Wonambi

The southwestern skies were lit up with fire. The last orange tendrils from the sun licked the night sky, color billowing across a deep purple backdrop. Mountains glowed red on the horizon. Stars burst into life shortly after the sun disappeared, twinkling against the vast emptiness of space. The sky was so clear, the air dry and cool. It was gorgeous.

At least, perhaps that is what the two men on the front porch would have thought had they not been so drunk.

The first tipped his drink back, belching after a swallow. "Whaddya think that is in the sky? Fairies?"

"DeGroot, if I've told you one time, I've told you a million times." His friend took the man's drink and sloshed one back. "There are only two native monsters in the United States, and that's ghosts and zombies. And even then, zombies are only in Louisana!"

DeGroot rolled a lazy eye towards his short-tempered American friend. "I dunno. Seems like a lot o' land for just two kinds o' monsters, Jane."

Jane shrugged his shoulders. "That's the way it is. We are the land of machines, progress, war, and victory! We don't need no stinking little girl fairy tales!"

"What aboot that story with the wee little girl and her dog and that lion?" DeGroot waved a finger at Jane, although it ended up pointed crookedly at his chest rather than his face.

"That was an illegal shoe shopping trip." Jane paused in his argument, and then conceded a point. "I suppose we did have witches in Salem, though. That's three, then."

"All right, then. Witches. Whatever." DeGroot slouched further back into his rubber banded fold-out chair. "Just want ta know what is going on up there."

Both men watched the horizon shimmer, content in their boozed state. Jane passed the bottle back to DeGroot, and the Scotsman threw back another shot. He wiped what had spilled on his lips off, then licked that. It was a particularly sweet brew, not something to be wasted. He sat the bottle down between the two of them and folded his hands, watching the summer sky dance.

DeGroot pinched his eyebrows together. His depth perception and vision were never all that great, particularly with his left eye out of commission. At the edge of his range of view, he saw a black shadow moving against the sparkling backdrop of night. He sat upright, squinting at the dark object. It wavered back and forth, progress halted by an unsteady gate. He poked Jane's left arm, pointing at the apparition.

"Whaddya think that is?" DeGroot asked.

Jane frowned, snatching a pair of binoculars from the ground. He adjusted the field of view. "I don't know." He lowered the binoculars, shaking his head.

DeGroot stole the binoculars from Jane, attempting to adjust them for his vision. He wasn't particularly successful, alternating between both lenses. "These things don't help for nothen'. Gotta get myself a spyglass or somethen'."

The weaving shadow dropped, collapsing to nearly half its height. DeGroot lowered the binoculars, watching with confusion. It halved itself again, now lying on the ground. That was odd. He stood up and walked off the front porch of the team's barracks. Jane was quick to follow. They traveled down to the abandoned, red dirt road. The shadow was just across the path, lying on its side. Its ribs went up and down in a shaky rhythm.

"Can't be a ghost, then. Never heard of a breathen' ghost." DeGroot crossed the path, now approaching the dark creature with some apprehension. Jane became bolder, locking step with the Scotsman. That didn't stop his face from blanching.

DeGroot laughed at Jane's sudden emotional shift. "Ya look whiter than ya normally do."

Jane smirked. "Are you picking on my mel-lal-lel-anin deficiency? Because I don't pick on you for being Mendel's genetic experiment!"

That would have set off a round of drunken banter, had a third noise not interrupted it. There was a low moan that came out of the ditch. It was dry, like a mummy's wail. DeGroot jumped backwards in surprise. The shadow was moving again. It pulled itself half-way up again, crawling out of the ditch and onto the edge of the road. It looked tattered and bloody, clothes torn from its chest, a chipped knife in its hands.

DeGroot shrieked, "Chrissake, it's a zombie!"

Between his bravado and his inebriation, Jane didn't hesitate. He wound his fist back. With a sharp crack, he struck the dark figure. It went sprawling on its back, spindly legs flopping against the ground. Jane smirked, proud that he still had his strong swing. He was less amused when he found a pair of shattered glasses lying next to his boots. He picked up the frames, his muddled brain trying to put them back together. He'd seen these in the sunlight, orange and glinting with the slightest movement like a star in the desert sky.

Then he dropped them, realizing his mistake. "Get the Medic."

DeGroot hesitated, his mind still floating in scrumpy. "What?"

Jane seized DeGroot by the collars of his vest. "God's sake, Tavish! Get the Medic!"

The shaking snapped DeGroot out of his slurring mindset long enough to recognize the urgency in Jane's voice. He nodded, stumbling back to the base as fast as he could. Jane stayed by the limp body, pulling a handkerchief out of his fatigues. He pressed it into where he'd socked the figure, mopping up a little blood. He shook with horror, the coldness of the night now sinking through his drunken haze and into his bones.

"Goddamnit, Mundy," Jane hissed, clutching the body closer to him. "Where have you been?"

The closest thing to their base was a truck stop and greasy spoon about thirty miles northwest. The Administrator was never fond of her men leaving the base, but about once a week, one would make the trek out to pick up perishable items. Typically, it was the Engineer, the Soldier, or the Sniper's job to make this run. Even then, it was based on who had the least amount of gas in their tank at the time. The Soldier's Jeep was full, and the Engineer's truck was pretty well stocked, too. Being the gas guzzler that it was, the Sniper found himself once again heading out to get his van resupplied. It usually wasn't a bad trip, but it did mean having to make rounds to see what everybody else wanted.

Even then, there was usually a pattern for requests. Milk, eggs, and bread were always at the top of the list. Nobody could stand the powdered and freeze-dried stuff that came with their typical regimen. Either the Medic or the Heavy would ask for a few bars of chocolate—both had gained a bit of an addiction to bars with caramel. If an order for motor oil or cleaning supplies couldn't be made out to Mann Co. in time, the Engineer would make that his emergency request. The Soldier and the Demoman alternated requests for alcohol. The Scout would always want to try a new flavor of soda, but he never liked anything but his energy drinks. Nobody even knew what the Pyro wanted, but he always seemed happy with a can of gasoline and a fresh box of matches.

The Spy was always a pain in the ass. "Note that when I say 'I want another carton of cigarettes', I do not say 'I want to smoke something that was rolled in a horse barn.'"

The Sniper nodded, jotting cigarettes down on the spiral notepad in his hand. "Not in 'orse barn. Okay."

Ignoring the jab, the Spy continued. "I doubt this, but if they do have some kind of wine that does not taste like Sunday communion grape juice, that would be acceptable as well." He shook his head, taking a drag off of one of his last cigarettes. "Can you believe the swill these Americans drink? I thought the Germans had garbage, but this."

The Sniper mumbled. He wrote down the Spy's request, his hand-writing somewhat less elegant than that of a standard grade schooler. "Anythin' else?"

The Spy stopped for a moment, considering his final request. He puffed a curl of smoke out into the air. Placing the cigarette back in his mouth, he swirled it around once before finally finding the right words. "You know…the one thing I do like about these Americans."

Oh. That. The Sniper bobbed his head again. "Lost your last mag, did you?"

"Keep your voice down! For crying out loud, I thought you were supposed to be good at keeping quiet." The accusation brought red shame to the Spy's face. "Look. Oui, I lost it. The Engineer happened to have a good hand in poker last week, all right?" He took another smoke, waving the cigarette around in the air and punctuating his words. "Since then, the last thing I've seen around here that even looks like breasts was that flabby Russian's—what's that word you used—"

"Moobs?" The Sniper offered.

The Spy glared. "Yes. That's it." He gritted his teeth. "That's the closest thing I've seen to a naked woman this whole week. Unless Scout's mother pays a surprise visit, I will be completely insufferable and inconsolable within a few days time. You understand the necessity of my request, do you not?"

The Sniper nodded again. "Yeah, I got it. Anythin' in particular?"

"Brunette, if you have a choice. Outside of that, just keep it tasteful," The Spy was quick to respond. He muttered to himself, "I'm talking about taste to a man who lives in a camper. This will end well." He tapped ashes onto the ground, his mind calculating. "Perhaps I should go with you."

"Think that'll piss the Administrator right the clear off. We're lucky she lets one of us go at a time." The Sniper folded his notebook shut, shoving the pen through the top metal ring.

The Spy winced. "I wish you would not use that word around me. It brings back foul memories."

The Sniper smirked and tucked the notebook into his back pocket. He turned and headed for the garage. "Wouldn't want ta piss ya off, mate. That'd be a real piece of piss."

That made the poodle bark. "Don't waste my time, bushman! You have two hours!"

The Spy would always threaten him with that time limit. It meant nothing to the Sniper. He enjoyed taking his time on the road, even if it was rough driving. Since hardly anyone came out this way, the roads were dirt, maybe gravel. It was just nice to get off the base and clear his head. The summer heat waned at night, and little bugs here and there were singing. That was what the Sniper enjoyed most about visits outside. He could just enjoy the peaceful side of the world, even if it was going by at sixty miles an hour.

He went to the front of the garage and pressed a button. The metal doors rolled back, revealing a vibrant summer sky. All of the stars were out of order, but even then, it reminded him of home. He would have been caught longer in his thoughts if it wasn't for the Engineer's steady clanking against his truck. The Texan waved at the Australian, then went straight back to work. He could get so caught up in his hobby. Probably the only reason he could stand repairing sentries in the middle of gunfire.

The Sniper unlocked his van and jumped in. The vehicle bobbed with his weight—it needed new shocks. Maybe he'd get lucky and find some at the truck stop, but he doubted it. He turned his keys in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, sputtering into the back of the garage.

The racket caught the Engineer's attention. He tapped on the Sniper's window, which the Australian in turn rolled down. "Maybe I should take a look at that before ya hit the road."

The Sniper shook his head. "It always does that. No worries, mate."

The Engineer scrunched up his nose. "All right, if you say so. But I'm looken' at it when you get back. Got it, Mundy?"

"Got it, Dell." The Sniper rubbed the back of his head. He always felt like he was being scolded when somebody used his last name.

Dell tapped twice on his door. "Okay. Be quick, now. I'd like to win that magazine off the Spy by Sunday. That boy's got the worst poker face I've seen."

That earned the Texan a short laugh and a toothy grin. Both parted ways, quick to get back to business. Before too long, the base was a blip of light on the horizon, and then disappeared beneath the rusted earth. Then it was a long, quiet stretch of nothing. Billboards and payphones broke up the miles, but outside of that, it was empty. It was strange to think that a microcosm of war was out here in the middle of nothing.

Time dragged by, and the Sniper eased into the quiet. Not that he could break it, really. The radio in this camper never could pick anything up. He'd always wondered why that was. Dell had taken a look at it, and he was sure that it was still working properly. Maybe there was nobody broadcasting out here, or maybe the Administrator had bought rights to the air waves around here. Neither solution would have surprised him. He sighed, but then decided to fiddle with the nob. Why not? Nothing else to do.

He was halfway through the FM range when it happened.

It felt like the world trembled for just a moment. Just a small, tiny shake. It was enough to bump the van over a foot. The Sniper slowed down, dropping his speed to a snail's pace. There was another jump, more forcefully than before. It shook the van, knocking his head into the steering wheel. He hissed, grabbing his hat and glancing around. There was nothing outsi—

WHAM!

Something struck his van. It sounded like a freight train had met the middle. Metal screeched and snapped, the van immediately rolling once, twice, off the highway, another time. It landed on the left side, throwing the Sniper into the side of the door. His seatbelt kept him from being bucked clear of the wreckage, but it suspended him on his side. He had just enough time to catch his breath when WHAM!

Now he was being pushed along. Glass shattered as rocks and cacti bounced off the sides of his van. He covered his face, trying in desperation not to breathe in sand and glass shards. WHAM! The van was forced over a thick plant, spun thirty degrees around from its initial position. WHAM! This strike bucked him from beneath, sending a wave of terror up through his throat. He howled, voice reaching nothing. Where was this going?

WHAM!

Oh, God. He knew this feeling, an unsettling nervousness that rushed through his limbs. Freefall. It was ended seconds later, the van crashing onto its top. There was an unholy squeal of metal shattering against rock. The force from the impact threw him forward against his steering wheel again, his skull cracking against the metal column. He went limp, his seat belt hanging him in awkward stasis.

For several hours, that was it.

Author's Note:

This'll be either a three or four parter.

I'm not sure what brought this on. Cowboys and Aliens? An episode of The Simpsons that I had forgotten? A negative perspective on American mythos? A bad dream? Something like that.

Jeebus fishsticks, I've only gotten into this within the past month. I've got to get accents and foreign languages down pat. At any rate, feel free to write me a message, if you do ever want to play with me. Just to warn you—I tend to get overly aggressive when I should not be. I may end up sawing through your bones.

Pretty sure poodles are actually German.