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.
There’s a Virus in My Pool
I’m on the internet one day, doing my thing. Listening to some music, wasting time. A banner ad pops up on the bottom of the screen. It wants me to buy an antivirus program. I thought I already had an antivirus program. I close the ad.
It pops up again. All my icons are gone from the desktop. The start menu disappears. But there is that goddamn banner again. It seems that I have a virus. And the virus is trying to force me to buy the cure for itself. A virus with a conscience. He knows he’s an asshole and he wants to get better, so he’s showing me the way. The “way” costs $29.99 coincidentally.
It becomes clear that this virus was made by the antivirus software company to get people to buy the cure for the virus they’ve given you. A clever marketing plot. I’m an elite hacker right? At least my grandmother seems to think so. I can fix most networking problems by hacking routers. And by hacking I mean unplugging them and then plugging them back in. Elite. I try to fix the problem to no avail. Screw it, I’m going outside.
It’s a dreary day in the neighborhood. Small white houses with side-yard moats line the street. The clouds are a dark ominous gray and are moving fast. The wind is whipping all of the huge oak tree limbs around. It’s the kind of weather I hate – it looks like it’s going to rain, but it wont, the clouds just wont come together right. An ice cream truck shows up. It is a filthy white truck that bears the logo of that same damn antivirus company that has been hounding me. No ice cream man jingles accompany the arrival of this truck.
Two men get out of the truck dressed in filthy white jumpsuits. They both have black hats and long greasy hair. One is a fat, black haired man with thick framed glasses. The other is a slim fair man with his faced hidden by an unkempt beard. They proceed to the back of the truck where they open a hatch and wrangle out a slimy dark green sea creature and slip it into my moat. It is some sort of large eel, about eight feet long with huge triangular teeth. It seems to enjoy the environment. The cool, muddy water pleases it.
After watching the little eel muck around in my muck for a short while, the upstanding gentlemen released a much larger, much more “teethy” sea creature into the moat. I get it now. they are illustrating a big bad virus attack on my poor little unprotected eel computer. This mega eel violently rips apart the little one in massive splashy thrashes. What a way to sell an antivirus program. Jeez.
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.