Chapter Forty Six

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Chapter Fifteen

Huntington, Vermont


Not unlike a small meteor, a metal object soared unseen through the cloudless morning skies of New England, traveling silently over expansive miles of vibrantly colored fields and woodlands before colliding into the broad side of a mountain with a faint thud. A barely perceptible concussion reverberated outward from the wilderness and through the small village below. From the far side of the mountain, a flock of white birds took to the sky, the only inhabitants to take notice of the disturbance in the otherwise pristine day.

A rather unimpressive white-and-green police cruiser—the only one on duty—drove across a long-neglected country road. Faded lettering on the side of the vehicle read, Huntington Police Department. The fenders were beginning to show peeling rust spots, and the tires needed replacing.

In a large sense the outdated cruiser matched the pastoral outlandishness of the town. Situated a comfortable distance from the lone state highway that ran across Vermont, the only visitors to pass through Huntington, aside from the one or two thousand locals, were passing tourists from southern New England—most often sightseers looking to experience authentic Vermont foliage or hike Camel's Hump, one of the region's larger mountains. The Huntington village center consisted of little more than a gas station variety store and a family-owned hardware shop at the foot of the mountain.

  To some Huntington would most aptly be described as comfortably quaint, to others, unsettlingly secluded.

  Officer George Henderson, a twenty-year veteran of the force, drove the cruiser with his rookie partner Mike Fuller sitting next to him. The season's foliage was in full bloom, and the maple trees that loomed over the wood fences on either side of the road shown brilliant red, yellow, and orange in the morning sun. Dryness unique to autumn hung pleasantly in the air, accentuated by the drifting note of a wood fireplace or burning pile of leaves smoking somewhere in the nearby hills.

  "Dispatch to cruiser, dispatch to cruiser." The radio on the dash awoke the two officers from their gentle reveries.

            "What's up, Beth?" George said, taking his attention away from the fields outside his open window as he leaned forward to the dashboard and spoke into the transceiver.

            "We just got a trespassing call up on Baron Road," said Beth, the third and only other officer on duty. Beth was back at the station, which consisted of an office, a few desks, and a holding cell. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically apprehensive.

            George and Mike exchanged a confused glance and Mike doubtfully shook his head.

 "You've got to be kidding me," George said into the transceiver. "Trespassing on Baron Road? That's practically halfway up the mountain."

            "Yeah, I know," Beth's voice crackled from the outdated radio. "The call was really weird. Mrs. Janson was shouting something about men from the woods trying to get into her house."

 George brushed it off with a wave of his hand. "I'm sure it's just some hunters or a group of hikers that wandered off the trail and need to use a phone."

  "I would think the Jansons are used to that kind of trespassing by now, George," Beth's voice paused with concern, and the static worsened as their cruiser passed between two hills. "I could barely make out what Mrs. Janson was saying. She was hysterical. They live on fifty-eight Baron Road. Get there quick, you guys. I'm sure it's no big deal, but the call gave me the creeps. I'm pretty sure I heard her use the word giant."

            "I know where the Jansons live," Mike said. He leaned forward and flipped on the sirens. "I used to deliver firewood up there every fall."

  "All right. We'll head right over. Thanks Beth." George turned the cruiser down an empty road leading to the mountain.

 "Beth's right you know," Mike said. "I don't think I've ever heard of someone on Baron Road calling the police over a trespasser. Think about it. None of the trails are on that side of the mountain, and the woods are too thick to pass. Last hunting season I tried to make it up there with some buddies, and we couldn't get through the underbrush for the life of us."

  "Eh, who knows. It's probably just some doped up kids who got too fried to follow the trail or some hunter who drank too much whiskey."

  Both officers laughed.

 Siren sounding, the cruiser sped along as it traversed wide fields and wooded hills, fallen leaves whirling in their wake. They drove by unmanned farm stands, shelves filled with squashes, pumpkins, and apples sitting on beds of hay; the cash registers nothing more than wicker baskets sitting by the produce. Their siren echoed across the land and traveled far in the dry air, joined only by a light breeze from the west. Outside their windshield, the lone mountain rose into the sky. It was blanketed with trees, a carpet of deep red and orange leading to a summit of bare granite a few thousand feet overhead.

  "You hear Kalinoski's youngest is getting recruited to play hockey at university?" George asked.

  "Nah. Last I knew he was just making the high school team." Mike was looking past the spots of old white sap streaked across the windshield to the fast approaching mountain. "Man time flies."

  "You got that right."

            They took a sharp left onto Baron Road and pulled off the smooth pavement onto a dirt path that vanished into the shelter of trees. The tree cover was so thick that the road could have passed for a hiking trail as it ascended in a narrow sinuous course up the eastern side of the mountain.

            "Can't imagine living out here," Mike murmured as he rolled down his window, vacantly staring into the dense wilderness to each side.

            "Different strokes for different folks, I guess. I just hope the suspension makes it through here." George was squinting and gripping the steering wheel, white-knuckled, as he carefully avoided the boulders and roots that lined their way."You might as well turn off the sirens. It's not like we're going to run into any traffic."

            "Good point." Mike leaned forward and shut off the blaring horns.

The moment the sirens subdued, a pall of absolute silence fell. The deep forest surrounding the cruiser seemed to swallow them whole. It felt as though their siren had been the last trace of their pleasant town and cloudless morning. Now they traversed through a narrow path of bright orange and yellow leaves that oddly contrasted with the near darkness caused by the tree cover. Dark tree trunks stood a mere foot away from both side mirrors, evoking an unsettling sentiment, which was left unmentioned by either officer, though each ran a hand across his holstered .38 revolver.

            "Is that a house?" George asked, peering around a turn in the road as the car jostled.

 Skeletal rays of sunlight filtered through a break in the trees and shone down onto a long overgrown lawn and a dingy log house. George slowly pulled the cruiser past the shack. Years of accumulated leaves lay wet and rotting on the roof, which in places was missing shingles and dilapidated. It was unimaginable that someone could or would live in this degree of squalor, yet there was a thin tendril of smoke rising from the mold-covered chimney, and on the overgrown grass a large stack of logs waited to be chopped.

            "What number is that?" George moved his gaze uneasily across the neglected yard.

            "I'm not sure on the numbers, but if I remember correctly, the Janson's house is next."

            They rolled past a larger clearing of trees and another set back house. With a nod from Mike, George pulled into the Janson's gravel driveway, coming to a stop behind a faded pickup truck. From the driveway nothing appeared out of the ordinary about the Janson's property. The house had some wholesome character compared to the last. The front and back yards were fifty feet on either side, scattered with sun-worn plastic lawn furniture. On the front porch a rocking chair was unmoving in the still air. A partly rusted bicycle lay on the driveway, its front tire rotating slowly.

            George and Mike stepped out of the cruiser and made their way to the front door. The air was stiff with silence, as though even the chirping of the birds and the rustling of squirrels in the underbrush had retreated farther into the surrounding woodlands. The crunch of their boots on the gravel was loud against the stillness.

            George crossed the front porch with heavy steps, the wood sighing under his weight. He gave the door a firm knock. "Mrs. Janson! This is officer George Henderson of the Huntington police department. We are here in response to a nine-one-one call made from this address. Please open the door!"

            There was no response.

            "Mrs. Janson?" George called again. He turned to Mike and lowered his voice. "What do you think?"

            "Let's go around back," Mike said.

George stepped off the porch and they rounded the house. As he walked past one of the windows, George heard a barely audible thump from inside the house. He hesitated and peered through a dusty window, but could not see anything. The curtains had been drawn. He shifted uneasily and turned away from the sill.

"Mike," George hissed in a whisper, unable to justify the urgency of his tone to even himself. "I heard something inside."

            Mike did not respond, and instead turned the rear corner of the house into the backyard. George watched as Mike instantly recoiled, stumbling backward and tripping over a log in the grass. He landed hard, his butt crashing into the patchy grass. George instinctively unclipped his holster and ran to him. Mike remained on the ground, his back sinking into the wet grass as he stared at something in the backyard. As George hurried to help the rookie, he saw a horror in his partner's eyes like he had never seen upon any man's face. Almost reluctantly—knowing his reaction would surely be no different—George turned and looked.

A lightheaded fluttery sensation traveled through his extremities. "W-what the hell?" George sputtered, and stepped backward.

Standing in the backyard, beside an old charcoal grill and in front of a weathered picnic table, were two gargantuan beings. Beings. George felt his ability to rationalize blur; his mind could not process what his eyes were seeing. Were they human? The two things must have been well over eight feet tall and easily six hundred pounds each, if not closer to half a ton. Their heads practically reached the windows of the second floor, and standing side by side they were almost as wide as the entirety of the house. The exposed muscle of their legs and arms did not look real. It was as though they were made solely of muscle, like body builders, though less human and more distended and grotesque. They were wearing bizarre and intricate attire that looked supple and reinforced. In some animalistic and primal sense from within, George felt certain something was very wrong.

            One of the behemoths turned and saw the two police partners: one standing and gawking, the other on the grass, both of their faces frozen in terror. One giant pointed at them, and the other turned to look. The officers and the giants stared at each other in equal disbelief for a moment. Then the enormous monsters did something that was altogether human, and all the more terrifying to George.

  The two hulking masses began to laugh.

  One of the giants suddenly spoke, its voice shockingly deep. "Shingaz rakevis atool ha."

  George's chin began to shake, and his body trembled. The voice could not have been a human. It sounded deranged and malicious.

            "George, let's go." Mike's voice sounded cold and detached from behind him. "George, I want to go right now."

  One of the giants leaned a head the size of a car engine forward and examined them closely. After a moment the giant shouted, its voice rumbling. It shook the ground as though his vocal cords were a subwoofer. "Ashkalez beeshtas forgasis vengeliskah."

  George's hand was still resting on his holster. He attempted to bring his mind back to his training at the academy in Montpelier twenty years previous as he pulled out his gun and clicked off the safety. The voice of his old grizzly Army vet instructor rang through his ears. Keep your composure! Always be ready to call for backup!

  But there was no such luxury as backup in Huntington, aside from the neighborhood watch and the prostrate young man beside him. George would have to take control of the situation by himself until the State Police could arrive.

            "W-what is going on here?" George was barely able to enunciate the question, but felt somewhat empowered with the gun now in his hand.

            The giant closer to the house turned and laughed with unmistakable amusement.

  "Porskis farzalork veesh sa." The giant moved his monstrous leg a step toward George and laughed when George retreated backward a step. The giant dwarfed over the six-foot-tall officer as though George were an elementary school boy holding a toy gun.

            "George, I want to go. I want to go right now. This isn't right," Mike said from the grass.

 George Henderson held his ground.

            "What have you done with the Jansons?" George mounted up the courage and demanded, though his voice still sounded weak and lacked conviction. He cocked his gun, pointing it at the approaching behemoth. "Don't think I won't use this!"

            The other giant turned to the house and yelled with a voice as deep as the first. "Yariles vengeliskah!"

  A young man suddenly strode out of the house through the sliding patio doors. He looked to be in his late teens or early twenties, and was wearing the same strange attire as the giants. Although he looked like an athlete, his appearance was much less monstrous than the other two. Where the vacuous faces of the giants could have passed for wild animals, this smaller man's face was lined with sophistication. Although the young man certainly did not look like he came from Vermont—George likened him to a professional athlete or some sort of celebrity type—he did appear to be human, which was encouraging.

Judging by the body language of the two giants, it was obvious even to George that this new arrival was the one in command. The young man looked at the gun aimed in his direction and shook his head with unmistakable disdain.

  "Please tell me you speak this language. Yes?" the mysterious young man asked. His voice was calm, articulate, and carried no accent whatsoever.

            "W-what is going on here? Where are the Jansons?" George shouted and stepped forward, keeping the gun aimed at the smaller man.The young man's face remained unwavering, almost tiresome, as the gun pointed directly at him.

"I have no intent on harming you. Put the weapon away," the young man said. "All I need is for you to tell me where we are. My men and I have no quarrel with you gentlemen or the family in the house."

            "Where are the Jansons?" George shouted.

            The young man frowned. "Are you slow? I just said they're in the house. Again, I need to know where we are on Filg—Earth. I found a map in the house but I don't know where we are located on it. That is all. Then we are out of your way." The young man ran a hand across his chin, and George noticed a gigantic red ring on his finger. "This region seems isolated. You'll be safe here."

            "Now excuse me, son! You are talking to a police officer! I need to see the family bef—"

            "Enough!" the young man snapped. "You are a soldier of your people, not a group of children and an old woman like that family. I won't hesitate to rip your arms off to get what I want. Or you can simply give me what I want, and we can go our separate ways."

            George was frozen, his mind lost in shock. He could sense Mike trembling beside him. Mike had also drawn his gun, but his back was still on the grass.

            "Get against the house and put your hands behind your head!" George yelled, pushing his gun toward the young man.

            "Decide," the young man said with a cold finality.

            A deafening bang pierced the tense silence as Mike fired his handgun from his ground position. Simultaneously, the young man stretched out his hand. A moment of silence passed, then the young man looked down at Mike as though he were a petulant child. A smoking and deformed bullet was resting in between the young man's thumb and forefinger. He let the bullet go and it fell dramatically into the grass.

            The young man turned and looked to one of the giants and spoke a phrase in the unusual language.One of the monsters lurched forward with surprising speed. He raised his foot and brought it down on Mike's chest. The enormous foot was nearly the size of the rookie's entire midsection. Popping sounds filled the yard as Mike's ribcage split. Mike frantically aimed the gun at the giant and emptied half the clip. Five shots. The giant looked down at him and shook his head as he stomped his foot on his chest, killing him instantly.

            George frantically pointed his gun at the giant, his body convulsing.

            "What do you want from us?" he sputtered, terrified.

            "Are you serious?" the young man demanded with a dubious look. "I just told you. I want to know our location. If your friend here had just given me what I wanted, he would still be alive and well."

            "O-o-o-okay. Okay. We are in Huntington."

            "Huntington. Good. See? Now we are making progress," the young man said. "What is Huntington?"

            The circuitry of George's mind was quickly fraying, and he was losing touch with reality. He felt a mordant nausea rise from his stomach to the back of his throat. "What the hell is going on?" he gasped through quick breaths.

            The young man snapped his fingers impatiently, as one would to a dog. "Stay with me here. Your life is on the line."

 "Huntington. Huntington, V-Vermont."

            The stranger sighed and shook his head impatiently. "Okay, this isn't getting us anywhere. Look, I need to find New York City. I placed it on this map, but I don't know where we are."

            "New Y-York? Why do you want to go there?"

            "Where are we?" the young man ignored his question and walked up to George holding a map of the United States.

            "We're here," George said, pointing a trembling finger to northern New England.

            The young man nodded with a contented expression. "Wasn't that easy?" he looked at George as he shook violently.

"Y-y-yes," George said as he watched the giant who had stepped on Mike wipe the gore off his boot on the patchy grass. George leaned over, hands falling to his knees, and vomited on the grass.

            The English-speaking man stepped closer to him and kneeled down beside him, looking disgusted."You two were the first ones to fire your weapons—intending to kill us. I acted no more uncouth or boorish than you did."

The young man then

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