Grass Green, Blood Red

The sun gave up its fight against the growing darkness in a burst of red, gold and violet.

Slowly, lights come on, room by room, in the houses along the block. A man, puttering around in his garage, is unaware that he can be seen by anyone standing near, while he is unable to see beyond the darkness that struggles to breech the barrier of light at the edge of the garage door. The figure, hardly more than a shadow against shadows, separates from the withered tree and begins moving soundlessly towards the open garage door.

The man is carefully putting the finishing touches on his son's entry in the Pine wood Derby. The event is designed to teach boys basic woodworking, engineering and especially, fair play. But every year, all across the country, fathers take on the project as if the bits of wood, plastic and tempera paint defined them as men and their sons' performance in the race determined their fitness for survival. Often, the boys the contest was intended for never touch the cars before race time, being considered too immature, too clumsy, to be trusted. This man was no different.

Casually, the Hunter walked across broad green lawns kept vibrant at the expense of precious drinking water. Kneeling for a moment, she plucked a few blades of grass and crushed them between her fingers, inhaling deeply of the fragrance. She liked grass and the idea that humans voluntarily gave up vital fluid to something that did not care about their sacrifice. She continued towards the open garage, pausing for a moment at the edge of the road as a silver minivan turned onto the lane.

Headlights briefly illuminate the Hunter. The driver, startled by the sudden appearance of this ebony apparition, over-steered and nearly drove into the drainage ditch running parallel to the road. She almost stopped to see if the stranger needed help. Then some instinct, a memory buried in her genes, warned her to keep going and not look back. She turned into her driveway at the end of the block and rushed into her house, forgetting the bottle of milk she went out to get. When she remembered it, nothing could move her to go out in the dark to retrieve it.

The man, engrossed in his chore, doesn't hear the Hunter's approach as she glides up the driveway and into a corner near the garage door. Without turning around, he heads into the main part of the house through a connecting door, in search of the model driver he'd bought on the Internet as an enhancement for the car. A smile worked its way across the Hunters face as she quietly pulled down the garage door and broke the only bulb illuminating the room. The shattering glass barely made a sound as the darkness came flooding in and wrapped itself around the Hunter like a blanket warm from the dryer. The connecting door opens and a shaft of light from the house bursts into the garage, deepening the shadows. The Hunter leans further into them, completely hidden from view.

"Damn! I knew I shoulda' got those freakin' long life bulbs".

The man stumbles into the garage, leaving the door open, making his way across the room in search of a spare bulb. He barely avoids falling over tools and the bits and pieces of other projects in various states of completion that clutter the floor. The Hunter slides along the walls of the garage towards the connecting door, easily avoiding the junk on the floor.

Having finally retrieved a fresh bulb, the man stared confusedly at the shards of the broken bulb still in the socket. He is still staring at it when the Hunter slams the door shut, throwing the room into sudden darkness.

"Shit! Who's in here?" The man exclaims. The sound of the new bulb shattering against the floor is the only response.

"I don't know what kind of game you're playing but you better get outta' here before I call the cops!"

She laughs.

"A game? Hmmm. Yes, I like games. "

The man backed up against a bench behind him, frantically sweeping his hand back and forth across the top, searching for something to use as a weapon. A splinter from the unfinished edge jams itself in the webbing between his thumb and index finger, making him snatch his hand away. The Hunter laughed again.

"Ooh, that looked like it hurt! And you were so close too!"

The man's head whipped back and forth as he tried to get his bearings in a once comfortable room that had suddenly become a nightmare landscape. His eyes ached with the struggle to pierce the gloom. Little of the light cast by the distant street lamp came through the dusty slits of glass that passed for windows in the garage door. The shadowy privacy that had made the street so appealing when he chose the house now looked like the worst idea possible.

Slowly, his eyes began to adjust to the gloom. The only real light in the room was coming from around the edges of the connecting door. It had never looked more inviting or so far away. He could make out the faint glint of light bouncing off the chrome handlebar of his daughter's bike. After days of grumbling at her that someone would steal the damned thing if she continued to leave it in the driveway, she had at last brought it inside the garage. He almost laughed at the thought that she could not have picked the worst day to finally do something he'd asked of her. Getting around that and all of the rest of the crap on the floor was going to be hell. As he continued to scan the room, he could make out the dark shapes of tools hanging on the walls and the darker shape of something else standing in the corner.

"Look, I don't have a lot of cash on me but you can have all I've got if you just leave me alone, okay?"

"I don't need any cash".

The man was sweating and panting like a thoroughbred at the end of a race. The scent of his fear was so thick in the air it was almost a taste, sour and musty. She thought it was delicious.

"Fuck you! My buddy's coming over. He'll be here any minute so you better leave."

"Perfect!" she said, "Dessert!"

The man made a dash for the garage door, thinking that he'll haul it up just enough to get out and start yelling. In this neighborhood, screams would get noticed and people would respond at least by calling the police if nothing else. His feet got caught up in something and he crashed to the floor, cracking a knee against the concrete. Pain arced through his leg, making his throat constrict, forcing his scream of agony to come out as a croak. The Hunter stepped delicately around and over the collected mess until she was standing a few inches away from him. Sensing her approach, he scrabbled back towards the bench until his backside came up hard against it.

"Look! You've hurt yourself again. Let me help you."

"H-help? How?"

"I'm going to tell you where that screwdriver is. If you can cut me or hurt me with it in any way before I can get it from you, I'll leave. I'll even give you a minute or so to catch your breath. Fair enough?"

"Fair? How's that fair, I can't even see you!"

"True, that is a problem. I know. We can play Marco Polo! You'll be Marco and I'll be Polo. That way, you'll know where I am."

He agreed, thinking it might be his only chance. The Hunter let him get up. He wasn't too steady on his feet. The knee that got cracked against the floor sent spikes of pain shooting up and down his leg, making him lean heavily to the other side. The hunter directed him to the screwdriver and when he was set, the game began.

His back against the bench, his voice rough because his mouth was dry, the man said "Marco".

The Hunter called "Polo" causing the man to spin clumsily to his right.

"Marco".

"Polo!"

He quickly turned left! "Shit!" he thought, "That thing is fast! There are all kinds of crap on the floor over there and she missed it all! Didn't even make a sound. I've got to get out of this garage."

He began sidling down the bench towards the connecting door. It had a deadbolt on the other side. If he could get there, he might be able to shut his pursuer in the garage.

"Marco" he said just as he hit the edge of the bench where it turned ninety degrees towards the door.

"Polo."

"Good", he thought, the creature was still to his left and seemed a little farther away. "I swear, when I get outta' this I'm gonna' sell all this shit and I'm never looking at another episode of This Old House for as long as I live."

"Marco" the man yelled as he dashed down the length of the bench. Something that felt like a brick slammed against his chest, shoving him backward away from the door. The tip of the bench jammed excruciatingly into the small of his back, making his legs go weak. Breath left him in a grunt. His mind, overwhelmed by the pain coming from all the parts of his body and the fire in his lungs, tried to shut him down. Passing out now, he knew, would be the end of him. As quickly as he could he brought the screwdriver up, preparing to stab at the thing that held him up by the front of his shirt.

"Scratch her is all I got to do. She's got to let me go if I can just scratch her."

A band of iron wrapped itself around his hand, crushing his fingers against the handle of the screwdriver. Tears streamed from his eyes and a whimper slipped from his lips as his knuckles ground together. He could see smooth white teeth as the Hunter leaned forward and whispered "Polo" in his ear.

The Hunter strolled across verdant lawns, smiling at the thought of the neighbors reaction when the man's remains are discovered, drained of blood, desiccated from the heat, stuffed in a cubby underneath his work bench. The crickets and frogs that had ceased their chirping as she passed resumed once the Hunter disappeared into the shadows, making the night loud. The moon, a hazy white against the darkening sky, inched its way through the skeletal branches of a tree that had failed to blossom with the coming of spring. The heat of summer has made it as dry as kindling and it waits for a careless match to end its suffering. The creatures of the light scurry to their dens gladly giving over territory to the inhabitants of the night as they reassert their power. Quiet, as still as the depth-less skies, settles over the sleepy suburban neighborhood. Leaning against the dead tree is a figure who is given a wide berth by the other nocturnal creatures. They recognize a superior. The lesser predators begin to stir.