Randy Lamb took a drag of his Carlton, leaned back against the sofa and exhaled, examining the meager progress of the construction job at hand. He had 1,600 square feet of tongue and groove pine boards, stained and ready to nail up to the ceiling of his 30 X 40 great room. To this end, he had summoned two friends, Barney Peterson, his boyhood friend from Barrington, Rhode Island, and Donnie DiPietro, a neighbor, to help. They had come to his mountaintop cabin in Red Feather Lakes, Colorado, eager to help him.
As he finished his smoke, he considered the fact that a good portion of the first day had been spent on prep work – moving furniture, measuring, cutting and re-cutting boards before finally getting around to the arduous task of nailing the boards to the bare rafters above their heads. And now as Donnie lay asleep in the loft bedroom, and Barney lay snoring like a contented polar bear on the inflatable mattress nearby, Randy told himself that tomorrow they would kick ass and finish at least half of the ceiling. As he turned out the light and headed to his own bed, the thought never entered his mind that by this time tomorrow, one of them would be dead and the remaining two would be fighting for their lives.
They awoke the next morning, or rather; Barney woke them, at 9:45.
“Randy, Hey Randy!” Barney called to his sleeping work boss. “Man, you better get up here. There’s something weird going on outside.”
“Wait…Whattya mean?” Randy said groggily, “Something strange? Strange like what?”
“It’s real dark out there.” Barney answered, concern evident in his voice.
“It’s just some thunderstorms that rolled in over night.” Randy rationalized. “It can make it pretty dark outside, almost like night sometimes.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Barney said. “It’s not just dark, It’s nighttime! It’s so dark out there, I can’t even see your truck.”
This got Randy’s full attention and he was fully awake an on his feet in an instant. The new Chevy Silverado was his pride and Joy. He had put that pup to good use in the two years since he had been building and working on the house. It had earned it’s keep and then some. Nobody was gonna touch that truck and live to tell about it.
“What? My truck’s gone?” Randy said incredulously, as he bounded toward the door. “That can’t be. No one does stuff like that out here.” He yanked open the front door and stood there dumfounded. Barn was right. It was dark out there but it was not like night. It seemed to be some all-encompassing black. It was as if he was staring into the blackness of space, without the stars. He couldn’t see anything beyond the porch railing.
“What the…?” Donnie DiPietro’s voice came from behind them. There was a resounding thud as the piece of board he threw in the direction of Randy’s truck, bounced off the hood of the seemingly invisible truck.
“WHAT THE FUCK!” Randy yelled.
“The truck’s still there.” Donnie said matter-of-factly. It’s just so damn dark we can’t see where it is.”
“You hit my truck,” Randy said, plainly pissed. But he was right. Not more than 2 feet in front of them and to either side, was sheer and utter darkness. Randy went inside and grabbed a flashlight, and when he shone it into the darkness, they saw that the bright beam only went about 2 to 3 feet and stopped. It was almost as if the darkness had absorbed the light. He walked to the porch railing and shone it towards the truck. His truck was parked no more than five feet away and even that close, his light revealed nothing more than inky blackness. He bent down and picked up some wood scraps and tossed them out in the yard in various directions. Barn and Donnie followed suit, wanting to assure themselves that there was still a yard out there. What was even stranger was that they soon discovered that there were some areas that almost seemed to absorb sound, as they could near nothing when they threw things. It was as if there was some sort of black hole out there that prevented any sound from reaching their ears.
But the area was anything but devoid of sound as they soon noticed. They heard a terrible howling, extremely close by, that they recognized at once as the tortured cries of a cougar. Randy had never seen one up here but he knew they lived up in these parts somewhere, far away from people. They could tell that there were actually 2 of them and they were involved in a fierce fight, either with each other or with something unknown in the dark.
“Come on guys. We better get inside.” Randy said. “They sound pretty damn close. The last thing we want to mess with is a mountain lion. Never mind 2 of them.” As they turned toward the door, there was a tortured scream as one of the big cats was mortally injured. Things happened fast after that. Donnie had just gotten to the door when they saw a tan blur flying through the air. There was a horrific crash, as one of the mountain lions leaped through one of the front windows, and landed on the dinner table in a scattering of broken glass. It turned quickly and faced them, growling a low growl. It struck them all that he was growling out of pure terror, not aggression. They stopped dead in their tracks and were further amazed to see two coyotes push by them and run directly under the dinner table. And like terrified lemmings, the three 50 year old men scurried inside and slammed the door shut.
They were greeted with the sound of the two coyotes growling at the cougar that growled even louder. They were feeling each other out, trying to guess the other’s intentions. In Randy’s bedroom, his two dogs, 2 young Shiba Anu named Cash and Luna, were barking up a storm. Cash had a score to settle with any coyote he saw. Just a little over a year ago, Randy and Cash had been walking and Cash had been set upon by 3 coyotes. One got him on the ground and went at his stomach. One went at his throat and one was starting on his neck before Randy came up and chased them away with rocks. Cash was very eager to get after them and scratched furiously at the bedroom door.
Randy did what any good master would do. He scurried to the bedroom and released his pets from their confines. Two blurry shapes, one a creamy white, the other a mix of black and brown, shot passed him and confronted the wildlife inexplicably in their home. The two dogs worked in tandem, growling like two ferocious demon dogs, snapping at the three wild animals, corralling them into a corner. They didn’t let up until the cougar lay down with his head on the floor and the coyotes lay on their backs with their stomachs exposed in submission. Randy called to them and his two dogs came at once. When he was halfway there, Cash suddenly turned, and strutted back to the bigger, more dominant of the coyotes, who now lay whimpering at his feet. Cash lifted his leg and peed all over its head. He showed him who was boss and went obediently back to Randy who gave them both a piece of beef jerky.
“Dude, we need your guns” Donnie broke the silence.
“Uh, Yeah.” Randy said. “Yeah that would be good. That is DEFINITELY a good idea!”
“Awright, where are they?” Donnie demanded.
“Uh, they’re safe and secure in my gun rack.” Randy told him. And when he noticed Donnie and Barn scanning the room for the rack, added, “Out in my GOD DAMN TRUCK!”
“I ain’t goin’ out there.” Barn said dully. “No fuckin’ way.”
“OK, Listen,” Donnie announced. “I’ll go out and get ‘em, as long as you guys stand by the door and let me in when I come back. And DON’T shut the fuckin’ thing! Stand there and wait for me”
“Yeah OK Cool.” Randy said. Maybe we’ll sing a little song while you’re out there. Something to cheer you up. This is the end – Beautiful friend,” He began the old Doors classic.
“Why don’t YOU go get the guns an’ I’ll sing YOU a little freakin’ lullaby.” Donnie demanded, not amused by Randy’s nervous attempt at a joke. And then he was gone, darting out to the truck he knew was there but could not see, before he lost his nerve. Moments later Barn and Randy heard the door to the truck open and shut as he climbed in to retrieve the rifles. Randy had told him there were two deer rifles, a 30.06 and a 303 in the window rack behind the seat, and a 9mm Glock in the glove compartment. He hoped Donnie remembered to get that one, so at least they would all have guns. He had not even finished that thought when the truck’s horn began to blare loudly. At first this was just random honks, but then it became just one long honk, as Donnie apparently tried to scare something away. This was followed by 3 gunshots. The two friends noticed something odd then. For the briefest of moments, it was if something had covered the horn or actually absorbed its sound. They barely had time to consider this when they heard the driver’s side door open, and Donnie’s footsteps rapidly approaching.
Then a horrific, bone-chilling scream rent the night, followed instantly by several more gunshots. The two friends ducked down as a stray bullet slammed into the side of the house right next to them. They could see some of the muzzle flashes but they noticed others seemed to just disappear, as if the blackness or whatever seemed to be hidden in it actually ate the light. They heard Donnie’s footsteps falter, then stop before one more gunshot. They heard him scream again, from right in front of them, at the foot of the porch stairs. Nothing could have prepared them for the site that met their eyes when he emerged at last from the darkness.
Donnie lunged up the stairs clutching the two rifles to his chest with his right arm. His left arm and most of his shoulder was exposed skeletal system, with bits of tendon here and there, but otherwise devoid of flesh. In his bony hand, he still clutched the Glock, and they noticed in horror that it appeared to be melted. He made no sound as he stumbled on the stairs, thrusting the rifles out to his two friends as he fell. With horror, they saw that the entire left side of his face was gone. They could see the bare, bloody bone of his face and the completely exposed orb of his left eye. Where he still had flesh, it appeared to have been cauterized, for there was no blood flowing. He was trying to tell them something and they could hear his jawbone clacking as he moved his mouth. Barn handed his rifle off to randy and bent down next to his mouth. He only made out the words “Shoot me” before Donnie’s body was yanked violently away. This time there were no screams, only a wet sucking sound as he attempted to scream while his mouth and tongue were being devoured.
Without speaking a word to each other, Randy and Barn began firing their rifles in the direction that sound had come from, doubting they could kill what was out there, hoping only that they would hit their friend and end his agony. As they did this, they noticed that the sound of the gunshots seemed to be getting more and more muffled. When at last they stopped hearing any reports at all, they suddenly realized that whatever it was, was upon them. They backed quickly in through the front door of the cabin and slammed the door shut, just as something slammed hard against it. Then they heard a fearful sound – the squeaking of claws scratching down the outside of the door.
There was a loud explosion and Barn turned to see that Randy had dispatched the cougar with one shot to the head. As he went to pick it up by its feet, the two coyotes backed away from him, lest he set his sights on them.
“Awright Barn,” He told him, “when I say GO, you open the front door.” And with that, he picked up the dead mountain lion by his feet and began swinging it back and forth, getting momentum.
“NOW!” he yelled and Barney stood there.
“NOW GOD DAMNIT, NOW!” and still Barn stood there.
“You said open the door when you said GO, not NOW” Barn said.
“AWRIGHT GO! NOW! Randy screamed.
Barn yanked the door open and Randy flung the dead cougar out the door into the blackness. They couldn’t help but notice it disappeared not two feet from the front door. Whatever it was, was still lurking close by. As if to confirm this, mere seconds after they closed it, there was a powerful impact on the door. The two friends backed away, noticing that this had left a large bulge on the inside of the metal door. Without a word between them, the two of them grabbed power tools and nail guns, and began cutting half-inch plywood pieces and nailing them over the door and windows. Once the front was done they each took a side of the house and barricaded the windows, steadily working their way toward the back door.
Barn had just finished the left-hand side of the room and was heading toward the back bedroom when he stopped.
“Oh Damn. Dude, look” He said flatly.
Randy drove one last nail in the kitchen window and turned to follow Barn’s gaze. And there by the back door he saw a sight that chilled his nuts. Something was taking place by the door. It almost looked as if some flood of inky black crude oil was seeping profusely under the door. Almost, but not quite, for as far as he remembered, crude was not known to lift itself off the ground and form into shapes as this now did. The two of them watched transfixed, as the inky blackness formed into a vaguely humanoid shape and kept growing as more flowed under the door. Though ill defined, they could definitely make out the shape of a torso and blurry appendages. And then they watched in horror as a grotesque misshapen maw opened up where its face would have been. Whereas the creature or whatever it was had a dark black color to it, the mouth was pure unadulterated black. It was so black it hurt to look straight at it. They both felt that this gaping orifice sought to suck the very light from their eyes.
As if to confirm this, they now noticed the lights in the house dimming as the very photons, which normally emanated from the lamps into diffuse globes of brightness, were diverted and began streaming towards the gaping hole in the black being’s head. Then, with a crash, the glass door to the wood stove smashed as the flames inside sought their new master.
Seconds later, Randy was at the front door, hammer in hand as he furiously began ripping the plywood barricade from the door.
“What the HELL man?” Barn screamed.
“GASOLINE!” was all Randy had to say, and the two of them now worked in tandem.
Once the door was uncovered, randy practically flew out onto the farmers’ porch and retrieved a 5 gallon container of gas. By the time he got back inside, Barn had already begun dumping the trash out, looking for empty beer bottles. Randy took note of this and pulled his T-shirt off and began going at it with his knife, tearing it into strips while Barn began pouring gasoline into the bottles.
“C’mon! C’mon. GIMME!” he shouted out.
Barn handed him a couple of partially filled bottles and went back to filling more as randy stuffed some of his torn shirt into each one. Once Randy had 3 of them done he lit 1 and threw it toward the thing. It had no sooner smashed on the floor when an immense sheet of fire erupted and flowed straight up to the horrific fire-eating face. The flames were instantly snuffed as the hellish creature devoured them. Randy quickly lit 2 more and rapidly fired them off toward the beast. He turned to Barn for more and found him on the floor with a razor knife, cutting the top off the plastic gasoline container. Barn finished cutting and threw the top aside. Randy’s curious look prompted him to say, “Kent Street Cocktail! Get all the lighters and spray cans you can find!”
Randy knew just what he meant and did just as he was told. When they were young, semi-degenerate kids, they used to delight in getting a can of partially dried out oil paint or sometimes roofing patch, and starting the can on fire on the side of the road. Kent Street was a great location for this as there were only 3 houses and the rest of the road was wooded. The paint would burn slowly and consistently. Once the fire was going they would add the second ingredient, a can of hair spray or better yet, a can of butane cigarette lighter fuel. This done they would run for the woods and hide. Minutes later there would be a pretty good explosion as the spray can and its flammable contents went off, often as a car was passing by. No one got hurt, the cops and fire department came and more importantly, no one got caught.
As Randy went gathering household explosives, Barn ran out to the front porch. He rummaged around under the radial arm saw a bit until he found what he was looking for – a dolly with 4 wheels. He ran back inside and put it on the floor. Randy was holding armfuls of lighters and spray cans. He put these in the gasoline and then the two of them carefully lifted the gas container up onto the dolly. Randy grabbed an unused Molotov, and yanked the cloth wick from it. He knelt down and placed the bottle on its side, before giving it a shove. This had the desired effect and the bottle rolled in a straight line toward the monster, all the while sloshing gasoline on the floor as it went.
“SWEEEET” Barn said under his breath and then, “Good deal. C’mon help me with this fucker.” As he bent down to maneuver the gas can and dolly. He and Randy then rolled it back toward the front door, before stopping. They then began pushing it slowly toward the thing that sought to eat them. As the went, they built up momentum so that when they finally let go, the container easily sailed across the floor before coming to a stop on the shattered remains of one of the initial gasoline bombs. This had the desired effect of causing the slightest bit of gasoline to splash on the floor and on the midnight beast.
It looked in their direction and once again they could feel pressure on their eyes as it sought to suck the life from them. It seemed to both of them that it was daring them, taunting them to “Bring it on” so they did just that. The two of them got on the floor and, on the count of three, they both sparked disposable lighters near the small trail of gasoline they had made on the floor. There was a “WHOOSH” as the gas ignited and flames rushed toward the beast. Randy prepared himself, as well as possible under the circumstances, to see his house, his hard work, go up in flames. And then a most amazing thing happened.
The trail of burning gasoline made it to the gas can and ignited in a huge flash of light. No sooner had this taken place when the flames were sucked up in a steady stream into the shadow being’s horrific maw, leaving no trace behind. This happened just as they had hoped, with lighters, spray cans and other items sucked up along with the gasoline. Then there was a series of muffled reports as the flammable items exploded inside the beast. It looked up towards the ceiling as explosions now racked its form. With childish glee, Randy and Barn noticed that they could now see bits of light escaping here and there from the creature’s dark form. Soon a pattern emerged like that of a hundred lightning bolts, jagged sutures of light, which expanded as they watched. Then with a totally silent flash of brightness, the creature exploded, freeing the light it had devoured from the mountaintop. As quickly as it had exploded, the dark sectors of this enormous light-burst began condensing back down toward the floor. At the same time the two exhausted men noticed bright shafts of sunlight peeking through the edges of the boarded over windows. Barn went over to the windows in the dining area and began tearing the boards down, letting in the brightness once again, and Randy hesitantly made his way over to that spot where the creature had stood minutes before. Barn turned from the window to see him stooped over, examining some small dark object on the floor. He joined his friend and saw that he was eyeing a 1-inch cube of some dark material, darker than any rock or crystal he had ever seen. Apparently, this was all that was left of the dark warrior. They stood there staring at it, seemingly unable to look away. It was so black it almost hurt to look at it. Randy suspected this was because on some molecular level, it still sought out light. He wondered if it was trying to suck the very light out of their eyeballs. Then, to their horror, they watched as a ray of sunlight crossed the black cube, causing it to being to hum and vibrate.
“Oh no you don’t you little A-hole,” Randy said as he first threw a wash cloth over it and then ran over to his wood stove and grabbed his ash scoop. He returned and it took the two of them to lift this small but incredibly dense black cube off the floor. They made their way slowly over to the wood stove and tossed it into the fire. It flared up immediately and began to bun with an intensity rivaling coal. That was 5 years ago and it still burns to this day.
Sandbox
Sandbox
For Denise Carcieri, the day the world ended began much like any other day. She awoke at 6 AM to the sounds of Paul and Al on 94HJY. She lay there for a moment, listening as they lampooned Massachusetts Senator Edward Kennedy and his son, Patrick, the junior Rhode Island Congressman. As was her habit, she waited until the bit ended, before throwing the covers off, and begrudgingly dragging herself out of bed, and heading into the bathroom. She turned the shower on and sat down to pee while waiting for the hot water to arrive. In a few moments, she saw the first tendrils of steam rising from the shower stall.
She got up, pulled her nightshirt over her head, and stepped into the shower. This did wonders. She was now a 5 on the wake-up scale, well on her way to full consciousness. After just standing there for a few minutes, she washed, shampooed her hair and got out. She dried off, put her bathrobe on and went off to make herself a cup of coffee. She sat down to suck down a good amount of coffee. She was approaching 9 on the wake-up scale now. This was her quiet time when she could simply sit still and enjoy her coffee before her daughter woke up, and the day kicked up a notch in preparation for pre-school. In a few minutes she got up and popped an English Muffin in the toaster oven. She went and woke her daughter up while the toaster was on. Moments later, she returned with her 2-year old daughter, Amanda, blonde-haired and sleepy-headed, in tow. She went to the TV in the living room and turned Sponge Bob on. She heard the toaster oven ding once and she hurried into the kitchen. She retrieved the muffin and spread peanut butter on both halves. She poured two glasses of milk and brought one of each item to her daughter. Amanda turned up her nose at the muffin, obviously displeased with the morning menu.
Denise returned to the kitchen and turned the little TV in there to Fox News. They were reporting a terrible tragedy, an earthquake and tsunami said to have been at least a hundred-foot wave off the coast of India. Early estimates placed the death toll as being 4 to 5 times that of the December 2004 tsunami. She sat and ate her half of the muffin, washed down with the glass of milk. She finished her first cup of coffee and after fixing another one, she went to check on Amanda.
“Amanda Panda, did you eat your breakfast?” She asked her.
Amanda looked down at her shoes. Denise looked around on the floor and furniture, then she noticed smears of peanut butter all around the opening to the VCR. She poked the door open and saw the muffin sitting there, dripping melted peanut butter all over the VCRs heads. “Oh goody.” She thought to herself, letting the door close, vowing to deal with this mess later that night when she got home from work. She got her in to wash her hands and got her a baggie full of Cheerios to munch on. She opened a snack-bag of Ritz cheese sandwiches and let her have what she wanted this morning. Somehow she just felt she should let it go, so she did just that.
She went back in to have her last cup of coffee and clean up the breakfast dishes and noticed the breaking news alert on Fox News. The three usually giddy newscasters, sat stone faced and solemnly reported that there had been a horrific earthquake off Washington’s Puget Sound. Initial estimates from the U.S. Geological Service put the quake’s magnitude at an unheard of 11.6 on the Richter scale. Damage details were sketchy or non-existent, but there were reports from the military of widespread coastal damage from a series of massive tsunamis, triggered by the quake in the Cascadia subduction zone, in the ocean off the coast of Washington State. It was also reported that the volcanoes of the cascade range, Including Mounts Aetna, St. Helens, Ranier and Hood had erupted simultaneously. Nations of the Pacific Rim were bracing for tsunamis in the wake of such massive destruction. Residents of Alaska, California and Hawaii were bracing for the wave that was sure to come. A new tape, reportedly from Osama bin Laden applauded the devastation as Allah’s revenge upon the Zionist infidels of America.
She was rinsing the dishes and loading the dishwasher up, when she noticed the small bouquet of flowers on her windowsill began to flutter. She stopped what she was doing, and watched as the small vase began moving of its own accord toward the edge of the sill. She had only a moment to consider this before she felt the floor began to shake beneath her feet. She heard her daughter scream that high-pitched scream that sends ice through a mother’s veins.
“Here I come, Mandy! Come to Mama!” She yelled as she ran toward her daughter’s room. Half way there, they ran into each other. High on adrenaline, in the midst of what is called “the flight response,” Denise bent at the waist, scooped her daughter up, turned and headed for the door. She paused to grab her car keys from the small ceramic bowl next to the stove. She grabbed the doorknob and the door wouldn’t budge. Frantically, she checked to make sure the door wasn’t locked, and watched in horror as she saw waves of motion heading across her back yard. Her yard seemed transformed into an ocean of scary swells. She watched as these hit her deck, and the unforgiving lumber splintered and tore away as if a temperamental giant had kicked it. She continued pulling desperately as she heard an indescribable sound, as the 80-foot pine in her back yard swayed back and forth wildly like a blade of straw. She watched in horror as the tree finally gave up its battle to remain upright and fell directly at her. With one last try, she pulled on the door with all her might, and fell on her butt as it opened fairly easily. She jumped to her feet, scooped up Mandy and ran for the back yard and away from the house as fast as she could, seconds before the huge pine landed on the house.
Navigating the yard was almost impossible due to the intense, buckling waves the earth was sending their way. It was as if she was trying to run across a trampoline while several people bounced up and down on it at the same time. As she neared the upraised roots of the fallen tree, she heard a sickening, splintering crack, mingled with the sound of breaking glass, as her house succumbed to the exaggerated ground waves, and began collapsing inward. She tore around the base of the tree and watched as a second pine began showing signs of its imminent fall, right in the direction of her Volvo wagon. She ran with all of her might, clicking the alarm off and unlocking the doors as she went.
She reached the car, yanked open the door and literally threw Amanda in the front passenger seat. She fumbled, trying to get the keys in the ignition, as she saw this last pine tree give up the ghost and began falling straight at her. She managed to get the key into the ignition and sat there for a fraction of a second with her foot on the accelerator, wondering why the hell she wasn’t moving. She reached down and put the car into reverse, never taking her eye off the pine tree heading her way. She became alarmed when she saw thick smoke flowing by her window. She realized with horror that she was spinning her wheels, going nowhere. She eased up a bit and the car suddenly lurched backwards, careening crazily down the driveway. She wasn’t going to make it. She could see that easily, and sure enough, as she swung the car out of the driveway, the pine crashed to the ground, the last 5 feet of it landing squarely on her hood and shattering her windshield. The both of them screamed as the car continued its crazy arc out of the driveway and onto the road. They were nearing the corner when they realized that they had not been killed and the car was still running.
They roared down the road, Denise taking one last, quick look in the rear-view mirror, at the rubble that had once been their home. She stepped on the gas and roared around the corner onto Ferry Lane and raced up toward Rumstick Road and Barrington Center. She had no idea where she was heading. Her only destination was a broad one – out of here. She flew through intersections, honking her horn, swerving around slow or disabled traffic, and for the most part, driving like she was on a NASCAR track. For the most part the roads seemed to be deserted. She saw that most of the cars that were on the road had pulled over when the quake struck. Everywhere she looked, she saw devastation. St. John’s Church, commonly known as the “Red Church” was a pile of rubble, save for the bell tower which leaned precariously, caught from further collapse by the branches of a mighty oak. She could hear its bells clanging wildly. Nearby, the Barrington Getty and the Barrington Shell gas stations were roaring infernos. As she sped down County Road, she passed the Barrington Town Hall, built in 1888, damaged but still standing.
As she sped down Prince’s Hill, she noticed a large oak blocking the road. Without a moment’s hesitation, she swerved off the road, mounted the sidewalk and drove up onto someone’s lawn, in order to avoid the tree. She had no idea where she would go, other than she would try to find a place with no trees nearby, somewhere the two of them might be safe for the time being.
She was nearing the Barrington Congregational Church, also known as the “White Church”, when an enormous 150-year old oak tree slammed to the ground, completely blocking the street. Without even thinking of her actions, she yelled for Amanda to slide off her seat and onto the floor, as she swerved the car to the left and headed straight at the chain-link fence surrounding the Barrington High School playing fields.
“Hold on baby!” She called to her terrified daughter as she slammed into and through the fence. With a loud bang, she found her face suddenly enveloped in the white of the airbag. She kept her arms rigid, maintaining the same direction of travel she had been going before hitting the fence. She took her foot off the gas and let the car come to a stop. She was in the middle of the playing field, where the football team usually practiced. But the best thing about her present location was, there were no trees of any great height anywhere nearby. They were safe, at least for the moment, anyway.
She sat there, letting her heart get back to a normal rhythm. Behind her she heard the screeching of car tires and the sound of several collisions. She could see in her rear-view mirror, that a few cars had followed her lead and sought the relative safety of the football field. Then her eyes took in the shattered remains of Barrington High School, recently named as a blue ribbon school, one of only a handful of schools in the entire nation to be awarded such an honor. The school was utterly destroyed as was every structure as far as the eye could see. She could see that St. Anthony's School, a den of perversion and administration-sanctioned decadence, was in flames.
Due to the adrenaline pumping through her body and the exhilaration of her flight, she had barely noticed that her CD player was blasting. She pressed the FM button to see what she could hear, and turned the volume down a bit, to a non-ear-splitting level. She heard the now familiar squawking tone that usually announced that “this has been a test of the Emergency Broadcast Network,” however, this time there was no such announcement following the sound. She heard a voice announce that the following was a bulletin from the Department of Homeland Security. There had been massive earthquakes across the planet and at this moment there was no clue as to what had triggered the global destruction. The voice told listeners that they should move outdoors away from tall structures or trees but other than that, they should stay where they were, until help could arrive. She helped her scared little girl up off the floor and held her tight, trying not to show her own terror at what was unfolding.
“Mommy?” Amanda asked.
“Yes Pumpkin,” Denise replied in as steady a voice as she could muster.
“I love you Mommy.” The two-year old replied and Denise thought to herself that it was funny how you could be having the worst day of your life…The world could be literally crumbling before your eyes, and an unsolicited proclamation of love from a child could make everything all right. Such a sentiment could erase all fears and give an adult a shot of strength, which would be needed at a later date and time. She hugged her daughter, telling her how much she loved her too, when she heard a loud, booming, decidedly female voice, call from the heavens. She heard it echoing on the radio as well.
“YAWEH?”
“YES MOMMY.” A child-like voice also boomed from beyond the skies.
“TIME FOR YOUR BATH YAWEH.”
“AW, CAN I JUST PLAY FOR ONE MINUTE MORE? I JUST WANNA FINISH DESTROYING MY WORLD.”
“OKAY HON, JUST A FEW MORE MINUTES. YOU GO AHEAD AND DESTROY YOUR WORLD, THEN COME ON IN FOR A BATH.”
And then it was all over, life and existence as we knew it was destroyed, crushed under the rubber sole of a size 2T sneaker, worn by an infant named YAWEH, the God of the Old Testament, Creator of Heaven and Earth.
I am Coming to Kill You
I am Coming to Kill You
My name is Sam Erskine and I am a killer. I have killed many, many people. Honestly I don’t know how many. I don’t keep track, and I don’t always remember the killings. Many times I read of them in the newspaper and know it was my handiwork. No, I am not a serial killer, though by the sheer number of my victims, I have no doubt I would qualify for such a distinction or notoriety. I am a trained killer and have been trained and mentored in my craft by the spooks and gremlins of the United States Central Intelligence Agency. It is my hope that someone will find this recording and look into my story or at least attempt to verify some of the details. What I do know is that I am coming to kill you my love and I pray to God in Heaven that you will not answer the door, for I am powerless to resist. No is not in my vocabulary. I must kill you. I pray you will run, far away.
This started when I received a phone call today. A voice that may or may not have seemed familiar to me, spoke but one word – “mindflow.” I don’t even know if this is a real word, but I do know that when I hear it, a certain part of my brain is activated - what I believe to be a separate personality. Something about the word allows this personality to come out in the open, to step to the forefront of my brain, and take charge of my emotions, pushing the real me back into the shadows. At these times, there is no right and wrong – only the mission – a mission I am powerless to refuse. I know not why I get these assignments, have no idea what the person has done to anger them to the point of eliminating a target. I know only that I must eliminate them or face elimination myself. So PLEASE HONEY, when I call you to ask about stopping by, hang up the phone, get in your car, leave it all behind and leave the state, maybe even the country. Change your name and disappear.
I did not always have such knowledge of, such recollections of my actions, my missions. Something happened to me a year ago after I was in a car crash. I was rushed to the hospital and among all of the tests and emergency care I received, I got an MRI. I remember feeling first, excruciating pain, and then a flood of memories – bad, evil, terrifying memories. They showed me some of the imagery afterwards. They said there was some sort of “implant” in my brain, said they could not go after it without the risk of permanent damage. Then they asked me if I was or had been, in the military. I felt like a damn fool giving them the answer that I did - that I didn’t know. How can you NOT remember military service? My theory is that whatever this thing in my brain was, it’s function was to keep my two “ME’s” separate, so the nice guy computer programmer did not know of the trained assassin who lived inside his brain.
Whether or not, I was in the military; I do have distinct memories of two military installations, one well known, the other virtually unheard of. The first is a place called Camp Hero on Montauk, Long Island. It is a supposedly closed Army or Air Force base. I can assure you it is not closed. I have nightmares of that place. I was brought there as a young boy and tortured unmercifully. I remember being tied down as red-hot sewing needles were pushed under my fingernails, screaming till my throat was raw and I spit blood out. I remember screaming to God to let me die, but they pumped me full of speed or some drug, that prevented this and made it so I could not pass out from the pain. I have nightmares about going to one of the extreme lower levels of this underground facility, and being gang raped by strange, horrific beings, that appeared to be some sort of lizard men. I was told or remembered later that this was to break down my personality so that an alternate could be created by programming deep within my brain. I think these beings are aliens and our government works with them. I remember seeing a 12 year-old boy strapped into a chair like a big recliner, covered with wires and electrodes, naked and hairless as the day he was born, with skin as white as snow. He talked to me with his mind, begged me to help. With his mind he told me he had been there since the age of 5, stolen from his mama, tortured, beaten, broken down. He told me the recliner was called the Montauk Chair and he was part of a time travel experiment.
I just called you on the phone honey. I got your voice mail. Even though it has been almost 10 years since we spoke, your voice still excites me. I wanted so bad to warn you. I tried to find the words, to make myself say, “I am coming to destroy you, to extinguish the beautiful flame of your life, please run!” Instead I told you what I was apparently told to say - that I found an old photo album and I really wanted you to have it as it has some nice pictures of your late grandfather. “OH GOD PLEASE BE AWAY FOR THE WEEKEND! PLEASE DON’T BE THERE!”
This I know. I am part of a Government project called MKULTRA, that’s MK for Mind Kontrol, a German spelling, as it was developed by captured Nazis at the end of WWII. Its main goal is to create a Super-soldier, a hypnotically programmed killing machine that is afraid of nothing, A mercenary that will do his job, complete his mission, or die trying. It is also imperative that we be civilians, just average folk. I guess this is “plausible denial” for the CIA. As if I got caught, I would more than likely be classed as a deranged man, lone kook or something similar. Think Lee Harvey Oswald, or Sirhan Sirhan.
I remember getting “finishing” programming done in of all places, Guantanamo bay Cuba. I don’t remember much of what I supposedly learned or what was forced into my psyche there. I just know I was subjected to the exact same treatment the captured terrorists and battlefield combatants were subject to. Piece of cake compared to Camp Hero. I read the news and some people are so aghast at the “enhanced interrogation techniques” used on them and they applaud the president for sending lots of them back to their homeland. HAHAHAHAHAHA! What nobody realizes is that these people are done being programmed! MKULTRA is alive and well in Cuba! The only thing this man is doing is sending programmed assassins like me back to their homelands, back to their affiliates in terror. They even give them false memories of their interrogations, so they have some “beans to spill” when they get back and try to get accepted back into the fold. One day each of them will get a phone call, hear a code word, and take out their target. When the day comes that we read of Bin Laden or some other high up, getting killed by a fellow terrorist, you can bet it will be someone who was held in Cuba! Plausible denial man, plausible denial.
This is only the beginning. They are creating armies of men like me, men with corneal implants for superior vision, night vision, thermal vision - you name it! They’ve got guys that can hear a conversation from 5 miles away! But all this is beside the damn point Darlin.’ This is all TMI as they say. You don’t need to know how I got to be the way I am any more than you need to know how many craters there are on the moon. The point is, the message is - GO! GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE! PLEASE DENY ME SUCCESS IN THIS ONE MISSION!
What did you do? Why did you do it? Exactly whom did you piss off. Was it all those letters to the New York Times? I tried to tell you THEY read those and keep track of “dissidents!” I told you CIA, NSA, ONI, MJ7 and a host of others, including Homeland Security, take any criticism of their shit very damn seriously! I told you our freedom was a myth, a well-staged illusion, the highest form of mass mind control, or rather, population control. All you could say is that I was paranoid and read too many conspiracy theories!
Oh God, I just took exit 1 off the highway – “our” exit. I am gonna be there soon – 10 minutes tops! Oh God I hope you’re not there.
PLEASE DON’T BE THERE
PLEASE DON’T BE THERE
PLEASE DON’T BE THERE
I want to call you, warn you one more time. I have your contact open but something in my brain wont let me touch the call button. I have to warn you somehow, someway. I must!
I pass the beautiful 200-year old Church on the shores of the Barrington River, at the entrance to Hundred-acre Cove. I’ll be there soon honey. Oh God I hope you listened this time, took my advice this one time. I’m turning down our road….pulling up to our, or what used to be, “our” house on the beautiful shores of Narragansett Bay.
AND YOU OPEN THE FRONT DOOR AND SMILE AT ME!
I try to scream but I can’t. I have a loaded, cocked 45-magnum in my belt. I reach behind me for it. I try to yell but am
“ 202-blocked from this action”
“ 202-blocked from this action”
“ 202-blocked from this action”
You eagerly hold out your hands out, anxious for the photo album. I realize at last minute, there is one thing they can’t control – my smile, my face, my expression.
I look you square in the eye and try to lose my mind. I give you my best Charles Manson look, they eyes of a deranged lunatic. I bug my eyes out at you, drilling into you with my piercing gaze. I bare my teeth at you. I growl louder than a gorilla, covering your face with spit in the process.
You drop the album and run.
And my head explodes.
“MISSION ABORTED”
“END OF DATA FEED”
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