The Invasive_Pulse Page 8

  Robert opened the cabinet and his heart sank. The dry food bag listed there, empty.

  Robert flipped his cap off and ran his hands through his hair.

  “It’s all good boy,” he said.

  Robert picked his pooch up and gave him a strong hug, then kissed him on the nose. Vermillion pawed at Robert’s leg as he reached for a pen and paper. Robert wrote a brief note in case he didn’t make it back. If, God forbid, the creatures got him, anyone who found his body would know where to find Vermillion. Robert tucked the note into his pocket, then stared back at his rescue pup.

  Vermillion cocked his head and whimpered.

  “It’s okay boy,” Robert said.

  He didn’t care for how the creatures seemed to hone in on Vermillion out there in Crazy Town. It’s almost like they could smell him. Robert had sensed an increasing awareness that Vermillion would encounter a situation he couldn’t escape from. So for now, the safety of this apartment complex was best.

  For now.

  Robert locked the door behind him, then made his way to Denson’s General Store and Bait shop, which is always where he bought Vermillion’s special food.

  Robert hunkered between houses in dim alleys. Overhead, the air whooshed with the occasional helicopter and the scream of a jet engine. But other things made noises too: bizarre angry squeals in the woods. Things attacking things, other things being eaten alive. Robert wondered about the native fauna, if the deer and other animals were being decimated. Or maybe it was the new creatures eating each other too.

  A flurry of wings and commotion in the woods to his right, then a flash of red.

  Robert didn’t run. Running made too much noise. Instead he half-ran, half-walked in the direction of Denson’s. Eventually the houses receded into thicker woods. To the east, just off the embankment an animal screamed. Overhead, the flurry of unseen wings.

  Far, far off, the roar of a V8 engine followed by gunshots.

  At last Denson’s loomed ahead, a lone sputtering lamp angling over the modest log cabin shop. The neon “open” sign still glowed.

  Robert tried the door, and sighed when it gave way. Inside, the store appeared normal, with its eclectic mix of outdoor gear and dry goods. But as Robert ventured deeper, Denson himself popped up from behind the counter, gripping a double barrel shotgun.

  Robert threw his hands up.

  “It’s me it’s me,” he said.

  Denson sighed and relaxed his shoulders.

  “I almost turned you into pasta,” he said.

  Denson was an older man, with a greying mullet and a pair of spectacles that didn’t quite match the size of his head. Robert had, in a way, befriended him since moving to Elmore. Denson was gruff and to-the-point. Almost too gruff. Robert kinda liked that though, because with Denson he always knew what he was going to get, up front. Denson was not the backstabbing kind.

  “Never seen anything like it,” Denson said.

  Robert nodded. “Did they try and come in here?”

  Denson gripped his shotgun tighter. “Not…yet.”

  “You able to get through to anyone?”

  “No,” Denson said. “Pretty sure the government took care of that.”

  “The government?” Robert asked as he made his way to the dog food section.

  “I have no doubts, none at all that this place is under quarantine.”

  “That fast?” Robert asked.

  “Faster than you can blink,” Denson said. “The government is all knowing, all seeing.”

  Robert picked up a sack of Vermillion’s preferred dry food and stashed it under his arm. “Okay,” he said.

  Robert reached for his wallet, but Denson shook him off.

  “Come on,” Denson said as he waved him off. “Get me back later.”

  “Thank you,” Robert said.

  Denson disappeared into a back room and came out with a twin shotgun. He held it out to Robert like a baton.

  “That pistol you’re carrying is too precise,” Denson said. “These creatures hunt in packs, and by sound. You need something to scatter them at close range. Something powerful to break them up, cause commotion.”

  Robert took the shotgun into his hands, surprised at how cold it felt. “Got it,” he said.

  Robert shot Denson a look of concern, and immediately regretted it.

  “Ha,” Denson said. “Don’t worry about me. You walked all the way here from downtown in that mess, and now I presume you gotta get back.”

  “Yup, back to Vermillion. What’s your plan?”

  “Hold ‘em off until the cavalry arrives.”

  Robert crinkled the dog food bag in his fist. “Have you seen a woman named Tara come through? Kinda sassy?”

  “No,” Denson said. “Only a few people speeding by. And police. Tried to wave them down, but didn’t want to make noise. You know.”

  Denson looked towards the ceiling and re-gripped his shotgun. “Don’t be afraid to use that thing in tight,” he said. “What it’s made for.”

  Robert nodded. Outside, something screamed in the forest and a red light blinked. Robert swallowed dryly.

  “Mind if I grab a soda?” he asked.

  Denson nodded. “Take what you want, my friend. I got ya this time around. Next time, you got me.”

  Robert offered a smile and headed over to the coolers, which were still on battery backup. He reached into the chill and grabbed an A and W root beer, his favorite, just like his father. He took a sip and his youth trickled back to him, those lake life Minnesota summers with his dad fishing for walleye.

  Another flashing tag appeared outside, followed by another.

  “They’re coming,” Denson said.

  Denson emerged from behind the counter and closed the front door quietly. As soon as he let go of the handle, a contorted face pressed itself against the glass, smearing blood and bits of skin. Robert blinked, wondering if what he was seeing was even possible.

  Tara.

  Her face had been lacerated, one eyeball hanging loosely from a single thread. Her hair a soaked blood mop. A bubbling scream emitted from what was left of her throat.

  “Help me,” she said.

  Robert blinked again. When he opened his eyes, Tara was gone. something had snatched her from the glass.

  “Jesus,” Denson said.

  Denson hurried to the back of the store and killed the lights. Robert stood in the darkness, staring at the dim outline of Tara’s glass blood smear.

  “Come on,” Denson whispered as he gestured to the back door.

  Denson held the back door open a crack and peered out. Bizarre screams erupted from the forest, followed by a flashing red tag deep in a glade.

  “Looks like only one,” Denson said.

  The men crept into the back lot, where a strip of gravel met patchy grass, and then national forest.

  Denson waved Robert on again. “I’ve got a bunker back in the forest,” he said. “One mile in. Feds don’t know about it, so keep that between you and me.”

  Robert followed Denson across the lot. Another crescendo scream emerged from the woods, this one more concerning than the last.

  Robert took a step back.

  A paralyzing sensation hit him. The bag of dog food slid out from between his arms and crumpled to the gravel.

  Robert turned in time to see a frequency seal shuffle towards him, it’s jagged brown chest markings like a toxic bolt of lightning.

  Robert expected Denson to fire, but he did not. Instead Denson ran into the woods without saying a word.

  Robert aimed his shotgun and fired. The frequency seal’s head disappeared in a flash of gore and the rest of it slumped to the ground.

  The paralyzing sensation ceased and Robert bolted in the direction Denson had gone. Before he could reach tree line, another sensation besieged Robert, causing the left side of his lips to tick up to his left eye.

  Another seal.

  Robert collapsed to the ground, but not before getting a shot off that cleaved h
alf of the new seal’s head.

  It wasn’t dead, though.

  As the seal bled out, it still emitted it’s frequency, right until the last drop of blood. Robert got to his feet and grabbed the shotgun. A younger flier crashed into the canopy, parroting back the previous shotgun blast: BOOM. BOOM. CHIC-CHIC. BOOM!

  Robert fired, blasting a chunk of its wing clean off. The flier swerved through the branches and stabbed its beak deep into Robert’s shoulder.

  Robert screamed.

  In the melee, he steered the shotgun with one hand and jammed the barrel into the flier’s gullet. Robert fired, sending a gunky spray out behind the flier’s head that glazed a pine tree.

  Robert limped away from the scene, holding his bleeding shoulder. Shiny ropes of blood poured from him, indicating the flier had hit a main artery.

  The dizziness hit him at once.

  Boy oh boy, the thought.

  As he stumbled, a dozen flashing red tags blinked closer from the woods. His vision blurred, along with the clarity of his thoughts.

  The red tags blinked closer. Faster.

  He made out the dim shape of a spider thing, and more frequency seals.

  Robert slumped to the ground. The invasive’s screamed from the woods, a mix of different species that had all honed in on him.

  His eyes closed.

  Deep breath.

  His eyes opened.

  A spider was on him.

  Robert blasted it, then dropped the shotgun.

  A sloth thing jabbed its claw into Robert’s thigh. He let out a painful roar, then found the shotgun and fired. The sloth stumbled backwards and twitched on the ground.

  His eyes closed.

  Deep breath.

  Open again.

  Four invasive surrounded him, chittering with excitement at their meal.

  Then Robert Jenkins did the only three things he could:

  He thought of Vermillion, on their long nature walks in the mountains. He thought of a bluebird day on a Lake in Minnesota, spin-fishing with his father.

  Then he aimed the shotgun at his heart from between his legs, and pressed the trigger with his boot toe.

  END

  Find out what happens to Vermillion in THE INVASIVE:

  http://www.amzn.com/B01I6449Q2

  About the author:

  Michael’s debut novel THE PULLER was published in 2015, and was optioned for a motion picture. Hugo-winning SF Signal gave THE PULLER five stars. His most recent novel, BLACK FRIDAY was called a “glorious work of literature” by Horror Novel Reviews. You can check out his work at his official website:

  http://michaelhodgesfiction.com/

  Or give him a follow on Instagram:

  https://www.instagram.com/michaelhodgesauthor