My voice was stern and abrupt, the one I used when shit was one-hundred percent fucked. And things were royally fucked. The radio clicked off, the silence rushing back in thick and heavy.
Behind me, the father, Jonathan, sat hunched in his armchair, rocking back and forth, a broken metronome of grief. âI didnât mean to⦠I didnât mean toâ¦â he mumbled into his hands.
His wife, Martha, hovered near him until the heavy thud of boots on the porch steps made her flinch. The screen door banged open and two paramedics swept in, their presence a whirlwind of clipped questions and focused energy. One dropped a heavy-looking bag that landed with a muffled thump, he already had it unclipped grabbing various tools of his trade with practiced precision. The other was already kneeling beside Michael, his movements economical and sure. They didn't so much enter the living room as occupy it, turning a space of chaotic grief into a makeshift triage.
Kira was already briefing them, her voice a low, urgent staccato of facts. I stepped over to Jonathan. He was vibrating, a low hum of terror that made the armchair creak. His eyes were wide but unfocused, staring at his son on the floor. Probably replaying the moment, imagining all the things he could have done differently. I knew from experience that it wasnât healthy and would just lead someone further into despair. The fear in the air was so thick it felt like I was breathing in static.
âWhat kind of tranquilizer is this?â I asked, keeping my voice soft. Gentle Elias, he is in shock. Slow and steady. Jonathan didnât respond, just kept rocking, his chanting changing to a âwhat have I doneâ. I put a hand on his shoulder, firm but not aggressive. The gesture an attempt to ground him back to the moment. âJonathan. I need to know what you used. Itâs important.â
He finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and swimming with tears. âItâs⦠itâs horse tranquilizer,â he choked out, his body slumping as a ragged sob finally broke free.
Horse tranquilizer. Right. We'd be in real trouble if the man owned a zoo. I couldnât stop the cynicism. It was my coping mechanism. It reminded me that things could always be worse.
âWe⦠we use it when one of the horses gets tangled in barbed wire,â he sobbed. âIt calms them down enough so we can⦠so we can help.â
A cold knot of dread twisted in my gut. âPerfect,â I said, the word tasting like rust. âDo you still have the box it came in? The paramedics need to see exactly what weâre dealing with.â
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He nodded numbly, directing Martha to a stand by the front door. She returned a moment later, clutching a small cardboard box in trembling hands.
âGive it to them,â I said, pointing toward the paramedics.
One of them grabbed the box and immediately began reading off the ingredients. I could tell by his urgency that the situation was bad. He looked up at me grimly. âWeâre transporting him immediately,â he said. âWhatever this is, itâs not good. Clear a path for the stretcher.â
I nodded and began moving furniture out of the narrow hallway. His partner returned with a spinal board, and with painstaking care, we maneuvered Michael onto it. Michael wasnât very big but if you ever moved a unconscious body you would understand that dead weight was different. It was awkward and clumsy no matter how mechanical you tried to be. Finally Michael was secured to the spinal board.
As we carried him through the front door toward the waiting stretcher, Michaelâs eyes snapped open.
They werenât the eyes of a man. They were blown wide with a terror that wasnât from this world, a panic so absolute it seemed to suck the air from the yard.
âMONSTERS!â he screamed, the sound tearing from his throat, raw and ragged. He began to thrash violently against the straps holding him to the board, a wild, impossible strength surging through his body. Foam frothed at the corners of his mouth. âRUN! GET AWAY! THEYâRE COMING!â
The hairs on my arms and neck immediately stood on edge, goosebumps dotting my skin. What the fuck did this kid see.
His scream was primal. It was the sound of a prey animal seeing the predator that was going to tear it to pieces. My hand was already on my pistol before I even registered the thought.
A sound ripped through the afternoon. Not a gunshot. Not a bomb. It was the sound of reality being torn open. A deafening, violent CRASH that came from the direction of the fields, shattering the air like an explosion. The entire house shuddered behind us. Every eyeâmine, Kiraâs, the paramedicsâ, even the Kentsââsnapped toward the source.
Hurtling through the air, end over end like a gruesome, discarded toy, was the carcass of a bull. It landed a hundred and fifty meters away with a wet, heavy thud, its belly torn open in a glistening ruin of gore. It had been savaged by something impossibly large.
From the direction of the now-obliterated chicken coop, a roar erupted. It wasn't the roar of any animal I knew. It was a guttural, bone-rattling sound that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality.