Flying

  “Okay, I’ll count to three.”

  The door rattles and almost gives.

  “Count to two!”

  “One … two…” 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 Lyle’s 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.

  “Exterminate,” 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 can’t breathe with the weight of it against my chest. My ribs feel like they’re being crushed, and the teeth … so many … dozens of teeth, covered in fire extinguisher spray but still ready to chomp or rip or tear. Its breath smells like mildewed books and blood, all mixed together.

  “Get off me!” I gag.

  “Exterminate.”

  “Shut up!”

  With my free arm, I smash the fire extinguisher into the side of its head. It does not seem to care. Letting go of the extinguisher, I take the knife and jab it up and in. It hits part of the thing’s body. Bone? Its weight shifts and I am free. I roll away, scrambling across the cement floor for the car and Lyle.

  It seizes my ankle. Claws slice open my skin. My knife dangles out of its chest.

  “Lyle!”

  I’m not sure if I’m yelling because I want help or because I just want him to save himself, get out of here, get away.

  “Come on!” He revs the engine. Elevator music blares out of the car. My mom has the worst taste in music.

  The thing hauls me back toward it. I slide along the floor like a sack of nothing, not even potatoes. My fingers search for something to hold on to. There is nothing, just cement floor. I bend double, twisting until I can reach around, yank my knife back out of its flesh, and then slice it across the thing’s wrist. It lets go of my foot, howling. I somersault backwards into the car, diving into the backseat as Lyle reverses out of the garage. Instead of buckling up like a good girl, I clench the headrest.

  “Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap,” Lyle mutters. We’re almost all the way out to the road when the thing stands up again and leaps—once, twice, three times—and lands on the hood. Its spindly arm smashes through the windshield. The glass spiderwebs out from the point of impact.

  We scream.

  Lyle slams the car into gear. The creature falls off. Seconds later, the car thuds over it. There’s a sick lurch as the tire drives on top of it, and the sound of bones crunching, which is sort of beautiful when the bones belong to a hideous thing that thinks exterminate is the SAT practice word of the day.

  “Crap. Crap. Crap,” Lyle chants.

  I slip myself into the front seat. Lyle reverses and we thud over it again. The last thing I ate, a chocolate-covered pretzel, returns to my mouth. This time, Lyle reverses all the way out to the road and stops the car.

  “Is it dead?” I whisper, trying to see around the cracks in the front window to the body in the middle of my driveway.

  “Maybe? I hit it.” Lyle’s still clutching the steering wheel.

  “I know you hit it. But did you kill it? Like, kill it dead?”

  He bites the corner of his lip. “I’m not sure. In movies, these things never die.”

  “These things?”

  “These undead alien monster from hell things.”

  “Lyle!”

  “What?”

  “You are supposed to be the expert. You.”

  “Okay. Um … I would say, yes? Yes. It’s dead.” His voice gets all fake low and overly confident, which I appreciate, but I know him too well to be fooled. If calm Lyle is faking it, then all hell has broken loose.

  “Turn your headlights on,” I demand.

  “You sure?”

  “We have to see.”

  “Why? Why do we have to see? Why can’t we be all ‘Yep, nothing’s happened. Let’s go get some pizza, have a little teenage sex, drink a beer?’”

  “You want to do that?”

  He nods. I wonder if he means it, especially the teenage sex part, but that’s only for a second. Reality slams back into me.

  “My mom might still be inside,” I say.

  “I know.” He turns his headlights on. An unmoving lump waits on the driveway. He holds my arm in his hands. “Whatever you do, do not get out of the car to check it out.”

  “I am not an idiot.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  We stare at the lump. It still doesn’t move.

  “Do you know what it is?” I ask Lyle, shutting off the radio.

  The silence is big. I almost miss the elevator music.

  Lyle breaks it. “Why would I know?”

  “You watch all those old sci-fi movies.”

  “Vintage TV shows. And some are quite modern, honestly.”

  “Whatever. And all those gaming thingies you do.”

  “Gaming thingies? Are you trying to emasculate me? Gaming thingies? They are battles of skill and persistence and intellect, Mana.”

  “Once again … whatever, Lyle. I am not trying to emascul … de-man you. I am just saying you would have a better idea about this stuff than I would.”

  He picks at the edge of the steering wheel. “It kind of reminds me of a Windigo.”

  “What is that?”

  “There’s this old Algonquin story about how if you eat the flesh of a person, you turn into a Windigo, and you’re always starving, craving human flesh.” He thinks for a second. “But they don’t have webbed feet.”

  “Maybe it mated with Donald Duck or a platypus or a penguin! No, not a penguin. It would be so much cuter if it was part penguin.”

  “Funny.” He pauses. “It still isn’t moving.”

  “Good.”

  “It could be the only one of its kind, and we killed it.” He looks traumatized, and he actually seems a little sorry.

  “Lyle!”

  “What?”

  My words pound out like each is its own sentence. “It was trying to kill us. It wrecked my house. It was evil.”

  He nods. “I know. I know, but still…”

  Sometimes I cannot believe him. Now is so not the time to discuss the moral ramifications of killing in self-defense or the possible extermination of a species that is most likely rare, albeit predatory.

  I lean forward in the seat, staring through windshield cracks at my house, my formerly safe, cozy house. “Do you think my mom is in there?”

  “In the house? Or in its stomach?”

  I gasp. “Lyle!”

  “I definitely don’t think it ate her.”

  “Lyle!”

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  “We should check in the house,” I say. “It might have…”

  I don’t finish my sentence, but the thought dangles there, broken and horrible.

  “She’s okay, Mana.”

  “How do you know?” I sound like a baby, pleading.

  He touches my shoulder. “I just know.”

  I nod. I have to choose to believe it. “Do you have your cell phone? Mine is in my bag.”

  He reaches into his pocket and hands it to me. I flip it open, call Mom’s cell. It rings. It’s on the floor of the car. “Great.”

  My insides start to shudder. I check to make sure the lump hasn’t moved, then open the door just a bit so Lyle can’t lock me in.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have to see if she’s in there.”

  “No! What if that … that … exterminate thing isn’t dead?”

  “You will stay in the car and run it over if it moves.” I say this like it’s the most rational request in the world, like I ask Lyle to run over things every day after cheering practice.

  “Look…” He runs his han
d through his hair. “You can’t do this. There could be other things in the—”

  “My mom could be in the house,” I interrupt. I pull one of Mom’s scarves off the backseat, wrap it around my ankle so I don’t bleed everywhere. It doesn’t even hurt much, I am so full of adrenaline. My pulse must be up around three hundred beats a minute, which would actually make me dead, but whatever.

  Lyle watches me and then sighs. “We should call the police.”

  “And tell them what? We just killed a monster? Or maimed it? That a boy flew through my house? They are not going to believe that. That’s why I couldn’t tell the truth to Deputy Bagley before.”

  “You can just say that your mom is missing.”

  “You can call,” I say, “but I’m not waiting. She could be hurt in there. She could be dying.”

  “Be careful…”

  I open the door and bound out of the car. Even with the adrenaline and fear, the movement makes my ankle hurt. My leg hurts, too. Blood drips through the scarf and onto my ankle sock, turning it red instead of white. Everything inside of me tenses as I stare at that thing on the driveway, waiting for the slightest twitch, any sign it is still alive.

  I lean into the car again and whisper to a pale-faced Lyle, “Promise me you’ll kill that thing if it moves. No worrying about killing one-of-a-kind species and making animal rights activists hate you or anything like that.”

  “I’m more worried about crazed cryptozoologists.” His eyes are big, huge, terrified.

  “Lyle.”

  “Mana, I promise.”

  “Swear.”

  “I swear.” Lyle flips his phone open again, punches in 9-1-1, and says, “Mana, come right back out, okay?”

  I nod.

  That will be easier said than done, if there are any more of those freak Windigo things in there. But if there are, they sure as hell better not have hurt my mom or they are going to have to deal with one angry cheerleader.

  CHAPTER 5

  I tiptoe-run around the Windigo thing’s lumpy form, giving myself a lot of room. I am aware that it’s not moving, but I don’t want to take any chances that it might start moving, you know? My adrenaline pumps so hard as I scoot across the grass and onto the porch that I can barely feel where it scratched my ankle, but I know the pain will be back soon.

  The front door still hangs wide open. Lyle never shut it. The window next to it is smashed and there is glass all over the porch. It doesn’t even resemble my house inside; everything is so messed up, dumped over, broken apart. But my mom … she could be in there. And if she is in there, she could be hurt. I can’t wait for the police to come. In health class we learned that in emergency medical situations, response time is critical to the potential saving of a person’s life. Yes, I think they were mostly talking about heart attacks and not monster attacks, but whatever.

  Wait. I keep forgetting.

  There could be other monsters in there.

  I listen but don’t hear anything. The lump in the driveway doesn’t move. Lyle stares at me from behind the shattered windshield of my mom’s car. I give Lyle a cocky thumbs-up sign so he won’t worry too much, and then I haul in a big breath and step into the porch light. I scan the room for evil exterminating creatures. Nothing. Then I remember to check the roof. Clear.

  I walk farther inside, scurry past the ruined love seat, and head into Mom’s bedroom. Pausing at the doorway, I survey the room again. Everything is a mess. The covers are off her bed. Her books and jewelry slop all over the floor. The closet door is flung open and all her long skirts, in all their boring neutral colors, clump in piles on the floor. A few still hang off-kilter on their hangers.

  What had it been searching for? Was it even searching at all? Maybe it just likes destroying things? But why here?

  And what exactly was it?

  I lean against the wall for a second, just a second, and try to put it all together. Dakota at the game and here, China (Sunglasses Guy), the house, the weird gray monster … I can’t. I can’t put it together. It makes no sense. The world sways a little. I stand up straight, blink hard, and continue my search. Swallowing, I try to just focus and be thorough and push all my worst fears down low into a place where they won’t bother me, telling myself good hopes, like, Everything is fine. Mom is fine. There are no more monsters.

  I search through all the rooms on the main floor and upstairs but don’t find her. That leaves nowhere except the basement.

  The basement. You are never, ever supposed to go into the basement in scary movies. That and the attic are always off-limits … and the greenhouse, and outside, and, well … pretty much everywhere.

  Still, I pause outside the basement door, frozen. I am really, really scared of going down there with all the boxes and the Ping-Pong table and the treadmill. My legs wobble.

  I don’t get a chance to make the decision before steps pound across the front porch. I clutch the TV remote because it’s the closest weapon-like thing I can find.

  Lyle bursts into the living room. His hair is wild, sticking up everywhere. He holds my bag.

  “I thought you died,” he says.

  I unclench the remote. “What?”

  “I thought you died; you were taking so long.”

  He runs over the cushions.

  I hold out my hands to stop him.

  “Lyle … what about that Windigo thing?”

  “I put the tire right on top of it.” Lyle cringes. “It can’t move.”

  “You’re sure? One hundred percent sure?”

  “The entire car is on top of it, Mana. It’s not going anywhere.”

  Mr. Penguinman falls from the fan in the living room. I snatch him up off the floor and clutch him to my chest. “Did you call the police?”

  “They said they’ll be here as soon as they can. One cop is at a DUI stop and the other is at a domestic.”

  I groan. “Our town only has two cops? That is so ridiculous. That is beyond ridiculous.”

  He doesn’t answer, just takes the TV remote out of my hand and lifts an eyebrow at it. “Anything good on?”

  “I thought you were some evil exterminating thing.” I realize this is a bad explanation, even if it is the truth.

  “And you were going to bludgeon me to death with this? A remote?” His eyes actually twinkle despite the circumstances.

  “Shut up.” I open the basement door. “I’ve searched everywhere upstairs. There’s no sign of her.”

  My voice breaks. I close my eyes and take my weight off my ankle.

  “We should wait until the police come,” Lyle says, leaning next to me. He drapes an arm across my shoulders.

  “I am not waiting.” I open my eyes to look at his face. It’s so anxious and scared that it frightens me a little. “I’m going down to try to find her. I cannot leave her if she’s down there.”

  “Do you really think she is?”

  “No.”

  I turn on the light and brace myself for something horrific. I don’t even know what. I take a couple steps down the wooden stairs. My mom made a pantry along the sides of the walls years ago. She stores the Campbell’s soup and extra sugar and things like that there.

  “Everything’s in the right place,” I whisper to Lyle, moving forward so his arm drops from my shoulders. I miss it.

  He touches a can of golden raisins. “Weird.”

  “I know.” Although maybe they didn’t have time to search down here yet, because we interrupted them. Who knows? Or maybe they’re not trying to find anything, just destroying … I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

  Lyle clutches my hand. “Maybe you should stay upstairs and guard.”

  “No way.”

  “Lyle…”

  “Listen, I was out-of-control worried in the car. There is no way in hell that I’m going to just let you come down here by yourself.”

  He stares at me. He means it, and I’m glad. I nod and trek down the rest of the stairs, into the cold basement. The cement floor is well swept.
The treadmill is right side up. The holiday decorations are still in the proper plastic bins.

  “Mom?” I whisper.

  Lyle comes and puts his arm around my waist, holding me up.

  I try a little louder. “Mom?”

  No answer. Of course there’s no answer; there’s no one here.

  I slump against him. Tears wait behind my eyelids. I will not let them out. I refuse. I refuse.

  “Let’s go back out to the car and wait for the cops, okay?” Lyle says.

  He steers me back up the stairs and out of the house. I limp a little bit, still clutching Mr. Penguinman. The monster remains under the tire of the car. It’s getting pretty flat, like a deflated balloon. It gives off a skunk smell.

  “That is disgusting,” I manage to say.

  “Do you want me to move it?”

  I shake my head. “Too big a chance.”

  We get in the car.

  “What are the police going to think?”

  “Good question,” Lyle says.

  He blasts the heat, takes my hands in his, and blows into them, trying to warm me up.

  “Where is my mom, Lyle?” I sound all pathetic and weak.

  Lyle kisses the tips of my thumbs and repeats, “Another good question.”

  I groan and sink back into the seat. “I should call my dad.”

  “Is he in town?”

  “I think so.”

  My parents are divorced. They have been divorced since I was five. I don’t even remember them married. My dad is an independent contractor for places like NASA. He does things like make the tiles on satellites and stuff like that.

  Lyle hands me his phone. I call. It rings. The car starts to get warmer.

  I get my dad’s answering machine and leave a message. “Hey, Dad. It’s me. Weird stuff is happening. Mom is missing. The house is trashed. Can you call me on Lyle’s cell?”

  I leave the number and hand the phone back to Lyle.

  “You didn’t tell him about the Windigo.”

  I consider giving him our patented Lyle–Mana one-eyebrow raise, but I am too tired, too scared. “He would think I was kidding.”

  Lyle thinks about this a second. “Probably.”

  He takes my hand in his and it feels really normal and good for some reason, like we always hold hands, which we do not. “Everything will be okay, Mana.”