The Cycle

Chapter Ten

HER feet touched earth, with Myra by her side. She was home. But unwelcome guests had visited home. Large paws and hoof prints littered the sand. The black water tank, mounted on a concrete podium, was clawed open, and the surrounding sand was wet with spilled water.

    A section of the cement block fence, fifteen coach high, was broken. Like a bull had charged through.

    The aftermath showed the creatures had been here. Yet the destruction was contained. It looked like the work of a mob, rather than that of chaos creatures.

    The minimal destruction made unease come over her. These were not mindless beasts. The footprints appeared frantic. But she glimpsed an orderliness — a coming together of like foot-prints. Then dispersal, to the air, and through the fence hole; a single hole, not multiple, but a single hole through which grounded ones left.

    They have intelligent awareness.

    "How many crossed?"

    "Enough."

    "Thirty, forty?"

    "More than a hundred."

    She listened for sounds, but heard none. It was high noon. Homes would be deserted. Kids at school, parents at work, and for those without white collar jobs: hustling for their daily bread, in factories, and the marketplace.

    When the next door neighbor, Mr. Okongwu, returns and sees the destruction of his property; questions that have no direction, laced with hysteria, accusing tones, and curses, will fly like stray bullets.

    Where would the creatures hide? There were no woods, not in the black district, to make camp. Soon, destruction that comes from things which  can't be seen — will spread like wildfire. Given their intelligence, hopefully, death won't come immediately. But these were flesh eating creatures. How long before intelligence gave way to animalistic desires: blood and flesh.
   
    In the coming days — blood will soak the streets.

    "This isn't your fault."

    "We both know that's a lie."

    Abigail moaned. Mabel still couldn't believe she lived. But it made her immeasurably glad.
  
    "Let's get her inside."

THE wrought-iron protector was padlocked. A good sign. Stolen people don't protect their homes.

    Or they were taken from the streets.

    She shunned the ill thought, held onto hope, and searched for the keys; found them underneath the clay pot filled with soil, in which an aloe vera plant grew.

    The main door was crafted from hardwood and polished with a dark brown finish. There was no fancy ornamental carving on the door, but four rectangular panels etched on it. Separated horizontally by a mid rail, and vertically by two mullions.

    She turned the door handle, the door hinge creaked, and darkness welcomed her. Thick drapes blocked the afternoon rays. With the flick of a switch, the living room and dining lights came on. Yellow bulbs that used much energy than was necessary.

    Get energy saver bulbs, she'd told her mother, but the woman, ever stubborn, never listened. It was her little failing.

    Despite her mother's ill health, hacking cough, occasional tremors, and a heart that approached it last thumps, it never stopped her from keeping her home in order. No slanted picture frame, unsightly gathering of cobwebs, or wayward furniture. The dining chairs were all tucked in, to leave otherwise was asking for trouble, and all side stools were in their place, set on both sides of a three seat couch, that faced the mounted flat screen TV that she got for them during a black sale.