It was a mishmash of a dwelling, probably handed down from one generation to the next. At some point, one family member had decided to sell most of the land off to a developer. Not that it mattered in the end. The vines and weeds had reclaimed it all.

Stifling a sneeze with his dripping forearm, the man circled around back to investigate. The meadow behind the house was broad and flat, almost shaped like a doughnut with a pond located at its center. Nearly an acre across, set against a field of untamed witchgrass, the pond resembled an ink spot under the waning moonlight. He crept behind a tree trunk to get a look and confirm his suspicions.

As he’d feared. Nestled between the scattered lilies was a myriad of still triliths. Scorpion legs.

The man backed away, scanning the water for any sign of open eyes or bioluminescence.

Is this where you make your home, Nightwalker?

He was still thinking about the Scorpion from the evening before. He’d never seen one out of its nest so late. Hell, he’d never even heard of such a thing, not that there were any postapocalyptic taverns where travelers could trade stories. The world had turned to shit, but it still had rules. Rules that had apparently changed. If the Scorpions were no longer wary of the dark, if they roamed free at any time of day or night, the odds for survival had just plummeted. He was a dead man walking.

No reason to panic yet. Probably an anomaly, right? A freak among freaks.

With the silent radio slung over his shoulder and the shotgun in hand, the man retreated from the farmhouse, eager to leave the pond and its slumbering inhabitants far behind. Ever watchful, he followed the narrow street out of the neighborhood until it eventually T-boned into a rural highway. A handful of cars greeted him at the intersection, most of them ravaged seemingly long ago.

A leaning signpost read SPEED LIMIT, and below that: 50.

Nearly half the cars had been ripped open, twisted metal flourishes of doors and roofs cast aside like colorful scraps of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. The rest had careened off the road and wrapped themselves around trees and telephone poles. A black van farther down the road was parked diagonally across the double yellow lines, as if the driver had simply gotten out and abandoned it. The vehicle appeared to be the only one that hadn’t been in a wreck or torn apart. There were no other cars immediately nearby.

The man circled the van and saw that he’d been wrong. The vehicle hadn’t been spared after all. The metal bumper was crumpled inward, as if it had collided with some invisible barricade. The silver grille broken and splintered.

He stared at it, transfixed.

There was something sticking out from between the remaining alloy teeth. Long and thin and gray, like a tree branch stripped of its bark. The man took a rag from his pack, wrapped it around his hand, grabbed hold of the object, and pulled. It wiggled a little but didn’t break free. He adjusted his grip and gave it another yank, harder this time, and the limb popped loose with a loud thwunk.

It was a single bone. Larger than he’d first thought. Maybe four feet long. The exposed sections had been picked clean, but there was a sliver of decaying flesh and armor plating remaining where the Scorpion leg had been wedged beneath the car. Sparking his lighter, the man lifted the carnage closer to his face and saw ordinary maggots rooting around in the leftover meat.

He flung the bone and rag to the ground in disgust and feverishly wiped his hands on his pants.

Layers, he thought walking away as fast as he could. Like an onion.

Another mile passed, two, three. The rain slowed, then finally stopped. Another owl, perhaps the same one from before, hooted from an unseen vantage. The man was tempted to turn on the radio, eager for some music to calm his nerves, but decided against it. After last night’s surprise encounter, he wasn’t taking any chances.

Almost immediately, his caution proved wise.

As he crowned the crest of a small hill, the man heard something coming from the darkness ahead.

That hideous sound again—the butcher’s cleaver dragging along a slaughterhouse floor. A broken bumper grinding against a guardrail. A sadistic teacher’s fingernails on the chalkboard. It was as abrasive as it was intrusive. That telltale drag, a heartbeat in the basement, was coming for him. He spotted a faint navy glow from on the road ahead, still distant. There was still time.