The Scrabbling, the Scratching, the Clicking and Scraping
41:29 Share

The Scrabbling, The Scratching, The Clicking and Scraping. All day, all night.

"We have white beans," Victor says as he stands in front of the pantry. He sighs. "Do we have to listen to this? It's Rachmaninoff," I say as I carefully mince the last two cloves of garlic. "I find it soothing. It's old," Victor responds. "It's genius. It's depressing," Victor says. "Jesus, Tyler, put on Elvis or something. Let's lighten things up if this is going to be," he trails off, leaving our fate unsaid.

Dad? Michael calls from the dining room. Where are the long candles? In the sideboard. Third drawer down on the left. I shout for my place at the kitchen counter. I haven't cooked like this in over a year. Not since the things outside the brownstone first appeared. The scrabbling things. The scratching things. The clicking and scraping things. Victor doesn't wait for my assent.

He switches the music from Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 3 to Elvis' greatest hits. I don't get mad. Tonight is not about getting mad. I continue mincing the garlic, then join Victor at the pantry when I'm finished. "Staring won't fill it up," I say and reach past him for the last can of white beans. I snag kale greens, pickled onions, and fire-roasted diced tomatoes.

They are all the last cans. Everything I'm cooking tonight is the last. The last of everything. The last of us. I chuckle. "What?" Victor asks. "Just thinking of when Michael would play video games," I say. "I'd sit and watch him for hours. Just us up in his room while his mom graded papers downstairs, and his sister texted endlessly with her friends." Victor sighs. It's his defining feature.

"That, and hijacking the Bluetooth speaker." "Melissa didn't like video games," he says. "She preferred all of those young adult fantasy books. Girls with powers and dragons and evil dukes and good dukes and sexy dukes," Michael says as he walks into the kitchen. "All of those books were just teenage magic porn. Gee, Mike, thanks," Victor says. "That's what I want my last memories of my daughter to be."

We all go silent as the heaviness of what Victor has said hits us. The things outside do not go silent. They never go silent. They continue to scrabble, scratch, click, and scrape. I look at my son and see him struggling not to clap his hands over his ears. The kid has been a trooper. I honestly don't know how he's made it this long. I don't know how any of us have made it this long.

Victor turns up the volume from his phone and the sound of Elvis Presley singing about rocking in a jailhouse fills the kitchen. "Sorry," Michael says finally when the King's voice semi-drowns out the noises of the things. "I didn't mean to, it's all right kid," Victor interrupts, still staring at the pantry, which is now truly and completely empty after I removed all of the food. Food, is that what this has been all about? They came for the wildlife first,

So no one noticed right away. The things. Sure, the Forest Service noticed. But all it took was that one news network to mock them as government radicals bent on destroying America with their freak science and hippy-dippy ways. They literally called the United States Forest Service hippy-dippy. Soon it was on t-shirts and signs and bumper stickers. "Smokey Bear is a hippy. Only you can prevent hippies. Go live with the buffalo, hippies."

They were mocking government employees who were literally dressed in brown and green uniforms, definitely not tie-dye wearing hippies. Not that those didn't come out to counter protest. For months, the clash of cultures was brutal and raw. But I think even in those early days, we all knew something was terribly wrong. All of us knew, even the ones mocking the dangers that were directly in front of us.

"What's this?" Victor asks, as he bends down and reaches his arm all the way into the pantry's bottom shelf. He pulls out a small tin. "Anchovies? Gimme!" I nearly shout and hold out my hand. "Anchovies?" Michael says, leaning against the empty fridge, his back shifting all of the photos and business cards and drawings pinned there with magnets. "Gross!" "Huh, you're gonna love this," I say. "Umami!"

"I thought you were making Italian," Michael says. "Umami sounds Japanese." "It is," Victor says. "It pretty much means savory on steroids." "Exactly," I say. "Melissa and Amanda loved anchovies," Victor says quietly. "I never did, but I'll eat them tonight." Michael and I nod. We let him have his moment, his memories.

Once the things devoured the wildlife and left the forests silent, except for their own scrabbling, scratching, clicking and scraping, they moved into the rural areas, the backwoods and the country. The few folks still living in areas like that, the ones that hadn't listened and evacuated to the cities, well, they fought hard, let's put it that way.

The nation's communications infrastructure was still up and running, so we all watched as individuals and families battled against the encroaching hordes of things. That's when we found out they had a preference. Of course, the Forest Service had been shouting out the knowledge for months, but no one was listening to the hippies. Even when the military stepped in and started giving orders, folks didn't listen.

The military was now corrupted by politics and controlled by the rich, according to that news network. Everyone found out the hard way what the thing's preferences were. They came for the women and girls first. Scientists across the globe tried to explain it. From hormones to even the impossibility of chromosomal detection. Experts and pundits posited their theories, but the truth was no one had any idea what was going on.

All they knew was that it was isolated to the United States, and so we were cut off. All traffic in and out of the country, from airplanes to cargo ships, stopped overnight. We were left to fight and fail alone. "That's all folks," Victor announces suddenly, making Michael jump as he turns from the pantry. I nick my finger on the edge of the white bean can, but can't keep it to myself. I wipe the blood on my apron and continue prepping dinner.

"The cupboard is bare," Victor says, turning from the pantry to point at the last bottle of wine sitting on the counter. "Is that for drinking or cooking? Cooking first," I say. A board above us creaks and snaps. We look up at the kitchen ceiling and freeze. If they've gotten in, we'll know. Thankfully, the sound of thousands and thousands of chitinous legs doesn't echo down from the second floor. We're still safe, for now. I can at least finish dinner.

A pot on the stove starts to boil and I remove the lid to salt the water for the pasta. That'll go in last. The blue flame comes to life as I twist the knob and place my largest saucepan on the burner. I dump in way too much olive oil, but who cares, right? Let's get greasy. I scrape the minced garlic into the olive oil and it sizzles immediately. I stir for a few seconds, then dump the contents of the cans into the saucepan to join the garlic and olive oil.

I add plenty of salt. "Can you hand me the oregano?" I ask Victor. "Huh?" He replies. "You're leaning in front of the spice rack." I say. Victor pushes off of the counter and glances over his shoulder. He snags the bottle of oregano and tosses it to me. "Here you go." Anyways, the things attacked the women and girls with a ferocity that was terrifying. Mothers, daughters, sisters, friends. They were taken and eaten alive.

Even if the communications infrastructure hadn't already started to crumble, I don't think anyone would have been live streaming what was happening to our country. We didn't need to see other families and communities get ripped apart. We were watching it happen right here at home. Another creep then snapped. I suppressed the urge to look up at the ceiling. "How soon until dinner?" Victor asks. What he's really asking is, "Will we have time to eat before they get in?"

"15 minutes," I say, and grab the last handful of dried pasta and toss it into the boiling water. "Maybe 20." Neither Michael nor Victor respond. They're calculating in their heads. I am too. It's going to be cutting it close. I pour in a healthy amount of the wine into the saucepan, then hold the bottle out behind me, my eyes focused on dinner. I feel the bottle taken from my grip.

Thanks," Victor says. I can hear him swig directly from the bottle. "Glasses are up there," I say, and cock my head toward a side cabinet. "So formal," Victor says with a laugh, or a cry. It's hard to tell these days. He gets down three wine glasses, and I don't say anything. Michael is only a teenager, but it's not like that shit matters anymore.

We also learned in those early weeks that while the things may prefer the women and girls, they will devour anything once their preferred meals are exhausted. Like Michael and Victor with the anchovies that I dice and throw into the saucepan. You eat what you have in front of you. After the rural areas were overtaken and wiped clean of humanity, the things went for the farmlands. Millions of acres of crops were destroyed in a matter of days, then livestock, then the women and girls.

Then the men. And that was that for Middle America. The breadbasket was empty of all life except for the things. Not even the birds made it. They couldn't stay in the air forever. So the ones that didn't overcome their fear and fly into the cities were quickly devoured when they grew desperate and landed to try to find food.

One of the last human DJs who had locked himself inside his radio station out in the middle of nowhere had announced that the silence would have been welcome if the world was actually silent. Then he took his microphone outside for all of us to hear the scrabbling, the scratching, the clicking and scraping. Then there was a gunshot and the outside world truly went silent. Except for the scrabbling, the scratching, the clicking and scraping of course.

I turned off the radio and haven't turned it back on since. There's no point. Snap. "How's dinner coming?" Victor asks, more than a little panic in his voice. "It'll be ready," I say. "Relax." We all burst out laughing after a silent moment. "Good one, Dad," Michael says. "Relax." Victor's wife and daughter were on their way home the day the things overwhelmed the National Guard and breached the fortifications.

Thousands of men and women fought bravely that day, but it was all for nothing. They should have been allowed to go home to their loved ones. No matter how many flamethrowers or explosives they threw at the things, it just wasn't enough. I remember Victor pounding on my front door, begging for us to open up. His family had been missing for five days. The things had just arrived in our neighborhood, so for him to leave his brownstone next door and risk coming to ours was madness.

My wife opened the door and hurried him in. "The Capitol just fell," he said, breathless. He showed us his phone. I'd given up on any news a week earlier, so my phone was in my bedside table drawer. There was an emergency alert stating that the President and Congress had retreated to secure locations and that this would be the last alert. For once, the politicians didn't lie. It turned out to actually be the last alert.

Smells good, Dad, Michael says as he tries to dip his spoon into the saucepan. I playfully smack his hand away. You have to wait, I say, and add more salt as well as some fresh cracked pepper. It'll be done soon, Victor's stomach growls. Sorry, he says. All good, I say as mine responds in kind. It's been I don't know how many days since we've eaten anything remotely like a full meal. We wanted to make what was left in the pantry last.

For what? I don't know. Rescue isn't coming. I guess it's just human instinct to try to survive for as long as possible. That is until instinct says that being eaten by those things may not be the way you want to go out. It's a funny mental switch when it happens. You go from desperate to stay alive at all costs, to resigned that your day has come and life will be over soon. Creep and snap, scrabble, scratch, click and scrape.

"The sounds above us, all around us, intensify," Michael whispers. "I know." I say and taste the sauce. I add just a little more salt. Five more days is how long we lasted as a family. Victor had joined us and he was a big help as we secured our brownstone from the things. But all we got was the first five days. I remember hearing whispering late at night. We'd fortified the upstairs thoroughly, cutting it off from the first floor as a line of defense.

It was easier to lock down one floor than to lock down two. It wasn't like we needed two floors anymore. Except that was exactly where I was hearing the whispers coming from. The scrabbling, scratching, clicking and scraping hadn't reached our brownstone yet. I threw off my sleeping bag and made my way around Michael and Victor's sleeping forms to the base of the stairs. While the entire landing above had been boarded off, there was one board that looked loose.

I glanced back at the living room and could easily see that my wife's and my daughter's sleeping bags were empty. "Jen?" I called out as quietly as possible. The whispering above stopped. I climbed the stairs. "Jen? Tammy?" I whispered. No response. My daughter had made it home from college only hours before the country was locked down. She hadn't even had a chance to unpack her bag before the sirens started.

None of us knew our city had emergency sirens, so the sound was shocking. That was the last day the military drove up and down the city streets to distribute supplies and give instructions on what we were all expected to do. The supplies were generous: crates and crates of water and canned goods, jars of dried herbs, even produce staples like onions, garlic, and dried peppers. Anything that could last and wouldn't rot immediately.

The supplies filled an entire wall of our brownstone, stacked from floor to ceiling. While the supplies were extensive, the instructions were simple: stay inside, lock ourselves in, board up all doors and windows, and sit tight while we wait for further instructions. As I said, it all fell apart quickly, so those further instructions never came. "Holy shit, that smells good," Michael says. "Thanks," I say and check the pasta. Almost done.

Still a little undercooked. I like al dente, but crunchy pasta isn't how I want to enjoy this last meal. I stir the noodles and go back to tweaking the sauce. "Don't mess with it too much," Victor says. "Simple is always good." When I reached the top of the stairs that night, I tried to pry the board away enough for me to crawl past.

But before I could slide my fingers in there, the board was pulled tight and I heard hammer and nails secured in place. I pounded my fists on the board. "Jen! Tammy!" I shouted. "Dad?" Michael called from the bottom of the stairs. "What's going on?" "Come on, kid," Victor said and tried to steer Michael back to the living room. Victor knew what was happening, even though I was still in denial. "Let your dad handle it."

Michael, being a teenage boy, pulled away from Victor and bounded up the stairs. "What is going on? Where's mom?" he asked me, suddenly in my face. "Where's Tammy?" The whispers on the other side of the fortifications became quiet sobs. "We love you," are the last words we heard from them. Then there was the wrenching of boards, followed by more hammering. Michael's eyes were wide with terror and grief.

"No!" he screamed, and I had to physically restrain him or he would have torn those boards apart with his bare hands. It took Victor's help to get him downstairs. Michael managed to get away from us and he bolted to the front door. But we caught up and pulled him back to the living room before he could undo all the work we'd done to keep what was outside from getting inside. Five minutes later, we heard my wife and daughter's far-off cries of pain and fear, then silence.

"They did it for us," Victor said. Michael shouted at him for what felt like forever. Then he tired out and crawled into a sleeping bag. I should have gone to him then. I should have wrapped my arms around him and held him as he cried and cried and cried. But I was numb. My wife and daughter did what they did so that the things would stay away from our brownstone. I get it. I do.

The love those two showed us by leaving the house and sacrificing themselves has kept me going for these last few weeks. But, to be honest, I would rather they stayed with us, even if it meant bringing those things to us sooner. We gained extra weeks, but without my wife and daughter, were those weeks even worth it? I understand what they did and why. I just don't agree. "That's that," Victor says as he pours the final drops of wine into our glasses. "How's it looking?"

"Dinner is done," I say and turn off the burners. The kitchen smells amazing. There's a creak, a snap, then a crash. Glass breaks above us and we all look at the kitchen ceiling. None of us say what we know has happened. A board has been breached. A window has been broken. The things are inside.

When we originally secured the second floor, we did as the military instructed. We littered the floors with broken glass and extra nails. We poured paint and glue all over the hardwood, the tile, and the carpet. The bedrooms and bathroom were impossible to navigate without getting cut or caught. Of course, all of those precautions were pointless busy work the military had formulated to keep the masses from panicking. It gave us hope, but the paint would eventually dry up.

The glue went tacky then solid, and the nails and broken glass weren't even close to a deterrent when the enemy could easily navigate around everything with those skinny legs and tiny feet of theirs. Those thousands of skinny legs and tiny feet that had been scrabbling, scratching, clicking and scraping against the outside of her brownstone. Now they are inside. The three of us stare at the ceiling and listen. We hear them. Only a few have gotten in. There will be more. Dozens and dozens more.

But for now, there are only a few. "We have time. Finish up," Victor says breathless. I hadn't realized I'd said "we have time" out loud. Michael grabs the pasta bowls and takes them into the dining room. I pull the pasta from the boiling water and throw it into the saucepan. I toss and toss and toss, working my forearm muscles as they strain against the weight of the saucepan, the sauce, and all the pasta. It's the last of what's left from the crates.

The last of what's left in the kitchen, in the fridge, in the pantry, in the entire brownstone. It could be the last of what's left in the entire neighborhood, maybe even the entire city, possibly the entire country. I'll never truly know. Victor takes the wine glasses into the dining room, leaving me alone. I pull the baggie from my pocket, stare at the white powder, then quickly shake the powder into the pasta.

I stir and stir, hoping it will meld with the strong flavor of the anchovies. I want this to be peaceful. "Dad!" Michael calls. "Coming!" I call back, giving the pasta one last stir. Then I carry the saucepan into the dining room and dish out the food into the bowls in front of Michael and Victor. I leave mine empty. Being a teenage boy who's been on the edge of starvation for weeks and weeks, Michael tears into the pasta like a wild animal.

There's another crash and more shattering of glass from above. Victor, with a loaded fork almost to his mouth, looks from the ceiling to me. Then he sees my pasta bowl. "Why aren't you eating?" he asks. "I will, I will," I say. "I want you two to enjoy it first. Eat seconds if you can." "I can," Michael says around a mouthful of food. "This is so good." Then he pauses too and looks at me. "Go ahead and eat, Dad. There's plenty."

"I know," I say and sit down, wine glass in hand. "But you know how I am," Michael laughs. "It's genuine, and it feels good to hear that sound." "It used to drive mom crazy," Michael says. "Dad would wait until everyone had loaded their plates with as much food as they wanted before he'd even begin to dish up for himself." "Occupational hazard," I say. "Too many years working as a professional chef,

"Cooks eat last," Michael says. "Cooks eat last," I say and lift my glass. "I'm a doctor, so I would know about all that," Victor says. He chews and then swallows. His eyes drift up to the ceiling. "Or I was a doctor. Can't really be a doctor if there aren't any patients left," Michael burps. We all laugh. Something heavy crashes to the floor above. Dust drifts down through the floorboards.

We all stop laughing. Victor takes a few more bites, then pushes his plate away. "My stomach is shrunk," he says and pats his tooth and belly. "Don't wanna make myself sick." "Eat," I say. "It doesn't matter if you get sick, not anymore." He eyes me carefully then looks down at his food. His eyes widen. He starts to say something, then closes his mouth as his eyes drift over to Michael. We both watch the boy devour his meal. Victor glances at me and I smile.

He nods and picks his fork back up. "You need to eat too," he says, his voice soft, calming. I bet he had a great bedside manner as a doctor. "I will," I say. "Ee," he insists. "Join us." "We starting a cult?" Michael asks and laughs. He jams another forkful into his mouth. "I guess no matter what cult you start now, it's a doomsday cult by default." He laughs some more. Then he keeps on laughing.

Doomsday cult! Tyler? Don't let him laugh alone! Laugh alone? What does that mean? I'll laugh too.

but allow me this moment, Victor, please?" He nods and smiles over at Michael. Michael is chuckling, but it's slowing down. His fork slides from his grip and clatters against the side of his pasta bowl. There's a massive crash from above, and in seconds, the entire house is filled with the sounds of scrabbling, scratching, clicking, and scraping as the cacophony of thousands of feet echoes down from the second floor. Michael is swaying in his chair,

Victor is watching him. Without turning to look at me, he asks, "What's the endgame? We died." I say bluntly. I'm not worried about alarming Michael. Not anymore. My son is in a drug-induced bliss right now. "But you haven't eaten yet," Victor says. His head slowly swivels on his neck. I can see it's taking him a good amount of effort to stay coherent and present in the moment. "I'll eat some," I say. "Promise?" He asks.

"Promise." I say a nod at my bowl. I wouldn't dare let this all go to waste. Michael's head is bobbing, and I can see it's close to the end. I get up and walk around the dining table just in time to catch him before he falls face first into what's left of his dinner. I gently lean him back in his chair, brush his hair out of his face, and kiss his forehead. My tears are hot. My heart is breaking. The same can be said for the second floor of my brownstone.

Everything above is being broken as the things rampage about, looking for an exit, looking for a way down here where the food is. Victor yawns and pushes his bowl away. His eyes blink, blink, blink, then close. Wood splinters above, and Victor's eyes pop open. He tries to focus on me. I hope you know what you are doing. He mutters as he fights his fate. Don't

He coughs and his body slumps. I move to his chair and sit him upright. "Don't what?" I ask, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "Don't." He gasps and shudders. He takes a slow, deep breath. "Suffer." Then that deep breath catches and slowly leaks out from between his lips. His eyes are locked onto mine, but they are empty. I close them with my fingertips and turn back to Michael. He still has a little left in him, the power of youth.

I drag my chair next to Michael's and take his hand in mine. I entwine our fingers and bring his hand up to my lips for a last kiss. "Do you remember when we went camping in Forest Grove?" I ask. He doesn't respond, of course. "You were digging through an old rotten log and found that centipede nest." I continue, holding Michael's hand as if it was the only thing left in the world. "You screamed for about 10 minutes straight. It drove your sister nuts."

Mom and I could tell that was the only reason you screamed so long, to bug Tammy. But we let it go on because it was so funny to watch her chase you around the campsite, yelling at you to stop screaming. I chuckle at the memory. Then you ran by the rotten log. She followed, and that's when she saw the swarm of centipedes pouring out of the rotten wood. I say and wipe my eyes. Tears of laughter? Tears of sorrow? Does it matter? She saw those centipedes and then she started screaming.

But her screaming was real. Mom and I couldn't stop laughing. More glass shatters above. I can hear the wood at the top of the stairs creaking and protesting as the weight of what is probably hundreds of the things presses against it. I pause my story and wait to see if this is it. But I don't hear the barricade give way. Good. I need more time. Just a little more time. Until a ranger came by to tell us to keep it down. I continue.

He said screaming like that makes people think we are in trouble when we aren't. Technically, he could find us. Your mom apologized and smiled that way only she could. The ranger wasn't happy, but he didn't find us after all. Michael's grip loosens. His fingers go slack. His arm goes slack. I don't want to look, but I have to. His chest isn't rising any longer. His entire body is lifeless. Just dead weight being held up by a dining chair and my grief.

I make sure he won't fall over. Then I stand up from my chair. I walk into the kitchen and turn on all the knobs on the range to high. Then I go back into the dining room and clear the bowls. I clear the saucepan and wine glasses. I make a point of carefully cleaning everything, leaving the wet dishes to dry in the side rack poised at the edge of the farmhouse-style sink I used to be so proud of. The smell of gas fills the kitchen. I could sit down and let it all be over, but that's not the plan.

It takes me a few minutes because I want to be careful with their bodies. I need to be respectful of what I have done. I have a plan, but it isn't calculated and cruel. I'm not a monster like the things above. I show my son's corpse kindness and I carry it out of the dining room and into the kitchen. I think of all the times I carried him to his bed as a small child. That boy would fall asleep to anything. It could be four in the afternoon and he'd crash out on the couch the second a movie was put on.

To this day, I'm not sure if he's actually watched The Lion King from start to finish in one sitting. I know I had to watch it in parts with him for weeks. I crouch and slide Michael's body to the floor. I prop him up with his back against the fridge. His head rests right next to a family picture from when we traveled to the Grand Canyon after Tammy graduated from high school. That day was scorching, and you can see the sweat stains on all of our shirts. But we are smiling. We were so happy.

Little did we know that evil would descend on us all only a year later. Although, can the things be called evil? They aren't demons. They aren't supernatural or anything. "Extra-natural," I believe, is what some scientists called them. Natural but extra. That makes me smile. Michael would have liked that joke. The scrabbling, scratching, clicking and scraping is suddenly louder and louder. The things must be pouring into the second floor.

This brownstone is over a hundred years old. And while they knew how to build shit back then, nothing is designed for that kind of weight. I can hear the floor above me protest with dangerous cracking and popping noises. I don't have much time left. I stand up from Michael's body and go into the dining room to retrieve Victor. I drag him since the intimacy of carrying him doesn't feel right. I make sure I don't knock his body against anything. He's not my son, but he deserves just as much respect.

A board breaks. It's one of the boards at the top of the stairs. The sound of the things grows exponentially louder. I manage to get Victor into the kitchen and I situate his corpse up against the pantry. I fish in his pockets for his phone and pull it out. I pause Elvis and scroll until I find what I'm looking for. "Sorry, Victor," I say as I play Rachmaninoff. "I love the king, but I'm going out with class." All of his musical arguments echo in my head.

I stand, stretch, and close my eyes for a second as Rachmaninoff's Isle of the Dead begins its slow progression. I turn it up to help cover the noise of more wood breaking. Then even the speaker can't mask the sound of thousands upon thousands of feet scrabbling, scratching, clicking, and scraping as the things race down the stairs to find me. "I'm in here," I say, but not too loudly. They know where I am. I really just want to hear my own voice.

The scrabbling, scratching, clicking and scraping becomes a roar. They've entered the hallway and are almost in the dining room. I cross the kitchen to the junk drawer and pull it open. Then I freeze. The matches aren't in there. Shit! I spin around and stare at the kitchen doorway. Then I look down at Michael. I hurry to his body and pat his pockets down. He'd lit the candles for dinner. I jam my hands in his pockets when patting doesn't produce results. His pockets are empty.

I look back at the kitchen doorway. The noise is deafening. I have only seconds, if that. I'm up and sprinting into the dining room. There! On the sideboard! The box of matches! My legs get tangled in one of the chairs and I fall forward. My chin clips the edge of the sideboard and stars spring before my eyes. I can taste blood as my teeth pierce my tongue. The world is confusing and hazy, but I have a plan. I have a fucking plan, goddammit!

My hand slips blindly at the sideboard until I find the box of matches. I pull myself up and try to shake the wooziness from my head. Shadows fill the opposite doorway. They have found me. I only glance in their direction for a split second before I sprint back into the kitchen. I can hear their feet scrabbling, scratching, clicking, and scratching after me. My shoulder collides with the side of the kitchen doorway and I go spinning out of control as I throw myself into the kitchen.

The box of matches flies out of my hand and bounces against the oven door, landing right back in front of me. I laugh at the strangeness of it all. Then I cough as my lungs fill with gas. I'm able to sit up and get my back against the oven door so I'm facing the kitchen doorway. The things fill the doorway. Impossible in size with mandibles as wide across as a soccer ball. The centipedes push against each other to be the first ones in to feast.

"I'm not waiting until you dish up, you motherfuckers," I say, and open the box of matches. I will not let them eat my son or my friend, or me. The match feels like power between my fingers. I strike it, just as the dam of centipedes breaks and the things stream in at me. "This dinner isn't for you!" I shout. There's a flash, and I feel the heat for a brief.

Hey guys, thanks for listening. I want to give you all a quick heads up regarding some upcoming political ads you may start hearing leading up to this year's presidential election.

These ads do not represent my own political viewpoint. So if you hear a political ad play on the podcast and it's not in my own voice, then it has absolutely nothing to do with me personally as a podcaster. Thank you again for being a dedicated listener of mine, and I can't wait to have another amazing year with you guys. I'll see you in the next episode.