Midnight: A Foxvalley Thriller (First Draft)✔

Prologue

May 18, 22:56

The Johnson farm, between Foxvalley and Guffey, Colorado

A blinding flash shot through a mass of pitch-black clouds molded into the giant claws of a hungry animal, waiting to feast the small ranch house in the shadows beneath. White flashed through the skylight of Henry's bathroom. The sturdy man paid no mind to the rumbling Earth outside. Instead, he filled his cupped hands with water from his stained green sink and splashed it over his face. Droplets tumbled down his nose into the drain below. He glanced at the forget mirror in front of him. A ginger-haired stranger stared back at him. Water droplets dripped down from his beard as his breath shuttered. A pale yellow towel sat beside him on a rack, standing above an old, stained toilet. He grabbed it's crispy fabric and patted his face dry. Thunder roared through outside. The earth shook beneath him. Adrenaline shot through the veins at the sound of the growling monster outside. He jerked away from the sink with wide eyes. His muscles relaxed as the thunderous roar died to an innocent pitter-patter.

He closed his eyes, his breathed out. It's alright, he told himself, everything's fine... hopefully... The disappearance of his flock tore a device between him and his "beloved" wife. Earlier that day, he went out to feed them and three remained... Three. The more he thought about it the tighter he clenched his fists. He remembered going out to feed them a few days earlier. He counted all forty of them. Since then, the number he counted dwindled more and more. The occasional missing sheep was nothing new. They could've been picked off by coyotes, but coyotes didn't take so many in one night. Something was happening to his cattle, and he would find out what. He lived off his flock. He needed to put food on his table. How could he do that without his sheep? He tossed the towel and looked back at the mysterious man in the mirror with a disheartened sigh.

Henry lifted his Remington rifle from beside the sink. He knew the time had come. His son was here now and more than ready to go out and find the culprit. He opened the bathroom door to the scarlet carpets of a long, stretching hallway. Along the vanilla and yellow striped walls hung portrait after portrait. One sat on the ground, shattered. Sharp pieces of glass shredded through the photograph of Henry, leaving his wife and son untouched. It got knocked off the wall earlier on that day during an argument between him and his wife, Kimberly. He stepped down a staircase into the living room. Blinding light flashed into the room through the windows. A younger, lanky man sat on a dark blue couch beside a  window, leaning forward in a green flannel. He tapped his white Nike shoes on the wooden floorboard, again and again, clasping his hands together.

"Ok Mark, ready to go, yet?" Henry asked.

"I guess,"

His wife, Kimberly, skinny, blonde-haired, and hot-headed, stormed out of the kitchen into the living room in black high heels, skinny blue jeans, and a silk scarlet V-neck. "Jesus! Is that all you two ever think about anymore? Sure, go out guns a'blazing! Shoot the whole goddamn neighborhood while you're at it." She asked through gritted her teeth. Henry rolled his eyes at the sound of his wife's voice. His heart slumped.

"Hey, those guns help us raise our livestock and without them we'd be broke, living in a box somewhere under a bridge. My livestock is what makes sure we have food to put on our table," Henry shouted.

"Might as well live in a box, our money's always disappearing. Can you guess why?" She asked.

"Because I'm always buying you new Goddamn shoes!"

"No, because you're always buying new guns. If we need one as bad as you say, then keep one and sell the rest?" she retorted.