Page 67 of Them

The Nightwalker bounded toward him, triple jaws opening wide…

… and before Tim could pull the trigger…

… Lane sprinted toward the boggy fountain, strode onto its crumbling concrete wall, and launched himself into the air.

Lane landed on the monster’s spine with a sickening qqrrsshh as its dorsal spines gouged into his soft belly. His right arm coiled around the writhing neck, while his swollen left clutched the pistol. His pained face was awash in the aqueous shine.

“K’ORK KURRAA! K’ORK KURRAA! K’ORK KURRAAAAAA!!!”

The Scorpion swung its neck around, as if trying to get a glimpse of its hijacker, the mosquito on its back. Lane held fast as the Nightwalker reeled, bucking and hollering like an intergalactic rodeo of which the old soldier was the finest, if lone, contestant.

On the other side of the fountain, Tim watched in terror as his friend was whipped back and forth like the helpless passenger of some sadistic carnival ride. He knew the Nightwalker would have killed him had Lane not intervened. Time to repay the favor.

He stumbled to his feet and raised the shotgun, but there was no clean angle. The scattershot could go anywhere, and Lane was being whirled around in a maelstrom of flesh and steel and storm. Even though the beast’s tail was preoccupied with prying him off, leaving the whirlpool eyes unprote—

“TAKE THE SHOT, TIM!” Lane shouted, as if he’d read his mind. “TAKE IT!”

But Tim didn’t move. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to pull the trigger.

Lane, having used the Scorpion’s own bucking momentum to inch up its neck, thrust the pistol toward the creature’s face and fired three times in desperation. Another bulbous eyeball popped into a cloud of turquoise mist.

“KKKKRRRRAAAAHHHH!!!”

The old man let the pistol drop from his bruised hand, and at the same time, his other hand’s grip around the Nightwalker’s spine loosened, and then he was falling to the ground like a child slipping from the monkey bars.

Tim was free to take the shot.

And his aim was true.

The buckshot whistled through the night and found the final ocular orb, tearing it into neon ribbons.

“RAAAKAAAW!”

“It’s blind!” Tim shouted, running toward where Lane was sitting on the ground. “C’mon, we just have to—”

The words died in his throat when he saw the blood soaking his friend’s shirt. The Scorpion’s jagged spine had torn into his chest, and his left arm looked downright broken. “Jesus, are you—”

“Get down!” Lane bellowed, springing from his knees only to tackle Tim to the dirt.

Seconds later, the tip of the Scorpion’s amputated tail whipped past them. It was flailing blindly, either in the throes of full-fledged panic because someone had turned the lights out… or because it was finally dying. For good this time.

Tim sat up too fast, and the tail caught him in the back of his skull upon its return trip, crystalline scabs rupturing on impact. He cartwheeled through the dirt for a good ten feet, losing his grip on the shotgun.

The Nightwalker turned toward the sound of his gasping breath. The creature’s mandible mouth opened wide, and a host of long, slick blue organs slithered out, wiggling toward him. Tasting the air.

What the fuck? Tim thought. Are those… tongues?

Lane grabbed the fallen shotgun and emptied it into the belly of the beast, a spray of pellets bouncing off harmlessly, ricocheting into the grass. “Lookie here, you big bastard! It’s not just him anymore! I beat you too!”

Tim sat up, confused. “What are you—”

Out of ammunition, the old man crawled closer and began pounding on the alien’s shell from beneath.

The Scorpion’s blind, bleeding grimace turned away from Tim and pointed its writhing bouquet of tongues toward Lane.

“NO! STOP!” Tim cried out.

“C’mon!” Lane screamed, his eyes locked on the descending maw. “You’ve taken our world! Taken it all away, just to make the same cowardly mistakes! You’re no better than the rest of us! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”