Chapter Nineteen: The Storm

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Lyly's shoulders tensed as she approached the mass of vibrations that emanated from the crowd of people swarming the mall entrance. Her hair was slicked to her head, as it had been since the first day she arrived in the city, to try to minimize the amount of information that wiggled its way through her sensitive feeders to her brain.

She had been in the boardinghouse for just over a week now, and still needed time to adjust to the onslaught of information that came with the incredible population difference between the isolated farmhouse and the city. She had become able to manage the surrounding atmosphere in the safety of her new neighborhood, but whenever she ventured beyond that block it was a sure precursor to a pounding headache.

"Don't get lost now," Alina said over her shoulder as Lyly paused at the entrance to the building. It was massive, larger than any enclosed space Lyly had yet to see, and was positively crawling with people.

And also rats, she realized, although they tended to stay separate from the humans.

She followed behind the slim form of her housemate, who, Lyly could tell, was about as thrilled as she was about the crowds.

"Well, here you have it, I guess," Alina said, coming to a stop by a potted plastic tree in the middle of the walkway. "The mall," she said with a sweep of her arm.

Lyly stood and stared, head craning in all directions as she took in her surroundings the old-fashioned way.

Alina was looking down at her phone, pulling up a shopping list, so Lyly took the time to let her hair fluff up just a little, testing her tolerance for the surrounding cacophony. Every time she tried, she got a little better at processing the flood of information, so she gave it a shot.

The tendrils on her head quivered ever so slightly as they recorded everything – the screams of the toddler a floor up and a hundred yards down the hall, the labored pulse of the man in the shoe store who was just weeks away from a heart attack, the thousands of footsteps that pounded pathways across her mind.

And the one pair of eyes that were glued to her face.

Lyly glanced to the side, locking eyes with the man who stared so openly. He looked to be just a little older than herself, with dark hair and darker skin than most of the people around him.

He noticed that she returned his stare and uncertainty flittered across his face. He rubbed one hand across the back of his neck and readjusted the bags in the other. But when she didn't look away, he raised a tentative finger.

"Emma?" he said uncertainly, and a small part of Lyly recoiled.

She blinked, slowly, taking in the new sensation. When she opened her eyes again, he was walking toward her, gaining confidence with every step.

"You're Emma, Emma Thompson, right?" he asked, coming close enough now that Alina looked up from her phone. She scrunched her brows together.

"Is this guy talking to you, Lyly?" she asked, and he started at the name, one foot drawing back a step as he lost whatever momentum he had gained.

"N—I'm sorry, she just looks a lot like someone I used to know," he said, the arm with the bags still half stretched out in front of him, the other rising to run a hand through his short black hair.

Alina snorted. "Is that some sort of weird pickup line or what?" she asked, and the man flushed to his ears. His free hand waved in front of his chest.

"No! Not at all. Ugh, that'd be like hitting on my little sister, with how much she looks like—are you like, related to the Thompson family?" he tried again, expression quizzical.

"Yikes--Lyly, just tell this guy to go," Alina said, pulling her lips back in an exaggerated grimace. He flicked her a look, but waited for Lyly's response. Alina, too, turned to her expectantly.

Lyly had one hand on her chin, the other across her midsection to support the first, a posture she had seen people on TV do to indicate that they were thinking about something. It seemed to work, as both Alina and the man raised eyebrows at her.

"Wait, Lyly, do you know this guy?" Alina asked uncertainly, angling her body to edge him out of the conversation even as she asked the question.

Lyly continued to look at him. Something about him caught her attention, but she couldn't pinpoint what or why.

"Hey, easy way to find out—uh, did you grow up in the Oakville neighborhood? The person I'm thinking of and I were neighbors as kids. I was friends with her older brother," the man spoke, voice rising. "Remember me? It's Sumil!" he said pressing a hand to his chest.

Lyly remained quiet, tipping her head to one side. Finally, she opened her mouth. "I...don't remember growing up," she said truthfully.

Her body had always been this size, as far as she knew.

Both Alina and Sumil dropped their hands to their sides, concern creeping into Alina's posture, and confidence returning to Sumil's.

"Oh my God, Lyly, do you have like, memory loss?" Alina asked, eyes raking her housemate's face as she searched for confirmation. "Wait, then where did the name "Lyly" come from?"

Lyly's face brightened up and she pointed to herself with a proud smile. "I named myself! A better name than Ruff or Tuff," she concluded with satisfaction.

Alina's eyes drew taught as she shot Lyly a look of pure concern.

Sumil had his phone out, and he leaned closer to Alina. "Look!" he said, pointing to the screen. "It's that missing persons case, the super famous one with the ambulance? Doesn't that look exactly like her?"

Alina's eye flickered from the screen to her new housemate, the stress of this situation causing her to deeply regret leaving the house. No more favors for Gerta, she decided. "I mean, I guess? The texture of the hair seems different," she said, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Really? This girl has been missing for months, with her family absolutely torn to shreds about it, and you're going to quibble about hair texture? From a picture comparison?" Sumil asked, finally turning to face Alina head-on. She scoffed and held her hands up defensively.

Sumil sent her an incredulous look before turning back to Lyly. His arms dropped to his sides, his bags slipping from his grasp.

"Oh shit. Oh shit! I really think it's her. I think you're Emma," he said, turning quickly back to Lyly. "Oh shit, I gotta call Trent!"

"Hold up," Alina said, reaching over to snatch Sumil's phone out of his shaking hands. "Who the heck is Trent? –-No, never mind, that doesn't even matter. You're not calling anyone until Lyly agrees to it," she said, fending him off as he stretched to reclaim his phone.

He paused, thinking. They both turned to look at Lyly, who was watching them with questioning eyes.

"Well, Lyly?" Alina asked. "Would you like him to call this sketch dude named Trent?"

"Hey, Trent isn't sketch, he's—"

"Brother," Lyly said, surprising even herself as the word bubbled up out of her throat. Alina's jaw dropped, and Sumil's eyes went wide.

~Part II~

The knock came in the middle of the night.

At first, the farmer was inclined to roll over and ignore it, certain it was just a trick of the storm. The sound of the house settling as the wind whipped its beams.

Then the doorbell rang.

He sat up, anger giving way to caution as he eased his legs out of his bed, trying not to wake his wife.

Shaun rolled over anyway, groaning slightly at the disturbance. "'Dore, honey, who do I haveta sue to get these damn kids to stop ringing our bell at night?" she mumbled, and he chuckled.

"I'll go scare 'em off," he said as the doorbell sounded out yet again. He clenched his jaw. If they woke Cherry –

He padded down the staircase, his steps creaking in the too-silent house. He paused, the hair along his arms crawling.

Where were the collies? he wondered. They usually barked up a storm whenever anyone made it to the property line, much less to the door.

More and more since Lyly had left, Theodore had felt that something wasn't quite right in his home or in town. Even when he was out in the field, alone for as far as the eye could see except for a few farmhands, he could swear he felt eyes on his back.

With a quick sigh Theodore remembered that after that first night with Lyly in the house, he'd never gotten around to returning his pistol to his truck.

He retreated back up the stairs, stepping softly on the old wood to avoid making any more noise. Back in his bedroom, he gently tapped his hands across the top of the dresser to find the key to his nightstand. Once unlocked, the drawer to the nightstand pulled open to reveal his gun.

Shooting a guilty look toward his wife, who was firmly anti-gun, Theodore turned back to the doorway.

"Theodore," Shaun called from behind, voice much more awake than before. He hunched his shoulders, expecting a scolding.

Instead, the voice softened, "Theodore, what's got you riled up?"

He paused at the doorway, looking down at the weapon in his hands. His stomach pulled tight. "Shaun, love, why don't you go into Cherry's room?" he asked suddenly, and he heard the crinkling of sheets that meant she was sitting up.

"What's going on?" she asked again.

He sighed, still not turning to look at her. "I'm not sure. I—I told you about the other night, right? Before you got here. With the gunshots and the tire tracks?"

"Yes," she said cautiously.

"Ever since then I just can't shake the feeling that there's more to it than just kids messing around," he muttered.

He felt the warmth first, then the contours of a soft body as Shaun pressed against him and hugged him tightly from behind. "You want me to take Cherry out the back?" she asked into the crook of his shoulders.

His old heart creaked in his chest as Theodore remembered yet again why he loved this woman. No questions, no doubts – just the willingness to help.

"Don't leave the house, but maybe go lock yourselves in the upstairs bathroom?" he said.

He felt her nod against his back, and he stepped out of her arms and headed back to the stairs. The doorbell rang again – long this time, like they were leaning on it. Theodore's lips curled back into a silent snarl.

When he reached the landing, he was startled—and relieved—to see both of the dogs inside. They stood at complete attention, flanking the door, hackles raised and teeth bared.

The old farmer stopped to pat both dogs on the head before turning to the door. The automatic porch light was shining brightly, but all he could make out through the gauzy curtains that covered the side panel windows by the door was the blurred black outline of a person. 

He eased his way to the door in the dark, unwilling to announce his presence too clearly by switching on the light. His heart was thudding in his chest as he flicked off the safety on the pistol.

Just as Theodore reached for the door knob the door itself was kicked in from the outside. Wood and rain soared through the air, pelting his face, as the shattered door struck his shoulder and sent him stumbling back into the living room.

Chaos erupted as the dogs began to bark and growl, not yet taking the initiative to attack as they fell back to place themselves between the intruder and their master, who was sprawled out on the floor where he had fallen. 

A shadowy silhouette stepped into the house over the threshold of the ruined door, boots crunching on the splinters of the remaining wood as the figure paused and looked around, a headlamp illuminating corners of the house as they did so. Two other forms appeared beside the first.

They were all dressed identically, in matte black body armor that was slick with rain, a reflective  mask that covered their entire heads and was topped with a headlamp, and semi-automatic rifles that sat comfortably in their grips.

"Where is she?" a rough, mechanical voice demanded, which Theodore was able to locate back to that first figure.

"Who the hell--" Theodore began, but he was cut off by the sound of a gun as one of the two figures in the back shot Tuff through the forehead. The collie let out a cry somewhere between a sigh and a whimper as her dense body crashed to the ground with a slick thump. Theodore stared at her fallen form, rage-induced nausea burning the back of his throat. 

"I'll ask again. Where. Is. The girl," the voice came again, the first figure never even bothering to look at the dying dog.

Theodore let his hatred show on his face as he measured the intruders. He hated being sprawled back on the ground, but had a feeling they wouldn't like it if he tried to stand. He clenched his jaw.

"Not talking?" the voice scoffed. The figure tilted their head slightly to the side and back. "I hear there's a child in this house. Go and get it," they said.  

All reason shuttered to a stop in Theodore's brain as the back right figure began to move forward. His fingers, slick with sweat, clenched the pistol he'd been hiding just behind his body. Lightheaded, shaking, he moved without thinking.

He managed to let out a single shot, hitting the moving figure right in the groin, before he heard the shots and felt two points of impact in his chest. His body flew backwards from the close-range fire, his head hitting the ground with a solid thunk.

Chaos erupted as the figure Theodore had shot sank to its knees, clenching the afflicted area with audible groans. The first figure began to move forward when the deep growls from Ruff exploded unexpectedly as the collie lunged forward at the first figure, knocking them off their feet. 

The second figure moved to help, but was seized from behind by...Theodore really couldn't tell what. They looked like long, thick vines, and the figure shrieked as the cords wrapped around their body. The scream was cut off as the cords squeezed the air out of their lungs, but the silence was quickly replaced by the crunch of armor cracking. 

Theodore watched with hazy vision, his attention drawn as more shots sounded out and blood sprayed up from the back of his remaining collie, Ruff. But even as the blood splattered onto the old wood floors, something else emerged from the dog's back. Vines, or cords, just like the first set, arched up and around the dog's back, sharpening into spears that surged forward to pierce into the figure on the floor. The screams started and stopped within seconds, a bubbling gurgle taking their place.

The third figure was struggling to their feet, still hunched over their groin, which, Theodore noted, was disappointingly still protected by intact armor. The fuzzy numbness receded ever so slightly as fury took hold. 

That bastard was going after Cherry, the farmer remembered. There was no way in hell he was making it to the stairs alive. 

Three more shots rang out into the storm as Theodore managed with the last of his strength to lift and aim the gun in his hand. The third figure stumbled back, falling to one knee on the threshold to the kitchen, as the three bullets hit them square in the chest. 

It wasn't enough, Theodore realized, his hand falling slack without his permission. The armor was too thick for his handgun. 

The figure looked up, recovering from their surprise, when another spray of blood exploded out across the room, followed by the tip of a cord as it skewered the figure from behind. Droplets of blood landed on Theodore's face as he squinted. 

Was the cord...pink?

The figure slumped over and with a squelch slid forward off of the cord that impaled it, landing face-first on the floor.

The room stilled, the relative silence deafening after all the noise. Over the soft pattern of raindrops on the hardwood, Theodore heard the padding of paws as both collies entered his line of sight. 

He wondered if it was the blood loss, but his collies looked...wrong. Tuff had a pair of thick pink tentacles sprouting from her forehead, now curved back along her spine, and Ruff had four of her own branching out from the ridge of her back. 

He sighed, letting his head fall back. What did it matter if they did or not?

"Good girls," he whispered, his hand twitching as he tried to raise an arm to pat their heads. 

Both collies whined at him, and Ruff snaked her snout under his palm. He tried to chuckle, but had no energy left. 

As his vision dimmed, Theodore thought he saw pink tentacles reaching their way toward him.  

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