Busy washing dishes in the kitchen sink, Stanley removed his hands from the hot, soapy water and stared at them. Thin curls of steam rose from his fingertips and he imagined it to be smoke, his hands like the barrels of recently discharged pistols. He directed them toward the darkness beyond the window and mouthed the noise for his superpower.
POOFFFFF!
“Pretending ya can shoot fire again, Muskrat?” called Gramps from his living room. Gramps didn’t have a dishwasher. “Never owned one, neither,” he’d proudly say when Stanley sometimes complained about the chore of scrubbing caked-on food remnants from plates or pots and pans.
“Uh…no, Gramps,” replied Stanley.
“Uh-huh.”
Stanley’s dad had called their physician, Dr. Hone, earlier and requested a house call. The way Stanley understood it, the doctor didn’t usually make house calls, but his father was extra generous with certain folks in the county, in return for favors. So, at the farmer’s market on Saturdays, Mr. Reece would throw in an extra box of produce for Dr. Hone, for the police chief, Pete Garrity, the mayor, and others. Stanley couldn’t remember his father ever getting caught speeding or for any other traffic violation. Maybe that was because he was an excellent driver, but Stanley believed otherwise. Once, he even parked illegally when he took Stanley fishing off the jetty in Sunset Bay and had gotten no ticket. There was the fact that Dr. Hone lived nearby, too, in a big house, with like, three cars.
Anyway, Dr. Hone had cleared Stanley of any head trauma. He hadn’t even suffered a concussion. He also said that seeing a bright light after bumping your head was very common and not to worry unless it begins to happen more often. After that, Stanley had been relieved of his duties on the farm but was given light tasks around Gramps’ place.
“Not called ‘shooting fire,’ anyway,” Stanley mumbled under his breath. “It’s Pyrokinesis.” At least, that’s what it was called in the comics. The ability to create and control fire. One of the cooler superpowers, he thought. He watched the steam fade from his fingertips, then plunged the bright pink digits into the water and went back to washing the dirty dishes. When that was done, he rinsed them and placed them into the dish rack to dry. Or, as his mother used to say, when she’d stop at Gramps’ to help him around the house, “We’ll let God dry them.” The memory made him smile, but then he remembered her final days and the smile left him.
He dried his hands and walked into the living room. Gramps, covered by the fully spread newspaper held in both of his hands, had the radio on. The volume was turned to low, but Stanley still recognized Perry Como singing, “Papa Loves Mambo.”
“Okay, Gramps,” he sighed, feigning exhaustion. “Dishes are done. I’ll take out the trash, then head home. Okay?”
From behind the paper, Gramps said, “Okay, Muskrat.” Stanley turned to leave, but Gramps reached out and caught him by the arm. “How’s the head?”
Stanley shrugged. “It’s okay. Just like normal.”
Gramps nodded. “Oh, like normal. Empty then, huh?”
Stanley grinned. “Real nice, old man.”
“Hey,” snapped Gramps, pointing his finger at his grandson. “Don’t make fun of your elders. Plus, if it weren’t for me – and your gram, God rest her soul - you wouldn’t be here.”
Stanley frowned. “Geez…please don’t go into detail.”
Gramps hesitated, raised his eyebrows as if considering the comment, then roared with laughter. He waved Stanley off. When the boy headed outside with garbage bag in hand, the old man was still in hysterics.
Outside, there was just a smudge of deep orange low in the sky and the air was beginning to chill. Stanley lifted the trash can lid, winced at the lingering smell of waste and tossed the bag inside. He brushed his hands together, as if doing so might eliminate any odor clinging to them. He started up the dirt road to his house, about one hundred and fifty yards away. His father had earlier made him his favorite dinner: spaghetti and meatballs. Now, as he drew closer to home, he was eagerly anticipating the half pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream left in the freezer from last night. Maybe if she didn’t beg too much, he’d give Doris a spoonful in her bowl.
In the distance came the hooting of a Great Horned Owl and Stanley stopped to listen. Sometimes, on rare occasions, he would spot one in the nearby forest bordering the farm. One had even swooped down on Doris before realizing she might be more than it could handle. Then he heard more commotion, off to his right. It sounded like a car engine. It was approaching. A funny feeling enveloped Stanley. It seemed to warn him of something…something bad. He immediately thought of Spiderman and his “Spidey-sense,” which could detect imminent danger.
Appearing within the dark cornfield was a tiny, white light. Then another. The pair of dancing spheres moved frantically, bobbing up and down, side to side. One moment they’d vanish in the shadowy crops, then reappear the next instant, all the while growing larger. Something was crashing through the field. Stanley took a fearful step backward as the roar of an engine overwhelmed his hearing. Then, as if in a dream, a pickup truck plowed through the edge of corn stalks and crossed the road, heading straight for the boy.
Stanley cried out as the headlights washed over him. The truck’s engine groaned like a great, monstrous thing generated from the darkness shrouding the farm. It careened toward him and as he fell backward to the ground, it swerved to his right, hitting the opposite side of the road with a violent KA-THUNK!
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It bounced once, trampling the stalks in its way and then was gone. It didn’t coast to a stop in the crops, it just wasn’t there any longer. It had literally vanished before Stanley’s eyes.
*********
As the pickup bounced down the dirt path between the rows of vegetation, Alex, his heart pounding, frequently glanced in the rearview mirror. Likewise, he checked each side mirror and then, as if he couldn’t trust the reflected images of his surroundings, felt the need to look through the windows themselves. So far none of the humanoids had seemed to follow. He didn’t know if they were able to keep pace with the truck or if they’d simply remained back in the field behind the perimeter fence. He hoped it was the latter.
The headlights glare had revealed a single row of the things near the tree line, but Alex had the gut-clenching notion that there were rows and rows of them back in amongst those trees. Hundreds, perhaps. Maybe more.
What in the hell were they? Either they had once been people and then changed, or something…the Organism…had…mimicked people. Alex couldn’t decide what was scarier and suddenly remembered the old black and white movie, The Body Snatchers. In the movie, aliens growing in pods, emerged as exact duplicates for the humans they replaced. The things he’d seen in the field were humanoid in appearance but seemed to be some sort of plant-human hybrid. He shivered involuntarily.
There was something in the road ahead. As he drew closer, the headlights revealed an overturned pickup truck, lying on the driver’s side. Alex depressed the brake pedal and brought his truck to gradual stop, about twenty feet from the vehicle. He checked the road behind him, then got out, switching on the flashlight. He opened his mouth to call out, but hesitated. What if some of the humanoids were close by? They could hear him. Then he’d possibly have to fight them off. Was that even doable? Could they be hurt? Then again, someone might be injured inside the truck; one of the other farmers. Eva.
Exercising caution Alex rounded the upended pickup, illuminating it with the flashlight’s beam. “Hello?” he hollered. “Anyone inside the pickup?” No reply.
He eased around the front grill and found the headlights still on, gazing sightlessly into the gathering night. Alex aimed the beam through the windshield and saw that the cab was empty. Reaching out, he touched the hood. Still warm. This must’ve just happened.
Somewhere ahead came the sound of shouting. Alex couldn’t grasp what was said, but the voice was male, and it sounded angry.
He jumped back behind the wheel of his own pickup, rolled down the windows, and set off down the road. Accelerating, he studied the rows of cornstalks on either side, listening for the voice again, looking for something, the flicker of the driver’s flashlight, maybe. Any clue as to where the person might’ve gone.
Alex’s eyes bulged as a figure emerged from the stalks to his left. A female.
It was Eva.
He hit the brakes and jerked the steering wheel to the right and the pickup nearly tipped, swerving off the road and plunging into the opposite field. Frantic, Alex mistakenly hit the gas pedal instead of the brake, blasting through the cornfield and mowing over dozens of crops before exiting onto another dirt road on the other side. His gut fluttered as the figure of a small boy appeared thirty feet ahead. Again, Alex wildly yanked the steering wheel and the truck reared to the left, avoiding the child. The pickup slammed against an embankment as it left the road and was momentarily airborne before crashing to the ground. The airbag deployed, filling Alex’s field of vision. Feeling with his foot, he found the brake pedal and stepped on it, bringing the truck to a stop twenty yards into the stalks.
He fought his way out of the cab and scrambled back through the tunnel he’d left in the vegetation. When he reached the road, there was no trace of the child. He looked left but saw only more road, concealed by the night. To the right lay a dilapidated house, overgrown with vines. Perplexed by both the appearance of the child and the identity, Alex’s mind was in freefall. Who in the hell was he?
On the other side of the road, in the dark cornfield, he heard someone approaching. Alex readied himself for another encounter, assuming a defensive posture. He had no weapon and felt helpless. The footfalls grew louder. He heard heavy breathing. Alex’s adrenaline spiked as Eva burst from the shadows into the road.
“Alex!” she called.
“Eva!” he returned. “You alright?”
“We have to…” she panted. “We need to…leave. Now!”
She began to trot toward the broken-down house, motioning for Alex to follow. As he started after her, something else emerged from the cornfield. Alex turned and saw Mitchell. He was armed.
Oh shit.
Eva must’ve heard it too, because she turned back and met Alex’s eyes. She ran toward him, shouting something, but to Alex it was muffled. He could only the thumping of his own heart in his ears. Everything slogged on in slow-motion.
Alex turned back to Mitchell, who had the rifle raised. It was aimed to Alex’s right, toward Eva. Time crawled, decelerated by the dread of the moment. Alex raised his right foot and side-stepped, arranging himself between Mitchell and Eva. Everything was silent and for a an instant, oddly peaceful. Then, Eva screamed. Alex saw the burst from the barrel before he heard the thunder of the shot.