Another True Story

It's been a while since I last posted a story. I'm sorry. The good news is, I have written several since the last one went up. Here's the most recent one. It is one hundred percent true.


It was a Tuesday. You know Tuesday? It’s that innocent day sandwiched between Monday, a day that working people dread, and Wednesday, hump day, the day that the week starts moving toward a new weekend, a day of hope. Thursday is the second longest day of the week. The high of hope from Wednesday has worn off and jobholders know that they still have to get through all of Friday, let alone the rest of Thursday before they’re free. Friday is the sprint to the finish. The weekend is nigh! But Tuesday? Not much of note happens on a Tuesday, it’s just a day to fill out the week. This Tuesday was no exception.
It began normally for Mack. Her mother and stepfather left for work in the morning, just another Tuesday. This left Mack as the reigning adult of the house, although her sister, Stevie, was only a year younger. Stevie, however, took full advantage of not being the responsible older sibling. Also in the house were Aubs, the 8-year-old from hell a.k.a. the queen of mischief, and lastly, the monkey. No, not a literal monkey, that would be odd, and there’s enough oddity in this true story already. The monkey was simply what everyone called the baby boy.

             The morning progressed normally: the monkey cried until he was fed. He then promptly fell asleep, face in food. Mack decided against waking him. The pureed peas would make for a nice snack when the monkey woke up.

             Aubs drew family portraits on the wall with crayons. Family members were labeled with ballpoint pen for clarity.

Stevie juggled her soccer ball in the backyard while listening to 90’s rap, occasionally taking a break to chat to friends on the phone.

Mack took advantage of the brief interval of relative quiet to study. Descartes wasn’t going to read himself ergo Mack had to. She kept an eye on the monkey while she studied, waiting for a sign of life from the green smear in the high chair.

Tuesday was moving along smoothly, as Tuesdays usually do.

Lunch: grilled cheese with carrots for Aubs and Mack. Stevie went out with friends to get burritos. The monkey spread applesauce and mushed eggplant around his face, occasionally getting some in his mouth.

             A brief flurry of energy after lunch. Aubs jumped on the couch and sang her favorite songs at full volume. Mack took the monkey out of the high chair for the first time in hours. He rolled around on the floor and drooled. Mack supervised and checked her phone.

She had gotten a phone number the day before. Not just any phone number, but the phone number of a boy. Well, a man, technically, but definitely a male, which was what counted. They had texted and chatted the day before and it seemed like things were going well. Actually, they were going great. She expected him to ask her out at any time. She checked her phone again. Nothing yet, radio silence. Actually, total silence. Where was Aubs?

“Aubs?” Mack glanced around. “Where are you?” Even when Aubs was beyond visual range she could usually be tracked by sound.

Mack picked up the monkey and began to wander the house, not truly worried, but curious.

“You better not be in Stevie’s room again, you know she doesn’t like you in there!” But when Mack leaned in through Stevie’s door she found the room empty. Nothing was out of place. Well, everything was out of place, but there was no clear Aubs trail. Mack checked her phone. Still no word from the boy, so she continued the search.

With the monkey’s help Mack methodically checked under the beds, in the closets, in the bathtub, even shined a light in the attic, but no Aubs anywhere. Nor had she heard a peep. Silence reigned throughout the house, broken only by the gurgling of the monkey who lolled about in Mack’s arms. He was as heavy and as easy to carry as a sack of potatoes.

Perplexed, Mack walked out the back door. The building behind the house used to be a workshop, but her mother and stepfather had let her convert it into a studio apartment for herself. It was her sanctuary, the only kid-free zone on the property. Aubs knew better than to trespass. Surely she wouldn’t have—the door stood ajar.

The breach of etiquette stunned Mack. She stood looking at her own door, the monkey squirming and drooling, somehow not falling from her arms as she stood staring, mouth actually agape. The surprise passed and then Mack was storming through her own door, ready to open a can.

            "Aubs, I swear to god, I’m going to—” but no further words escaped Mack’s throat. Something large and lumpy sat there as she took in the scene.

Aubs, her 8-year-old body looking smaller than normal, lay on the floor, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. Pillows and books were scattered everywhere. The desk drawers were all open, papers wilting over the edges. Her chair was upside down and on the wrong side of the room, clearly thrown there in a struggle. Mack’s eyes took everything in, horrified.

“Aubs?” Mack said meekly and started towards her little sister.

“Stop there!” A voice rang out. Mack froze. Aubs began writhing and making pitiful moans through the gag. Mack’s heart strained for her sister, the anger she had felt only seconds before had already melted away, terror took it’s place. There was movement from the loft. Mack looked up. Jake Gyllenhaal looked down on her.

“Put all of your money in here if you want your sister to live,” Jake said. But the voice was muffled and the lips never moved. Mack realized that it was a mask and Jake Gyllenhaal was not in her loft. Her brain registered disappointment.
A pillowcase floated down from the loft. It landed in a crumpled pile next to Aubs who suddenly started thrashing and convulsing. Mack moved towards her sister on the floor, concern plain on her face.

“Whoa, now, careful!” the voice, though muffled by the mask, seemed oddly high-pitched. Mack looked up again. This time she saw the gun. Only the barrel showed because it was pointed directly at her face. “The money. Please.”

Mack didn’t believe in banks. The economic crisis that had destroyed Greece took her father’s savings down with it (He was full-blooded Greek and had all of his money tied up in funds in his home country. “Greece has been a country forever, and always will be. It’s too chancy to invest in a new country like America!” he used to say). So Mack had a jar, several in fact. When she wasn’t busy being the adult for her siblings or studying, Mack actually had a successful budding Hollywood career. It was entirely possible Jake would make it into her loft someday… Oh, but the money! She had been saving for years, dreaming of a sailboat. The jars were hidden separately throughout her studio. If she had learned one thing from her father it was to not put all of her money in the same place.

“Hurry up now, for her sake,” Jake’s plastic, unmoving face said. The gun moved to Aubs. Mack was still frozen, mesmerized by the weapon.

The gun looked different than it did in the movies, but this was real life after all. It looked light; Jake held it in one hand and waved it around effortlessly. Jake must be strong. The gun was black like it always was in the movies. This one was orange, with green highlights. It did glisten though, as though it was wet. Unable to look away or make a move to retrieve a single jar, Mack continued to stare at the gun. Something tickled in the back of her brain. A drop of water began to collect at the bottom of the barrel of the gun.

The monkey burped and farted simultaneously. It was like a bomb went off in the room.

“Bang!” Jake shouted. A stream of water jetted from the pistol and sprayed all over Aubs on the floor. Laughter filled the air as Mack stared at her little sister on the floor. Aubs reached up, hands still bound, and removed the blindfold and gag. She was grinning widely.

The laughter from the loft became maniacal. Mack looked up to see Jake’s face sitting on Stevie’s forehead. Her sister couldn’t contain herself.

“Be careful, Stevie, don’t fall from up there,” Mack said, adult mode turning on briefly, then, “And get out of here, both of you! You know you’re not supposed to be in here, this is my house!”

Stevie sprayed water all over Aubs and Mack with the squirt gun as she climbed down from the loft. The monkey tried to catch the water in his mouth.

“Hmmm,” said Aubs. With a completely serious look on her face she sniffed the air. “It smells like cat food, doesn’t it?”

Mack looked at the monkey in her arms and couldn’t suppress a smirk. It did, in fact, smell like cat food. What a stinky baby.

“Hey, did that guy ask you out yet?” asked Stevie. She tucked the squirt gun into the waist of her jeans.

“No,” sighed Mack. “Nothing yet.”
Stevie took a breath, about to launch into a familiar dissertation on the shortcomings of the male species, but Aubs spoke first.
“Guys, what’s that?” Still on the floor, she was facing the door. Tendrils of pale purple smoke were winding into the room. Stevie was out the door with a few steps, Mack right behind her.

The purple haze filled the air in clouds, thicker here, thinner there. Faint flashes of light lit different areas like faint lightning. The house, not even fifty feet away, was completely obscured.
Aubs hopped through the door, hands and feet still tied up in jump ropes, and pushed between her older sisters. The atmosphere felt heavy and hot as if there was water  in the air, but the humidity was lower, if anything. The lightning intensified, silently, as the clouds coalesced into dark shapes. As if from a distance, the girls could hear hoof beats.

From deep within the roiling purple clouds clattered a pair of horses. Heads rearing, snorting, lightning flashed about their ears. Behind them appeared a chariot carrying two Roman soldiers. One held the reins, the other an enormous shield and a spear. Both wore armor and helmets over bulging muscles.

“Ho!” The horses came to a stop. The clouds turned to mist and began to melt slowly into the grass. The soldiers glared down imperiously from the chariot. The horses pawed at the lawn. Mack, Stevie, and Aubs stared back in amazement. The monkey drooled.

The stalemate might have lasted forever, unbroken but for the monkey, who was blissfully unaware, and the horses, who seemed eager to continue their journey. Except Mack’s phone began to ring.

The Roman who held the reins lifted an eyebrow and extended his arm, palm up.

Mack pulled her phone from her pocket with one hand, balancing the monkey in her other arm. She looked at the screen. The boy was calling. The man. The—the Roman cleared his throat and looked pointedly at the phone, which was still ringing. The soldier with the spear was no longer grinning. Mack stepped forward and placed her ringing phone in the open hand before her. Atop the chariot and rippling with muscle, the Roman was easily the largest human Mack had ever seen.

Without removing his gaze from Mack, the Roman handed the phone, which continued to demand to be answered, over his shoulder to his companion. The soldier, just as huge as the chariot driver, let the butt of his spear thunk to the floor of the vehicle and leaned the weapon against his shoulder. He then grasped the phone. It looked like a tiny child’s toy in his hand.

As the charioteer fixed his gaze on the three girls, the soldier inserted the phone, which had just gone silent, into a slot in the side of the chariot. The horses snorted. The monkey gurgled.

The charioteer broke his gaze. Mack was able to see that under the reins was a panel. The Roman flipped a switch, turned a knob, then passed over a purple button and pressed a green one. The soldier gripped his spear again and looked forward. The driver flipped the reins and shouted.

“Ha!” A green mist was rising from the grass, billowing up in some places. Flashes of green light emanated from the chariot as the horses reared up. They took off at incredible speed. They were aimed directly for the house, but as before the green fog was too thick for the girls to see the collision.

But the crash never came. Just as the purple smoke had faded out, so did the green fog. The girls found themselves standing in the backyard staring at their own house. There was no sign that the Romans, their chariot, or their horses had ever been there.

They looked at each other silently. The monkey farted and they all laughed.

“Still smells like cat food,” said Stevie.

“I’m hungry,” said Aubs. 
And, just as they would any Tuesday, that un-unusual of days, that most mundane of days, they trooped back into the house in search of snacks and juice.

Terror at Terminal Four

This story contains a lot of imagery that I witnessed directly in various airports. Reality is often ridiculous enough that I don't have to make it up.

            “Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, please report to Air Pacific at gate 102 for your flight to Hong Kong. Tom Hoban, report to gate 102.”

            A tall thin man adjusted himself in the almost comfortable chair. Every time he thought he was in the best position, he’d begin to slide off the seat.

            A man sitting at the bar checked his watch then squinted at the information board above the gate. His wife sipped the remains of her lager while working a crossword. She let him do all the worrying.

            Three kids, two girls and a boy, sprawled across five and a half seats, legs awkwardly tangled in, on, and around the inconsiderately placed armrests. Vaguely conscious, they mumbled things that could’ve been, “hungry,” and “cold.” From across the aisle their parents tossed granola bars and jackets in the general direction of the complaints. Lazy hands collected the comforts.

            The bar tender/café attendant left his domain shouting, “Time to restock!”

            He left an elderly couple standing at the register. With their eyes glued to the menu posted above their heads, they ordered: a medium coffee—decaf, a blueberry scone, a beer—the cheapest, whatever that is, and a turkey sandwich, no tomatoes. Their order was received by empty space.

            “Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban please proceed to gate 102 for your flight. We will be closing the doors in just a few moments.”

            The bar tender/café attendant, Steve, walked leisurely to the door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, STORAGE. He swiped his employee card and punched in his code without needing to look.

            It was his third year working at the airport “restaurant,” which was a glorified sandwich stand that also served drinks. That was the best part in his opinion. He would often nurse beers during his shift, hiding them under the counter when people were around.

            The job was supposed to have been temporary. He’d been sacked from his previous job (for drinking during work hours) the day after he’d bought a new sound system for his apartment. He’d picked up the airport gig so he could make the payments. Then his girlfriend had threatened to walk out if he wasn’t going to propose. So he proposed, then she demanded a very fancy ring. The job was no longer temporary.

            Steve pulled the heavy door open and entered the tourist-free zone of the storage closet. The “bar” was out of napkins. It would probably take, oh, maybe ten minutes, Steve estimated. He checked his watch and pulled a can of beer from his apron. He wandered as he sipped the almost cold beverage.

            Steve passed boxes marked NAPKINS and STRAWS, but when he arrived at the area where the foodstuffs should have been stacked, he found an enormous mess.

            Torn boxes, shredded plastic wrap, and crumbs were strewn everywhere. As he considered the situation, between gulps, he realized that as much destruction as there was before him (which he would have to clean up, he thought with a grimace), there wasn’t enough. Steve spent a lot of time back there, to the disapproval of his manager, and it was apparent that entire pallets worth of food had simply vanished.

            Steve sighed, tossed back the rest of his beer, and bent to the task of cleaning.

            “Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, please come to gate 102 immediately. You are the final passenger, Tom. We’ll close the doors as soon as you’re on board, Tom Hoban.”

            Jake put the crackers in his bag. He and Jenny had decided to camp out in the corner. There was a plug, which Jenny was using for her laptop, and they were apart from the general bustle. They were on their way home from a backpacking trip to Hawaii. They were exhausted from the volcano hikes, night snorkeling, and failed surfing lessons. They had matching sunburns.

            Their layover was especially long, so Jenny was taking the opportunity to catch up on her favorite show, Glee. Free wi-fi in the airport had been an uncommonly pleasant surprise, particularly because Jenny and Jake were broke after their vacation.

            Jenny slapped the spacebar, pausing the show. She pulled the earbuds out and said, “Bathroom.” She walked off humming.

            Jake stood and wiped cracker crumbs from his shirt. Distractedly watching people, he shuffled toward the water fountain. Tall people, short people; infants, toddlers, teenagers, parents, grandparents; brown people, black people, white people, red people (like himself); sleeping people, running people, reading people, staring people; people laughing, people shouting, people crying; pilots, stewardesses, security guards, a beeping handicap cart. Wave upon wave of epically diverse humanity washed past Jake in all directions as he completed his short journey.

            Jake took a couple gulps and spit some water back out. They’d be getting on another plane soon, and he didn’t want his bladder to be too full.

            The endlessly changing tapestry of people was so distracting that he stubbed his toe on Jenny’s computer before he realized he was back to their corner. As he bent to examine the damage to his toe he saw that the laptop was alone on the floor. The rest of their bags were gone.

            “Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, you have just missed your flight to Hong Kong. The doors are shut and the aircraft is now leaving. Sorry, Tom.”

            “Phil, I need my green pill before I eat,” the elderly woman said. She began unzipping the small backpack that Phil was carrying.

            “I’ve got the money here, Phyllis,” Phil flashed the cash in his right hand. “I’m just waiting for the young man to come back so I can pay.”

            “Don’t you wave that money at me, I’m not a stripper anymore for Chrissakes! I need my pills. Hold still.”

            Phil ran his free hand over his belt buckle, it was where it belonged: just overlapping the lower half of his bellybutton. His hand rose to his pocket protector, everything was there: two pens (one black, one blue), his passport and boarding pass, and his lucky red comb. Lastly, with the same hand, he pushed his glasses up his nose.

            “OK, Phyllis, I’m ready. Do you have the coupon?”

            Phyllis either didn’t hear or decided to ignore her husband of fifty-five years. To the outside observer, any indicators as to which were completely undetectable. Phil sure as hell didn’t know. In any case, Phyllis had retrieved her pills.

“Here, hold this while I dig. I need a green before I eat and a purple when I’m finished. Better get a yellow as well in case they forget to leave off the tomato.”

She shoved the gallon-sized baggie into Phil’s arms and dove in with both hands. Phil stared off into space while Phyllis mined through pills. Little tiny round ones, long thick capsules; swallowable, chewable, dissolvable; bright orange, dark green, bright green, pea green, mint green, turquoise; solid colors, two-tones…

“Those bags are unattended,” Phil murmured.

“Aha! Got ‘em,” Phyllis withdrew her hands holding a forest green, a canary yellow, and a deep blue halved with sky blue. “What time did you say, dear?”

“Those bags are unattended,” he repeated. Phyllis slipped his pills into the clear plastic pouch on the front of her passport holder around her neck. Phil squinted as he scanned around the terminal.

“There’s another one over there!” he pointed to a small roller carry-on as Phyllis took back the heavy bag of pills. “Something is wrong,” Phil muttered. He turned just as Phyllis got the backpack zipped. “Here, make sure you get the correct change when you pay the young man. I’m going to notify security.”

“Are you boarding already? You haven’t gotten your scone,” Phyllis watched as her husband shuffled away.

“Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, please make your way to the nearest Air Pacific desk. Your wife is on the line, Tom. Paging Tom Hoban.”

“Johnson, Nuñez, check out this unattended luggage report, gate 104. Let me know what you find,” radios clicked.

“Copy, boss.”

“Wilson, where are you with that missing bags report?”

“Kid says he went for a drink of water, turned around and everything was gone except a laptop, boss. His sister was in the restroom, wants to report that the second stall is out of toilet paper. She had to use—”

“Listen up people,” James P. Stein knew this was the day. He’d been head of security at Terminal 4 six years now. He had always known the day would come when his terminal would be attacked. Today was that day.

“We have bags without people, people without bags, a missing bartender, and Tom Hoban has missed his flight. Something is very wrong here today. The bartender is a suspect. So is Tom Hoban. Do they know each other? Are they working together? I want everyone to be alert for anything suspicious at all. Anything out of the ordinary could be a clue. All units get out on the floor, keep your eyes peeled for this Steve guy. Oh, and Tom. Keep my terminal safe! Now, move!”

“Copy, boss!” came in on James’s radio many times, all in the proper order.

Flat feet had prevented James from entering the military, but he ran his terminal security with the discipline his father had always talked about. Discipline and duty were the most important ideals in a man’s life. When he couldn’t join the service to go out and destroy his country’s enemies, James decided to protect his home soil as directly as he could. Rumor had it he would be Chief Security Officer before 40, a first, because he never asked anyone to do something he wouldn’t do. Leading by example was the best way to boost morale and maintain discipline.

He checked his mace and taser, and then James P. Stein left his command post.

“Paging Tom Hoban. Tom Hoban, please make your way to the nearest security checkpoint. Tom Hoban to security.”

A young man had an arm around the shoulders of a young woman. She was wiping her reddened eyes with one hand, a laptop in the other.

An overdressed, and evidently under qualified, manager struggled to serve an ever-growing line at the café/bar.

A mother handed a tiny child to a father (presumably). She then began power walking after another child, one that delighted in the newfound freedom afforded by conscious and willful control of his legs.

An elderly man stood in the open, hands on his hips, talking to…nobody. As James P. Stein approached at an angle, however, a petite older woman was revealed. Standing behind the man, elbow deep in the backpack he was wearing, she was also talking.

Odd people were doing strange things, yet nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing James was seeing aroused his suspicions. Neither his training nor his instincts alerted him to any potential danger.

James made eye contact with other members of his team. Discrete headshakes confirmed that nothing out-of-place had yet been spotted. James continued to scan the on-going parade of humanity.

The turban appeared to his left. The head it rode wasn’t much higher than those around it, but the twisted and knotted cloth had a height of its own.

The tide of people shifted, exposing a heavy beard and dark brooding eyes. The man turned and closed his eyes. His brow scrunched and he put a hand to his forehead. His other hand hung by his side clutching a black leather bag. The strap was wrapped tightly around his wrist.

James wrenched his gaze back to the man’s face. His lips were now moving, his brow clear, hand down. He looked very calm, serene even. He was facing east. James had no doubts in his mind.

“All units on me. Suspect in sight, black bag attached to wrist, appears to be praying. Moving in.” After standing completely still while scrutinizing the area, James was now a blur of motion. By the time he hit the man he was moving at top speed.

The flying tackle resulted in a spectacularly messy collision. Not only was the man’s turban knocked loose but the tiny Bluetooth device in his ear was thrown clear. By the time the rest of the team converged on the scene James had the screaming man in plasticuffs.

The disturbance was attracting a lot of attention. So much so, in fact, that no one heard the final page for Tom Hoban. Nor did anyone notice the thin purple tentacle slithering out of the door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, STORAGE. No one noticed, that is, until it coiled around the ankle of an onlooker. When his leg was whipped out from beneath him he gave a startled yell that was easily lost in the commotion of the takedown aftermath. The yell was abruptly cut off when the unfortunate man’s head cracked open on the tiled floor.

The explosion of crimson blood drenched Jake and Jenny. Jake froze, absolutely stunned. Jenny reacted a bit more loudly. Her terrified shrieks caused heads to swivel in her direction. More people spotted the expansive spray of blood and a dissonant chorus of voices joined Jenny’s.

The tentacle, in the meantime, was retreating with its prize. Most people were shocked into inaction, or were too panicked for any kind of rational thought. Except for James P. Stein.

The man he had subdued just a moment ago was no longer a threat. James shifted his focus.

The door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, STORAGE disintegrated. A massive maw lined with glistening yellow teeth appeared in its place amidst a cloud of wooden and metallic splinters. A multitude of pulsating purple tentacles also popped out, swinging through the air. Seven fiery eyes bulged just above the drooling mouth. Four gangly arms shot forward; seven fingered claws crunched into the tiled floor. Muscles bulged as the beast pulled itself through the ruined threshold.

With conviction and agility James P. Stein sprang forward. Taser in hand, he thrust his arm toward the rope-like tentacle that was pulling the body of the murdered man closer to the vicious mouth. James leapt over the dark smear of blood to touch the business end of his weapon against the throbbing purple flesh. 50,000 volts were delivered in a flash.

A thundering roar erupted through the air. The offended limb retreated quickly, still holding its prize. Another reddish purple tentacle lashed out, striking James full in the chest. The force of the blow sent him soaring back through the air. He slammed into a distant wall, hitting his head. Consciousness left James P. Stein.

Jenny was still screaming and couldn’t hear much. The crack of the security man’s head against the wall and the dull thud his body made when it slumped to the floor jolted Jake back to life, however. He moved without conscious thought toward the downed man whom instinct told him was probably the best option for organizing a defense against the horrific beast.

Jake hurdled a tentacle that had found a stroller handle. A hysterical mother slapped the father (presumably) as he clutched the other handle with both hands. A toddler toddled after them, laughing.

An unseen pool of blood sent Jake sprawling. He took advantage of his position on the floor to catch his breath. It was a good decision. A seven-fingered claw slammed into the chest of a stereotypically obese American. Jake knew he was American because the man let loose a yell of, “Douchebag!” as he was struck. That accent is impossible to mistake.

Yellowed talons protruded from his back. Other expletives followed as the giant freakish hand pulled its prey slowly yet inexorably toward its mouth. The unfortunate man’s fanny pack strap finally gave up its struggle. Knick-knacks littered the floor.

Jake’s eyes scanned the everyday objects: a pencil, a passport, a red pen with the end chewed, a rabbit’s foot, eighty-seven cents in assorted change, breath spray, a crumpled receipt. None offered an explanation for the nightmare that was unfolding around him.

Blood-curdling screams broke into Jake’s mind. His gaze flicked to the doomed security man. His mouth set itself into a straight line; determination took hold. He grabbed the most useful object form the menagerie before him and jumped back into action.

An elderly couple stood in his path. They were arguing about something, the woman had a bag of pills in her hand. Jake yelled for them to move, waving his arms as he came on. They were oblivious. A tentacle leashed out and neatly snatched the bag of pills from the woman’s hands. The debate continued. Jake slipped through the opening between the two. A short dash brought him to the security officer.

With one hand Jake cradled the man’s head. It was, surprisingly, unbroken. He let the head fall back a bit which allowed the mouth to fall open. Wielding the breath spray in his other hand, Jake let loose two squirts in the unconscious man’s mouth. With a splutter James P. Stein came back to life.

“Whoa, what the hell is that?” Jake glanced at the label.

“Uh, Binaca. Cinnamon.”

“Holy shit, where am I? The 90’s?”

“What? No!” Jake gave James another burst in the mouth. “You’re in Terminal 4!”

James P. Stein sat up straight. Erect, he quickly scanned his surroundings. An arm was flying through the air trailing a thin stream of red spray. A pair of shoes stood with only six inches of leg protruding from their tops. Blood bespattered people were rushing in every direction, tentacles struck left and right. Always a wet grinding noise came the enormous mouth that occupied the space were there used to be a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, STORAGE.

James P. Stein regained his feet and fled. Jake watched in horror as his best hope for survival disappeared around the corner. He was all but ready to give up when he remembered his sister…

“Goddamit, Gladys, if I don’t get a red pill before noon my heart is likely to stop!”

“My name is Phyllis, and it would be none too soon. Besides, I think that young man stole our pills.”

“You know what’s wrong with the youth of today?” A claw slashed though the backpack Phil was carrying and crashed into a vending machine behind him. M&M’s cascaded across the floor. “Candy: that’s what’s wrong. The young rascal probably thought they were jelly beans.”

“I hope the poor thing doesn’t take a green one right after a blue one. His kidneys would climb out of his ears. It happened to me once.”

“Christ woman, no one would do that. Everyone knows that watermelon and blueberry bubblegum don’t go together.” A head rolled by, lopsided, leaving a small bloody stream in its wake.

“Phil, I want to go home,” Phyllis grabbed Phil’s hand and began pulling him toward the exit.

“But I haven’t had my scone yet…” Half a horse fell to the floor in front of the couple. “Moonshine! That’s what I want with my scone.” Phyllis had ceased moving, except for her eyes.

The beast was moving. Half of its gigantic claws were dragging its massive body through the terminal. The other talons were occupied tearing through people and anything else before it. Drywall and plastic mixed with brains and viscera. Tentacles whipped through the air, flinging people and parts of people in the general direction of its mouth. Other tentacles swept the floor, ushering new prey ever closer. People ran every which way. Panic made them equals; adults and children, men and women, security and civilians. None were immune to the fear permeating the terminal; none could escape the hellish creature. But one man wasn’t trying to escape.

James P. Stein had fire in his veins. He was overflowing with conviction, with the knowledge that only he could defeat this evil that had invaded Terminal 4—his terminal. The knowledge gave him power, lent him strength beyond that of normal men. The weight of the fire axe was as a feather in his hands. His powerful legs propelled him toward his fated adversary.

He rounded the last corner and the beast came into view. Indeed, the otherworldly creature was all James could see. He did not see the elderly couple gingerly stepping over discarded limbs and the remains of a coffee stand. He did not see young man ducking tentacles while shouting the name of a woman, eyes ceaselessly searching. He did not see the thin young woman drenched in blood, her mouth open to scream, but no longer able to emit any sound. He did not see the small child with green marker on the side of his face behead his stuffed animal with the handle of his mother’s suitcase while whispering, “Goodbye, cruel world.”

No, James P. Stein saw none of this. The only thing he saw was the hulking mass covered in tentacles tearing its was across his terminal with its brutal claws, wantonly inhaling innocent people. James saw an abomination and moved to remove it from his domain.

As though protected by the invisible hands of angels James slipped between tentacles as easily as a fish through water. The axe flashed and slashed whenever a beastly limb threatened to impede his progress. Fire blazed in his eyes. His mouth hung open, his lips peeled back from his teeth, a challenge roared from his throat.

The monster seemed to sense that this small creature, the only one running towards it rather than away, was a threat. It slammed tentacles down on James.

But the rain of blows crashing down around him would not slow James P. Stein. He chopped through some of them, dodged others, and, by virtue of his naturally hard head, survived the strikes that won through.

As he drew nearer, he came within range of the beast’s claws. Three of the four arms reached and slashed at him. The fourth was occupied crushing the life out of a vending machine.

A single finger of one of the mighty claws struck James in the chest. The rough skin was so abrasive that James’s shirt was torn from his body, as was no small amount of his skin.

His face twisted in agony, but he let loose a ferocious snarl and was back on his feet, just as another hand slammed into the floor where he’d landed. The razor sharp claws ripped into the tiles sending shrapnel everywhere. Tiny weeping wounds blossomed all over James’s body.

James paid no heed to the damage that his body was taking. He could see the monster’s head. The gaping mouth bristled with massive teeth that would’ve dwarfed the tusks of a mammoth. The seven eyes shone as bright as rubies as they tracked James’s progress.

Focusing all of his energy, James stepped onto the claw that had buried itself in the floor and with a heroic effort leapt into the air. A split second after he was airborne, a tentacle swiped across where his legs had been. The clipping blow sent his feet flying sideways.

Desperate to drive home the axe, James flailed his weapon out in front of him. His eyes never left his target. Another tentacle buffeted James in the back forcing his entire body down directly onto one of the great beast’s tusks.

James’s hands slid from the wooden shaft of his axe. He looked down and saw the mammoth tooth lodged in his chest. Flaps of skin hung loosely around the great wound, a wound James knew he would not survive. Blood seeped from thousands of tiny punctures all down his legs and arms. His back felt as though a freight train powered by space shuttle thrusters and crashed into it. It was almost certainly broken.

James’s eyes fell to the floor in defeat. Then he noticed something missing. The axe. It was not lying in the pool of blood that was gathering under his body. With a massive effort, James raised his head. His vision was blurred at the edges and spots were dancing everywhere. But he saw it.

Stuck fast in the skull of the monster was the fire axe. Neatly framed by seven empty eyes and spasmodic tentacles all around it was wedged all the way to the haft as firmly as the sword in the stone.

The banshee shrieks emitting from the monstrosity brought a smile to James’s lips as his head fell limp. James P. Stein had protected his terminal, his people, and his country. Duty done and done.

Under the Rug

The latest Burdick Mystery. Enjoy.

            He pushed his round spectacles up his nose. He straightened his purple bowtie and checked that his belt was cinched tight. Running his hands over his mostly bare head, brushing the tufts that resolutely clung to the sides, he took a deep breath. He was ready.

            He kicked in the door with one slipper-shod foot. A burst of hot air immediately struck his face, steaming up his glasses. Blind, he ducked down, scanning the floor with his hands. He found it! He rose and flailed the heavy wrench. CLANG! The steam-spewing pipe bent, shooting straight up harmlessly.

            An old boot fell onto his head. He looked up and a swinging pipe took his legs out from under him. Gnashing gears and clanking pipes and shrieking spouts created a cacophony on par with a tornado during an earthquake. He waited on the floor. Finally the other shoe dropped.

            He rolled away from the falling boot and scrambled toward the back of the room. Loose screws pinged off his unprotected pate, the furnace released scorching billows of stygian smoke, unrelenting pieces of rebar swung out, ball bearings scattered across the floor amongst wildly erratic bouncy balls. He ducked, rolled, slid, counterattacked with his wrench and even picked up a hard hat, which he used as a shield until a rogue Bunsen burner melted it away.

            At last he reached the back wall of the basement. Just as he had suspected, the pipe casing on the photoionic reactor sheath was loose. With his free hand he shoved the ugly tangle of wires into the casing while he batted away a swarm of wingnuts with the wrench.

            He crammed a slipper into the extra space to hold the wires back then swiftly grabbed his krazy glue from his back pocket. He quickly slathered the threads in glue and began to screw the casing closed with the wrench. A three-foot machete and a rubber ducky punched into the wall, scraping just past his shoulder. One of them fell to the floor. With a curse, he gave the wrench a final turn. Only two things left to do.

            He sprinted, as best he could in the hazardous environment, back to the stairs. He lost one sleeve of his sweater, had multiple holes singed into his pant legs, not to mention countless contusions caused by marbles. One last desperate lunge got him to the circuit switch ahead of a surging anvil.

            He threw the switch and dove. A dirty fly swatter caught him full in the face and a staple gun shot him in the buttock seven times before he landed. But he had made it at long last. He unplugged the toaster.

            Instantly a hush fell in the basement, a thin hiss of residual steam the only surviving sound. Tools and parts came to a halt. Clearly the Dark Matter Newt Teleporter still had some issues. He would reset the slinky and the Higgs Boson Injector and try again. After he got a new Newt (the other one had evaporated). And after lunch.

            Carl Burdick trudged up the stairs musing over his luncheon menu. He knew there was pastrami, mozzarella, and pickles leftover from the pizzas they had made for dinner the night before, but it wasn’t enough. Surely, it would make a good sandwich, but to be a great sandwich it would need a little extra kick.

            As his mind moved, so did his feet. He breezed through the kitchen, giving the refrigerator a stare; he tried to penetrate the door with his gaze to discern what else it held that might improve his sandwich. He would return to the kitchen in a moment, but first he had to address the needs of other internal organs. Carl moved down the hallway to the bathroom.

            It was no exaggeration to say that over half of Carl’s inventions had begun as seeds, nurtured in the very room where he now sat. Many germinated, and some even came to full bloom while he rode the white throne. All they required when he was finished was construction: the full plans were already made in his head.

            Unfortunately, such inspiration did not seem to extend to great sandwiches. When Carl was all finished he washed his hands and exited, still at a loss for what ingredient would round out his sandwich. He mentally discarded peanut butter, anchovies, and soy sauce as he retraced his path through the hallway.

            Before he knew what had happened, or whether or not a habanero chili pepper was the right choice, he was on the floor. Carl shot a look at his feet. Clearly they had betrayed him. But as he gave them an accusing glare, he noticed the rug rising. It was as if something was trying to poke through.

            Carl adjusted his glasses as he crouched next to the bulge in the floor. He stretched out a hand, but the shape retreated. The floor was flat again. Then the rug began to rise once more. Carl watched, keeping his hands to himself.

            For a full minute the rug pulsed. Slowly, rhythmically, always in the same place, never bigger or smaller, it rose and fell. Then, for no apparent reason, it didn’t recede. It remained raised up. Carl gave it the evil eye. He couldn’t get to his sandwich until this was resolved.

            Carl rose to his full height (five foot five, hardly impressive) and stared angrily at the bulge. It gave no sign of retreating, so Carl attacked. He jumped straight up into the air and slammed both feet down on the protuberance. When he landed he could detect no anomalies in the floor beneath him. It was once again flat.

            He backed away several steps, never taking his eyes away from the unruly patch of floor. It seemed the rug rebellion was over. Carl walked backwards into the kitchen, not fully trusting that the event was ended, but unable to ignore the rumbles emanating from his stomach.

            A sudden thought burst upon Carl’s confused mind. He rushed down to the basement. The Easy Bake had been acting strange recently, perhaps it was the cause of this. But the basement was still and silent when Carl arrived.

Hands on his hips, mystified, Carl headed for the fridge. His hungry brain shifted gears, contemplating a graham cracker with chocolate sauce, Reese’s peanut butter chips and chopped pine nuts as a way to round out the imminent meal.

            Two weeks passed and it happened again. This time in the second-story hall, which meant there was no way the Easy Bake could be blamed. A man who spent his life unraveling and harnessing mysterious forces, Carl was upset that this one was so elusive.

            When the swelling of the floor knocked the lamp from its table, Carl lost control. With both hands he grasped the antique chair next to the small table. It too had been wobbling from the ferocity with which the floor was pulsing. But Carl was intent on doing more than merely stabilizing the faltering furniture piece.

            Teeth bared, seething with anger at this enigmatic force, Carl whipped the chair above his head. With a feral cry he brought it down on the lump with brutal force. The poor chair exploded into countless pieces. Carl stood above the wreckage, chest heaving. The floor rose again slowly, haltingly, before subsiding.

            Carl pushed his glasses up his nose and straightened his bowtie. He took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. It was unreasonable for him to patrol the house at all times in case of further actions by this inscrutable force. In any case, they would run out of furniture eventually. Molly wouldn’t be happy about the chair either.

            Carl marched down both flights of stairs with determination. A dim plan was forming in his mostly bald head. He entered the basement and began to work.

            The days passed in a blur. Carl worked through meals and slept very little. When he did sleep he was bothered by nightmares. In one particular dream, the bulging floor popped. A hand erupted through the floor and launched a ferocious attack on the rug surrounding it. Carl awoke and immediately went down to the basement to continue his work.

            Finally his preparations were complete. A man’s house was his castle and Carl had armed his castle with a fantastic security garrison. He grinned then put the bugle to his lips. He blew the activating charge and watched his army take their places.

            Ranks of gauntleted rabbits marched up the stairs. Each a different color ranging from fire engine red to Christmas tree green, each held a hefty rubber mallet. Miniature fusion packs protruded from their backs, vaguely resembling the Energizer Bunny, if the Energizer Bunny was prepared for war.

            In addition to the arm protection, each rabbit wore a helmet. The burnished steel gleamed as the foot-high rabbit climbed into the house. The springs loaded into their feet were concealed by fur, but multiple rounds of testing had proven their efficacy.

            Next came the copters. Tiny rotors whirring, the flying spheres puttered past Carl’s head. Less menacing than their furry companions, the copters were designed to monitor the house. With 360 degree surveillance cameras mounted on gyroscopes, the flyers were the eyes for the blunt instruments of the rabbits.

            Carl’s castle was ready to defend itself.

Feeling prepared, Carl relaxed a bit. He returned to his normal work, shared stories with Molly and the kids during dinner.

One day Archie and Abby mentioned something about a Ninja Day. He didn’t see them at all, but pulled several ninja stars out of the kitchen wall and his shoulder.

At all times the rabbits stood sentry in every room on every floor. The copters hovered around, patrolling ceaselessly. Carl waited patiently for the house to make a move.

The house did not disappoint.

It happened on a Tuesday. The wail of a Bagpipe Alarm pierced the silence of lunchtime in the Burdick house. (The Bagpipe Alarm was installed in each copter, as well as Carl’s alarm clock. It never failed to wake him. Or Molly. Or Archie or Abby on the floor below. Or the neighbors.)

It was coming from the second floor. Without pausing to remove the napkin from his shirt collar, Carl dropped his spoon into the applesauce drenched pancake casserole and charged up the stairs.

He arrived on the scene just in time to see the rabbit in Archie’s room pound the bump under the rug into submission. One hit might have been enough, but the rabbits were programmed to be thorough. The mallet slammed the floor a dozen times even though the protuberance showed no sign of returning after the first strike.

Suddenly bagpipes sounded downstairs. Carl now had no doubts on the effectiveness of his system. He waltzed serenely down to watch another rabbit beat the unruly floor into submission.

Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, another set of bagpipes went off, probably the third floor. Then another set, and another. The air filled with the sounds of Scotland, melodies fluting in and around each other. The muffled percussion of mallets kept an erratic beat.

Carl’s eyes went wide and his glasses sagged down his nose. He could see the living room, the hallway, and a tiny bit of the kitchen from where he stood. In all directions he could see bulges in the floor. Pulsing up and down, the bumps rose and fell. Rabbits scurried to and fro, clobbering left and right liked some crazed game of Whack-A-Mole.

The floor bubbled up furiously as if something beneath the rug was boiling. The crescendo of bagpipes and hammers grew and grew. Carl began to feel dizzy when he noticed that there were also lumps growing from the walls. He was certain that hands and arms would sprout from these protrusions, just like his dream.

Rabbits began bouncing around, utilizing the springs Carl had engineered into them. Spots were popping before his eyes when Carl felt the house begin to shake.

The raw energy of the rebelling house came to a head with an apocalyptic explosion. Something erupted from deep beneath the kitchen, tearing the basement door from its hinges.

At that exact moment everything came to a halt. The floor had resumed its normal flatness. The walls no longer moved in any way. Bagpipes no longer heralded pending danger. Rabbits remained floor-bound. Mallets ceased to beat.

Carl gathered his courage. Whatever was the cause for such a cataclysmic disturbance had arrived. And it was in his basement.

He shuffled slowly forward in his house slippers, trying to catch his breath. He approached the gaping doorway. A thin pall of smoke oozed into the kitchen. Standing in the empty doorway at the top of the stairs, Carl looked down.

Fear of the unknown clutched his heart with cold hands. A chill went down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention.

At the base of the stairs, where there had previously been nothing, was a door.