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The Hungry Ones
by G. W. Thomas
Trewson scanned the view from his window with soul-blackening dread. They were out there, waiting, patient, untiring. How he despised their slender, towering shapes, their hungry leanness and cold hatred. How he wished he could go outside, breathe fresh air, open his arms to freedom.
Instead, he walked away from the glass, turning his thoughts to his work, the translation of the small note book that sat on the kitchen table beside the clutter of milk-stained glasses and crumb-covered plates. He had finished half of the booklet. Working on it all night, he had used
the tiny pen-light until the battery had died.
He had found the coiled note book in the basement when he had been looking for cracks. They liked to sneak in from below. Trewson had to
be ever alert. Once they had tried to break in during a storm, another time through the now useless water system. The house was lifeless. No water. No electricity. And in a day or two, no food.
He would concentrate on the book (while the sunlight lasted), with its plain beige cover and its bold black letters. CITY WATER METER
READINGS it said there. But he knew better.
The rows of figures were really a code, designed to fool them. He would translate more as soon as he had locked himself in the upstairs bedroom. They couldn't get in there -- the window, only a small fixture, without hinges or shutters. When it grew too dark to see he would have to stop ...
The cramped writing of the number columns was hard to read in the gloom of the small bedroom: "Jackson 246576 -- Randolph 745211 -- Abdul 55298 --" The work went on as the morning passed.
By noon, Trewson had finished. The secret message was no longer unknown to him. Its contents were not heartening. He had not been the
first to fall pray to them. There had been others. Many others. The note book spoke of victims down through the ages. They had always been here, taking those they deemed fodder. And Trewson was to join the others. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or the next ...
Trewson became suddenly cold, calm inside as the horrible resolution descended on his mind. Why wait? he asked himself. They would win. They had eternity, water, wind and light. They held sway over the entire earth. They were perennial. Time's ultimate predators.
The man opened the door. A strange feeling to stand in the doorway -- a breeze played with his hair. And there they were, standing patiently beyond the yard, naked silver limbs reaching out in loving embraces, hungry fingers digging into the earth like clenched fists, each mass cutting the sunlight into separate little windows, as the last few, deathly leaves fell from their arms ...TO COMMENT ON THIS STORY CLICK HERE
© Thomas, 2005
G. W. Thomas is Editor/Publisher of RAGE m a c h i n e Books. He sells POD paperbacks through Lulu.com and ebooks through Renebooks.com. Check out his hub site at http://ragemachinemag.tripod.com