The Winged Things by Casey Caleb

Author:Casey, Caleb [Casey, Caleb]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-01-08T05:00:00+00:00

A lot of things happened next. Most of them bad. Boesch, Gordon, and I stayed close, right behind Prendergast. Desmond was near us, limping, leaking blood into his jeans from where the winged thing slashed his shin. I could see part of the wound through the sliced fabric. The light outside wasn’t too bad; the strange red-tinged clouds provided enough illumination for us to see. Gordon’s lamp helped.

One of the first guys through had run, going left instead of right, and he was immediately grasped and pulled behind a parked car. I could see other winged things joining the fray and his screams were quickly cut short. Some of the others had also sprinted ahead and we heard at least one of them disappear with an abbreviated cry for help. The grocery store guy, who was trying to hold his broken nose and a three-wood at the same time, somehow tripped himself with the golf club and fell on the cement sidewalk. Boesch turned to help him, machete brandished, but one of the winged things got there first.

We were past the mailbox and in front of the neighbor’s house but Prendergast wasn’t moving very fast and a block might as well have been fifty miles. I wasn’t the only one who thought so, evidently, but the chiropractor did something none of us were ready for.

“You’re too slow! Give me the keys!” He took her pitchfork and tossed it aside. He clutched Prendergast around the waist and forced his free hand into her pocket, fingers fishing for the keys. Prendergast screamed. The keys jangled. He held them up in his fist. I guess his brilliant plan was to sprint to the door, realize he didn’t know which key of the twenty possible choices was the correct one, and play a game called “Process of Elimination” for some pretty high stakes.

“Damn it!” Boesch took a step forward and, judging solely by the angry look on his face, was ready to cleave the chiropractor’s hand from his arm to get the keys back. He never got that far, though. One of the winged things, maybe seeing or sensing the commotion, attacked, swooping down from the huge elm tree in the neighbor’s yard. I pointed Boesch’s spear at it, jabbing outward with the sharp end in the thing’s general direction, and it flapped its wings, halting itself out of range. The small wind gust brought with it an unpleasant odor; the thing smelled swampy, like a wet dog. Boesch swung his machete, cleaving part of the thing’s wing, and it crumpled to the ground. It flailed a clawed hand at him, but he parried it, cutting the thing between two of its fingers. It shrieked in pain. I could see several more of the creatures, peeking from behind parked cars and bushes, one behind a garbage can near the neighbor’s garage, but they seemed hesitant to attack.

“Come on!” The chiropractor yelled from somewhere in front of us.

“He stole my keys!” Prendergast yelled, as if expecting a police car, sirens blaring, to pull up and apprehend the criminal.

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