Red Death

Red Death

  by

  Michael D. Britton

  * * * *

  Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Britton / Intelligent Life Books

 

  “It was a dark and stormy night –”

  “What? What crap are you reading?” Jim O’Connell flicked on his bright LED flashlight and unzipped his sleeping bag. When he sat up, his bristly blond crew cut brushed against the sloped side wall of the tent. “I thought you were going to read a ghost story.”

  “I am,” said Chuck Gaines, Jim’s oldest and best friend in the world. Chuck had been the only person in town to give Jim the time of day after Jim’s ugly divorce from Rita. Must’ve been all the stories she’d spread around. Lies, all of them. Well, mostly.

  “That’s not a ghost story – it’s one of the worst stories ever written,” said Jim. “What happened to that book of ghost stories I got you for your birthday last year?”

  “Oh – um, I think Monica gave it to Goodwill. Sorry,” Chuck said, turning off his own flashlight and laying down in his mummy bag with the synthetic rustling sound of nylon rubbing against nylon. “How ‘bout we just forget about a story. Get some sleep.”

  “Fine,” said Jim. He switched off his flashlight and took a sip of hot chocolate from his thermos. That stuff always tasted ten times better in the woods, under the stars.

  They lay in silence for about three minutes, nothing but the sound of crickets and the nearby Chetco River sliding by, splashing off the rocks, seeking its release to the great Pacific Ocean eight miles downstream.

  “You know –” Chuck started.

  The spotlights kicked in without a sound, blinding both men right through the tent fabric.

  “What in the –” yelled Jim, squinting and holding up a hand to shield his eyes.

  The lights were directly overhead – three intense orbs of whiteness, grouped in a tight triangular cluster.

  Jim could feel every hair on his body stand on end. It wasn’t the fear – it was some kind of electrical field. He looked over at Chuck.

  “Wha-what’s happening, man?” Chuck stammered. “Is it the Feds? You think they finally found the plants I was growin’?”

  “No, no – listen – do you hear helicopter rotors? It’s silent. Something else is going on.”

  Jim slipped on his hiking boots, leaving the long laces trailing as he unzipped the tent’s front door. He was about to step out, when he turned back to his backpack. He reached into the main compartment and pulled out a black Smith & Wesson .38 in a brown leather holster. He flicked the snap to pull it out, checked the chamber and looked over at Chuck with steel in his eyes. “Just in case,” he said with a whisper.

  As he stepped out of the tent onto the crunchy leaves and twigs, the area immediately surrounding the tent was lit up like noonday. The air smelled like burning dust – like the first time you turn on your heater after the summer.

  The lights overhead were too bright to look at. Jim stepped across the small clearing, past the fire pit to his black ’97 Chevy Silverado – the only thing he kept when his marriage ended. He reached in through the open window and grabbed his sunglasses. He looked up, but it was still too bright. He reached in again and grabbed Chuck’s shades and placed them over his own.

  Now he could see something.

  The three lights were only about twenty feet above the tops of the trees. They were connected to each other, and to some kind of machine. They floated perfectly still above the campground – not fluctuating or floating around at all – as if connected to the ground by a giant lamp post.

  For a second, Jim wondered if they had camped under a giant lamp post.

  “Whaddaya see?” asked Chuck. “You’ve been out there for five minutes!”

  “Huh?” grunted Jim. “What are you talking about – I just got out here.”

  “Took ya long enough to answer! Are you going brain dead or something?”

  Jim ignored his friend’s incoherent ramblings. He glanced over at the tent. Chuck appeared to be moving around frantically inside. He tipped the two pairs of sunglasses down and peered over the top to get a better look. Chuck was definitely moving fast.

  “What are you doing?” asked Jim. “Why are you freaking out and running around inside the tent?”

  “I’m not,” yelled Chuck. “I’m just packing up my stuff. My cell phone is wigging out, my watch has stopped, and my iPod won’t even turn on. We need to get outta here.”

  A second later, the high-speed Chuck emerged from the tent. As he stepped out and moved toward Jim, he started moving at normal speed again.

  “Okay – that was weird,” said Jim.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t see anything weird? One second you were like moving in double time – like a tape in fast forward – and then as you came out of the tent you were normal again.”

  “I didn’t see anything. Just you standing there frozen. Then you started moving when I got closer to you. Lemme see those.”

  Chuck reached for the two pairs of sunglasses, put them on, and looked up.

  “Trippy.”

  “Yeah,” said Jim. “Maybe it’s a space ship. You know, alien abduction.”

  “I saw that one movie,” said Chuck. “Creeped. Me. Out.”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  No further discussion was needed. They tore down the tent – didn’t even bother to fold it up properly – just threw it in the bed of the truck. They grabbed their other gear and hopped in the cab of the truck.

  Dead.

  “What? How can that be?” whined Jim.

  “Did you leave the dome light on or something?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s take a walk. Get out from under this thing and see if we can get a better look at it from the side.”

  They got out and started walking. They headed up to the road, then walked downstream about a hundred yards.

  “I think it’s following us,” said Jim. “It’s – it’s still directly overhead.”

  “Weird.”

  “Do you hear that?” asked Jim.

  “Hear what?”

  “That high-pitched screeching sound. It’s getting louder.”

  The noise gradually got louder and louder, until it was almost unbearable. They both covered their ears. It sounded like feedback from an amplifier.

  As Jim stared over at Chuck, his friend’s hair started falling out in giant clumps. Chuck’s face contorted in pain as his skin started to wrinkle and darken, little bubbles forming around his eyes and nose. Jim could see Chuck screaming now, but the noise drowned him out. Chuck dropped to his knees as his limbs seemed to turn to rubber. Blood came from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. He collapsed on the ground and turned to a gelatinous goo, then finally to a pink water that seeped into the dirt, leaving nothing but a mud puddle that quickly dried to dust.

  Jim blinked back tears as he looked down at his own hands.

  Normal. No damage.

  But the piercing noise continued.

  He looked up and shouted angrily, “What have you done? What have you done to him? Why?”

  He brushed away a tear, and realized his face felt different.

  A full beard had grown in.

  Everything started to spin, and he felt nauseous. He bent over to vomit, but found his feet lifting off the ground.

  Jim passed out.