Ike Hamill: Migrators

The box fell from his ruined arm.

The circle was closed.

Alan fell backwards, clutching his arm to his chest. The thing tugged at his finger bones as they crossed the line of borax, but it released and Alan fell onto his back.

Bob reached his torch over the circle. Alan watched through the tears flooding down his face. The fire at the end of the stick went out. Bob kept threading the torch towards the fire, careful to keep his hands on the right side of the borax circle. As soon as the rag was sheltered from the wind behind the pile of wood, the flame sprang back to life. It had barely touched the pile when the bonfire lit.

Flames shot up from the pile.

Liz shouted her chants over the popping of the fire.

She moved away from the heat. She kept her pace even and controlled, but her head swiveled back and forth as she looked at the creatures that Alan and Bob couldn’t see. She turned to face the fire and stepped backwards over the line, out of the circle.

“Yes,” Alan whispered. His tears gushed with his relief.

Liz was at his side in an instant.

“Alan. Oh my god, what have we done?” Liz asked.

Bob came to his other side.

Alan squeezed the tears from his eyes and he turned to look back at Joe. His son’s jaw hung down in horror and his hands were pressed against the screen. The boy looked past the adults to the bonfire. Alan turned to follow Joe’s gaze. The flames reached high into the night.

If he unfocused his eyes and let the dancing flames blur, Alan could see what his son saw. There were shadows moving in front of the flames. They were thrown by the migrators, and they were frantic. The migrators were trying to flee the fire, but the circle of borax gave them nowhere to hide. They moved so fast, but when Alan blinked he saw still-frames of their movement. It was the panicked hands-and-feet gallop of a frightened ape. They ran counterclockwise around the fire.

“We have to call this off, Alan,” Liz said. “You need a hospital immediately. I’m going to call for an ambulance.”

She dug in her pocket for her phone.

“That won’t work,” Alan said.

“What?”

“Your phone,” Alan said.

She looked at it and stabbed the face with her finger. Her hand fell to her side when she realized that Alan was right.

“We’ll drive then,” she said.

“No,” Alan said. He rose to his feet. He wrapped his good arm around his bad. One of the blood vessels near his elbow hadn’t been cauterized completely and blood oozed down the front of his jacket. Urine soaked the front of Alan’s pants.

“You’ll lose the hand, Alan,” Liz said. “It’s a hundred times worse than your foot. And your arm! Oh my god.”

Alan looked to Bob. The man was still holding the long torch. His gaze shifted between Alan and the fire.

“How long do we have to wait, Bob?” Alan asked.

“Until they reverse their direction,” Bob said. “The book said it’s too dangerous to go in until they start running clockwise and they slow down. Of course, the book only talked about trapping one at a time.”

“No,” Liz said. “Sophia caught two one time. She didn’t have any problems. And in the passing ceremony, they used as many as would come.”

Bob nodded.

“Alan,” Liz said. “You need help for your hand and arm.”

“We’ve come this far,” Alan said. “It’s working. I don’t want to turn back.”

“Guys,” Bob said. He was pointing.

Alan had to blur his eyes again and let them get lost in the fire to see what Bob referred to. The shadows were moving from right to left now. They were circling the fire clockwise and moving slower. Alan stepped forward before Liz could protest. He took a deep breath and stepped over the line. Alan stumbled. It was like stepping into a fast-moving current. The air was heavy and swirling with the movement of the migrators. As Alan’s head crossed the plane into the circle, he saw them.

The three of them ran on all fours with their faceless heads low to the ground. They circled the fire, weaving between Alan’s legs as they ran past him.

Alan struggled to remember the word. Sophia had written that the word was a command meaning “cure,” but Marie’s entry suggested that the word just meant “come to me.”

He remembered.

“Grush-sh-tep!” Alan shouted.

The things stopped moving.

“Grush-sh-tep,” he said again. Their faceless heads turned towards him. Alan felt a fresh squirt of urine release in his pants. Their attention was nothing less than terrifying.

“What’s happening, Alan?” Liz shouted. He could barely hear her over the crackling of the fire. He realized how hot the flames were.

The things approached and Alan’s fear rose. They had tasted him twice and now they were coming to eat the rest of his flesh. One of the creatures quickly flanked Alan, moving to the space between Alan and the borax line. He was trapped between the three migrators and the hot fire. They slinked forward with their faceless heads turned up to him and their torsos pressed close to the ground.

“Alan!” Liz called.

He was too frightened to reply. He could barely breath in the smokey air. One of the creatures tucked its arms to its sides and began to rear up on its legs. Alan took a step backwards and nearly stepped on another migrator. He looked down to see it spinning in place and gathering its limbs beneath itself. He considered a leap. He could try to jump the one near the line of borax. It was still on the ground. Or, he could try to jump over the fire.

Just past the migrator, he saw Liz move to the edge of the borax. He had to do something before she did something stupid, trying to save him.

Suddenly, it was too late. The migrator that had reared up in front of Alan reached out with its ugly short arms and fused hands. He couldn’t back away more, the one behind him was closing in also. They reached forward and grabbed Alan. He dropped to his knees.

He expected pain. What he felt was a deep numbing cold. It was almost a relief from the heat of the fire. He lost track of the migrators. They moved around him. Alan turned his confused eyes to the sky and wondered how long he had to live. Something jabbed him in the side. Alan saw the charred end of Bob’s torch. The burning rag had been removed. Alan grabbed at the stick and it pulled him away from the fire. He pulled himself upright, expecting the migrators to descend on him again. Alan stumbled over the borax line, into the arms of his wife.

“Alan, thank god,” Liz said.

Alan shook his head, trying to clear his eyes. The smoke still stung them and he couldn’t see clearly. He felt Bob’s hands on his foot.

“What are you doing?” Alan asked.

“Alan, stop,” Liz said. She gently pulled his arms away from his chest.

He realized that his jacket and flannel shirt were gone. He was standing there in a t-shirt. His injured foot was bare as well.

“Your foot, too!” Liz said.

“What? What’s happening?” Alan asked.

“It worked,” Bob said. “You were right.”

“What worked? I don’t remember what I was doing,” Alan said.

“Your arm and your foot. Do you remember that you lost a toe and most of your right hand?” Liz asked.

“And your elbow,” Bob said.

“Yes,” Alan said.

“Look,” Liz said.

Alan blinked again. He opened his eyes wide and let himself see. His left foot was bare and standing on the cold ground. The shoe, sock, and bandage were all gone. Instead of the nub left from the amputation of his big toe, he saw a perfectly normal digit on the end of his foot. He turned his hands to his face. They were both there—all ten fingers, no visible bones. He turned his left wrist to his eyes. He still had the scar from when he was twelve—there was apparently a limit to how much the migrators would heal.