Anthony DeCosmo - Disintegration

A dim glow from the cloudy afternoon slipped in through several wide windows to provide some illumination; tactical lights on their M4 carbines did the rest.

They saw a drop ceiling that had literally dropped in several places with electrical cords, tiles, and bent metal rods drooping from above. They also saw several doors leading away from the room as well as a buffet counter where students had once stood in line for meals.

"Damn," Sal coughed. "What the hell is that smell?"

"Rotting food?" Jon hoped.

Shepherd said, "Something worse than that, I think."

Two more Rottweilers entered and the dogs fanned out, sniffing the air as they moved.

"Looky here," Shepherd shined his light toward a metal door. A coating of slime covered the letters 'office' on a small placard. Dents pounded around the frame suggested that whatever had left the slime had also tried to batter in the door.

"Wow," Jon said, "I can't wait to meet-"

A sharp bark cut him off. The dogs pointed their eyes, ears, and snouts toward the buffet counter. Something moved back there.

The three men raised their rifles in that direction.

"Hey," Jon called. "We're friends. C'mon out, we're here to help."

No answer. No reaction. No movement.

Shepherd grabbed a metal napkin holder from the floor, held it for the others to see, and then tossed it over the counter. It hit out of sight with a clang.

The 'survivor' revealed itself in the shine of their flashlights: Green, big, and pissed. It 'crawled' up the wall with the speed of a sprinter. The dogs burst into barks. M4s spit fire.

After reaching the ceiling, the monster slithered toward them upside-down: a big star-shaped creature with slimy slug skin and a center bulb with two Squid-like eyes.

Bullets from the trio of carbines ripped away more ceiling tiles, sparked off metal struts, and sent clouds of dust exploding from above, yet several rounds found their mark. Yellow goo erupted and the creature fell from the ceiling, scattering the quartet of dogs as it plopped to the floor. A smelly fluid dribbled from the motionless fiend.

"Been here one friggin day," Sal complained. "And I nearly get eaten by a god damn-"

"AAAAAA!" screamed a loud voice: a battle cry of sorts.

That voice came from a man who rushed out from the 'office' door wielding a baseball bat. He ran straight for the now-dead Star monster and battered it with his weapon again, and again; thump- squish; thump- squish.

"Relax there, partner," Shep grabbed the bat away. "We took care of it."

"A…guys?" Sal's voice wavered.

Sal stood straight with a pistol pressed to his temple. The man with the bat had not been the only one hiding in the office. In fact, a whole family of folks came from there, including one man now holding a gun to Sal's head.

"Hey, whoa, easy there," Shepherd slowly set the baseball bat on the floor.

"I'm doing the talking. Rifles on the ground, now."

The 30-ish man had thin, dirty jet-black hair and sported an overgrown beard that was the work of time, not choice. His hand trembled as he held a Glock to Sal's head. His clothes-a Penn State jumpsuit with the gift shop price tag still attached-hung loose from his bony body.

Jon said, "We're all friends here."

The man who had swung the baseball bat-a South Asian looking fellow-said, "Mister Washburn, I am not thinking this is the correct course of action."

Washburn-the man with the pistol-answered, "I've seen what happens when you trust people these days. These three could be cannibals like those whacks I ran into last month. No thanks, Danny doesn't want to end up on the menu."

"Is that your name? Danny?" Jon asked. "Hey, Danny, we're looking for survivors. We've got all kinds of supplies and food a few miles from here."

The darker-skinned baseball-bat man said, "Is that true? Would my family be welcome?"

Jon glanced to the office and saw whom else the baseball bat protected: a lovely woman, a six-year-old boy, and a girl of eleven or so, all sharing the same complexion as their father.

Jon said, "That's why we're here. Our dogs picked up the scent of survivors."

Danny held firm. "Food? Yeah, sure. We'd probably be the main course."

Jon tried another approach.

"No, no. For our main course we usually have steak."

Danny's gun wavered.

"Steak?"

Jon repeated what he learned the night before: "It seems Sal here is the expert Chef in our group. How would you do them, Sal?"

Sal, the gun to his head, mumbled out one corner of his mouth, "Huh? Ah, well, I would, um, well I'd broil a couple of fillets, get a real good, you know, sizzle going. Gotta leave a bit of pink through the middle. Real juicy, capire?"

"Jui-cy?"

Sal relaxed despite the gun thanks to his passion for cooking. "I make a mean mushroom glaze with a little, um, Worcestershire sauce and olive oil."

Jon stepped forward, smiled, and said, "The wine cellar is stocked with Merlots that wash steak down perfectly but you don't want to eat too much at dinner. We've got one of those ice cream machines-you know, the kind with the crank-and with the fresh milk from the farm, well, I think we've got a pint of Strawberry in the freezer right now."

Danny blinked fast and said, "You got all kinds of supplies at this place? And…steaks?"

"Yes," Jon said. "Everything you need and lots to eat."

Danny removed the gun from Sal's temple and popped the magazine.

"Do you got any bullets? I've been empty for three weeks now."

– Trevor had decided the first-floor den was too small for an effective nerve center and he did not like the big French windows behind the desk; they made the room feel exposed. Nonetheless, he stored some reference materials there and was searching through data on the water table in the Wyoming Valley when Jon and his charge of survivors entered.

Jon announced as the five arrivals filed in, "Trevor, may I present Omar Nehru, his wife Anita, and their children."

Once again, Jon beamed. Another successfully completed mission that, in this case, began when a patrol caught scent of humans at the nearby Penn State Lehman campus.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Trevor extended his hand.

"I must be thanking you quite much," Omar shook Trevor's hand fast. "If for no other reason than to save us from the ramblings of Mr. Washburn."

Danny Washburn-a smile forcing its way from beneath the overgrown beard-entered last and waved at the mention of his name.

Omar continued, "We were considering mass suicide. Living on the Bisquik and cans of the fruit was difficult enough, but we have lived with Mr. Washburn's juvenile puns for nearly two months and that has been making us contemplate such drastic action."

Washburn said, "Don't let Omar's Quickie Mart accent fool you; it's just a front to keep you guessing. It goes away when he's scared or really pissed."

Anita stepped forward, cutting off her husband's response before it started.

"Thank you, Mr. Stone, for having us." Despite a ragged appearance from months of hiding and-apparently-refereeing between Omar and Danny, Anita Nehru came across as a woman of intelligence and grace. "We are all quite hungry and my son has a bad cough."

Trevor knelt in front of the young boy. Like his mother, the child appeared thin and worn but also like his mother he saw a strength-a dignity-in his eyes.

Jon said, "Omar here was an Engineering Professor at Penn State."

Trevor glanced to Jon, then back to the boy and said, "We have some antibiotics in stock that'll fix you right up, little guy." He stood and faced Omar. "Is that true?"

"Yes, this is true. We came from India five years ago for the position. I am thinking it was a bad decision after all that has happened. Would you be having any cigarettes?"