The Strange Breed
If there had ever been need for caution it was here and now. The light flickered in the sudden breeze and Andrew slowly drew the shutter toward him. The candle sputtered and went out.
His pale fingers searched the table. A match. The small flame again burned, casting its half light across the room. His shadow danced on the wall. Tall and regal it moved in a formal minuet, a tango with a sensual Hawaiian hula.
He must hide. Silently. They must not hear him. He knew that. Their ears were so much more sensitive than anything mortal. Yet they didn't perceive light. Could they sense the heat of the candle's flame?
His mind raced over the few hours of knowledge that he had accumulated. No, they couldn't sense changes in temperature. He was sure. They only grasped sound with their mammoth radar-disk ears.
He must find a place with total sound absorption. A place where his living sounds would not echo out to the waiting ears. His heart must be stilled, his breath blanketed in silence. Then he would be safe. They would go away.
Bobby, what had they done with Bobby? Nausea swept from within as the boy's terror filled screams again sounded in his head. The attack had been so sudden. He writhed in burning brightness. A flame, like that of a mythical dragon, lashed across his body. It seared, cut, scorched. They both had screamed. Sound. Disclosing.
The memory pressed him down. He crouched shaking on the floor, clenching his fist in his mouth to quell the moan of pain and remembering. He forced his mind to other thoughts. The trembling grew less violent. Forget.
Where in this old, creaking, decaying house would he find a quiet safety zone? Why had they come? No need to begin thinking of Bobby again. Forget.
In the silence he felt their presence. There were out there. Beside his life sounds there was only the faint whisper of the candle burning. His ears picked up that sound. In fright he pinched the flame. He left the room in darkness. Moving with fluid grace he left. Only in time.
The burning flame shot into the room. It filled with choking smoke. He stood in the hall behind the closed door and smiled. Then moved.
He had forgotten his weapon. He had escaped their attack and was still armed. The realization slowly seeped into his consciousness. He cradled it in his hand. He could fight the dragon's flame now. He must drive them away. He must save Bobby.
His fear of the unknown and the violence they wielded turned steadily into anger. He was armed. They had caught him off guard. No matter where they were from or what they wanted, he knew they could no withstand the ultimate weapon. No one could. No one had. Even Bobby.
He would use it.
They followed sound. Let them. He quickly, quietly scanned the hall and stood. Room by room he searched. An ancient clock. Success.
His hands lifted it out of the dust and cobwebs. The mechanism still worked. The key in the back still turned and the march of time again ticked off the face. Placed on an empty crate at the foot of the stairs it's systematic beat was muffled yet echoed through the house. A false sound of live. A trap.
On the landing above he waited. Weapon ready. His muscles tense. He aimed at the doorway below. It opened onto the back of the house where he knew they were. He slowly began to load.
Shadows moved. They were entering the room below. Their ears cupped forward. Long triangular heads swinging from side to side to bring in every sound with clarity.
Steadily, his body quivering with the anticipation, he prepared for the assault. It was near. Nearer.
Now!
A shriek filled the chamber. The shadow form above jerked erect. The dragon eyes lit the landing in fire. Defiant, his head thrown back, Andrew creamed his challenge to the intruders. His back arched. His weapon spewed forth it's rain of life. His body recoiled with each burst.
Peace, quiet, delight, death.
Andrew toppled from the landing, following the decent, as if to watch the poison work its wonders.
It was seen as an attack. Small fireflies twinkled in the dark and thunder roared.
They stared in disbelief at the crumpled form twitching. Blood flowed across the floor, mingling with the semen. Andrew had turned into a rag doll, discarded in a mud puddle. Final release.
" . . . Sheriff Able stated. The suspected child molester, Andrew Brockman, was killed resisting arrest . . . " Bobby's mother snapped off the radio. Darkness and shuddering sobs.
Bobby hugged his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. Then he began to laugh into the blackness of his room. Andrew wouldn't tell. Andrew couldn't tell. Andrew had been fun to play with. But he was so dumb, so confused, so easy. A picture formed in his head. Jerry. Now there was a stud.
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