Summer Fling
By Michael Laimo
At once, twenty-eight year old John Kessler had to question the accuracy of the spot he chose to pull over and pee. He hadn’t seen it when he scurried into the woods to water the big elm. He wished he didn’t see it now.
But there it was. Displayed beneath the slight purple glow of the upstate New York sunset, a dead golden retriever. It lay twisted at the side of the road about a foot from the Camaro’s front right tire, gummy blood oozing from its body in various places, staining the blacktop of the road and the weeds growing alongside. Once a coat of gold, the matted fur now glistened sticky red, sad canine eyes dangling from the sockets, barely held in place by the muscles and veins that once provided movement and sight.
John clutched his gut in mock effort to suppress the burger he stopped for on the drive up to the Catskills. He hurried back to the car, wishing he hadn’t taken such a close look at the animal (of course, now after the fact, he wondered why he simply couldn’t have waited until he got to the cabin to take a piss).
He started the car and pulled away from the grisly scene. Efforting to clear the vision of the dog from his mind, he replanned the events of the weekend in his mind’s eye, dividing his activities between shooing pesky mosquitoes and furnishing his cat Spot with finger-scratches through the holes in the small travel cage on the seat next to him.
The evening to this point had fallen short of his expectations. It started when Jill insisted they take separate cars, a discretionary caution, and that she would meet him upstate the following morning. Dean and Mike from the gym, who owned the cabin, had convinced John that a summer fling with the cute redhead might do his marriage some good.A strange piece, John. It’ll give you back your confidence. John had solo’d his way upstate, thinking about his wife who hadn’t found the time of day to pay any attention to him for over a year now, then about the cute redhead from the gym named Jill who spent the better part of three months trying to get in his pants.
Honey, I’m going away for the weekend with Dean and Mike from the gym, gonna play some golf.
She seemed all too eager to get rid of him. What else was new?
In ten minutes he reached Mary Ann Street. This was the road, according to the directions Dean gave him, that led to the cabin. He curved around a small lake, lace-thin fog seeping out from the tranquil surface across the winding approach. He turned left into the driveway, mangled branches stretching their leave-filled hands out to form a canopy above the car. It shook along the dark bumpy lane, headlight beams dancing across the copses like rotating ceiling floods in a nightclub.
He pulled up to the cabin, yellow lamp-lights from inside reaching out through two quartered windows, gently illuminating Dean’s white Chevy Blazer parked alongside the porch. “Be back in a minute, Spot.” He gave the cat one last finger scratch, which it duly sniffed with a wet nose. He then shut off the Camaro’s engine, cracked the windows and got out, locking the door behind him.
The small cabin looked rather dismal, a sole survivor on some deserted island seemingly anchored in isolation for someone to come rescue it. Lofty elms surrounded the lame wooden structure, tossing a dome over it like a great black parachute. A bib of dirt formed a natural welcome mat out front before launching into an stretch of darkened, wooded acreage.
Shoddy place. Not at all what he expected.
John paced forward, tramping over scatterings of dried twigs. He peeked in through the back window of the blazer. Empty. Dean and Mike hadn’t packed up yet. It seemed he would have a little company after all.
Here’s the directions to the cabin, John. Mike and I will be spending a few days there. Drive on up Friday night after work, we’ll give you the keys and then we’ll be on our way. Just one thing, though. You see, there’s a catch. You can have the cabin all weekend. But we expect a blow-by-blow report. We want every juicy detail. We want to know if she’s a real redhead!
As his mind wandered, something soft and heavy snagged his foot and he staggered forward. He caught his balance then twisted around and saw a dead raccoon, or possum maybe, lying on the ground. Death had caused the animal to bloat beyond recognition. The amber glow from the porch lamp revealed a bulbous lump of innards swelling from its gut.
He stepped back a foot, distancing himself from the burst carcass, the undaring move making him feel a bit more comfortable.That’s two up close and personal roadkills in one day. Much more than any man can ask for.
But is this one reallyroadkill ?
A soft breeze jostled the heavy leaves above, sending dancing specks of moonlight across John’s path as he paced toward the cabin. Three creaky wooden steps led to the rail-encased porch. John ascended them, leaning aside to avoid the mosquitoes pouring over the porch light. He scratched at his arms, swelling in places from a few small bites, then squinted as he walked into the wake of the insect-filled aura, opened the screen door and entered the cabin.
* * *
“Hello?” John called.
“Hello?” he repeated, louder. “Anyone here?” The place had been left in shambles. Garbage strewn about, plates and other household utensils scattered aimlessly. A small coffee table broken in two, a lamp knocked over. It smelled awful, like a dumpster bottom.Some party these two had he thought, helplessly wishing this to be the likelihood but knowing deep inside that no party had caused such disorder. He stepped over the lamp and made his way toward the kitchen.
When he entered the kitchen he couldn’t help but remain stunned. It too had been left in full neglect. The refrigerator door open, its contents spilled on the floor, water dripping from the freezer. Drawers pulled out, utensils strewn, the telephone handset dangling from its cord andtap-tapping eerily against the wall. And then thestink . Thick, gritty. Unendurable.
John’s eyes caught a glimpse of something on the dinette table in the corner of the room. He turned. Faced it. Nearly puked, bile reaching into his throat.
About three dozen uncooked burgers and hotdogs were on the tabletop, left out in the heat for what must’ve been days. They were festooned with mold, clots of maggots peppering the meaty formation, squirming wildly in its decaying mass. Mosquitoes and flies buzzed about the putrid heap in droves, as if dispatching reports of discovered treasure.
Shuddering, John turned away from the awful sight. A number of mosquitoes had apparently decided that he was much fresher goods than the decayed picnic food, and buzzed crazily around his head. He swatted at them, scratching at the exposed skin on his arms. He stretched his arms out in front of him. Numerous welts had risen, mottling his once unblemished skin, some torn and now bleeding from constant scratching. He took a deep breath.No chance of spending the night here. The house is in chaos, stinks to high heaven, and now I’m taking a beating from the mosquitoes. What a waste.
So what did Dean and Mike do here anyway? Beyond the casual relationship at the health club, John didn’t know very much about them. They claimed to have owned the cabin, said they ran a small business here. So at the very least you’d think they would take care of it—especially since they both knew John was coming here with Jill.
We want every juicy detail. We want to know if she’s a real redhead!
Good thing she didn’t make the drive up here.
As eager as he had been to get here, he was now more than anxious to leave.Perhaps its better off this way. I never really wanted to cheat on my wife. He turned, a quick exit in mind. His first footstep splashed in the small puddle of water leaking from the refrigerator. He slipped on the linoleum floor, his weight pulling both feet out from under him. He clutched his racing heart in panic just as the rear of his skull rammed hard against the edge of the kitchen sink.
Pain. Blackness. Vertigo. John made every effort to pull back from the brink. He felt himself breathing, felt the sweat dampening his face, but he could only remain still, eyes to the ceiling. Mosquitoes and flies whined about his head. They landed on him, the mosquitoes biting him, the flies tasting him. His face, his arms had become a playground for insects. He could feel them poking his skin, could feel the blood flowing from his veins into their swelling bodies. Slowly, his breathing returned. He thought of Jill, of that fine little piece taking a shower and soaping up that red hair of hers, tossing and turning in bed, ever so anxious about meeting him in the morning.
You just sit tight John, and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll be there in the morning, all clean and pretty. Then I’ll show you the time of your life. I’ll make you feel things you’ve never ever felt before.
Guess what sweetheart? I’m feeling them now!
In a few seconds the haze cleared and a bit of his strength returned. Ever so slowly he raised himself up on his elbows. He ran a hand along the nape of his neck, massaging the lump rising there. Tears of pain welled in his eyes (that lump hurt real bad, as though someone was hammering a nail into his head), and through the wet blur he saw an aerosol can—flying insect repellent—creviced between the floor and the storage cabinet under the sink.
He leaned sideways, reaching for it. His skin screamed. It hurt! Felt as if the bites on his arms had somehow grown tiny mouths from which they could voice their utter displeasure. He took the aerosol container into his possession, looking at it (drug-store brand crap) then cradled it like a teddy-bear. He peered up at the cloud of mosquitoes and flies and moths and beetles whirling about the ceiling light. He felt a sudden madness at the moment, an illogical need for revenge. He staggered to his feet. Slapped his arm. His neck. His cheek.
With his right arm outstretched, John took aim and sprayed.
The insects scattered to all corners of the room, buzzing and bouncing off the walls like bursting popcorn kernels. They came at John by the dozens, big fuckers, the mosquitoes attaching their proboscises to his arms, his face, his neck. White moths the size of monarch butterflies biting through the fabric in his clothing. Japanese beetles settling into his hair, weaving their way down to his scalp. The flies, tons of them, tasting his skin.
He panicked, let the can fall and swatted the assailing insects with both hands. They fell by the dozens. More came. He screamed, his voice echoing through the cabin. Like a man on fire he threw himself to the floor and rolled around. Still the insects swarmed, poking his skin, sucking his blood, the pain like a million doctor’s needles. He thrashed, kicked, flailed with his hands, screamed, yelled, swatted at himself, continuing this maniacal defense until all attacking bugs were either squashed dead or retreating.
“No,” he whispered, stunned, out of breath, never more frightened in his life. He crawled to the sink, a man injured in war, sat up and leaned the back of his head against the storage cabinet underneath. Open mouthed, eyes closed, he gasped for air in a desperate struggle to come to his senses.This is my punishment. A good but bored man trying to follow though with unethical desires. A married man, surrendering to temptation, now paying the price for his sins. He wanted to scream for help. In great pain, he took in a slow deep breath.
At that moment a mosquito—four inches long, the abdomen as thick as a pencil—zipped into his mouth. It latched its jointed legs around his tongue, piercing it with its needle-sharp proboscis. “Oommg!” he cried, clawing at his tongue, trying to spit the mosquito out. But the insect held tight, determined to gorge itself.
Sickened, John found no alternative but to give it a taste of its own medicine.
He bit down hard, incisors and bicuspids severing wings from thorax, dismembering abdomen from head. The mosquito’s body exploded, John’s own blood (and judging from the size of the bug, the blood of a few other victims) spraying into his mouth, along with other insect fluids and juices.
Either in a last futile attempt to escape, or by involuntary motor functions, the mosquito fluttered its wings one last time and died.
John choked and gagged violently, spitting the carnage out. It soiled his lips, dribbled down his chin. He cowered for a moment, heaving, then struggled to his feet and floundered from the kitchen into the trashed living room. Sick amazement caused a dizziness in his head that plagued his every footstep. He stopped at the front entrance, placing his right hand against the doorjamb, looking out through the seeping fog to the black Camaro. It looked beautiful—his means for escape. Sucking in a few breaths of fresh mountain air, his overloaded mind cleared some—just enough to get behind the wheel of the car.
Soon, he would be on his way home.
* * *
With the sun now fully settled beyond the horizon, dusk gave way to night. Although the air grew cool, streaks of sweat trickled down John’s welt-ridden back. The fog seemed to thicken by the minute, and he staggered through it across the front yard to his car.
His trembling hand yanked on the handle. It pulled up, but did not open. Locked. He fumbled for the keys, still in his right front pocket, jingled them out, got a firm grip on the door key. He took notice of the blood oozing from the many bites on his arms.
He slid the key into the lock.
He gripped the handle.
The lock popped. He opened the door.
His mind had trouble accepting what his eyes read just beyond the door. He wanted to believe it to be a nightmared sight. But his common sense told him otherwise, that what he saw could not be real. That his bleeding bites were real, and so was the atrocity before him.
Five, maybe six mosquitoes, all of them a foot or more long, were gathered on Spot’s travel cage. He couldn’t tell exactly how many of them there were, as they were pretzeled together, hairy legs and hot dog-sized bodies intertwined in a pulsating orgy of jubilation. Each of the mosquitoes displayed a proboscis thicker than a pencil, six to eight inches long and expertly fitted through the holes in the steel pet cage. The feeders were fused to the cat’s body (one strategically puncturing the eye), the skin stretched to grotesque proportions at the point of entry, each mosquito pulling hard, making sure to get as much kitty insides as it could. The central area of Spot’s body that had not been penetrated quivered as blood and substance were sucked out. And the sounds! Where a normal sized mosquito would make a high-pitched whining hum, these monstrosities droned a deeper tone, like an electric razor.
John started to hyperventilate, holding his hands to his ears in a feeble attempt to block the wet, slurping sounds and rapturous buzzing. He turned, legs buckling like soggy tea bags. He collapsed to the ground, groveling away on his hands and knees, dirt caking his wounds. He reached Dean’s Blazer parked ten feet away, climbed up the driver’s side of the vehicle, opened the door. Every muscle screamed, every bone ached as he clambered inside, shut the door behind him, sat up and ran his hand along the ignition. No keys. Panicked, he looked out into the dark woods.Dear God, what else is out there? Giant spiders maybe? Squirrels from hell? Should’ve brought your camera John, the family would have loved to sit around the living room seeing how your summer fling reallywent.
* * *
John dreamed of airplanes. Not of jets or commercial airliners, but of small prop twin-engines. He watched as a strange man attempted to start a grounded plane by turning the propeller with his hands. It would spin a few times, then sputter out and die...
ch...ch...ch...ch...
Again, the scene repeated itself. Soon the stranger was gone, but the sound continued...
ch...ch...ch...ch...
John became lucid in his dream, tried to escape, to run. The agonizing pain stopped him from going anywhere. Slowly, he awoke.
ch...ch...ch...ch...
He startled. For certain he was now awake. So where was the dream propeller coming from? He turned and looked in the back seat.
Sitting atop of the headrest in the center of the back seat was a monstrous beetle, one similar in size to those mosquitoes joining Spot for dinner. The circular-shaped insect vibrated its chitinous wings, generating the puzzling propeller-like sound that had invaded John’s dreamscape. John stared in utter disbelief, trembling with terror as the insect stretched out a set of pincers from its mouth like a pair of wicked party favors.
Running his swollen tongue across his palate, he thought of the mosquito that had attacked his mouth and tried to imagine this bug making the same attempt with those razor-sharp pincers.Brain hemorrhage. It would give me a fucking brain hemorrhage .
John righted himself, slowly. Then, ever so gently, placed his hand on the door handle. Without moving his eyes from the insect, he pulled it.
The sound of the popping lock rattled the beetle. It started its engines and took off, straight up like a helicopter, then directly at John. John ducked out of the beetle’s trajectory, taking a quick whip on the cheek from a sharp, vibrating wing. The bug slammed into the windshield and hovered there, seemingly dazed. John reached past it, snatching a fitness magazine resting on the dashboard. He rolled it into a bat shape, tore his eyes away and swung it at the beetle. He felt the impact, a solidcrack like a bat on a baseball. When he opened his eyes, the bug’s insides had become a bizarre sunburst design on the windshield, the body tumbling down into his lap like a football.
He pushed the bug away then tossed the magazine aside, an exhausted soldier offing his last enemy. He looked at his watch—the skin of his wrist now swelling and humping over the velcro band. 6:30 in the morning. Damn, he’d been sleeping for almost six hours! With the sun about to sneak up, Jill would be arriving soon.
Wait until the bugs get a whiff of her. That strawberry hair, vanilla skin, chocolate eyes. They’ll eat her for dessert as soon as they’re done with me.
With the sensation of cement blocks tied to his legs, he stepped down from the truck and trudged back to the cabin. Panic still flared in his mind, mouth parched and in need of water. He stopped, turned and looked at the Camaro, considered it for a brief second.Can’t leave now, Jill’s on the way...
He went back inside the cabin.
* * *
John staggered to the bathroom, shut the door behind him. He pitched forward to the sink and ran the water, both hot and cold. Only a few small mosquitoes and moths were here. Perhaps the bugs were retreating to their daytime abodes.
He washed his hands, scooping and drinking some of the lukewarm water. He ran his hands along his face. It felt...different,textured . The skin burned. He pulled his hands away, saw smearings of blood in both palms.
He peered into the cracked mirror above the sink.
Years of intense mental training could not have prepared him for the shock he felt upon beholding his reflection in the mirror. His vacant gaze held petrified, his mind drowning in extreme distress as he surveyed the battered landscape that was now his face.
The numerous bug bites there had swelled to a point so severe that his skin had begun to split open, a multitude of bleeding cracks forming, the bizarre picture looking much like a road map of highways and interconnecting towns. Within a few of the sores small mosquitoes fed, drinking the seepage from his skin. In one large sore on his cheek, the blood had clotted and gave home to a hatched fly maggot that squirmed and fed on the fleshy meat of his skin.
Terrified, John screamed and clawed at his face, the pain on par with the severe mental anguish now lashing him. He filled his palms with running the water, splashed his face over and over again, the searing pain similiar to that of a horrible sunburn. The pain and discomfort grabbed hold of John Kessler and brought him down to the cracked tiles of the bathroom floor, eventually taking complete hold of him and whisking him away once again from the waking world, back into the world of his dreams where the nightmares could be more easily confronted.
* * *
A loudthump jarred John awake. He started, ignoring the lumpy feeling in his head. He scrambled up, the world spinning around him. He felt a fever inside, a heat within his ravaged body, a chill riding the surface of his skin. He put his ear to the door, then opened it and quietly stepped into the foyer. “Hello?” he whispered.
A slight, muffled moan came from behind the door in the hall.
He gripped the small brass knob, opened the door. A set of cement steps disappeared into a cellar. Very carefully John planted his feet on the first step, then slowly descended the stairs. The sun—which was beginning to rise—sent faint orange beams through the small windows at the top of the basement walls, enough to illuminate the corner of the room at the bottom of the steps.
“Hello?” he said. A pained moan answered him from somewhere across the dark portion of the cellar. He reached the bottom step and stopped. The growing sunlight hadn’t spanned across the entire length of the room yet, making it difficult to see. He took his next step with caution, anxious to help, and be helped.
It hit him with no warning. A monstrous horsefly, on him like a tidal wave, knocking him to the ground. Twice the size of a cat, the head amassed with coarse black hairs, the thing peered at John through eyes constructed of a thousand bulging segments before whipping its long spiny legs around his face and neck with alarming speed.
John grabbed hold of the monstrous insect and yanked it away, his fingers squeezing tightly against the clickity-clack of its bony, bristled appendages. A hot, putrid stink emanated from the rudimentary lungs of the malformation as it extended a six-inch feeder toward his face like a cartoonish hypodermic needle. John turned his head to one side in effort to avoid the prober, still holding tight as the thing twisted and danced in his grip, the sonorous resonation of the vibrating wings upon its back scraping his fingers.
Then, on the nape of John’s neck. Something warm and wet. Touching him.
Slowly...sliding...across...his...skin.
Mustering a hidden strength, he threw the giant horsefly against the wall. It slammed hard on the concrete, stuck there momentarily then fell to the ground, leaving a stain of green blood behind like a piece of crazy art. He rolled away from the probing wet thing and spun around to investigate. What met his gaze was a vision so grotesque, he had trouble deciding if it were real, or a scene from some sick movie.
As beams from the east found their way through the windows, enough now to illuminate the entire basement, he could see two bodies, each nearly hidden beneath a frothing blanket of tremendous maggots. The fly larvae—each two to four inches long and some even longer—were squirming in a frenzy, thrilled to have human hosts. John tore his sights away, hearing for the first time the wet, slithering, munching sounds. Soon the terrible realization of what touched him on the neck came shining through. It was on the floor next to his foot. A maggot—nearly half a foot long—crawling away from the burrowing party to investigate.
He looked back at the bodies. They were big.Muscular .
Dean and Mike. The gym-boys.
The body furthest from him appeared to move. He could not be sure for the blanket of larvae seemed to have a complete, collective life of its own. But then he heard the moan, the same syrupy grunt he’d heard moments earlier. The guy wasalive .
Do it, you have to.Ignoring the continuous threat of mosquitoes and flies and the pain he was in, John leaned over the body and used his swelled hands to scrape the maggots away from the face and neck of the bodybuilder. They fell away by the dozens, their slimy bodies foaming through his fingers like big wet Alka-Seltzer tablets.
The body moaned again, tried to say something.
John peered into his eyes. Dean. John’s nerves jangled like fire alarms. “Dean...what is this? What’s happening?”
Eyes closed tight, the bodybuilder’s jaw jittered.“The shed.”
“What? What about the shed?” John pleaded. Dean struggled, trying to get another word out. Raspy whispers sputtered from his ballooned lips before he fell silent, and John went cold inside for knew at that moment that Dean had uttered his last words.
John loosened himself from the fear that paralyzed him, realizing now that his presence could not save his friend. He spun and hurried back up the stairs, his skin exploding with white hot pain, his head throbbing mercilessly. Once upstairs he stumbled as quickly as his numbed legs could take him, through the kitchen (past the meat-statues) and outside to the backyard.
Looking out into the faint morning, he saw a large aluminum shed edging the perimeter of the woods, its white surface splotched with jagged patches of rust. One of the two doors was slightly ajar.
The shed...
The rising sun brought faint tinges of color to the previously lifeless scenery. The wind moved, carrying with it a few dead leaves that floated across his footsteps. He listened to the sound of his own harsh breathing, and he shivered as a terrible aching cold passed through his bones, his fevered mind playing games with him...
Never thought my summer fling would be like this.
Did you bring any ‘bug off’?
Shut up, asshole.
He walked to the shed, heart slamming.
When he reached it he stopped for a moment, hesitant. He tried to gaze into the small space the open half provided, but saw only blackness.
He brought his right hand up, gripped the rusty handle and slowly opened the door.
At first he wasn’t sure what he’d found. Inside were about a dozen white plastic pails, the industrial kind made to hold cement or tar but end up being filled with soap suds for washing the car. Many of them had been tipped over, their contents spilled. One pail at the shed’s entrance had contained a large quantity of packaged hypodermic needles. The others held vials—thousandsof them—filled with a brownish liquid. Many were shattered, the contents spilled out onto a plastic tarp lining the floor of the shed.
Mosquitoes and flies and beetles and moths and...
...and...ants and slugs and toads and bees were in there feeding on the brown syrupy liquids.
And they weregrowing , right before John’s eyes. The ants, their spiny legs extending out an extra three inches. The slugs, twisting and turning into hunks the size of hotdogs. One spotted toad appeared, tipping over a bucket, its legs thick with muscles, the body distended and swelling to the size of a large melon. In the upper right-hand corner of the shed a web had been spun as wide and as large as a small blanket, a large dark spot partially hidden beneath the center of its translucent cover.
John took a step forward, looking at the canisters. They’d been labeled with masking tape and black magic marker:Anadrol. Bolasterone. Dehydralone. Hexalone.
He recognized those names, had heard them mentioned from time to time at the gym during conversations of protein shakes, amino acids, and other bulk-forming supplements.
Steroids. The gym-boys were dealing steroids. And the woodland creatures were feeding on them.
Hey John, those mutated insects you partied with last night are nocturnal. The sun’s out now, my friend. Best not stick around to see what the daylight’s gonna bring.
The warmth of the morning sun grew suddenly cool on John’s back. At the same time a dark shadow appeared across the ground in front of him. A sickening wave of terror welled up in his blood as the shadow grew larger, menacing.
Something was sneaking up behind him.
He spun around quickly to defend himself, screamed with terror.
And at the same time Jill did the same when she beheld his monstrous appearance.
John clutched his chest. “Jesus! You scared the shit outta me!”
Tears coated Jill’s eyes. “John...what h-happened? What’s going on here?”
Relieved—although his heart hammered like a machine gun—he grabbed her hand. “Let’s get the hell outta here. I’ll explain later.”
* * *
A mass of slate-colored clouds rushed in covering the tops of the Catskills, creating a barrier that prevented the rising sun from stretching its bright rays out across the mountains. As a result the fog thickened, moisture building up in the cool morning climate. They rode in Jill’s car, John in the passenger seat spending the past ten minutes explaining the events of the night to her.
Jill scratched a few bites on her hand as she drove, then broke her attentive silence. “You really think it was the steroids that mutated the bugs?”
“Yes.”
“If it did, then...do you think there’s anything else that may have been affected?”
John stared blankly ahead. “I don’t know, maybe...” He sat up, suddenly aware of the familiar surroundings they passed through. He peered out the driver’s side window toward a familar shady hollow on the left side of the road. The golden retriever was no longer there. A trail of blood and dust led into the woods.
The dog had beendragged away. He shuddered.
“John? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I...” he said, shaking his head.
“What? What is it?”
“I...I have to take a leak.” It’d been a good twelve hours since his last piss.
“We have to get you to a doctor...nevermind that right now.”
There’d been a rise in John’s spirit when the two of them finally escaped the cabin. But with what happened next, it proved John’s enthusiasm to be nothing more than false hope.
An immense shadow loomed out of the fog. It sounded like a lawnmower, John thought at first. Aflying lawnmower, a little less mechanical, a little morenatural . The car shook as it passed overhead, the leaves in the trees whipping about in the sudden grasp of a furious wind. For a second John thought it might’ve been a low-flying helicopter. But if any vehicle of flighthad been flying just above them, it no way could’ve been big enough to eclipse the sun. Jill screamed, jammed on the brakes as the world around them winked away and remained black. Then, as quickly as the granite-like darkness consumed them, daylight rose back into existence, and the engine-like rev curtailed away into the shroud of fog and cloud cover.
But it was still close by, for although the great shadow vanished and the sound was distant, they could stillfeel a sharp resonation in the air.
Aroar .
Jill inched the car forward.
The earth shook as something huge landed in the road just ahead of them.
When the nighttime fades, the creatures of the day will come out.
She stopped the car. Locked the doors. They sat there trembling. Waiting for whatever fate the approaching creature had for them.
And that’s when the maggots started hatching beneath John’s skin.