Level 3
The Path of Most Resistance
Antehero and Mojave began their journey to the canyon by walking alongside a small creek, instinctively using its quiet murmur to mask the sounds of their clumsy navigation through the woods. But also taking some quiet pleasure in the constant sound of the water, like it was a companion.
Using the creek as their primary point of reference made it easy to let their eyes wander while they walked. Without having to take note of miscellaneous landmarks or worry about their bearings while traveling, they could spend the majority of their time observing their surroundings. And so their heads were constantly swiveling back and forth, and up and down.
And in this way, they followed the creek easily for quite some time. Occasionally their pace was slowed by a long rise in the gentle rolling hills, but as a general matter it was a pleasant stroll.
They continued to scan their surroundings as they walked, as much out of interest as out of precaution. They were warm enough from the ambient effect of the sun, even though they were often shaded by the trees, which leaned over them with large branches. The branches often overlapped in sufficient quantity to make the pair feel enclosed, but were high enough in the air that they could be walked under easily.
It seemed that the dense canopy of the trees and the thick growth of the grass had prevented any significant quantity of brambles or thorns from establishing themselves. So they managed a brisk pace, partially to reacclimate themselves to using their legs after their recent discombobulating trip, and partially because they knew that if they were moving quickly, at least any trouble would be more likely to come from the front.
"You ever wonder if there's a great big entity out there just smashing planets on the way to work?" Antehero asked, "The way we smash insects on our windshield driving on the highway?"
Mojave stared at him, "No, dude, no I don't wonder that. Did you eat shrooms before we ended up here? Or did the trip here microwave your brain?"
"It might have singed my nerve endings, honestly," Antehero said, taking a large step, "my balls are on fire. But, speaking of how I would normally love to have some space, and the fresh air, and the not being around people, where are all the people? Aren't we doomed to a Sisyphean nightmare of helping people? Not that I don't appreciate the opportunity."
"Have to be thankful for every moment you get, right?" Antehero continued, "But some moments are better than others, and my kids and couch are at home, but we are here. So I wouldn't mind solving this predicament and moving on from this particular moment."
Mojave was silent for a moment as he pondered scientific laws, then he said "Maybe we landed at the point of lowest electromagnetic interference on the entire planet? Probably one of the farthest points from any people or equipment out here, and all the signals we were caught up in could've followed the path of least resistance."
"I have an idea," Antehero said, "maybe we landed at the point of electromagnetic interference."
"That's what I just said," Mojave replied.
"No, you said the lowest," Antehero explained, "but your luck sucks, and I'm here with you. So I'm thinking it's not the lowest, it's the most balanced."
"We probably landed right in the middle of a shitstorm, meaning any direction we head will be a nightmare. We never get to relax. We are following the path of most resistance."
"You suck at science. But maybe you're right." Mojave noted. "And yeah, not ideal, but pointless to fight it."
"Absolute pointlessness can mean either boredom or freedom of choice. It just depends on your perspective," Antehero said as they continued walking.
Mojave sighed, "I could use some freedom of choice."
The uniform top of the grass gave the land a smooth appearance, but the ground underneath was uneven, pitted and full of both bumps and depressions, some large and some small. But it was easy for them to manage as long as they minded their step while they walked, though they were tempted to look up and amongst the branches most of the time. Once you've been attacked by monkeys, it becomes a habit.
Eventually, and it took some time because they were moving their eyes constantly, the pair noticed that the clouds, high and far away above the tops of the trees, so far away that they seemed to hang in the sky motionless, despite the fact that they must be moving. Those clouds were casting shadows on the ground around them.
And the edge of the cloud's shadow, by coincidence, fell along the ground in front of them, wavering and soft because of the interfering beams of the three suns. The line itself was never still, but quivered and reshaped with the churning of the leaves and the refraction of the moisture in the sky above.
They continued to walk in no particular formation, but far enough apart that they could dive behind separate cover and have separate angles of attack on most threats. The distance between them changed as they meandered loosely, but they stayed close enough to each other to talk. Sometimes they walked like little boys playing soldier.
"So where is the death and destruction? Maybe I shouldn't complain, but we usually have to rectify some stuff by now," Antehero finally said.
Mojave looked at him in disgust, "Why would you even say that, dude?"
"For real, though, no superstition, what are we doing here? And why is it so hot?" Antehero said, taking a wide step, "I'm pretty sure the portal microwaved the insides of my balls or something."
He fished through his wife's purse and pulled out some sunscreen, "She will kill me if I come home sunburned again," he said as he slathered it on his arms and face, before tossing the tube to Mojave.
"Maybe you can see a ball doctor when we get back." Mojave joked, squeezing the tube in his hands.
"I'll save my money. I have three kids, I don't need 'em anymore." Antehero said.
"No bug spray?" Mojave asked, as he tossed the tube back and finished rubbing sunscreen on his arms.
"Nah, she's tougher than you," Antehero said, "besides, what are the odds we'll see bugs here?"
Mojave lowered his head, like the words had weight, mouth twitching at whatever Antehero had just set loose. He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, subconsciously trying to wipe away the feeling of dread and the tiny flying bugs he could already feel landing on his neck, buzzing in his ears, and biting at him.
They continued their conversation while they walked, and the water of the creek flowed alongside them. With distance, it became more of a stream, larger across and flowing unresisted for the most part. The stream did have some large gentle curves, and occasionally the mildest of rapids, more gentle ripples than whitewater. It seemed shallow enough to wade through at any point. Eventually they came to a place where the trees opened beside them and a field stretched off a few hundred yards into the distance, before trees closed it in again. A thin, unnatural line cut a path through the otherwise lush grass.
The grass along the path didn't seem trampled, it seemed replaced, greener than the rest. A narrow, uninterrupted scratch across the field that had healed, rather than cut.
"That reminds me," Antehero said. "I want to get some play equipment for the kids, but it's like everything I see my mind just instantly goes to the worst case scenario."
Mojave was staring at the grass, and the more he stared the more he had a really uncomfortable thought. What if that line isn't old? "Yeah, worst case scenario, real dark places. I totally get that."
Antehero continued, "I used to look at a playground and see possibilities. Now I look at a playground and I see horrific possibilities."
"And it's not just playground stuff, it's everything, I can't even load the dishwasher without factoring in safety."
"But I'm not going to be the helicopter dad who raises his kids to take no risk, and then they go out into the real world unprepared. So I'm crunching numbers all day, risk-reward calculations. It's exhausting, worrying about your kids all day, every day. Is this how every dad all over the world feels all the time?"
"And then," Antehero continued, "even if you make the objectively correct mathematical choice, you still have to worry you chose wrong. Like I had to let my kid fly the other day to see family. And the math part of my brain knows he's safer on that plane than he is with me driving. But the dad part of my brain is saying you might never see your little boy again. Don't let him walk on that aluminum tube! You just let him walk on it you fucking idiot. Worry about that shit the next 5 days."
Mojave was still staring at the grass, and the green was wrong. Like something hadn't been on the grass, it had gone under it. "It doesn't make sense." he said.
"I know dude," Antehero replied. "They're kids, not trophies on shelves, they have a life to live. But the worry is nonstop. You would think we'd have a committee or something by now. Establish some ground rules for what being a dad is."
"No," Mojave continued, "The grass. It doesn't make sense. Things don't evolve to make plants grow, they evolve to eat them."
"Oh, don't even get me started on the grass," Antehero said, "half the playgrounds try to use some kind of artificial mulch. Like we need our kids playing on a pile of ground-up recycled tires. It gets hot and you can practically see the fumes leaching out. The plastic industry took playground equipment by storm, dude, they come off those slides with enough static to shoot lightning bolts out of their fingers. And anyway, don't people make plants grow all the time?"
Mojave pondered a bit, "Yeah, but we only make things grow when we want to harvest them." He looked at the grass a final time, and for just a second, no more than a blink, he could've sworn the grass along the seam was moving. He started walking, "Let's get out of here."
They had only walked a few more steps when, to their horror, the new orientation revealed a repeating pattern of lines across the grass. Like an army of giant snakes had slithered in formation.
"Ok," Antehero reasoned, "That is rows. So it's just giant snakes or planted grass or something right?"
A faint ripple passed along the lines of grass, but it wasn't wind. Only bands of grass moved, like something was underneath, swimming, but never broke the surface.
"Did it come from over there?" Antehero asked, pointing off to their left, back in the direction they had come from.
As Mojave turned to look, Antehero started running in the direction of the canyon.
Mojave shortly caught up and they began to walk, looking back from time to time, unable to feel safe with this many unknowns.
Before they traveled much farther on their journey, the stream began to meander more, as it had gained enough size to erode the outer edges of the banks where it flowed. So it carved away at the dirt in some places and deposited it in others.
The pair walked parallel to the stream, a short distance away, so that they could maintain a straight walk themselves. Oddly enough, the shadow of the cloud stayed cast on the ground in front of them for hours. They walked a bit slower at some times, then a bit faster at others, but always, the shadow stayed just in front of them.
With time, the unstable geometry of the three suns began to play tricks on their minds. Their proximity and hues cast overlapping shadows that never settled from a person's perspective, as long as they kept moving. So any object could have more than one shadow, giving the illusion that things were constantly skittering around them as they walked.
Eventually, they saw animals near the water. Translucent, narrow-bodied insects that darted back and forth from the water to the shore. Occasionally they would pause above the water, before committing to quick touches of the surface, like they were bouncing themselves off of it before returning to land.
Later, they saw something that they could only describe as a bird-insect. Their first introduction was witnessing as one arrived at the bank of the stream, in more of a crash than a landing. They watched from a short distance as it unfolded itself into a shape that seemed organized according to the logic of familiar, but not entirely accurate rules of evolution. Joints where the human brain would expect continuity, and segments unfurling and rippling with bristles. Filaments of cilia that shimmered in the triple-sunlight, before it used them to burrow into the mud.
"There are too many insects in this place, I can't fucking breathe," Mojave rasped, clutching a knife in his hand.
Antehero spoke slowly like he was reading a children's book and turning the pages, "Creepy crawlies crawling all over me, creepy crawlies everywhere I see. Creepy crawlies digging their way in your head, Creepy crawlies aren't bad compared to what's under your bed."
"I hope to god you buy your kids all their books at the store," Mojave said.
"One hundred percent," Antehero said. "They don't know me at all, just the dad persona. I try to teach them from real books. The last thing they need is lessons from a piece of shit like me. I spent my whole life doing what I wanted because it's all pointless. But Karmic justice apparently provides that I must help people."
"There are still some weird books on the shelf in stores, though, I'll tell you that. But I won't teach them anything I can't prove, they get to decide the subjective stuff for themselves. I just want them to be prepared. I did enough damage trying not to damage them while I raised them."
"Speaking of being prepared for everything," Antehero said as he placed a hand on two grenades on his chest, "My wife didn't have bug spray, I'm surprised you don't have an industrial sprayer in that container."
"Only room for necessities," Mojave replied, reaching into a first-aid kit on his hip and pulling out two cigars. They then enjoyed some gentlemanly companionship, having a walk together and puffing on cigars, with Antehero following Mojave as they continued to strike a path in the general direction of the canyon.
"Good cigar, very essential, where did you get grenades anyway?" Antehero asked.
"Same place as the cigars, the internet." Mojave replied.
"You bought grenades on the internet?" Antehero gasped.
"No, I bought a 3d printer and some books, dude, I'm a scientist," Mojave replied.
"I have to be honest, though," Antehero said, "If anything happens I'm probably using both these things immediately, no way I'm wearing these in a fight."
"You should be fine with the armor," Mojave replied, "The zip tie won't let the spoon detach until you yank them free to throw them. I made sure you wouldn't accidentally set them off with your teeth while you run your big fucking mouth."
Eventually they came to spot where the stream had grown wide, far enough that it would be a struggle to throw a stone across. They stood on a small, raised patch of dirt, sunburned and hanging above the water where it had eroded. They first looked midway across the water to a patch of rocks that had piled up, and accumulated into a sandbar.
And in the distance there was something that their brains immediately labeled a deer. So, for a moment, that was exactly what their eyes saw. Not because it was a deer, but because their brains were currently engaged in the very beginning stages of vision, predictive processing. Faced with the familiar backdrop of a forest, each man's mind reached for the most likely answer, pulling from a biased lifetime of patterns learned under the rules of Earth.
As their brains then shifted to processing what was actually before them, their misperception cleared. And the cognitive illusion faded, and their mind allowed them to see what was really there, in the messages delivered by the photons hitting their eyes.
It was a large worm like beast, too large to have left the tracks they saw before. And it was stooped in curve, with both ends on the ground. Ripples moving down its wet body as it inched along, wiggling on pinched folds where it touched the ground. Something in their brains was disgusted at seeing a worm walk on tiny wet worm feet. The animal, if that's what it was, moved slowly, waving its head back and forth as if grazing.
But as they watched, it did not consume the grass. It stuck out a long thick tongue that would deploy into a lattice formation, spreading smaller and smaller until wet gossamer filaments stretched across a patch of grass. With contact, it would peel color from the plants in spectral threads that shimmered in the sun, the color of the grass would change, darkening, until the thread pulled away.
"Fascinating," Mojave said, "it's really slow, maybe no natural predators, no evolutionary pressure that demanded optimization of speed. It's not even chewing, it's just harvesting energy or chlorophyll or something. Looks like it developed in an environment of abundant food and energy sources."
"You think we can drink this water?" Antehero asked.
.--. .- .-. - / .---- / --- ..-. / - .-- ---
Suddenly, in the center of the stream, with a large gasping squelch, a cloud of mud and debris emerged from the water in a great heap, with clouds of bubbles churned up from the bottom. The water was pulled forward and around the great suction, the center of the water receded and a whirlpool formed.
Almost instantly, a giant mouth erupted from the center of the whirlpool. A disgusting gaping maw, with row upon row of spiraling teeth, and contracting rings of flesh lined with small hairy fingers, wriggling and disappearing into the blackness of its throat.
Mud shed from the great worm along seams in its flesh, and water displaced in sheets, washing off of slabs of skin hanging from around the jowls under its cavernous mouth. Writhing, it turned the opening back and forth as if smelling the air, then rose straight into the air and froze, mouth open, motionless except for the water dripping from it's erect length.
The worm-beast in the distance stopped feeding. Then sprinted along the bank, with surprising speed, segments contracting in sequence, pulling it along the ground. Suddenly, the rear of the worm anchored to the ground, and it gathered itself, like a spring, skin folding and rings along it's length drawing closer together with muscle rippling under thin skin. Then, with a wet tearing sound, it uncoiled, and in a great leap, bounded over thirty feet in the air, and flying in a long arc slammed into the great beast's mouth with a thud.
The giant worm's maw closed silently, and it sank away, with the mud and water closing over, leaving only a cloudy patch of water where it had been.
There was a moment of total silence, and then the sound of a zipper closing as Antehero slammed his half-undone pants shut. "I'm glad I didn't pee in there." he said.
..-. --- --- -.. .-- --- .-. --
As they continued their journey, they eventually they came to a place that reminded them of the green seams in the field, only worse. Something had been through, in much the same way. But instead of changing grass in a field, it had depressed the forest in it's path. Something big. Very big.
It wasn't just the grass that seemed wrong now, it was the trees. Laid on the ground with the bark scoured away. Grass scraped from the ground like a giant razor had been used to give the path a shave, and collected in piles where it has tangled and been pushed to the side. Sap squeezed from the trees and pressed into the dirt hard enough to make it sheen like plastic.
"Fuck this place," Mojave said. "I'm an unwilling hero, not an exterminator. Maybe for reasons of physics we ended up on the spot with the lowest electromagnetic interference on the entire planet, or maybe we got pulled here by something that can harvest electromagnetic fields. Either way, it's got to be better near civilization."
Antehero walked a few steps into the flattened, depressed path, boots treading on splintered wood soundlessly as it instantly gave way, slipping out from under him in tiny currents like sand.
He kicked a larger piece with his foot and it exploded into powder, drifting away in the slight wind. They watched it dissipating into the air, Antehero was about to reply when they both instinctively turned their heads to a pile of the shaved grass. The synchronized movement was unplanned, but they both moved at the same time because they both felt something, like it had moved or changed color in their peripheral vision.
The breeze blew again and the grass shifted in the wind, but it was wrong. It looked fake, like it was pretending, stiffer and more mechanical in the wind than the other tufts that wavered in tendrils and tumbled by, dislodged from their tangled piles.
"Ok, well I'm not kicking that," Antehero said pragmatically, as they both eased out of the path of destruction and continued their journey, glancing behind them often as they walked away.
"Good idea," Mojave said, "I like the newer, more tempered you. Kids are making you smarter."
"Yeah, well I'm definitely continuing to buy all their books in stores. I don't think they're going to sleep well if I have to tell them about the Whacky World of Worms and the Otherwordly Sentient Grasspile that might have just been grass but daddy was too scared to go check."
"I don't know, kids are resilient. I saw Fantasia when I was like 6 and I turned out fine," Mojave replied, eyes looking up as he recalled the memories.
"Debatable," Antehero said. "And Fantasia was dope. Like a bunch of stimulant-fueled artists made a decades-early prototype for MTV, sprinkled in a little magical death and destruction, and slapped a for-children label on it. Dude, I need to label this appropriately, I hope no kids read this."
"They might, a lot of parents are letting their kids on the internet unrestrained," Mojave said.
"Probably the scariest thing I've heard all day," Antehero replied, rummaging through his wife's purse, "Is this another, smaller purse? How is the gum always on the bottom!?"
"So what lesson can we crudely insert in here for the kids," Mojave queried, "What makes you so comfortable carrying a purse as a man? What makes you so open-minded?"
"I don't know if I'm so open-minded, or it's because I'm so close-minded I don't want to deal with or know anything about other people. I cannot imagine caring about what another man is wearing or doing, that seems exhausting, how can anyone give a fuck? I'm just worried about what I'm doing and my life."
"What about your kids?" Mojave asked.
"Maybe it's because in my formative years, one summer I played skate-or-die on Nintendo. And then I went to work with my dad and told all his friends my name was Bionic Lester. And they called me Lester all day, no questions asked."
And my whole life people mispronounced my name. But I never cared because you already get tired of correcting people real quick with an eidetic memory. I just accepted the fact that a name isn't shit, it's meaningless man-made labeling of an autonomous being. At least beings on Earth could practice some self-agency if people would leave them the fuck alone. Anybody can decide what they shall allow themselves to be called, that's the whole point, I'll call them potato or tomato I don't give a shit, I don't have jurisdiction."
"The most manly, no the most human thing you can do, is choose your own path. So the lesson would be don't listen to me either, I don't know shit about fuck as far as you know. But if you stay on track and worry about your own life, trust me, you'll find out real quick that's a full plate of shit to eat. Maybe in ten years we'll all have filters anyway and you'll hardly ever know who you're talking with. You really care if someone is a man or not when half the time you're talking to robots online?"
"Other people can do what they want, because everyone you meet is just presenting a screen to the world in one form or another. It's the people that won't mind their business that cause problems. If anyone is ever telling you the solution to a problem is making other people change who they say they are, they're a lying asshole. I got bigger things to worry about," Antehero was looking around him cautiously as they walked.
"Same here," Mojave replied, "Namely whether or not all the horrific shit you imagine is going to come to fruition, I thought this was an adventure, not a horror story."
As Mojave spoke they began to navigate a patch of the woods that was much denser than the rest, it slowed their travel for a few minutes as they carefully navigated the crowded underbrush. Pushing it aside so it wouldn't scratch them, and holding branches for each other so they wouldn't swing back and catch the other unsuspecting.
Eventually the trees broke suddenly, and that was when they saw the bear. They both froze in their tracks, the way prey does sometimes, but also the way an experienced hunter does before he slowly raises his gun to bear (excuse the pun) on his target.
They had their guns half-raised when they both realized there was something unnatural about this bear. It was massive, not in a bloated way, but in a muscular well-fed, has grown like a bear for a decade kind of way. That aspect of the bear was normal enough, as far as so giant I never want to meet them in the wild grizzly bears back on Earth went.
But this bear stood in one spot, upright, arms at its side, like it was blind. Hulking, but not pacing or foraging, just standing. As they kept watching they realized there was something wrong with the bear's legs. They seemed to blend into the ground as if it was being swallowed, no, reclaimed by the ground.
"I really want to shoot that thing because I'm scared shitless but I'm also scared to shoot that thing." Antehero whispered.
"Bears evolved to be omnivores on Earth because it was such an evolutionary advantage to be able to harvest a variety of energy sources," Mojave whispered. "But they still scavenge and forage. Is that thing a plant or is something eating it?"
Suddenly some sort of fish-insect came bounding into view. It had bulbous eyes hanging off short antenna on the front of it's head. And it hopped along with a skittering sound, misshappen as it hit the ground. Then jumping back into the air with a cold, greasy squish. It was fast, and ballistic, like a jumping fish back on Earth, arcing along effortlessly.
The bear-tree turned its dark, matted head toward the insect in a flash. Wet-nosed, watchful, it's eyes followed the insect's path for a few milliseconds and then stretched, snapping, with an open maw. Like a frog striking, there was a snap and silence, and the bear returned to its motionless pose.
Antehero panicked and pulled the trigger, but he was so scared he forgot to unlock the safety, so nothing happened. "Oh my g-" he said to Mojave, turning.
But Mojave was already 30 yards away, running.
When Antehero eventually caught up to Mojave, which wasn't far, because Mojave had a desk job and could really only sprint about 200 yard before he had to stop, he remarked, "Between that and whatever is following us, fuck this place."
"You noticed it to?" Mojave asked, gasping. "Been there since the container, right?"
"Yeah, heard steps but still haven't seen it. Which sucks because I really need to pee and I don't want to get some sort of alien bite on my dick. And I'm going to have worm nightmares every time I use a bidet now, that thing looked way to much like a butthole puckering, I'll never unsee it. And I don't even think I can wipe with a leaf in this place."
Mojave looked in the direction of the canyon, "We should keep moving, it's not far now and I'd rather get out of here before it has time to get worse. I don't even want to imagine what would have footsteps out here."
Antehero nodded "Yeah, this place is horrifying. It's a series of worst-nightmares come true. Could not get worse. My wife is going to be absolutely terrified when I tell her about this. There is absolutely nothing that could be scarier."
As Antehero finished speaking, the mysterious shadow of the cloud darkened near their feet. Then began to ripple along its edges. They both looked at each other, and then slowly, regretfully, looked into the sky.
Something was emerging from the distant, dark cloud. No, it wasn't emerging from the cloud, it was part of the cloud separating. Like a few fish slipping out of formation, arcing outward from a turning school.
"Uh-oh," Antehero said, "My wife has ornithophobia. It's the fear of birds. I can't tell her we saw a cloud like this, ever. She gets freaked out with just the little groups of birds near roads."
"I don't think I can tell myself I saw a cloud like this," Mojave whispered.
It was when they both had finally said the word cloud out loud, rather than think it to themselves like they had done up until then, that everything finally made sense. Because their brains finally thought to themselves, cloud is the wrong word.
Clouds let part of the light through, so they have some spots brighter than others. They break the light, and scatter it. They have holes where light beams poke through.
That was when a horrific thought finally dawned on them both. That isn't a cloud.
It's a flock.
Antehero adjusted his wife's purse, unconsciously shifting it behind his back. As though by placing himself between it and the swarm, he could protect her. As if he knew, subconsciously, that if so much as a single photon reflected from a flock of birds like this even touched the purse, it would be tainted. And she would be able to sense it, the filth, and would never touch the purse again. And it was expensive.
And he kept staring, motionless and preoccupied, because the sight of birds always triggered thoughts of his wife. And he was out here in the middle of nowhere, with only one other person, and it wasn't her. Which might be a good thing because she would already be shooting. His eyes were pulled to the swarming flock, and for a moment he couldn't move, like his body was a computer frozen mid-download on a file bigger than expected.
Antehero and Mojave stood panicked, hands clenching their weapons, faces turned toward the sky. Mojave was attempting to grasp the situation that, as far as he was concerned, was Antehero's fault. No one else could possess irreverence to god, and the universe itself, in such quantities that Karma itself must use them as a force of Good to provide balance.
Antehero blinked, trying to resolve what he saw into something reasonable. But he could not discern any single bird or beast. It was too many. His eyes couldn't hold a single object. It had to be millions of birds.
No, he realized. Those tiny dots that had slipped out of formation, arcing outward. Those tiny dots he thought were individual birds. They had more depth, they were just so far away the appearance of their size was distorted. Each of those dots were themselves large flocks of birds, each larger than any he had ever seen before. It was billions of birds.
He clutched his meaningless weapons in his hands. Knowing he was powerless, he was horrified. The fear started to take hold as he tried to imagine what his wife would feel. And he started breathing in ragged, gasping breaths. And he began to panic as he stared at his inevitable horrific demise.
He could see it. He knew at any moment they would turn, and drop on him as a horde. They would attack in waves, pecking and scratching from every angle while they ate him alive.
They would focus on weak points, his eyes and tendons. He could see his outstretched hands batting away at the pecking birds, see the skin stripped from his fingers until they felt clumsy and heavy,
and he saw the bones of his hands hanging, useless, with the flesh stripped. He would fight while his arms suffered the same fate until they hung uselessly by his side, picked clean of muscle.
A blanket of pain would overwhelm him and he would open his mouth to scream, only for them to take his tongue. And the last thing he would see is the open beaks of the birds, coming for his eyes.
Antehero was revolted and terrified and all he could think about was an agonizing death, and if the flock had dipped his way right then, he might have put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
And for the first time in his life, he was pretty sure he knew how his wife felt about birds.
"I think I just walked a mile in my wife's shoes," Antehero whispered, placing his hand on his wife's purse, "and I even accessorized. So lesson learned, nothing further needed here, right?"
With a cacophony of distant screeches, so far away but so loud it came to the pair as whine, the flock broke into a ragged chorus of howls, and started to spill across the sky, blotting it like overturned ink.
There were so many birds that their movements rippled across the flock like the muscles of some great beast. A beast that at any moment could let out a blood curling shriek and descend upon them, shattering into a million tiny pieces, each with it's own sharp claws and beak, thirsting for blood.
And as the great mass folded and unfolded, it was chaos, and Antehero almost saw the beauty on display. Each bird's position and separation from the closest neighbor defined by equations. Overall cohesion and group velocity defined by another. Logarithmic spirals and decoupled movements that overlapped in beautiful motion.
He felt he could squint and he would be able to see mother nature in a kimono, brushing deep black ink strokes across a smooth paper sky.
But he knew all his wife would see is death.
"The flamethrower is back at the container," Mojave whispered.
"If I die to birds my wife is going to fucking kill me," Antehero whispered back. "They won't be able stop her from cremating me early. She might cremate me early just for seeing this. And a flamethrower, pssh, you'd need a nuke for that."
As they stood together, trying to use dark humor to assuage their fears and still the panic, they saw the fast and irregular pieces of death that flew in hungry loops. And loop stacked upon loop until they became linked, as though assembling themselves into a vast machine of death. Like so many snowflakes packed one upon another, cold and unfeeling, ready to fall upon the head of the foolish who didn't scatter before the storm.
He saw the flock convulsing, like a great beast. The sheer size of it was dangerous, even if it was insects. You only saw something that big in nature if it fed, and fed, and grew unchecked and ate everything in sight. Lifeforms like that were dangerous. And here he sat under them, with the thickening spit in his throat and a gun. He spit, removing some of the stale cigar taste in his mouth.
Noticing Mojave's raised eyebrows, Antehero yelped "You've got a-," then began whispering quickly, "Dude, I'm wearing $186, and no disrespect, I appreciate the thought, and this is a separate issue, I'm not trying to be a gold digger, but I'm wearing $186 armor and you've got a freakin' nuke. You know what getting eighty-sixed is? You've got me like foreshadowed so hard right now."
"Please don't talk about hardness and your fore-anything ever again," Mojave replied, "and I never said how much the nuke cost. I'm telling you 3d printing is wild these days."
The flock was curling and unfurling like a fist, its great mass clenching and unclenching as if it were preparing to strike. Circling hour after hour on the hunt, its motion churning like the acid in our heroes' stomachs.
High and distant. But looming, always a threat, if they decided to all come at once, there wouldn't be anything they could do about it. They would be crushed if they weren't eaten so fast only a skeleton was left within moments.
With a sudden realization, Antehero turned to Mojave, "Dude. Did you 3d print this armor?"
"Of course not," Mojave said quickly, "I paid a guy with a better printer to make it to spec. And my girlfriend baked those anti-explosive ceramic inserts."
Thinking of their significant others back home made Antehero want to send positive vibes to his wife back home. So he tried to picture her baking a turkey, for revenge on the birds for what he had seen.
But when he closed his eyes, he lived every horrible moment his wife could imagine. He saw vivid images of the birds plucking his eyes from his skull, and drilling into his ears until they nibbled at his brain. And for a moment he could see the flock, one day in the future, coming to take his soul. They would fly in, glowing in the sun like fiery angels. One by one, for everything he had ever done wrong, they would take flaming swords and cut little pieces from him. And, so butchered, they would gobble up the little bits of his soul. And they would fly across the river Styx, with his pieces in their stomachs.
And they would take him to the river Styx, and fly down the river. And the river would end in a swamp, and they would shit him out with a splash. And that would be heaven. And it would be a proper end to a person. After all the stories of storks bringing children. For a woman to bring him into this world, and the birds to take him away.
"I gotta get my wife a shotgun for her birthday," Antehero said, staring at the sky with his mouth open.
"I could build her a bigger one," Mojave said. "If we make it out of here. I feel like I'm in Willy Wonka and I just ate that demented mother fucker's pet bird."
"Was the everlasting gobstopper in Willy Wonka a metaphor for a penis?" Antehero asked, as they continued walking, spending more time ducking from tree to tree, cautiously eyeing the sky. "It was like the final test for each character. Like, with this thing in your hands, can you resist the temptation and still do the right thing?"
"I don't think we need to overanalyze that one," Mojave replied. "Sometimes the lesson is as simple as being born dirt poor means hard work is for survival, not success. And you better hope you win the lottery or network with someone rich, or both."
"Well, look at the bright-side," Antehero joked, "If we start talking Willy Wonka maybe we'll see some bioluminescent fauna. Seems appropriate around here, maybe we can find a cool-looking frog for you to lick."
"One can dream," Mojave said. "It might be fun to break through to the other side, I get tired of walking in the smoke of another man's fire."
"That sounds mystical. Is that a country song? But tell me about it, everyone seems to have an agenda. It gets old." Antehero said, looking down to watch his step as he reflected on things.
"Can't even feed my kid without pressure. It's like I cook him vegetables, but I want a few chips. He sees me eating chips so he wants chips. He doesn't understand anything other than fairness, so there's no logic to explain I'm trying to take care of his health, but my health is optional so I can have a chip."
"So then it's like do I let him have a chip, do I want that on my conscience. My three-year old isn't ready to do battle with the finest food scientists money can buy. Eventually I just let him have some chips, but a small amount, after he eats healthy. What's the point of teaching them how to live if I'm not going to let them live a little, you know? It's inevitable, they'll just be out on their own one day with no experience in fighting the urge for chips. That's a one-way street man, weed is too good these days. And they can buy that on the internet too. It's just the same old story right, learn grow live learn, life on repeat."
That was when they came to a point in the stream that seemed oddly familiar.
"Deja vu." they said at the same time.
.--. .- .-. - / ..--- / --- ..-. / - .-- ---
Suddenly, in the center of the stream, with a large gasping squelch, a cloud of mud and debris emerged from the water in a great heap, with clouds of bubbles churned up from the bottom. The water was pulled forward and around the great suction, the center of the water receded and a whirlpool formed.
Almost instantly, a giant mouth erupted from the center of the whirlpool. Tranquil, yellow petaled, elegant, with row upon row of spiraling teal hues, and contracting rings of individual stems lined with small wavering-oscillating-rippling-meandering hairs, trailing into the blackness of its throat.
Mud shed from the great worm along seams in its flesh, and water displaced in sheets, washing off of mats of leaves hanging from around the bouquets under its cavernous mouth. Elegantly, it turned the opening back and forth as if smelling the air, then rose straight into the air and froze, mouth open, motionless except for the water dripping from its erect length.
It made a hiccuping sound, and with a convulsion that seemed to begin from below the water, shuddered. It's muscled body contracted along it's length and the hiccup ended with a pop, like compressed air.
A comparatively tiny little arm sized worm flew out of it's mouth and landed on the ground with a wet thud. It rolled for a moment, like a stunned puppy that had been bumped over by its mother.
It purred after it landed, rolling over, pale pink at first, then turning a warm peach. It brushed along the ground, stretching out like it was enjoying the sun. Tenderly caressing the grass, which bloomed at its touch, blossoming gossamer tendrils that hung down. It continued to spread life as it moved, like some sort of fairy godmother casting a magic spell of beauty, or a powerful druid, exuding life with every touch.
Most importantly, the way it moved was adorable. The shape was not threatening. It looked soft, and cuddly, like a baby pig. It was cute.
There was a moment of total silence. "Oh!" Mojave gasped, "Okay! Well I feel a lot better now, honestly."
They only walked a few hundred more yards before they came to the entrance of the canyon, and were greeted with a small bluff that overlooked what, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be an entirely normal, even quaint, small American town.
Antehero and Mojave crouched on the edge of the bluff and surveyed their destination from afar.
Antehero’s eyes wandered across a small courthouse, immaculately maintained, with wide steps and a polished concrete stairway. The freshly manicured grass perfectly edged against the brickwork. The center of the lawn was decorated with a flagpole, and a small sitting area of marble benches.
A short distance down the street sat a barbershop, complete with slow-turning striped pole. Adjoining it, a sign for Prince’s drug, advertising old-fashioned root beer floats. A general store and small mom-and-pop shops completed the commercial area, but following the road with their eyes showed a network of homes.
People meandered through the streets at a relaxed pace. Some walked the quiet two lane brick road that seemed to serve as main street, and cars winded through narrow lanes that had ample trees and shade. The front yards of many houses were visible, and those that could be seen had white picket fences and rocking chairs on the front porch.
Atop a cleared hill was the largest building in town. It was a simple church beside what appeared to be the town graveyard, littered with small plain stones and beautiful flowers.
Beyond the town, rolling hills stretched away in soft, agreeable curves, dotted with clusters of trees, farm buildings, and cozy homes with smoking chimneys. Homes that looked pristine. The dream of any person who ever fantasized of escaping from the hustle and bustle to a serene retreat. The distant homes evoked solitude and quiet.
The town evoked Sunday serenity. The people moved unhurried. Always somewhere to go and always a way to get there, like a well run system.
And standing above, looking down on them. Antehero saw what they did not. There were no malcontents. No restless pacers. No dissatisfaction to drive them to make things better.
Antehero sniffed. Like he could smell it. Like it was a physical presence in the atmosphere. The people of the town were content with the world the way it was.
-.-- --- ..- / - .... --- ..- --. .... - / - .... . / .-- --- .-. -- ... / .-- . .-. . / .- / .--. .-. --- -... .-.. . -- ..--..
“Jesus Christ,” said Mojave, “We’re in danger.”
No hints for this puzzle. We have two heroes that are different and so we have two things that have differences.