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.
