Winter Moon

Falstaff was like a mad dog, snarling so savagely that spittle flew

from his chops, hair standing up straight on the back of his neck, his

tail flat across his butt, crouched and tense, as if he might spring at

the door even before the thing outside could come through it.

The lock opened with a hard clack.

The intruder had a key. Or maybe it didn't need one. Heather

remembered how the radio had snapped on by itself.

She backed onto the threshold between the kitchen and ground-floor

hall.

Reflections of the overhead light trickled scintillantly along the

brass doorknob as it turned.

She put the can of gasoline on the floor and held the Uzi with both

hands.

"Falstaff, get away from there! Falstaff!"

As the door eased inward, the tower of housewares tottered.

The dog backed off as she continued to call to him.

The security assemblage teetered, tipped over, crashed. Pots, pans,

and dishes bounced-slid-spun across the kitchen floor, forks and knives

rang against one another like bells, and drinking glasses shattered.

The dog scrambled to Heather's side but kept barking fiercely, teeth

bared, eyes wild.

She had a sure grip on the Uzi, the safeties off, her finger curled

lightly on the trigger. What if it jammed? Forget that, it wouldn't

jam. It had worked like a dream when she'd tried it out against a

canyon wall in a remote area above Malibu several months earlier:

automatic gunfire echoing along the walls of that narrow defile, spent

shell casings spewing into the air, scrub brush torn to pieces, the

smell of hot brass and burned gunpowder, bullets banging out in a

punishing stream, as smooth and easy as water from a hose. It wouldn't

jam, not in a million years. But, Jesus, what if it does?

The door eased inward. A narrow crack. An inch. Then wider.

Something snaked through the gap a few inches above the knob. In that

instant the nightmare was confirmed, the unreal made real, the

impossible suddenly incarnate, for what intruded was a tentacle, mostly

black but irregularly speckled with red, as shiny and smooth as wet

silk, perhaps two inches in diameter at the thickest point that she

could see, tapering as thin as an earthworm at the tip. It quested

into the warm air of the kitchen, fluidly curling, flexing obscenely.

That was enough. She didn't need to see more, didn't want to see more,

so she opened fire. Chuda-chudachuda-chuda. The briefest squeeze of

the trigger spewed six or seven rounds, punching holes in the oak door,

gouging and splintering the edge of it. The deafening explosions

slammed back and forth from wall to wall of the kitchen, sharp echoes

overlaying echoes.

The tentacle slipped away with the alacrity of a retracted whip.

She heard no cry, no unearthly scream. She didn't know if she had hurt

the thing or not.

She wasn't going to go and look on the porch, no way, and she wasn't

going to wait to see if it would storm into the room more aggressively

the next time.

Because she didn't know how fast the creature might be able to move,

she needed to put more distance between herself and the back door.

She grabbed the can of gasoline at her side, Uzi in one hand, and

backed out of the doorway, into the hall, almost tripping over the dog

as he scrambled to retreat with her. She backed to the foot of the

stairs, where Toby waited for her.

"Mom?" he said, voice tight with fear.

Peering along the hall and across the kitchen, she could see the back

door because it was in a direct line with her. It remained ajar, but

nothing was forcing entry yet. She knew the intruder must still be on

the porch, gripping the outside knob, because otherwise the wind would

have pushed the door all the way open.

Why was it waiting? Afraid of her? No. Toby had said it was never

afraid.

Another thought rocked her: If it didn't understand the concept of

death, that must mean it couldn't die, couldn't be killed. In which

case guns were useless against it.

Still, it waited, hesitated. Maybe what Toby had learned about it was

all a lie, and maybe it was as vulnerable as they were or more so, even

fragile.

Wishful thinking. It was all she had.

She was not quite to the midpoint of the hall. Two more steps would

put her there, between the archways to the dining and living rooms.

But she was far enough from the back door to have a chance of

obliterating the creature if it erupted into the house with unnatural

speed and power. She stopped, put the gasoline can on the floor beside

the newel post, and clutched the Uzi in both hands again.

"Mom?"

"Sssshhhh."

"What're we gonna do?" he pleaded.

"Sssshhhh. Let me think."

Aspects of the intruder were obviously snakelike, although she couldn't

know if that was the nature of only its appendages or of its entire

body. Most snakes could move fast--or coil and spring substantial

distances with deadly accuracy.

The back door remained ajar. Unmoving. Wisps of snow followed drafts

through the narrow gap between the door and the jamb, into the house,

spinning and glittering across the tile floor.

Whether or not the thing on the back porch was fast, it was undeniably

big.