I
watched as the eerie orb of light crossed the edge of the dark river and moved
up onto the muddy bank. It was about 50 yards from where I stood in the dark of
the trees up on the slope. I was sure that this weird ball of light was bad
news and that it had something to do with the missing professor.
The
orb was about the size of a cannonball, surely no larger than a basketball, and
it was yellow-white, like a small, dim version of the sun. It reminded me of a
car’s headlight or of a coon hunter’s headlamp. I’d say that it illuminated an
area of about 10 feet.
Trees
dotted the side of the slope, and the orb moved toward me at about the speed of
a walking man. A chill shook me as I realized that the woods had gone unnaturally
silent. Gone were the sounds of buzzing insects and the plaintive calls of night
birds.
I
was overwhelmed by the feeling that this thing was no good and that if I didn’t
want to end up like the professor, I needed to do something fast. I quickly
drew my Berretta M9 and chambered a round. I drew a bead on the ball of light,
which continued to thread its way around tree trunks, as it made its way toward
me, implacable as the waters flowing south in the darkness behind it. I was
reminded of some nocturnal beast, stalking its prey through the African jungle.
“Stop!”
I shouted, deep and forceful. Why I thought the orb would obey me, I do not
know, but I made up my mind that if it got within 20 yards of me, I would open
fire. In the faint available light, I picked out a large tree about 60 feet
away and determined that if it came that far, I would pull the trigger.
As
it continued toward me, I held the gun on it. The muzzle jiggled as I aimed for
center mass. I took a deep breath and yelled “Stop!” once more as the thing passed
the tree I’d picked out. As soon as I knew that it wasn’t going to stop, I
fired.
Over
and over, I sent round after round into the orb of light, which continued towards
me, only a little slower. In the dim glow, I saw a few of the rounds strike the
trees behind the orb, sending small chunks of bark flying into the dark woods.
Eventually, my ears were met with the “click” of the empty handgun. I’d fired
all 15 rounds into the orb with no real effect.
How
many people heard those shots? How many would dial 911 to report gunfire in the
woods along the river? Probably few, if anyone at all. After all, this was
Claiborne. People tended to mind their own business.
Time
slowed as my mind raced through my options. I watched the orb turn from yellow
to red as I reholstered my sidearm. The orb was about 40 feet away, and I knew that
something bad was about to happen. I had to act.
I
was still standing next to the large ash tree where I’d spent the last three
nights waiting and watching for something to happen. At the base of the tree, I
saw the shape of my black backpack. I could think of only one thing that might
work.
I
dropped to one knee, threw back the top flap of the pack and reached all the
way to the bottom of the bag. My hand eventually fell on what I was looking for
– a large, 26-ounce canister of all-purpose table salt. I pulled it out of the
bag, flipped up the metal spout in the top and quickly poured a wide circle of
salt on the ground around me.
I looked
up to see the orb still moving towards me. It was close, and I had only a few
seconds to wonder if the makeshift protective circle that I’d made would hold.
(All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or
locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.)
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