Page 41 of Them

On the right, WILSON’S CREEK.

And dead ahead waited BROADVIEW ESTATES.

An “estate” with a big yard, a soft bed, and a packed pantry sounded divine right now, so the man soldiered forth on his original path. Before long, the trees started to thin, and he could make out the dim outline of a white picket fence, the shapes of peaked-roof houses silhouetted against the moon.

“Rraaarrkkuuurraaa…”

A distant howl as angry as it was pitiful. The Nightwalker was finally dying.

“Good riddance,” the man whispered. He was shocked by how frail his voice was. He sounded like an old man. Was starting to feel like one too.

A rolling field spread out before him, the kind where horses once galloped as their rich owners picnicked in the shade and sipped wine, gossiping. Grimacing from the pain in his leg, the man climbed over the fence and cut across the pasture toward the nearest house. Feeling exposed now that he was out of the forest, he turned off the flashlight.

“… rakarakaraaa… raaa…”

Even weaker now. Before long, the Nightwalker would be—

“TA’AKAAAR!”

The man whirled around, stumbling in the tall grass, nearly dropping the shotgun.

Another Scorpion had answered the Nightwalker’s death knells. It was to the south, by the sound of it. Probably in the farm pond.

“KREEEEE!”

And now another, this one farther away, screeching from the distant west.

They’re waking up. Shit.

The man broke into a jog. They were still far away, just beginning to realize something was wrong. He couldn’t see those alien eyes anywhere along the horizon, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

The first house he came upon was but a fire-ravaged skeleton. All that remained was a blackened husk of collapsed ceiling beams and floorboards, all charred. A house fire, most likely. Not that it mattered now. The owners were bones and dust.

He didn’t reach another house for half a mile, when he finally stumbled upon a home that was thankfully still standing. Still, it wasn’t what he’d expected. With its thick stone walls and twin turrets facing the tree line, it looked more like a medieval castle than a modern abode. Surprised it doesn’t have a moat, he thought as he tried the massive wooden front door, only to find it locked.

More surprises awaited him around the back of the house. A weathered trampoline and an algae-infested birdbath stood next to a large stone patio, which held the biggest grill the man had ever seen. A pair of old dirt bikes lay on their sides in the lawn, grass growing up between the spokes. Just beyond them, a tattered golf net.

“ORA’KA!” another Scorpion shouted, its gravelly voice sending a flock of birds scattering from the branches of a nearby oak.

The Nightwalker was dead. The death wails had finally stopped, so it had to be. Did the creature’s packmates already know their kin was deceased? Would they realize a human had done it? Could they possibly think it had been another Scorpion? Or would they smell the gunpowder and just know?

The patio door swung open on rusty hinges, the screeching sound reminding the man of the juvenile Scorpion he’d killed in the cornfield. Flashlight in hand, he stumbled into the kitchen and hurriedly closed the curtains above the sink. Then it was on to the family room. It was huge. Thick wooden beams formed a vaulted ceiling, an extravagant chandelier hanging from the center. A pair of couches and matching recliners surrounded a giant coffee table before a massive stone fireplace, a cracked television mounted above. The thick curtains in this room had already been drawn, blocking out the night. All of it blanketed in dust.

The man limped to the nearest sofa, set the shotgun down on the coffee table, and tossed his backpack aside. Groaning, he removed what was left of his shirt and slipped out of his bloody boots and soggy jeans. Sitting there in his underwear, he could finally witness the severity of his injuries. His flashlight illuminated purple bruises blooming all over his body, cuts and scrapes etched into the plum flesh. His leg was the worst. Deep, angry gouges encircled his calf. Like someone had wrapped a length of barbed wire around the muscle and pulled.

He tilted the flashlight down. His torso, so thin. He could play his protruding ribs like a xylophone. His once-almond skin looked sickly without the sun’s nutrients. As if he were turning to stone.

His blood-soaked socks left a trail of wet footprints as he stumbled to his feet and shambled toward a window. After turning off the flashlight, he carefully parted the blinds and studied the nearby wood. No blue alien glow. Yet.

Upstairs in the hallway bathroom, he discovered a cache of first aid supplies in the sink cabinet. Bandages. Elastic wraps. Gauze. A bottle of isopropyl alcohol. A tube of disinfectant cream. There was a stack of washcloths too.

He stopped up the sink and soaked one of the towels in water from his backpack. Sitting on the toilet, he gritted his teeth and began to wipe away the surface layer of blood and grime. The pain was sharp, but fast to flee. The cleaning calm before the cleansing storm.

Then the man took a hand towel and jammed it in his mouth, biting down hard.

Before he could change his mind, he squirted the alcohol all over another washcloth, inhaled deeply through his nose, and began pressing the disinfectant into his wounds.

His toes curled in pain, fingers spasming, face snarling. The man’s entire body began to sweat as he chewed his makeshift gag. He wanted to scream but didn’t dare, settling for muffled huffs and grunts and insults. Blissful venom seeped into his flesh, burning away whatever alien traces remained, along with his own nerves. Bile crept up his gullet as he cleaned his road rash arms and worked toward the scrape on his chest. His belly convulsed as the alcohol dug into his wound, pouring over the carnage like hot lava. He pressed the isopropyl to his cheeks, nose, and forehead, the burn devouring him as salty perspiration rolled into the canyons of his many wounds, the pain renewing itself over and over.