The urban fantasy series that I’m writing under the working title, Entropy, thrusts the world into chaos. A modest percentage of the population acquires extraordinary abilities, call them superhero powers if you will, however the “gifted” largely do not handle it well. Bryson Finney and Jared O’Shea, whom I’ve introduced in previous posts, are two of those ordinary folks. Their case is peculiar, though, in that they each have premonitions of strange events from the future time of the change: millions of birds braining themselves into buildings overnight, grounded air travel, disrupted internet, television signals, cellular service . . .
They don’t know what this means or when it’s going to occur. That’s the situation when Jared [narrating the scene] wakes up one morning at Bryson’s where he is dog-and-house sitting.
Ripper is whimpering, but he has food and water. I open the backdoor a few inches to let him slip outside. I’m not going to be playing with him while I’m in my underwear. The neighbors don’t need a show.
My bagel pops up at the same time that Ripper starts growling and barking. This is his serious bark reserved for raccoons, bats, opossums and the neighbor’s Doberman. Squirrels, robins and the other neighbor’s poodles get a more playful bark. I should check on him. With my luck, I’d be enjoying a bagel barely an hour after Bryson and Kate leave for a week’s trip to Texas, and their dog would get carried off by an eagle due to my negligence.
Ripper paces alongside the back of the house to the right of the door. He’s fine and barking at a clod of dirt. There seems to be a few clods right at the edge of the lilies. Or, they’re lumps of fur. “Ripper, come on! Come back in!” Don’t make me come out there in my underwear. Maybe I should go grab a pair of cut-offs. Is that a mouse? One of the clumps is moving. “Rip! Come here! Now! Ripper! Rip. Rip.” It moves in a funny way, like—BATS. “Ripper COME here!” Neighbors be damned. I’m out the door ready to scoop up the stupid, obstinately deaf dog. It’s comfortably cool out. It must have rained last night. Fog still shrouds everything beyond two houses away. Ripper starts to back away from a bat feebly crawling with a wing outstretched like an awkward crutch. The pup backs towards me. The multiple clods of dirt I saw are all bats—there could be five in the yard. Only one moves. I wish I were wearing shoes or at least socks. And maybe shorts. Grounded bats equal sick bats. With a lunge, I scoop up Ripper. I waste no time getting back inside and bolting the door behind me. I’ll deal with the bats later. When I’m dressed. Or after work, even. I wish Bry had left me a note about the bats; I wouldn’t have put the dog out.
My cell phone waits in the living room not charging. It contains a text from Bryson: “Craziness at O’Hare. Fog! Ambulances on the tarmac. Don’t think a plane crashed. Check the news. ETD is not changed yet.” He could have mentioned the damned bats. I respond, “Downed bats in the backyard. What gives? Rip’s OK.” I look at my phone for a good half-minute waiting for a return text. Nothing.
My bagel’s cold.
The news conjectures about the incident at O’Hare, though details are slow to trickle in: One ground crewman is dead. . . .One full luggage cart is destroyed. . . .No reported injuries on the plane involved. . . .The pilot’s taken in for questioning and drug-testing. . . .The air traffic controller is taken in for questioning and drug-testing. . . .The dead ground crewman is identified as Alicia Fuentes—mother of two. The picture forms of a landing gone horribly, freakishly wrong. By mid-morning, half a dozen other pilots in the air over O’Hare and Midway at the time of the accident have reported instrument anomalies lasting for some minutes. Heavy, early fog didn’t help.