The Attack of the Munchers
There’s a leak in the roof. Shit. I see the drywall running with water from the far corner above the window of our smallest bedroom. I push up on the ceiling above it and my hand, with a little pressure, slides straight through to fluffy pink insulation in the attic. The rain is still coming down in sheets outside.
In the closet there is a pull down ladder with access to the attic. I flip the light switch on and head up. I see the problem immediately. It’s like a maelstrom in the attic; there are sections of roof pulling off, flapping in the wind violently. I have a bright idea about how to fix the issue that fails miserably. I decide it’s time to get Dad’s help.
Apparently, my parent’s house connects to mine through the basement which is accessed through the attic. Crawling my way through the attic like a simian, I make my way downward through some ducting and enter the basement where I can clearly see my Dad. He’s working on some sort of basement kitchen remodel, everything is white, covered in dust and sheets of translucent plastic. He’s sweating and breathing heavily, swinging a sledge hammer which, incredibly, builds cabinets instead of breaks them down.
I tell him of my predicament and he agrees to help. We head on up to his attic, which accesses my attic (why wouldn’t it?) with a few rolls of black plastic and some tools in our hands. His attic is fully finished. There is fine hardwood installed over the joists following the angles of the vaulted ceilings beneath. There’s a chandelier, antique lamps and side tables, a dinette set; a very ostentatious attic indeed. But on the way to my attic, we are stopped in our tracks by a sudden quake. The rain stops.
The concussive sounds from afar are coming at regular intervals, about ten seconds apart. Every “boom” is followed by a tremor. It sends the chandelier swinging and knocks over a few lamps. Dad has no clue what’s going on and neither do I, until I peak out of the window. I see them from far away beyond the corn fields that sprawl out over the landscape. One is bright green, the other bright purple and they are rhythmically gnashing their way through the countryside just like the way Hungry Hungry Hippos would rise up to reach for marbles, slam down, and then pull back their bounty as you frenetically mashed their levers over and over again. Unlike Hungry Hungry Hippos, they are here to destroy. Shaped like enormous convex-domed, anime inspired, plastic children’s toys, they are the size of an NFL stadium and their purpose is to purge the land of people. Yes, people, us, the human race. They are “The Munchers.”
The munchers are guided by their scout crew of tiny plastic robots with tiny plastic tabs on their backs. They are an assorted lot, resembling many kinds of small Transformer like toys, about eight inches tall. They run far ahead of the munchers and crawl up, around, and in any structure with their claws and wheels they can searching for people. When they find a human, they sound a high pitched alarm that signals more scouts to investigate the area. They then relay their information to the munchers to direct their path of annihilation. They are attracted by light.
We are introduced to the scouts by drilling sounds in the attic. One red scout has let himself in to our attic by boring a hole through the roof with his drill-bit-hands. I immediately know that this tiny robot can’t be any good and scoop Mr. Drill-Bit up. He tries to drill through my hands so I smash him on the floor, noticing the odd tab on its back as I do so. He starts to sound a squealing, almost dog whistle pitched alarm. This is bad. Two more enter through the hole.
In a panic, I rip the tab off of his back and, thankfully, he deactivates in a cloud of smoke and sparks. His little beady eyes go dim. The two other scouts are ricocheting around the attic haphazardly searching for light sources and beginning to sound alarms. I cut them off, pull their tabs and tell Dad to cut the lights. With all the lights off and the scouts a sizzling pile of deactivated plastic, we crawl to the window in the dark and observe.
The munchers have made it halfway across the horizon and into the neighborhood. From our vantage point atop a tall hill, we can see the swath of smoldering earth the munchers have left in their wake. Boom…… boom….. boom…. Their pace is methodical, destroying without conscience, sending shock waves from miles away, inspiring cold sweats into every human who feels the intense vibrations. We crouch down in the attic in the black of night and pray that we will not meet the same fate as those in the scorched earth left by the munchers did; crushed to death, mangled in the dirt. They will be here soon.
A New Wife
I was going to write about the dream that lead up to this dream. One about a video game like adventure to avenge a college professor’s father’s death from an alien race. I piloted spacecraft with mysterious orbs, shot at alien marines, “respawned” after I died. But it was the short dream right after all that that made me wake up crying.
It was Jessica, lying on a wooden board that rolls back and forth, I’m staring down at her face. Her eyes are closed. She’s younger, maybe five or six years younger. She has a beautiful smile on her face, it’s as if she is sun bathing with a warm orange glow on her freckled cheeks. Her fine brown hair hangs across the board and falls downward.
I realize at this point that she has no idea who I am. We’re meeting again for the first time when she opens her eyes and says hello. At this point, everything we’ve had together, everything we’ve done together only exists in my mind. I look down past her face, past the rolling board she’s laying on and see that what it rolls in to. It is a huge furnace. It is a crematorium. She’s clearly still alive and happy. But “we” are dead.
I started crying and woke up crying. I went to my phone and saw a text message. It’s a grocery list from my wife. She’s fine and wants steak for dinner. That makes me feel better.
Mortal Golem Combat
Two blackened metallic-charred creatures, sinewy and sharp, dance violently in what could be described as a dimly lit abandoned silo, ridden with rust, glowing a dull orange-red. Burgeoning bloody masses hang from their shadowy dark torsos as they flail frantically at each other with their sharp, thin tendrils. Their movements are quick and precise, yet jittery like old claymation monster movie effects.
I’m not sure why they are fighting, where I am or what I am. My perspective is sometimes third sometimes first person. I see my assailant. A haunting dark scribble, ridden with macabre wounds, spewing forth thick blood red tapioca-textured guts. Everything is muted except for the loud metallic crashing sounds of his footwork, as if he were dragging thick chains across the iron silo. I determine the other creature is dead or has disappeared and now the victor wants nothing more then to kill me.
I can see only one eye on his pointy charcoal head. It glows a dark red, steam rises from his blackened burnt brow. I hear guttural bellows now, demonic and reverberating, hitting me in the chest every time he exhales. No mouth, no nose, just one dim eye on the left side of his face and giant, rigid, black, sharp tentacles for arms that slice at me relentlessly. He is more jagged, flat silhouette then full bodied figure, outlined by the dull glow reflected off the silo walls; as if he were some sort of violent golem created from charcoal and metal whose sole purpose in life was to slice things open.
I try to turn and run but there is nowhere to go. We are chained to the rusty silo walls with rusty chains. It wouldn’t be that bad if I wasn’t within his reach. His figure arches and compresses at crackling speed as he jerks and thrusts after me. I bend my body to avoid his sharp tendrils, but he’s already gashed open soft belly. I’m going to die here. The last thing I remember is a scraping sound like a car muffler being dragged across asphalt as his keen, sinewy toes dug into the silo walls to provide leverage for one more swing.