The Nick Of Time
(and other Abrasions)
A Heart Full Of Dust
by
Al Bruno III
(Four)
Night had fallen and the lantern had gone out. Vagabond lay there alone in the dark greenhouse drifting to and from sleep. The dreams that came to him were troubling, dreams of another, simpler life. The storm had broken a few hours ago and he stared out of the glass ceiling at the broken constellations. His tongue felt swollen and dry, the memory of Lily's kiss hung on his lips.
He shifted to his other side and rested his cheek against the cool metal floor.
Lord it was humid!
A dark cloud drifted lazily across the sky, almost seeming to consume the pale stars. Was this all his Cause had gotten him? Was he more hated than the Monarchs themselves? And all things considered wasn’t a bullet in the back of his head the least of what he deserved?
The dark cloud seemed to be breaking up, dividing and subdividing into smaller shapes and those shapes seemed to swell on their own as they drifted this way and that.
His captor was the main problem. Rhea wasn’t going to forgive him and she certainly wasn’t going to be reasoned with. That meant escape was his only option.
His mind was buzzing with possibilities and memories, some plausible, most not. He was sure that one drink of water was all he needed to clear his head. Parched didn't even begin to describe how he felt, his mouth tasted like death.
Twisting until he was sitting upright he glared resentfully at the Quonset Hut. He imagined them in there with their fresh water and canned beans. Didn't they know a man could dehydrate under these conditions? Didn't they care?
One of the clouds touched down on top of the Quonset hut and scrabbled to the ground.
He goggled and looked skyward. Rescuers come for him?
He didn't think so.
High-pitched whistlings filled the air. Vagabond pistoned his legs, propelling himself across the greenhouse floor until he bumped up against the table where Lily had left her freshly potted shoots. He kicked at one of the table legs until it broke. Gardening tools and plants tumbled to the floor, the tools just clanged but the pots shattered spilling their contents. He wondered why he hadn't thought of this before, or at the very least remembered.
More of the dark-clad intruders touched down and wings folding back into their carapaces.
He scrabbled in the dirt until he got hold of one the pieces of broken pottery. Working as quickly as he could he began to saw away at the ropes, not caring if he cut himself in the process. “Come on,” he whispered, “come on.”
The rope gave away. His hands were free- bloody but free.
One of the dark figures crashed though the greenhouse roof, wings trailing after it like a veil of darkness.
Slivers of glass rained down. Cursing he worked at the ropes around his ankles. There were too many knots so he just used the pottery again.
The intruder reared up to its full eight feet in height, its proboscis quivering as it whistled.
With a grunt of relief he cut the ropes around his ankles away and bolted for the doorway. There were guns in the Quonset hut he could use to repel the intruders, or at the very least he could pelt them with hopelessly out of date Vienna sausages.
He slammed into the locked door. The glass cracked but did not break. Dazed he stumbled back, into the invader's waiting arms.
Those arms wrapped around him with crushing force, lifting him off the ground. His legs flailed at the air. He could see the Quonset hut, the creatures were skittering over it, battering at the door and swarming over the roof. There were dozens of them.
The world spun out around him and before he had time to cry out he was being held upside down by the creature, his arms pinned at his sides. When they were face to face, it issued another odd whistling noise. Its breath was hot and foul-smelling; it studied him with segmented eyes. Tendrils sprouted from the end of its proboscis. These were Myrmex, creatures as unpleasant as they were impossible.
Gunfire erupted outside, creatures squealed.
The first tendril drew close to his face, he saw more tendrils growing from the end of this one; each of these was no thicker than a hair.
Some of the creatures were tearing away sections of the Quonset Hut's roof and dropping down inside.
He darted his head forward and bit hard into the main cluster of tendrils. A sickly-sweet taste filled his mouth as tore at it, ripping them away from the sensitive proboscis.
Its whistles became squeals and it flung him away with all its might. He crashed through one of the glass walls. The impact knocked him unconscious; the glass tore his clothing and the flesh beneath it to shreds.
He shifted to his other side and rested his cheek against the cool metal floor.
Lord it was humid!
A dark cloud drifted lazily across the sky, almost seeming to consume the pale stars. Was this all his Cause had gotten him? Was he more hated than the Monarchs themselves? And all things considered wasn’t a bullet in the back of his head the least of what he deserved?
The dark cloud seemed to be breaking up, dividing and subdividing into smaller shapes and those shapes seemed to swell on their own as they drifted this way and that.
His captor was the main problem. Rhea wasn’t going to forgive him and she certainly wasn’t going to be reasoned with. That meant escape was his only option.
His mind was buzzing with possibilities and memories, some plausible, most not. He was sure that one drink of water was all he needed to clear his head. Parched didn't even begin to describe how he felt, his mouth tasted like death.
Twisting until he was sitting upright he glared resentfully at the Quonset Hut. He imagined them in there with their fresh water and canned beans. Didn't they know a man could dehydrate under these conditions? Didn't they care?
One of the clouds touched down on top of the Quonset hut and scrabbled to the ground.
He goggled and looked skyward. Rescuers come for him?
He didn't think so.
High-pitched whistlings filled the air. Vagabond pistoned his legs, propelling himself across the greenhouse floor until he bumped up against the table where Lily had left her freshly potted shoots. He kicked at one of the table legs until it broke. Gardening tools and plants tumbled to the floor, the tools just clanged but the pots shattered spilling their contents. He wondered why he hadn't thought of this before, or at the very least remembered.
More of the dark-clad intruders touched down and wings folding back into their carapaces.
He scrabbled in the dirt until he got hold of one the pieces of broken pottery. Working as quickly as he could he began to saw away at the ropes, not caring if he cut himself in the process. “Come on,” he whispered, “come on.”
The rope gave away. His hands were free- bloody but free.
One of the dark figures crashed though the greenhouse roof, wings trailing after it like a veil of darkness.
Slivers of glass rained down. Cursing he worked at the ropes around his ankles. There were too many knots so he just used the pottery again.
The intruder reared up to its full eight feet in height, its proboscis quivering as it whistled.
With a grunt of relief he cut the ropes around his ankles away and bolted for the doorway. There were guns in the Quonset hut he could use to repel the intruders, or at the very least he could pelt them with hopelessly out of date Vienna sausages.
He slammed into the locked door. The glass cracked but did not break. Dazed he stumbled back, into the invader's waiting arms.
Those arms wrapped around him with crushing force, lifting him off the ground. His legs flailed at the air. He could see the Quonset hut, the creatures were skittering over it, battering at the door and swarming over the roof. There were dozens of them.
The world spun out around him and before he had time to cry out he was being held upside down by the creature, his arms pinned at his sides. When they were face to face, it issued another odd whistling noise. Its breath was hot and foul-smelling; it studied him with segmented eyes. Tendrils sprouted from the end of its proboscis. These were Myrmex, creatures as unpleasant as they were impossible.
Gunfire erupted outside, creatures squealed.
The first tendril drew close to his face, he saw more tendrils growing from the end of this one; each of these was no thicker than a hair.
Some of the creatures were tearing away sections of the Quonset Hut's roof and dropping down inside.
He darted his head forward and bit hard into the main cluster of tendrils. A sickly-sweet taste filled his mouth as tore at it, ripping them away from the sensitive proboscis.
Its whistles became squeals and it flung him away with all its might. He crashed through one of the glass walls. The impact knocked him unconscious; the glass tore his clothing and the flesh beneath it to shreds.
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