doesnât answer for a second, a big, horrible second, and then he whispers, âUnearthly? Maybe undead? Maybe cyborg? Umâ¦â
This thing ⦠I canât look away. Itâs like a man, but not a man. Itâs gaunt, almost emaciated. The skin is pulled tight over bone and muscle. Itâs the color of death, ashy gray, and it smells like death, too, like decay and garbage and dead mice in the basement, like mold on books.
âHoly crap. Itâs got webs for feet,â Lyle whispers.
I nod in the tiniest way I can, but itâs not the feet Iâm worried about. Itâs the mouth, which is open and full of razor teeth, scissor sharp and wild. Itâs the mouth that terrifies my heart into trying to beat its frantic way out of my chest. And its eyes ⦠its eyes are black, all black, and they stare at us.
âExterminate,â it says.
Crap.
âThatâs a Doctor Who line,â Lyle says, looking at me all excited for some reason.
âGod, Lyle.â
âIt is. Itâs from Doctor Who . Only itâs the Daleks who sayââ
âLyle!â
The thing does not care about never-ending British television series. It leaps toward us, makes it halfway into the living room with one bound. Muscles move over bone. Web feet connect with hard wood. It leaps again, right at us.
I dive for a butcher knife on the floor while Lyle flies sideways into the kitchen counter, awkward, not sure where to go, and slipping on orange juice. The creature lands three feet in front of us, on all fours. Claws on its hands carve grooves into the wooden floor. I swear it smiles.
âRun!â Lyle yells and scrambles. He rips a silverware drawer out of the counter. Forks and spoons clank onto the floor. He whales it in front of him, holding it like a shield, just as the thingâs claws rips four long gashes down its length. Lyle throws the drawer at the beast, clobbering it in the head.
The thing pushes it off, pretty much casually. Great.
I grapple for Lyleâs hand and yank him. We run into the garage, slipping on hummus and orange juice and the remains of a jar of pickles. Lyle slams the door closed, but we canât lock it from this side.
Lyle clenches the doorknob and pulls, trying to hold it shut with his weight. With a high kick, I smash my foot into the garage door opener. The door starts to rumble up.
âI canât keep it shut.â Lyleâs face twists with effort.
The little blue door to the house vibrates. Four giant slash marks go through two inches of metal. Lyle gulps.
âGet in the car,â I order him. I hold my knife out, but Iâm thinking itâs not going to be too effective against this web-footed, claw-handed thing.
âManaâ¦â Lyleâs big hands flail out against the door.
âDo it!â I yell, ripping the fire extinguisher off the wall. I pull the pin out of it and point it at Lyleâs back, which is still stupidly in front of the door.
âManaâ¦â
âDo it now, Lyle. Get in the car and start it, now. Fast. Youâre the fast one.â
âOkay, Iâll count to three.â
The door rattles and almost gives.
âCount to two!â
âOne ⦠twoâ¦â he yells, and dives out of the way, flipping over the car hood and launching himself inside via the open window, in the way only a really good athlete can.
The moment Lyleâs body weight leaves its place against the door to the house, there is nothing stopping the creature. The door crashes open. The thing definitely smiles at me, showing off its teeth.
âExterminate,â it croaks, reaching forward. Its muscles tense. It readies itself to jump.
I squeeze the lever on the fire extinguisher. White foam rockets out as the creature leaps toward me, hurtling itself into my space. It smashes into me. My lungs lose air. I canât breathe with the weight of it against my chest. My ribs feel like
This thing ⦠I canât look away. Itâs like a man, but not a man. Itâs gaunt, almost emaciated. The skin is pulled tight over bone and muscle. Itâs the color of death, ashy gray, and it smells like death, too, like decay and garbage and dead mice in the basement, like mold on books.
âHoly crap. Itâs got webs for feet,â Lyle whispers.
I nod in the tiniest way I can, but itâs not the feet Iâm worried about. Itâs the mouth, which is open and full of razor teeth, scissor sharp and wild. Itâs the mouth that terrifies my heart into trying to beat its frantic way out of my chest. And its eyes ⦠its eyes are black, all black, and they stare at us.
âExterminate,â it says.
Crap.
âThatâs a Doctor Who line,â Lyle says, looking at me all excited for some reason.
âGod, Lyle.â
âIt is. Itâs from Doctor Who . Only itâs the Daleks who sayââ
âLyle!â
The thing does not care about never-ending British television series. It leaps toward us, makes it halfway into the living room with one bound. Muscles move over bone. Web feet connect with hard wood. It leaps again, right at us.
I dive for a butcher knife on the floor while Lyle flies sideways into the kitchen counter, awkward, not sure where to go, and slipping on orange juice. The creature lands three feet in front of us, on all fours. Claws on its hands carve grooves into the wooden floor. I swear it smiles.
âRun!â Lyle yells and scrambles. He rips a silverware drawer out of the counter. Forks and spoons clank onto the floor. He whales it in front of him, holding it like a shield, just as the thingâs claws rips four long gashes down its length. Lyle throws the drawer at the beast, clobbering it in the head.
The thing pushes it off, pretty much casually. Great.
I grapple for Lyleâs hand and yank him. We run into the garage, slipping on hummus and orange juice and the remains of a jar of pickles. Lyle slams the door closed, but we canât lock it from this side.
Lyle clenches the doorknob and pulls, trying to hold it shut with his weight. With a high kick, I smash my foot into the garage door opener. The door starts to rumble up.
âI canât keep it shut.â Lyleâs face twists with effort.
The little blue door to the house vibrates. Four giant slash marks go through two inches of metal. Lyle gulps.
âGet in the car,â I order him. I hold my knife out, but Iâm thinking itâs not going to be too effective against this web-footed, claw-handed thing.
âManaâ¦â Lyleâs big hands flail out against the door.
âDo it!â I yell, ripping the fire extinguisher off the wall. I pull the pin out of it and point it at Lyleâs back, which is still stupidly in front of the door.
âManaâ¦â
âDo it now, Lyle. Get in the car and start it, now. Fast. Youâre the fast one.â
âOkay, Iâll count to three.â
The door rattles and almost gives.
âCount to two!â
âOne ⦠twoâ¦â he yells, and dives out of the way, flipping over the car hood and launching himself inside via the open window, in the way only a really good athlete can.
The moment Lyleâs body weight leaves its place against the door to the house, there is nothing stopping the creature. The door crashes open. The thing definitely smiles at me, showing off its teeth.
âExterminate,â it croaks, reaching forward. Its muscles tense. It readies itself to jump.
I squeeze the lever on the fire extinguisher. White foam rockets out as the creature leaps toward me, hurtling itself into my space. It smashes into me. My lungs lose air. I canât breathe with the weight of it against my chest. My ribs feel like
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