The alarm clock buzzed and Bart Newberry sat up quickly in bed, excited to take on the day.  He was going to take pictures and do some research for a story about roadside memorials.  It was part of a series he was writing about a particularly deadly stretch of freeway along which three of these makeshift memorials had been erected in recent years.  He thought this could be the assignment that finally got him noticed at the Floral City Press.

When he came downstairs, he found that his daughter, Janey, was already off to school, and his wife, Tina had left for work.  Bart grabbed a bagel, snagged his notebook and camera and hopped in his car.

His first stop would be the spot where an SUV carrying a family of five had slammed into a bridge abutment after the father fell asleep at the wheel.  The father, his wife and their three children had all been killed in the fiery crash almost two years ago.

Bart pulled his car over as far as he could onto the narrow shoulder about fifty yards from the makeshift memorial and got out.  Traffic whizzed by as he walked to the memorial, which consisted of an old, battered wreath and some stuffed animals.  Once bright and colorful, the blooms in the wreath had long ago died and turned a crumbly brown.  Several teddy bears had been tied to the stand that held the wreath.  Their fur was matted and faded from exposure to the elements.  Bart got out the camera and framed the shot so that the memorial was in the foreground and the deadly abutment was in the background.  He clicked off a few shots, checking them in the LCD display on the back of the camera.  Satisfied that he had the shot he needed, Bart continued up the shoulder.

The next memorial, about a quarter mile away, marked the spot where a school bus carrying middle school soccer players and their coaches had veered off the freeway onto the soft shoulder, rolled several times and burst into flame a year ago  The wreck claimed the lives of 19 children and two adults.  Bart photographed the three small wooden crosses that memorialized the victims, each of the dead represented by the outline of a dove burned into the wood.  He slung his camera over his shoulder and continued walking.

His last stop was about three quarters of a mile further along, where the freeway curved sharply to the left.  It was in this spot two weeks ago that four teenagers who had been drinking died when their car failed to negotiate the turn.  This roadside memorial was a combination of crosses and wreaths. Some of the flowers in the wreaths had retained their color and shape, but most had begun to shrivel and die.  A few more clicks of his camera and Bart had all the shots he needed for his story.

As he walked back to his car, Bart saw two people standing along the shoulder about halfway between the school bus memorial and the freeway overpass where the family of five had been killed.  As he drew closer, Bart could see it was a woman and a child.  There was something very familiar about them.  He walked faster.  Bart felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his skin broke out in goose bumps as he recognized his wife and daughter.  They had their arms around each other and they were crying.

“Hey, Tina!  Janey!” Bart called out as he ran to them.  They didn’t respond.

“What are you guys doing out here?”

Bart reached for his wife and daughter and his arms passed through them.  He stumbled and found himself staring down at a freshly planted wooden cross.

“We miss you,” Tina sobbed, pulling Janey close to her.

Etched on the cross was a name: Bartholomew Newberry.

“I love you, daddy,” Janey sniffled.

“If it hadn’t been for that stupid story…” Tina started, and then a fresh round of sobs wracked her body.

Bart looked up, tears in his eyes, and saw that they were no longer alone.  They had been joined by a group of children in scorched soccer uniforms, their hair singed, their skin blackened and blistered.  Bart realized he could see through the children.  Next to them stood four teenagers, clothes torn and bloodied, arms and legs bent at impossible angles.  And slumped next to the teens were what might have once been a man and a woman and their three children – now nothing more than lumps of ruptured and broiled flesh barely recognizable as human.

Bart’s wife and daughter turned to leave.

“No!” Bart cried out.  He lunged for them, but once again his arms passed through them.  He fell to the ground.

“Don’t leave me!”

Bart looked up, and saw that the assembled group of accident victims was parting.  They opened up a path between them and held out their arms – or what passed for arms – gesturing for him to join them.  Bart scrambled to his feet and ran toward his car.  He reached the car and dug in his pocket for the keys.  For a panicked moment he thought he had lost them.  He found the keys, unlocked the driver’s door and flung it open.  He jumped inside and slammed the door shut.

The alarm clock buzzed and Bart Newberry sat up quickly in bed, excited to take on the day.  He was going to take pictures and do some research for a story he was writing about roadside memorials.

—
©  2009 Robert C. Eccles

The srix clambered up the ridge of ice and saw a dim flicker in the distance. It gave a cold snort and shook its silver coat. Raising its broad nose, the srix licked its pronounced chops and moved slowly in the direction of the light.

#

Qar sat by the flame’s edge, it flickered orange and green. The progeny sat across from her with worried, luminous eyes. Two small moons waxed on the nighttime horizon rising towards another very long phase. Darkness would soon pass, Qar could now see the dawning brightness on the bleak horizon that would encompass the entire moonside when it once again faced the gas-giant, Sorkius. But for now, the quiet gloaming held its perils. Their food was nearly depleted, the oceanic iceflow drew ever closer to their shoreline cavern, and there lurked terrors out on the plains before them as well as on the jagged ice behind them.

The flame winked off again, but after only a few moments the small geyser came to life as always before. The blue star, Tarm, burning hostile, was but a speck in the nighttime sky. Qar gave the system’s far-flung sun no thought, for it was the nearby planet which brought light and life to this little moon. Within hours of planetrise, the flower-lichen would spring forth anew giving them a bounty to eat. The sea ice would withdraw and they would scavenge the beach, combing for whatever they might find in the safety of daylight; for the srix would be hiding from the bright and swirling face of that magical planet. Qar rose and entered the cavern. After a moment, the younger followed.

Out some distance on the iceflow, the large-eyed srix drew a thick tongue across its finger-length teeth. The smaller target had held its gaze and it delighted in the fact the larger left the smaller in its wake without any apparent thought. Yes—a chance to strike would come. And the srix would stand ready to take advantage.

The little moon did not spin, only circled the gas giant. Full light came at regular, long intervals, as did the flower-lichen, the iceflows, and, too, the darkness. During times of light was when Qar felt carefree, never worried about the srix, or worse. But this time of twilight, especially dawning twilight, was the most dangerous; for the srix must strike soon if it were to gain a full meal before it had needs to hibernate for the long day.

The gas-giant, Sorkius nearly filled the sky at mid day and was worshipped for its size and also the protection it gave from the srix. The small village beside the icy ocean where Qar and her people dwelt was but one of many like primitive settlements on the tiny moon. The long nights and days passed; the population of Qar’s village ever-threatened and ever-shrinking.

#

The progeny was now as tall as its elder. In the light of day she’d strut about feeling safe and secure. She’d lost more than a few of her kind to the appetite of the srix, but so was life; for even in the daylight there were dangers and pitfalls, the packs of small and ferocious gobbins just one. That she’d gained maturity was a satisfaction. That her elder still combed the beach and sat by the gas-fueled flame after so many days was a wonder to her maturing mind.

The long day was finally waning and Qar was disheartened at the thought of the approaching night. She was growing old, had seen many, many days, and didn’t want to burden the progeny–would never accept needing her protection—never that!

Nighttime came and they steeled themselves for the long night of cold and danger. The srix prowled, but they stood against it, safety in numbers and vigilance against distractions, their protector. The small geyser winked off. Qar sighed in the blackness as she nibbled some flower lichen still remaining from day, as the iceflow moaned, creaking ever closer. In the distance came a piercing scream that hurtled toward the small encampment from the ice. Qar jumped up and hurried into the cavern just as another scream, louder, closer, preceded the snarling hiss of a srix. A few large and sharp rocks stood ready in the cave to cast if the srix drew any closer.

#

The Dawning had returned. That she had lived through the long, dreaded night seemed like a beautiful dream. The progeny strutted again, now that it was daylight. Would it always be this way? Day after long day. Night after fearful night?

Qar sat and watched the wonder of Sorkius, its whirling face a mystery, its size beyond imagining. She suddenly turned at the sound of a sharp cry. It was the progeny!–a pack of six or seven gobbins were trailing her close. Qar grabbed a few rocks and ran after, hurling one before she was even near. The progeny bolted toward the shoreline, the small gobbins at her heels. The nearest jumped but missed. Approaching, Qar flung another rock at that one and it cried out in pain and fled the other way.

The progeny jumped to a high dune, whirled around, and jumped back towards Qar, sailing cleanly over the gobbins. They turned to pursue, but when they noticed there were now two, they hesitated then backed slowly away.

The progeny smiled weakly as Qar dropped the remaining rocks she held and they embraced. It was only then they heard the familiar deep hiss!–a srix, driven by a raging hunger, no doubt, to be out in full daylight. But there it was on the high ice flow above them! A gurgling snarl escaped its wide, toothy mouth as it leapt—they grimaced in shock, tears falling, gripping one another tightly, awaiting the impact of the large, ravenous beast.

—
©2009 DJ Barber

DJ Barber lives in Oregon with his wife and two dogs. He writes by a window and watches the wildlife, sometimes sipping a beer as he waits on the muse.