Circle Point. A posh, well-known apartment complex for septuagenarian settlers that boasts a peaceful quiet. Although it’s not off-limits to younger generations, the typical resident requires calm nights and low-drama days without the bustle of children screaming in the streets. Lights out no later than 9 p.m. is how it must be, dictated not by any association but by the residents themselves. This rule is also to be obeyed on weekends—a rule that successfully dissuades the younger crowds from even trying to lease a unit. Exceptions happen, however—very few exceptions.
A cluster of pines encircles the little community paradise, barricading the street from the rest of the city, with deep woods to the south whispering calm poetry in the breeze of the valley. Street lamps flicker to life, illuminating wrought iron swirls and manicured boxwoods—even the pavement glitters from chipped pieces of quartz and limestone embedded within. Only the buzz of electricity and rustling pines can be heard through the void. A visitor could mistake the community for a fairy tale.
Charles peers out his front door, blue robe parted ever so slightly, revealing a peek of ivory-striped silk pajama bottoms and no shirt. He looks left to right, making sure he’s alone. Getting caught breaking the rules at this hour would most certainly subject him to ridicule at the next complex meeting, and no one wants to be ridiculed by the curmudgeons here. Alas, his bichon frise needs to pee. He’s met with silence and emptiness.
He exhales sharply and tiptoes on handsomely quilted black slippers, the little white dog in the crook of his arm.
"Shhh, shhh, shhh, Bella," he warns the dog, delicately placing her on the ground. Obedient little thing, she does her business quickly and scurries back to Charles, tail wagging. "Good girl," he whispers, scooping her back in his arms. He takes a last look around for signs of a witness.
A small crash and tinkling sound break the silence. His heart leaps into his throat, and he turns on his heel to disappear behind the heavy soundproof door. A click and scraping sound secures him inside as the shadow of his gaze eclipses the peephole. The front room is now dark.
An in-ground sprinkler system springs to life, click-clicking a new song into the night. The moisture rains down over the perfect green grass and boxwoods, drizzling down the sidewalk. Swollen droplets arc under the lamplight, glistening as they drop fat and wet over the surface of squirming, pallid flesh. The smooth gray-green meat quivers and pulsates over the glittering pavement, creating a trail of thick, milky slime. When morning comes, no doubt the residents will not approve.
Each home's sprinkler system activates promptly, washing over the sidewalk and through viscous puddles forming on them. Great jellyfish blobs of the slime coagulate and rush to the sewer, revealing fresh and clean pavement once again, as if the mere threat of chastisement from the community reached out through each unit to activate the sprinklers.
A human pair of feet take tentative steps on the pavement, feeling each grain with a wriggle of the toe and an approving curl from the gray meat. The skin has a yellow hue, with a dark network of spider veins that can be seen just under the slightly translucent surface. The feet, with cracked and bleeding toenails, remain motionless on the spot, feeling the ground and learning more about their environment. More tentative steps, more learning.
The creature runs its tongue over layers of tiny teeth, relishing the taste of human life lingering on its palette. The sharp flavor of metal and warm protein lingers in its mouth—fresh, as if it had just eaten a raw steak made from a cut of this human. There is a distinct profile so strong that, with its inner eye, the creature can picture the contours of the human it tastes on its wretched tongue. In a moment of psychic connection, it is aware of the target's fears, pains, loves, motivations, and future movements. It knows where the target will be approximately fifteen hours from this moment, the exact amount of time the creature would require to travel there. The flavor has opened up the target's life to the creature—a knowing only reserved for them and God, perverted by the quivering mass of gray flesh. The sweet, lingering flavor of the human drives the beast forward like a slave beckoning the call of a primal scent trail.
The bare yellowish feet once again begin their walk among the squishy tendrils, making soft pats against the pavement. Sunken black eyes set deep within a manlike head survey the environment, observing every plant, every building, every object. It understands the terrain and learns it well. It must return to this spot. It must bring its human. It must return for its children.
The tendrils curl and coil, some wrapping and unwrapping around the creature’s legs, while others help the legs with traveling. A few others trail behind it, undulating through the air like a cursed cape.
In the distance, the creature spies a copse of pines that leads to a more extensive thicket. It plans to use the cover of trees to travel unhindered by unknown threats. The yellow feet clatter toward the copse, making tiny patters over the surface. The feet levitate once the aid of two slick tendrils begin to roll by its side. The tut-tut-tut of night sprinklers fades, and the pallid flesh ducks under cover, away from the spotlight of streetlamps.
Once inside the cover of trees, the creature puts its yellow feet back down, sucking in fresh air through its mouth with a long extension of the human chest. Pressing its tongue against the roof of its mouth, it holds the scent inside, searching for the target's signal. After a few moments, the scent is captured, and the mass disappears farther into the thicket.
As it weaves through the trees, a blanket of slime coats the trunks, dripping slowly down the bark as foul sap. The creature moves slowly, observing its surroundings...learning. It hears noises in the distance.
"Just one last hit, Duane. Then I'll go clean." Jerry rolls up his tattered flannel sleeve to uncover a bruised, pockmarked arm. Using his teeth, he ties an old rotted rubber gasket around his bicep and flicks his inner arm.
"Whatever, man. Do what you want is what I say." Duane leans against a tree, the needle already deep into a vein. He smiles in relief, revealing a broken and rotting mouth tucked inside tufts of unkempt beard hair.
Jerry makes his move to prick his vein but stops, the needle hovering over his arm. "Do you hear that?" His ears flex to pick up the sounds of the forest.
"Nah, man. It's just the drugs. Don't sweat it. Just lie back," Duane thumps down onto the grass, making snow angels with his arms as his eyelids droop.
Jerry hesitates, lifting the needle away from his arm to focus his ears on the foreign sounds. This can't just be in my head. I haven't even shot up yet, he reasons. Looking around frantically, he hears more crackling of twigs and soft squelching noises. His eyes find what his ears are searching for when he catches a glimpse of a shadow not far from his and Duane's encampment. He nudges Duane, whose body flops against Jerry's hand.
"Duane...Duane! There's something there. Get up!" Jerry hisses through his teeth. Duane moans and rolls over, twirling blades of grass with an index finger.
Then Jerry sees it—not quite human, not fully alien, but a hybrid bubble of flesh and bone. It squirms through the forest, approaching the pair. The closer it comes, the more Jerry can see it has a very human head almost merging with a torso held high. It slides toward the pair.
"What...the hell?" Jerry's needle slips from his grip and hits the grass. His mouth is agape while his eyes labor over the horrible sight.
The creature looks down at him with black eyes and a hypnotic blankness as if blind to Jerry's presence. It glides along, cracking twigs and shuffling over the long grass while locking blank eyes with Jerry. Now he knows it’s watching him—Jerry's bottom lip trembles as he slinks his shoulders back to make himself smaller. As the creature stares at him, the coiling tentacles sway behind it. It ambles on human feet, taking in the sight of Jerry and the rolled figure beside him in the grass. Jerry swallows a thick lump down his throat, feeling the burning gaze and terrified of the beast’s motive.
The creature looks away, continuing past him. Jerry exhales sharply, his head dizzy from the fear trapped in his chest. It wades farther away from the pair through grass and mud. The pale gray-and-yellow flesh folds away into the shadow of the thicket.
Jerry fishes through the grass for the dropped needle and studies the barrel. He sees the liquid still inside, reassuring him that he didn’t accidentally dose himself. He nudges Duane again, this time making him roll onto his back.
"Did you see that?" Jerry swallows hard again, his dry tongue running over cracked lips. "What the hell was that?"
"Yeah, dude. I see it, too. Pretty cool," Duane lies to Jerry and rolls over once again.
"I'm pretty sure that was a naked man, D!"
"You're high."
"No, I swear! It was a naked man! He was carrying a squid or somethin’."
"Now I know you're high."
Jerry cranes his neck to peer into the folds of darkness where the creature disappeared. The hybrid man is gone. He lies back down, glaring empty into the starless night, feeling his heart thrum in his ears and hearing the tiny voice in his head calling out to give up drugs.
The brute creeps through the woods on tender yellow toes, having found only two other humans that weren’t the target. The rest of the forest is quiet and undisturbed, with only the sounds of singing insects and the scuttling of tiny beings that scatter at his presence. The beings are familiar—little hairy things with eyes that glow in the dark. Occasionally, he uses his tendrils to stand higher to gain a better view of the path forward. The furry critters dive through leaves and tall grass. Others perch in the trees, staring down at him from their towers.
Much time passes using the slow method of human foot-walking, yet the creature once again registers the sweet signal of the target from the air. Renewed excitement brews through his insides, rushing in a flow of warmth that spreads through his entire form. The sun peeking through the canopy of trees has been slowly searing his flesh during the long journey to this place, causing fluid-filled sacs to swell on his yellow skin. He prefers the coolness of the night and the cover it provided during the journey. Now, the daylight hurts his eyes and makes him slow. The trek hasn’t been easy, with fresh raw pus leaking from foot skin as blisters pop and shred. The periodic mud wells are welcome pit stops to press his feet into, and he packs them with cool orange and brown earth. Travel time eventually dries and cracks his earth shoes, starting the process all over again until the next mud well. His inner voice screams at the pain, but he must carry on. The target awaits.
At last, he arrives at the end of his journey, the woods opening to a clearing. His feet drip with fresh earth shoes as he taps the protected toes onto a solid surface, not unlike the one he came from at the beginning of his journey. He breaks into a broad grin, seeing the structure from his dreams before him: a sleek black form tucked deep among the swath of old, giant trees. The structure stands proud and polished in the middle of the clearing.
A thin slime trail drips from the corner of the creature's wild grin. The human flavor that has been driving him forward intensifies in this spot. His inner voice recognizes the sights and continues to scream in protest, but the creature ignores the struggle of will. His blistered mouth cracks open to take in the aroma. He shakes his head back and forth while sucking in the surrounding air—the little hardened scales lining his neck rattle, filling the air with a snake song.
Dark eyes scan the black structure before him: north, south, east, west. He slithers closer to it, where the scent trail lingers stronger still. He opens his mouth again, more ooze dripping faster from the corners, making wet slaps on the earth below.
Deep inside, the voice grows smaller and smaller, but it knows this structure. It is a faint memory that tickles at the creature's frontal lobe, a grappling sensation between the lust for what the structure contains and the instinct telling him he might be insane. The scent pulls him against his weakened will.
The tentacles carry him directly in front of the structure, which reflects a malignant picture staring back at him on the polished surface. The heat-raised boils rise and fall, the largest of which is propped directly under his chin. It sinks and swells, making him appear like one of the forest creatures that leaps and likes the mud, too. He bobs his sickly head up and down, searching for an opening or weakness to exploit. Rising high on four thick, wet tentacles, he continues to admire his reflection on the surface. Slowly, he rears back. With great strength and the force of a wrecking ball, he launches himself through the side of the structure, scattering black shards in all directions and landing with a squishy thump in the middle of a large room. At last, there is my human. At last, I will take what I want.
