Richard’s parents had urged him to skip work not only because of world events but also because he had barely slept last night.
However, he had a strong sense of responsibility for the damaged demo car, mixed with a healthy dose of denial. Besides, after two encounters in two days on his family’s property he did not feel safer at home.
In any case, Stone followed Mr. Munroe as the latter paced along the passenger side of the sedan parked in the service lot behind the main Chevy showroom. A handful of lonely, puffy white clouds drifted overhead. The calm beauty of the late-June morning sky contrasted sharply with the storm of fear brewing below.
Mr. Munroe removed his cigar, exhaled, and re-stated what Dick had already told him.
"So something ran into you, eh? A deer?"
"Yes, something like that. It was dark. You can see there’s fur stuck in the door."
Mr. Munroe stooped to inspect the badly bent side panel.
"Yep. Some kind of fur… strange, though…more like needles…"
"I really feel bad but you can see it wasn’t my fault."
Rich’s boss stood straight and jammed his cigar into the corner of his mouth. He spoke in the tone of a Drill Sergeant.
"Not your fault? For Christ’s sake, son, you need to face the music. This was your demo car."
Richard closed his eyes and pinched his nose with his fingertips. He felt a head ache blooming.
"I realize that, Mr. Munroe."
"Just ‘cause some dumb animal ran into your broad side don’t mean you’re not responsible."
"Holy Shit!"
The shout came from Bobby Weston inside the showroom. More specifically, the cry originated from the customer waiting area where Bobby watched television.
With his cigar firmly wedged in his gums, Mr. Munroe marched inside toward the customer lounge. Stone followed in less determined strides.
Bobby Weston backed out of the lounge. His perfectly groomed hair, perfectly manicured nails, and perfectly ironed dress shirt could not hide the expression of perfect horror draped over his face as he staggered out of the lounge with his eyes still locked on the television therein.
"I am so fucking outta here…" Bobby Weston passed his Chevrolet brethren en route to his demo Impala parked out front in the "Salesman of the Month" slot.
While Mr. Munroe debated chasing after his protege, Richard entered the lounge to find out why the television had spooked Bobby.
"…smoke is rising from downtown and there are reports of explosions at the air port…"
The video feed came from a camera mounted on the roof of the local NBC affiliate in downtown Wilkes-Barre. It showed smoke amidst the buildings-some tall and some short-at the center of town.
An anchorman-a frantic newscaster who realized the camera showed the scene outside of his building-tried to keep his voice cool while relaying what they knew, or suspected, or guessed.
"We have been unable to get any comments from local law enforcement but our news department is monitoring emergency services radio. We can tell you there is a state of confusion and panic-wait a second…there…"
Something flew in front of the rooftop camera. Something big with wings like a bat, but definitely not a bat.
"There is another of the-of the things that have been flying…okay, no, now we’re getting a report that there is a mob of-what is that? Could you repeat that?"
A ball of fire and smoke rose from somewhere downtown, shaking the rooftop camera. A moment later Richard heard the explosion, not from the television, but through the open showroom door. He stood less than two miles from center city.
"We’re switching to a camera man in the lobby of this building…wait one moment…"
The picture switched from the roof top video feed to the studio. The anchorman, unaware of the change, sat with his head buried in his arms atop the news desk like a tired child. One finger pushed hard against his earpiece as if better hearing might clear away the madness.
"…okay…here we go…"
Again, the picture changed. This time the television framed shaky video from a hand held camera in the lobby of the station. That lobby featured large floor-to-ceiling glass windows affording a view of what Rich knew to be Franklin Street, a primary downtown thoroughfare lined with parked cars and shade trees. An upscale gentleman’s business club situated in a grand old stone building dominated the stretch of city block across from the station.
On that block, a handful of pedestrians stood and gawked; several others ran off camera, discarding briefcases and screaming as they fled the mob that stormed up Franklin Street.
Not a mob of people.
Ghastly white beasts bound along on four limbs not unlike the gait of a primate. Yet these were no Earthly creatures: generally humanoid with protruding ribs and skullish faces, they lumbered forward en masse. Some sort of ravenous ghouls…
Dozens of them.
That fast-moving horde attacked the remaining pedestrians with claws and bites. Then the mob noticed the television station and charged those big windows. The windows smashed. The hand held camera plummeted to the floor. The newscaster’s quivering voice broadcast while the video presented a blurry, tight shot of the lobby carpet.
"Okay…oh dear…we…security?…We are probably going to have to go off the air…I can hear them in the hallway…security!..I have to go…Oh Christ…"
No more voices. Screams. Crunches.
"Mister…Mister Munroe…"
Sirens blared outside the auto mall.
"I have to go."
Richard walked out of the lounge and into the main Chevrolet showroom. His pace served notice he had no intention of stopping. Mr. Munroe half-heartily pursued.
A summer breeze carrying traces of distant, burning smoke blew in through the dealership’s propped-open front door. Bobby Weston, visible through the showroom glass, fumbled with keys next to his Impala.
"Now wait one second mister," the manager tried to regain control over his employee.
They both saw what happened to Bobby.
A massive…a massive thing…maybe a ‘leg’ or ‘foot’ but neither seemed the best description…big and round like a California Redwood tree, it could have belonged to an elephant. A really, really big elephant.
The mass stomped down on Bobby and his car, obliterating the man into a red splatter and crushing the vehicle. The impact tremor splintered the plate glass windows. Car alarms blared to life.
Three additional mammoth limbs plodded across the parking lot, all part of some gargantuan creature trespassing on Edgar Chevrolet property.
Synapses in the brains of Mr. Munroe and Richard Trevor Stone fired at a rapid pace.
For Richard, the flight instinct seized command. His legs carried him toward the service parking area and his damaged demo car behind the building. He did not think, his legs remembered the way all on their own.
As Dick ran, he heard Mr. Munroe’s rather interesting reaction. The poor man’s synapses cross-wired and failed him when it counted.
The Sales Manager yelled in an authoritative voice, "Bobby Weston what the hell are you doing?"
Mr. Munroe’s last words joined other noises in Rich’s ears: the sounds of smashing wood and crumbling dry wall and shattering glass, the mix of chirps and horns from a chorus of car alarms.
Stone reached the Malibu, started the ignition on the first try, and drove to the main exit. He did not look back. He did not want to see the rest of the thing that had turned Bobby Weston into a stain. He did not want to watch the thing rip apart the Chevrolet showroom.
No, the beast’s deep, inhuman roars tested his sanity enough as it bellowed above all the other sounds of destruction.
– Richard completed his escape but his pace slowed to a crawl as a sea of traffic clogged the roads.
Part of the gridlock came from drivers paralyzed by the chaos. They stopped and blocked intersections and side streets, sitting behind their steering wheels with eyes wide open in terrified wonder.