In the Season of Killing Bolts

Chapter 15

Had Coup anticipated how unbearable the silence would become he wouldn’t have sought out the remote and silenced the TV, nor encouraged Tess to take Rikki-Tik to the restroom and clean him up.

And yet, Christ, what was there to say? They were strangers, all of them—even he and Tess were strangers—who among them even knew the other’s name, much less anything about what was going on or what the thing lying behind the counter was? When at last he spoke he did so quietly, almost reverentially, offering only his name and where he’d been heading, hoping the others gathered around the counter would follow suit— which, after a moment, they did, slowly, hesitantly.

“Rory Holmes,” said the big man, “long-haul trucker, enroute to Los Angeles from Laredo, when—when all this happened.”

“Elliott Giles,” said the wiry guy in the wife-beater, “disabled veteran. Not any war, just—just the service. Enroute to Phoenix from Las Cruces.” He paused, his lower lip trembling. “I—I only did what had to be done.”

“You’re good. You’re all good, man,” said Rory, clapping him on the back, startling him. “You done right.”

The introductions continued:

“Long Nguyen. Civil engineer. Atlanta to San Diego.”

“Ashley May. Phoenix from Cedar City. Utah.”

“Cameron Reeves. Ah—” The twenty-something year-old hesitated. “Immigration activist enroute to the new wall at El Paso.” He paused, appearing self-conscious. “From Washington. That’s my group.” He indicated a trio of young people near the booths.

“D.C.?” asked Rory.

“State,” said Cameron. “Seattle.”

“Ah. The Great White North.”

“Sure. I guess.”

“Carson Bates,” blurted a heavyset man abruptly, squaring his beefy shoulders. “Carrot-topped farmer c*m crop-duster; and all around daredevil.” He glanced at Cameron and tweaked his MAGA hat. “And a proud supporter of President Donald J. Tucker.”

“You don’t say,” said Coup. The hat alone was pretty hard to ignore.

Cameron just shrugged.

That left only two in the immediate group who hadn’t spoken; the attractive woman in the red dress (who seemed to have recovered) and a young man of Native American heritage who introduced himself only as “Johnny—from Tucson.”

“Kate Patel,” said the woman at length, “CEO, Desert Smoke Vapors. Enroute to L.A. from Austin.” Her voice lowered slightly. “And about to get underway again.”

“It’s your apocalypse,” said Coup. “And a warm welcome to all.”

And yet the silence reasserted itself as they watched the tangle of flesh cool and bleed; its eight limbs stiffening like driftwood and its eyes staring in four different directions, its chaos of muscle and bone settling, until, spying a nametag amidst the riot of fabric and tissue, Coup said, “It’s the clerk. He or she—has been combined with something. Like a lizard. Or a crocodile. Look,”

He pointed to where a partial human face had emerged from the mangle, its mouth stretched in a hideous grimace, its right cheek morphed like clay, its gray flesh blending seamlessly back into the beast—the monitor lizard. The crocodile, whatever.

“Right there, at the animal’s neck. See it?”

“Like they were baked together in a f*****g microwave,” said Rory.

“Or melted—like nachos.” said Elliott.

“More like fused,” said Long. “Blended to form a single entity ... a single amalgamate.”

“Like Brundlefly,” whispered Ashley.

Coup hadn’t quite caught that.

She blushed a little self-consciously. “Like The Fly. You know, that movie from the ’80s, with Jeff Goldblum.”

Everyone just looked at her.

“The remake—of the original black and white. Jesus. The Fly.”

“I know the movie,” said Coup. “But what’s—”

“When the guy who built the transportation pod gets drunk and tests it on himself, and the fly gets caught in the matrix ...”

“... and they get fused together.” He looked down at the thing, at the four human limbs and the four reptilian ones, at the four dead eyes all pointed in different directions. “Jesus ... But what could—”

“That’s not all,” said Long.

He went around the counter and approached the corpse—his shoes squelching in the blood and gruel—then hitched up his pants and knelt. “This foot here, for example—”

“Don’t touch it!” said Ashley.

He paused, fingertips hovering.

“She’s right, you know,” said Rory. “Who knows what that thing might be carrying.”

He traced the scales, his finger suspended just above them. “See this? Kind of like a big bird’s talon, isn’t it? Not much like a lizard—more like an ostrich, or an emu. But what’s really curious is this, right here.” He indicated a single scythe-like claw, about three inches in length, and curved like a scimitar. “Because it’s retractable, see?” He laughed slightly. “Like your cat’s. And it’s sickled-shaped. Which means—”

“Look, ah, Bill Nye,” interrupted Carson, shouldering past Coup, displacing him with his bulk. “Is there a point to any of this? Or are you just showing off your American education?”

Coup raised an eyebrow.

“Well, yes, there is,” said Long. He appeared vaguely stupefied. “The point is: no animal like this currently exists.”

Carson just looked at him—like a big, dopey John Candy—appearing amused. “It’s not? Well, what is it, then?” He looked at the others as if for support. “Is it Mothra?” He laughed.

“Whatever it is, we can’t just leave it here,” said Elliott.

Coup looked outside, at the landscaped berm on the south end of the lot. “We’ll bury it there, by the water—”

“Look, you guys can do whatever you want,” Kate interrupted, “but I’m not touching that thing.” Her keys rattled as she removed them from her purse. “Besides, I’ve got a board meeting to attend.” She moved toward the doors. “Apocalypse or no apocalypse.”

“Now wait a—” Rory began.

“Are you—” said Elliott.

“Is that really a good idea?” asked Coup, which at last caused her to turn around.

“I don’t know, is it?” she said, and slung the purse over her shoulder. “Why don’t you ask him?” She indicated Long. “He seems to know everything.”

“He’s right,” said Rory. “It’s not a good idea.”

“It’s the only idea,” she snapped determinedly. She patted her purse warningly. “And don’t even think about ...”

But they were no longer looking at her— gazing instead at something which had swooped into view outside, something which seemed for an instant almost to hover—its muscles and ligaments twitching, making a thousand adjustments, its stretched membranes undulating, its talons outstretched—before it smashed against the glass like some great, dark kite (cracking it three different ways) and hit the ground violently, scrambling and flapping, leaping and taking wing again, disappearing from sight. All of which happened so fast that the woman in the red dress, having leapt away suddenly, didn’t appear to have even seen it, much less identified it, and only said, finally, “What was that?” And then laughed. “Are we under attack by wild turkeys, for f**k’s sake?”

And then the incident was over and the only sounds were those of the commercial refrigerators humming and the fountain drink regulators hissing, and no one said anything, even when Tess burst back into the room and said, breathlessly, “Jesus, what’s going on?”

“In Bumfuck, Arizona?” said Kate acidly. “Nothing. Kate is leaving, that’s what’s going on. Ta-ta. Let me know when it’s time for the reunion.”

And yet this time she was answered, and by an unexpected voice, a voice as strong and confident as any thirty-four-year-old. A voice which belonged to the old-young man himself, Henry Becker.

“You want to leave, young lady? Go right ahead,” he said, approaching her, each step small, cautious, carefully considered. “But know this. Denial has its limits. And in this case, that limit is exactly where those doors stand.” He closed to within a few feet of her before she touched her purse and said, “That’s close enough.” —causing him to take a step back. He continued: “It might be closer than that, considering these ... things ... can appear out of nowhere.” He turned and indicated the amalgamate. “That poor bastard, for example. His only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because there’s something you need to understand, Miss—”

“Patel,”

“Miss Patel. And that is that for every person gone to this—this phenomena—and you must have seen the empty cars ... something else has, shall we say, arrived.”

She seemed to hesitate, her eyes blinking, her attitude faltering.

“And one of these things, Miss Patel, is outside now. Probably on the roof. We—we saw it, you understand, while you were turned around. But it was aiming for you. And it is only because of those thin doors that you are still here.”

She looked at him passively, almost intimately—as though he’d reached her; as though she were about to change her mind. And then the moment was gone and she was shoving through the doors, letting in the sweltering heat, reminding everyone of what lie just beyond the glass, striding for her car while her red dress flowed freely behind.

“Jesus, we can’t just—” Coup started to say, and lurched forward—but was restrained by Tess, even as Kate made it to her car and opened the door, tossing in her purse, then turned toward the store and shrugged nonchalantly—before gripping her elbow and flipping everyone off.

“See? Big girl panties,” said Tess, and Coup could have just kissed her—when there was a huge, black blur at the corner of his eye and someone gasped; and he turned to see that Kate was gone—just gone. He blinked and she was there again, dangling from the flying thing’s talons, folding as it lighted upon the orange Union ’76 ball; offering up her intestines as it thrust its long, thin beak into her long, thin body.

And then Tess was screaming and he was trying to calm her—as yet another great kite swooped in and lighted upon a streetlight; and still another after that, lighting upon a utility pole; and still one more, which glided in like a jet until its talons touched down in the middle of the lot and it ran on them briefly before dropping to all fours and crawling the rest of the way to the windows.

“Jesus, they’re everywhere,” said Rory, moving to within several feet of the glass. He looked at the creature on the ground as it stared in at them. “Like seagulls after breadcrumbs.”

“And we’re the breadcrumbs,” said Tess.

She watched as yet more arrived and a commotion broke out atop the ’76 sign, where a larger bird attacked the smaller one and wrested its prey away (part of it, anyway) before beating its wings and soaring off—strewing body parts, causing those on the ground to scramble and to squabble amongst themselves.

“It’s an outright feeding frenzy,” said Elliott, stepping up next to Coup. He looked at the creature on the other side of the window even as it was joined by a multitude of others. “Jesus. Look at their eyes.”

But Coup had already noticed—that strange glow that wasn’t really a glow; that backlit fogginess, as though they were blind or perhaps even rabid.

“Like zombies,” said Rory. “Like flying f*****g voodoo zombies.” He twisted his body, staring at the sky. “And what the hell is that?”

Coup followed his gaze to where a borealis shimmered like iridescent curtains: its colors shifting and blending, creating hues he’d never before seen (and which hurt his mind), its scale unimaginable. “It’s like the whole world’s gone crazy.”

“Worse,” said Henry, and steadied himself against a fixture, “we’re trapped. If not before than certainly now.” He looked outside to where more and more birds were arriving, crowding the lot like flies, making a sea of gray. “They know there’s food here.”

Coup watched as a ripple moved through that sea—as though the birds had heard something. As though something had spooked them. “What’s that?” he said.

And then everything just exploded—as the birds scattered and took flight and what seemed like stones rattled the glass and foodstuffs began bursting and it became apparent that what they were hearing was gunfire. As everyone hit the floor and the room was pocked by bullets, and Coup blanketed Tess’ body with his own.

As he looked over his shoulder and saw the M1 Abrams tank jouncing into the lot, its machine gun flashing and its exhaust ports belching black smoke—its great, flat turret rotating, pointing directly at them.

III

The truth of it was, Tess wasn’t sure what to make of the three members of the tank crew—Sargent First Class “Bo” Briggs, Corporals Yousef and Malone—other than they’d clearly been traumatized by the loss of their gunner, a man they’d called “Quiet Cal,” (“he was so quiet, every time he opened his mouth a moth flew out”) —who’d been killed by one of the flying creatures only hours before. All she knew for certain was that they were young men from Fort Huachuca who’d been separated from their platoon—although how this had happened remained unclear—and who, lacking communications, had been “operating independently” since near the outset of the heat wave, about three hours ago now. And she knew this: which was that they would have killed everyone in the store had Coup not ran out in front of them like a lunatic, shouting and waving his arms (when no one else had even budged). Coup! The goofy, arguably hot writer. The 40-something year-old bad boy. Her hero.

She looked at him now where he was gathered with the others and smiled, even as by some fluke he saw her and winked back. Relax, he seemed to be saying—or was she projecting? Relax, I got this. And she tried to, she really did, wandering along the big windows (which were riddled with bullet holes) and staring out at the dark and the storm, which was as torrential as it had been sudden, wondering how her mother and father and little brother were doing in Miami, and praying they hadn’t—no. No, she wouldn’t consider that. They were fine, she was sure of it. After all, who was to say this had even happened there? Who was to say it had happened anywhere but right here in Bumfuck, Arizona? But she already knew the answer to that: Anderson Cooper. Anderson Cooper and CNN—in New York.

She slowed, peering through the rain and water running down the glass, noticing something strange amongst the gas pumps—some kind of jib, poking between them like a knife. It was funny, because she hadn’t noticed it earlier—like a black pennant pinned to space itself—its single light showing red, blinking, before lightning flashed and it turned—it, the animal, the thing in the rain—as others just like it turned also, skewing their heads like Egyptian dancers, seeming to focus on her.

“Aaahhh ...! she blurted, backing away—it wasn’t a scream and it wasn’t quite speech—backing into Coup (who’d come to check on her), nearly knocking him over. “There’s something out there—!” She gripped his shoulders in icy desperation. “An entire pack of somethings. Like—like featherless emus, with f*****g alligator heads. Just look,”

He squeezed her shoulders and gently moved her aside, peering out the window, peering into the rain. “I don’t see anything,” he said, even as the others joined them, crowding around the glass. “Just a bunch of gas pumps ... and some vehicles.” He stiffened suddenly. “Wait. There is something. Lights—”

“That’s them! That’s their eyes,” said Tess—as Ashley stepped forward to calm her. “They, like, glow or something. Like that borealis in the sky. They’re right there, Coup!”

“No ...” he said, in a kind of drawl, “No, these are flashing. Some of them are headlights—I’m sure of it. There, behind the electrical pylons—coming closer. Look,”

She looked, no longer seeing the—well, let’s have out with it, she thought, the dinosaurs, and saw instead a line of what indeed appeared to be headlamps—preceded by flashing blue lights—winding along a road she hadn’t even known was there, coming toward them through the rain.

“Might be the cavalry,” said Elliott, sounding excited—a notion that was quickly dashed when the modest number of vehicles became clear: two police motorcycles followed by a black limousine and a sport-utility vehicle, also black—followed by one more cycle.

“I’ll be goddamned,” said Rory. “But that’s a motorcade. Like the kind you see in the local parade.”

“Regular Apocalypse Day Cavalcade,” said Coup.

“Jesus, the President,” blurted Carson. “He was golfing at Rancho Loreto—did you know that? It was all over the news today. I mean, just before—”

“No way,” said the tank commander—Bo. “It’s too small, for one.” He wiped the glass, which was beginning to fog. “The Presidential motorcade numbers, I don’t know, like, forty vehicles, at least, most of them specialty rigs. Look, there’s not even a decoy.”

“Maybe it’s been disappeared,” said Ashley.

“Yeah, like those drivers on State Route 87,” said Elliott.

And then the vehicles were there, they were pulling up under the huge pump canopy, and the flags on the limo’s fenders proceeded to droop—but not before it had become obvious what they were: the flag of the United States of America and the Presidential Seal—at which Rory could only shake his head, saying, “You’ve got to be f*****g kidding me.”

“But there’s more,” said Tess, yanking away from Ashley, locking eyes with everyone who was close. “Because it looks like they’re going to fuel up. And whether you believe me or not—I’m telling you: there’s something out there. Several somethings, as I said.”

“Jesus, we’ve got to warn them,” said Elliott, even as Coup shoved against the door—and found it to be jammed.

“What the f**k is this?” he snapped, pushing repeatedly.

Rory tried it too. “It was that pterodactyl. Look, the whole bar’s bent ...”

“Let me see,” said Long, squeezing in, even as Bo unshouldered his rifle—and seemed to look for his men.

“Roof access,” he snapped, appearing to locate them. “Find it.”

“Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, jumping up and down or something? Trying to get their attention?” asked Ashley, and started waving her arms.

Tess slapped them down. “The President’s entourage? No!”

“It’ll just draw them out—unprepared,” said Rory, watching Bo and his men double-time around the counter—seeing them pause over the body of the clerk-thing.

“Jesus,” one of them said—the loader, if Tess recalled. Malone.

“Holy shit.”

“Come on. Move it,” said Bo.

They moved it, disappearing into the back, pounding up stairs.

“Someone’s out,” said Elliott, and when Tess looked she saw two men in dark suits standing at the pump, one of them working the console while the other looked on. And she saw something else: two creatures (she supposed they were what they called velociraptors) taking position behind the next pump isle—crouching there like black panthers, waiting like jackals.

“Oh, no,” she said.

Another darted past as she watched, almost invisible amidst the rain—then another, and another. “My God, they’re going to ambush them,” she said.

Several people gasped as they followed her gaze.

“Not if we can get this door,” said Coup. He grunted, applying pressure, as Long fiddled with the mechanism.

The men at the console, meanwhile, had given up—and were now striding toward the store.

“No, no, no,” pleaded Ashley. “Just get back in your car ...”

“Come on,” growled Coup, fighting the door.

“Y’all make it to the roof, or what?” bellowed Rory.

But there was no answer as the agents rapidly approached and the door suddenly gave way—causing the men to freeze and to reach into their suit coats, prompting them to draw their weapons.

Coup wasted no time. “Get back in the car!” he shouted, leaning into the downpour. “Jesus, they’re right there!” —at which instant the men took a defensive stance and pointed their revolvers, yelling at him to get down, down on the ground, “All of you, get on the ground! Now!”

—and they did, yelling and gesturing, trying to warn them; as the raptors darted forward and the soldiers opened fire from the roof—lighting up the lot. As the agents spun around and did the same—only much, much too late.

––––––––