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I
was
getting
ready
to
use
the
torch
as
a
bludgeon
when
the
cloth-wrapped
head
of
it
suddenly
blazed
alight
.
Dan
Miller
was
there
,
holding
a
Zippo
lighter
with
a
Marine
emblem
on
it
.
His
face
was
as
harsh
as
a
rock
with
horror
and
fury
.
"
Kill
it
,
"
he
said
hoarsely
.
"
Kill
it
if
you
can
.
"
Standing
beside
him
was
Ollie
.
He
had
Mrs.
Dumfries
'
.38
in
his
hand
,
but
he
had
no
clear
shot
.
The
thing
spread
its
wings
and
flapped
them
once
-
apparently
not
to
fly
away
but
to
secure
a
better
hold
on
its
prey-and
then
its
leathery-white
,
membranous
wings
enfolded
poor
Smalley
's
entire
upper
body
.
Then
the
sounds
came-mortal
tearing
sounds
that
I
can
not
bear
to
describe
in
any
detail
.
All
of
this
happened
in
bare
seconds
.
Then
I
thrust
my
torch
at
the
thing
.
There
was
the
sensation
of
striking
something
with
no
more
real
substance
than
a
box
kite
.
The
next
moment
the
entire
creature
was
blazing
.
It
made
a
screeching
sound
and
its
wings
spread
;
its
head
jerked
and
its
reddish
eyes
rolled
with
what
I
most
sincerely
hope
was
great
agony
.
It
took
off
with
a
sound
like
linen
bedsheets
flapping
on
a
clothesline
in
a
stiff
spring
breeze
.
It
uttered
that
rusty
shrieking
sound
again
.
Heads
turned
to
follow
its
flaming
,
dying
course
.
I
think
that
nothing
in
the
entire
business
stands
in
my
memory
so
strongly
as
that
bird-thing
blazing
a
zigzagging
course
above
the
aisles
of
the
'
Federal
Supermarket
,
dropping
charred
and
smoking
bits
of
itself
here
and
there
.
It
finally
crashed
into
the
spaghetti
sauces
,
splattering
Ragu
and
Prince
and
Prima
Salsa
everywhere
like
gouts
of
blood
.
It
was
little
more
than
ash
and
bone
.
The
smell
of
its
burning
was
high
and
sickening
.
And
underlying
it
like
a
counterpoint
was
the
thin
and
acrid
stench
of
the
mist
,
eddying
in
through
the
broken
place
in
the
glass
.
For
a
moment
there
was
utter
silence
.
We
were
united
in
the
black
wonder
of
that
brightly
flaming
deathflight
.
Then
someone
howled
.
Others
screamed
.
And
from
somewhere
in
the
back
I
could
hear
my
son
crying
.
A
hand
grabbed
me
.
It
was
Bud
Brown
.
His
eyes
were
bulging
from
their
sockets
.
His
lips
were
drawn
back
from
his
false
teeth
in
a
snarl
.
"
One
of
those
other
things
,
"
he
said
,
and
pointed
.
One
of
the
bugs
bad
come
in
through
the
hole
and
it
now
perched
on
a
lawn-food
bag
,
housefly
wings
buzzing-you
could
hear
them
;
it
sounded
like
a
cheap
department
-
store
electric
fan-eyes
bulging
from
their
stalks
.
Its
pink
and
noxiously
plump
body
was
aspirating
rapidly
.
I
moved
toward
it
.
My
torch
was
guttering
but
not
yet
out
.
But
Mrs.
Reppler
,
the
third-grade
teacher
,
beat
me
to
it
.
She
was
maybe
fifty-five
,
maybe
sixty
,
rope-thin
.
Her
body
had
a
tough
,
dried-out
look
that
always
makes
me
think
of
beef
jerky
.
