H Romero - The Girl Who's Made of Leaves - Post Apocalyptic Science Fiction

Except for the green men speaking amongst themselves, in hushed and worried voices, the first night in the Alamo is quiet, but the men believe there’s something stirring in the darkness of the old courtyard. Something slithering between the fabric which parts the shadow from the light, and at times in the early morning, ghostly-sheer, shadows jostle along the crevices of the buildings dotting the area.

The next morning comes, and everyone is exhausted because no one slept very well at all. The large front door is thrown open and the cool and golden crisp morning detracts from the feeling of imminent danger, following them like buzzards waiting for the death throes of a small animal.

Connors calls for the men to gather around at the yaw of the entryway. He’s studying a large paper map and directing men to go out to different areas of the city. It’s a supply run. They need water, food, ammo, weapons, and anything else worth salvaging.

Despite ever-growing unease, Connors decides to stay in San Antonio for another night so the green men can get some “quality sack-time.”

Some take their turn on watch, while the others sleep. There is less chatter and more snoring than on the previous night. Even Rose can find a nice corner on the North side of the mission in which to curl up. But, before long, she’s startled awake by someone speaking in broken sentences, and she can taste the bitterness of fear building in the air.

Sergeant Hollander who’s awake says something into the ear of one of the green man they call Private Little, not because it’s his name, but because he is very young and perhaps too small for his age. Private Little moves across the room and taps the, sleeping, major’s shoulder. Connors wakes on the first light tap.

After a few traded words, Connors points to the front of the Alamo, where the big double doors hang, closed and barricaded from the inside. He’s giving orders and drawing an imaginary circle in the air with his finger. He is scanning the darkness of the building.

The men are being wakened, one at a time. Others, already awake, place their hands over the mouths of the ones just waking, so they don’t make any noise. The major signals for them to keep down and remain quiet.

Dr. Valentine positions herself so that she’s closer to Rose and Nettle.

“What is it?” says Rose. She wants to touch Dr. Valentine, to gain comfort from the connection with the woman, but she knows the no contact rule has been reinstated and very much in effect, so as difficult as it is, she doesn’t touch her. She can smell the woman’s sweat, and it smells sweet in the cool darkness of the mission, but the smell of fear is drowning it out.

“I’m not sure. I’ll find out, you and Nettle wait right here. Don’t move, okay?” Valentine dusts the grittiness of decades of dirt from her pants. The particles fall to the floor in a small shower.

“What do you mean you think “ It’s” inside? What is “ It,” Private?” says Connors. He orders the men to their feet.

They prepare themselves, making as little noise as they can manage. Impenetrable shadows cling to the walls and drape the corners of the building like cobwebs.

A small fire in the stone ring does nothing to light up the veil of the deep black cover. Rose watches, her eyes peeled for motion, she sees nothing, at first. Then there’s a flutter of movement. The motion is followed by a shuffle of sound. “Major,” she says. “It’s something… some… things are watching us from over there.” She points into the chasm of shadows.

“Weapons up, and fire only on my command,” Connors says, struggling to maintain a level of calm. He squints his eyes almost shut so he can see into the deep recesses of gloom. How many things? What are they doing? Can you tell how many there are?”

“They’re waiting, just there, and watching us,” says Rose pulling her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly to her body. She buries her face in her knees to hide her eyes, fearing the inevitable.”

“Why can’t we see them, Rose?” says Dr. Valentine.

“Because they make you think you can’t, that’s why. They’re already inside your heads like Hawthorne got inside the green men’s heads before.”

“Private Little, build up the fire,” says Connors.

The private dutifully moves toward the smoldering stone ring as he’s been ordered. He bends down retrieving a broken chair back, in one shaking hand, while holding his pistol in the other. He slinks cautiously towards the ring which is some twenty feet from the relative safety of the group. He freezes, moving his head from side to side, slowly, snake-like. He drops the chair back, and it clatters dully to the floor. His hand searches wildly for his pistol. He panics. Hands flailing. He breath come faster, the depth is shallow, and turn into high-pitched gasps of terror.

Hands the color of burnt charcoal reach outward and grasp Private Little by his gaunt face. He’s pulled away from the light. He screams for help. The green men shout for him. Men closest to him run to the place where he was last seen. The major stops them in their tracks, calling them back to their places.

Private Little’s blood-gurgling screams fill the cavity of the sanctuary. Crying gasps for help echo from the rafters, and the thick walls of the Alamo, for a long time before fading away into nothingness. The soldiers plead with Connors to let them go in a rescue the private. Hollander stumbles forward, but Connors tackles him. He won’t have any of it.

“Until I have a better idea as to what we’re dealing with here, no one moves, no one talks, and no one fires, in case Little isn’t already dead,” says the major. But no one acts like there’s much hope of Little still in there, looking back at them.

The only sound in the Alamo is of heavy breathing. No one’s moving. Major Connors stands in place thinking for a few moments before surprising everyone. He dashes across the room closing the distance between the safety of the group and the shadowland where all the dark things dwell.

Hollander scrambles futilely to grab the major, to hold him back from what could only be certain death, but Connors is too far away to stop, and already he’s reaching for the chair back, laying where Private Little dropped it on the cobblestones. He flings the chair, it lands, covering a feeble tongue of flame. The fire dies out entirely. Thin and cooling spirals of light-gray smoke rise in little coils toward the unseen ceiling above. There’s no time to stir the coals and get the fire going. He turns, without stopping, and runs as fast as his legs will carry him, back to where the group is waiting.

Something’s moving again. This time it’s running alongside Connors. The major hasn’t noticed it’s stalking him, so Rose calls out to warn him. Hearing her, he veers away from the danger and safely returns to the group. The green men are a ball of raw nerve endings, but their driving needs to avenge Private Little overrides their terror.

They wait, hoping against all hope, hemmed in at all sides by predators of other-worldly origin, hell-bent and determined to destroy them one and all, they wait. Rose wills the chair back to catch fire, but the flames were smothered. Only a small palmful of throbbing, marbled coals remain scattered in the center of a light blanket of ash.

It’s not probable, but the shadows themselves seem to close slowly in, all around the group, from all sides, leaving just the narrowest margin of sickly orange light around them. A faltering halo from small flickering lanterns placed around the perimeter of the group is the last light any of them will likely see.

The structure grows humid. Clammy skin drips with moisture, and the temperature plummets several degrees. Water vapor spouts from open mouths and flaring nostrils. Rose remains huddled in the corner with her head buried behind her knees.