David Golemon - Event

The animal turned at the sound. The man saw the evil-looking eyes fall on him. It was a smooth, fluid motion, the air parting with a loud swish as it swung its elongated arms and, to the trooper's horror, its long, spiky tail.

Milner tried to bring his left hand up and fire his weapon, but it had caught under his right leg in his effort to back away. The animal stood before the lone trooper and just stared at him. It took a step forward, then another, its hind claws sinking deeply into the dark earth, the massive tail swishing the air behind it. Then a blackened tongue rolled from its mouth and the beast roared, shaking its head, sending out the armored plates layered on its thick neck.

On the surface of the desert above, a hawk swept low across the hardpan and lit for a moment at the mouth of the large hole the cruiser had fallen through. When the triumphant scream of the animal sounded, followed by gunfire, the screaming of Arizona State Trooper Milner began. The small bird of prey cocked its head and then quickly flew away, leaving the desert motionless once again.

Below the surface of Fort Platt, the Destroyer fed.

The dining room window of his mother's bar and grill afforded Billy Dawes a view of the piece of desert entrapped in the large valley, and for the first time in his young life the view didn't hold imaginings of adventurous things. It now seemed to be holding a dark secret that was hidden from him and those around him. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the world out there was different somehow and it made him wish they lived where there was no desert, valley, or stone mountains.

As he turned from the window, he saw two tourists, a man with plaid shorts and black socks, and another, who had to be his wife, with a sunburned face. Both were sitting at the bar eating hamburgers and drinking Cokes; they had spent the last half an hour arguing over the map they had just purchased from Phil's Texaco. There was also Tony Amos, trying his best to stay on one of the high barstools and not succeeding well at all; the beer glass he had in front of him had been emptied twenty minutes before. Then there was Billy's mother. She was wiping water rings off the bar with a dish towel as she looked his way and smiled.

Julie Dawes had purchased the bar a year after the death of Billy's father in a mining accident. Billy was proud of his mom, the way she handled the bar and grill and the constant fending off of advances by the miners and construction workers who found their way into the Broken Cactus. She was still pretty at age thirty-eight.

She gave him a wink as he walked back behind the bar and started cutting limes and lemons for tonight's run.

She walked up behind him, lightly throwing the bar towel over her shoulder. "Why don't you go riding for a while before it gets too dark, baby? I'll do that."

Billy cut the lime on the cutting board into four wedges and sighed.

"Gus is in the mountains," he answered, hoping she didn't see the worry on his face as he didn't want to answer any questions about how he was feeling about the desert.

Julie raised her left eyebrow. "That's never stopped you before. I thought you liked it out there."

Billy set the knife down and looked through the large plate-glass window again. He wiped the acidic juice from the fruit on the apron he had tied around his waist, then brushed back some of his brown hair as it fell across his forehead.

"I don't want to go out there today." He hesitated. "I... I think I'll wait until Gus gets back."

Julie didn't really like Billy's only having one friend. And that friend being Gus Tilly, who was old enough to be his great-grandfather, made it worse. Oh, she liked the old man well enough, but she thought it couldn't be too healthy for Billy to be around Gus only. For that very reason she was thinking of selling the Broken Cactus and moving back to the Phoenix area. The boy needed kids his own age.

"What's wrong with you, kiddo?" she asked.

Billy turned and faced his mother, then glanced at the two tourists who had driven up in one of those battleship-sized Winnebagos. They were busy looking at a map, arguing about whether they wanted to drive to the San Carlos Reservation or move on to New Mexico and Carlsbad Caverns, and weren't listening, but he lowered his voice anyway.

"Something... I don't know, Mom." He looked at his tennis shoes. "It's weird out there since yesterday and I don't know why."

Julie looked out the window a moment, then patted his head. "Why don't you go upstairs and watch TV for a while and I'll bring you a couple of cheeseburgers, okay?"

Billy acted out the best smile he could muster and nodded his head. "Yeah, that'll be great."

Julie Dawes watched her son as he sadly climbed the stairs. Then she turned to the window and the street beyond. She didn't know what her son was talking about, but for some unknown reason, she wished more people would arrive a little earlier tonight just for the added company. Then Tony, the town's lonely drunk, tapped his glass.

"I'll take one more beer, then tha's all," the drunk slurred, raising his head.

Julie turned and shook her head. "I think you'll not. You go and lay down in your truck until later, and then we'll see about another."

He raised his head and squinted at Julie. "I have a truck?" he asked, swaying.

Julie watched him stumble off the stool and out the door. Then she looked out the window at the desert beyond and pondered what Billy had said about something being wrong in the valley.

Gus sat at the rickety kitchen table in his one-room shack and sipped the now cold coffee from an old, chipped mug. The chair creaked as he leaned forward to eye his guest, who was almost totally covered by the old green army blanket he had laid over its battered body. There was no movement other than the occasional shiver or spasm. As he watched, the feeling of helplessness had once again seeped into his mind.

Gus now understood that, for reasons he would never quite understand, he had been feeling this little guy's thoughts. Those snippets of thought had guided the old man in how and where he'd bandaged the strange visitor, placing an old Ace bandage around its middle, taking the pressure off of what he hoped was just a couple of broken or cracked ribs. As soon as he had rubbed the area down with alcohol and put the stretch bandage on, the small creature seemed to breathe better.

The head wound was a little easier. He sprayed Bactine into it, then applied some iodine, making the little thing in the bed wince in pain. He used gauze out of his bathroom medicine cabinet to wrap the bulbous head.

Tilly shook his head as he set the coffee mug on the old kitchen table, which had clearly seen better days, then stood up. He stretched and yawned. As he did, he saw the blanket, and above that were the large eyes looking at him.

"You awake there, little guy?" he asked, taking a tentative step toward the bed.

Gus had carried him the whole seven miles back to his small house, calling out for his mule, Buck, most of the way. He was bone tired.

The old man took another hesitant step toward the old army-surplus metal cot. He placed his gnarled hand to his unshaven cheek and scratched.

"Ya feelin' any better?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, looking for the smallest of movements.

Slowly, the top of the blanket slid down. The fingers that gripped the rough material of the green blanket were long and thin. The hands were still dirty because Gus had let the small creature sleep instead of waking it with water and a washcloth. He saw the huge almond-shaped eyes blink and winced as he saw the lids disappear into the side of the thing's head. That would take some getting used to, he thought. Then his visitor slowly raised his head.