A fog rolled in, tangible yet dreamlike in its quality, and formed a rough circle around Jack Kinnesen. Jack, the Governor of Montana, had lived here his entire life and had never seen anything like this before. Faintly in the distance he could hear wolves crying at something only they could see. A cracking sound, slight at first, then growing louder caused Jack to turn. A tree was coming up out of the ground, complete with fruit and branches, waving in the breeze that only moments ago had not been there. “Jesus, what in the name…” The branches were all waving at Jack now and making threatening motions when the first of the fruit suddenly flew off and headed directly toward his face.
Jack side stepped the approaching missile and watched as it sailed well beyond him.
Without warning the tree suddenly launched the remainder of its fruit and Jack, as agile as he was, could not dodge but a fraction of the oncoming projectiles. Pelted hard, Jack stumbled and went down under the attack. “Jesus Christ” Jack shook his head and pulled himself to his knees. The howling of the wolves was growing louder with every moment and the sound of many paws against the ground pounded in Jack’s ears. The fruit tree was waving in the breeze and aging at an alarming rate as time moved to accelerate its growth. The wood grew brittle and, with a shriek, suddenly exploded shooting fragments in all directions. Again, Jack attempted to dodge the pieces but failed and was driven to the ground by the onslaught.
Like the eye of a storm, Jack could see the fog rolling in upon itself and rotating anti-clockwise around him. The roaring of the wind became deafening and yet Jack could still hear the wolves as they approached. Now on his feet, Jack went to pull the revolver that he always wore when in the backlands. He involuntarily jerked when his hand found nothing at his side but the thin material that constituted what was left of his pajamas.
“What the Hell is happening?
Frantically he scanned for anything that could be used as a weapon but found only sand. The fragments of the tree had mysteriously disappeared within the maelstrom that surrounded him. An outline formed, vaguely human, in the wind that encircled him and stepped through to the calm zone that Jack occupied.
“Hi Jack…Looking for this?” It held a revolver up where Jack could see the markings, proving its origin. Jack again looked at his side, confusion clearly written on his face. Without provocation, It tossed the gun into the wind, where it was lost immediately. “Choosing you was difficult, Jack. You’re really not like the rest…But you were there, you were there Jack.”
It was nervously pacing and wringing what should have been Its hands. The indecision could be felt as if It could not quite force Itself to do what must be done.
Jack puzzled, replied; “I was where?”
It swelled, visibly larger than a moment before. A growling emerged from Its lipless mouth. “How quickly they forget… How quickly they hide from the truth. Does ignorance make it right? Like amnesia, only destructive- but strength or not it won’t help you this time.”
Jack turned around as if looking for something, when suddenly enlightened, said;
“This is a dream…this is not real, you’re not real, none of this is happening.”
“Don’t count on waking up this time Jack.”
Eyes narrowing, Jack turned back to face It. “I suppose I should be frightened.”
Without pausing for the statement to even be finished, It lurched forward with ungodly speed. “I suppose you should be dead.”
Never slowing, It passed through him like a specter, and emerged on the other side with Jack’s heart in Its hand. Jack stiffened as It went through and grimaced in obvious pain. Turning proved to be impossible and Jack’s knees felt like mush. Ever so slowly, Jack slumped to the ground and lay facing his antagonist. The heart was beating and It looked at the muscle as if fascinated and enthralled.
A low roaring was in Jack’s ears and he could still hear the wolves as they approached. “I hope those wolves kill you when they get here.” Jack winced with the effort of speaking.
“Don’t count on it Asshole.”
Solitaire Parke…
…was born in Bakersfield, California in 1952. He has been avidly reading books of all kinds, but especially Science Fiction books, since he was twelve years old. It was the author, Edgar Rice Burroughs, whose style of writing evoked a passion for the written word and became his inspiration. Throughout his life he has acquired a degree in Music Theory, a Masters in Photography and spent a decade and a half in Graphic and Web Design. He is currently pursuing his dream of being a full-time Author. His books range from Horror/Thriller to Science Fiction as well as Metaphysical and Poetry. He resides in Arizona with his family and is the proud owner of Tairobi…his Manx cat. He has been a huge help in the writing process!
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