KILLER KOALA BEARS.

FROM ANOTHER DIMENSION.

P. A. DOUGLAS.

As water wears away stones, And as torrents wash away the soil of the earth; So You destroy the hope of man.

Job 14:19 New King James Version.

1.

"I highly doubt this is going to work, Tim." Joana rolled her eyes. She held her shirt out from her waist. It sagged from holding a number of stones.

"I know it is." Tim a.s.sured her, removing a stone from her shirt. "Trust me, man, I've done my homework. It's going to work this time. I promise."

"Yeah, right...." She sighed. "Like I haven't heard that before."

"Just watch," he whispered, lifting the stone for her to see. "It's going to open this time. I swear."

Tim grinned, tossing the stone at random across the field. In the stillness of the night, the noise the rock made, as it skittered across the gra.s.s seemed much louder.

"Here... hand me another one." He took the stone in his hand. "Only ten more to go." He tossed it at random, this time in a different direction.

Tim Bortimin and Joana Reed had been boyfriend and girlfriend for two years now. If saying that he was the only single guy her age at school wasn't what drew her to him, she'd be lying. She tried to date a few other guys, but nothing ever happened. He was the only boy who really gave her the time of day. Maybe it was because of her weight. She didn't consider herself fat, but in today's world, 198 lbs. at only 4'6" was a little on the chunky side. It also didn't help that they lived in one of the smallest towns ever. West Virginia was like that. It sucked. Bunch of redneck wanna-be's with their deer hunting and sports. Those types of guys didn't even bother giving her a second glance, and in this town that was all she ever got. Her pale, chubby cheeks and black eyeliner was just too much for them. The fact that her long straight hair had streaks of purple in it didn't help the problem either. She was different. Dressed different. Liked a harder version of country music. It was called Death Metal. Besides, rednecks didn't understand the complexities of real music. Bands like Six Feet Deep and Napalm Death just went over their camouflaged, red neck, thick heads. People that didn't understand good music weren't worth her time. She had standards. If it wasn't country, they had no clue. That was another reason why she felt like she ended up with Tim. He was different. Like her, he didn't fit the mold. Sure, not fitting the mold left them both standing out in a large gra.s.s field in the middle of the night in the center of town throwing stones. Still, he was growing on her... a little.

"How much longer is this going to take, Tim?" Joana said. "These rocks are getting heavy and I'm tired. We've been out here for over an hour already and you've only thrown six of these d.a.m.n things."

"You can't rush it, Joana." Tim scoffed, taking another rock and deciding where he wanted to toss it. "That's why this hasn't worked before. We were rushing it. If we really expect to tear a rift and open the portal, then we need to be patient with it. It has to be random. You know this..." He tossed the stone into the field. "We've gone over this already. Just chill."

"You're not the one holding all the d.a.m.n stones."

Tim rolled his eyes at her.

"But what if old man, Terry Wilson, wakes up? I'm not in the mood to get shot at tonight."

"Oh, come on. That old creep's dead asleep and you know it. Long as we keep quiet he won't even know we're out here. Besides..." He pulled his long jet black hair out off his face and looked toward the old man's house. "We're far enough away. We could make more noise if we wanted. He's not going to hear a thing."

He took another stone from Joana's shirt and tossed it at random into the gra.s.s. It collided with something when it hit. The loud noise pinged. Both of them stiffened and looked toward the old man's house. The echoing sound faded. After a moment, Tim took another stone.

"See... told you he wouldn't wake-"

"I still don't see how randomly tossing stones in someone's yard is going to open a portal to another world. This all seems a little silly."

"These aren't just any stones, Joana!"

"Shhh... Keep your voice down." She ducked low as if reducing her height would help the darkness conceal her location. "Well, if it does work, which I'm not saying it will, what the h.e.l.l do you expect to be on the other side?"

"Does it really matter, man?" He scratched his nose ring and leaned forward, kissing her cheek. Reaching into her shirt to take another stone, he said, "Where ever it leads, it's got to be better than this. Aren't you tired of this town? I'm tired of the looks I get from these people just because I chose to be gothic and not some tree hugging redneck. It's like they haven't ever seen someone dress in all black before. I refuse to be one of them. I'm not going to live the rest of my life in a stupid deer stand."

"I never said you had to." Joana hated it when he started ranting like this. He could be so negative.

"I promise... this is going to work this time. I've got it down to a science." Tim lifted the stone to his mouth, breathed hot air on it and rubbed it on his shirt as if to polish it. "I'm telling you, these are going to do the trick. When that rift opens up and we leave this s.h.i.tty town, you'll thank me."

He tossed the rock into the dark. Joana flinched, watching it sail across the air. She gritted her teeth, waiting for that moment when it would collide with something hard, waking old man Terry Wilson. It didn't. Instead the stone settled into the gra.s.s, silent. The tension in her body momentarily released, at least long enough for Tim to throw another rock.

"Hand me another one."

Nearly another thirty minutes seemed to pa.s.s while Tim took his time tossing each stone into the field behind Terry's house. Between each toss, Joana listened to him continue to rant on and on about society and the depravity of creative reasoning. The boy sounded smart... until you started actually listening. Realistically he could have just taken all of the stones into one big handful, tossing them all at the same time. Had he done that, they would have been able to make it over to the diner before it closed for the night. Joana would have liked that. Expecting to have been done way earlier, she hadn't eaten anything before the trip to old man Terry's house. She was hungry and it was getting late. Instead, the young high school senior insisted on taking his time. He wanted it to be right. Had she known that, she would have snacked on something before they left her house earlier.

Still, Tim insisted.

If it was going to work, it had to be done right. Joana did her best to hide that she was upset for missing the diner before it closed. It was the only place in town that stayed open until midnight.

But finally, they were done. Fifteen minutes had pa.s.sed and Tim was still standing there in the middle of the field just waiting. Nothing had happened.

At least Joana was finally done toting those stupid rocks.

"Well... I thought you said this was it. I don't see any riftssssss..." She shoved her fists, one against each wide hip.

"Just give it a minute. It has to work this time. It just has to."

"Come on, Tim. We've been standing here for more than fifteen minutes. Isn't that enough? Can we just go... please? I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry." Tim breathed, clearly taking out his frustration on her.

"What the h.e.l.l is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Let's just go. Maybe we can hit the diner. They should still be open. You think?"

"Yeah... sure, I bet they're still open." She rolled her eyes and shook her head, turning to walk back toward the car.

As quietly as possible the two crept past the old man's house and down the street. To keep him from hearing them upon arrival they were smart enough to park a few blocks away and walk up. That had been Joana's idea. Tim swore up and down that the walk was a waste of time. Old man Terry wasn't going to hear them. He was nothing but an old drunk. As they made the walk back, she couldn't help but think about that. h.e.l.l, if anything were a waste of time, it was throwing stones in someone's yard for two hours in the middle of the night. Sometimes she had no idea why she put up with Tim. He was cute. They liked the same music. Liked the same style clothes. They were the only two gothic kids in this dump of a town, but that didn't mean she should have to put up with half of his c.r.a.p. She knew that gothic people were supposed to be into some weird stuff. Anyone could tell you that. Just look at all of those Marilyn Manson music videos. But man, half of the activities that Tim could come up with for them to do... he needed to spend less time playing World of Warcraft and spend more time filling out college applications. If he wanted to get out of town that bad, his best bet was through a college grant. Not something make-believe like quantum mechanics. He spent way too much time in his fantasy world. And for that, their relationship was suffering.

Joana could only take so much. How much more, now that was the question. He was on thin ice already.

After reaching the beat-up rust bucket that was Joana's mom's car, they set off toward town. She kept her mouth shut while Tim suggested they stop in at the diner. Looking at the clock, she knew better than that and just headed home instead. She'd just have to settle for something at the house before bed. Of course, she'd have to drop Tim off first.

As they turned down the winding unlit roads, Joana wondered, among other things, when Tim planned to get a car of his own. He was the only 18 year old she knew of in town that didn't have one. For her it seemed like tonight would end no differently than any other night. Disappointment in her boyfriend. Elsewhere, that was beginning to become entirely another story.

Back at old man Terry Wilson's house the darkness began to shift.

Terry Wilson awoke to what he thought was someone shining their headlights into his bedroom window. Only, his bedroom window didn't face the street. It faced the back yard and the seven acres of land that sat beyond.

The light was odd. Hues of deep purples and baby blue fluttered into his room forcing him to sit up. Without second thought the 76 year old war veteran stepped into his boots, grabbed the shotgun from beside the bed, and stepped out of his room to investigate. His ma.s.sive beer belly protruded out like a bulbous tumor as he made his way through the house wearing nothing but his whitie-tighties and boots. Reaching the kitchen, he started to hear rustling noises near the house. Someone was out there, no doubt about it.

Stupid motherf.u.c.kers... d.a.m.n kids best not be pickin' them 'shrooms on my property again.

Truth was no kids ever picked anything on his property. He didn't have a single cow to his name. No manure, no mushrooms. That hadn't stopped the old man from calling the cops half a dozen times in the last year. Swore up and down that the youth in the area were doing drugs on his property. He was just a loopy old man.

Lonely and scared.

Scared of being alone, which he had been for quite some time.

He scratched three weeks' worth of growth on his graying chin just as he reached the back door. Something shambled on the other side, banging against it. Startled, Terry jumped. The abrupt movement actually forced a bit of gas from the old man's rear. And just when he was starting to giggle about it, a purplish-blue light appeared, leaking through the kitchen window. Same as what woke him to begin with.

He gripped the shotgun tight. He c.o.c.ked it, checking the chamber. Two sh.e.l.ls. Hopefully that would be all he needed. With any luck he wouldn't even need those. It had been so long since he had last fired the stupid thing, he wasn't even sure it would fire. He swallowed hard and reached for the door.

"Whoever the h.e.l.l's out there... you better get of my property right now!" His voice shook. "I got my shotgun and I aims to use it!" he shouted, doing his best to sound confident.

Whatever was on the other side of the door fell silent and Terry thought for a split second that raising his voice was all it was going to take to force the trespa.s.sers to be on their way. He felt the tension in his chest slacken, his back slumping low, which forced his belly to bulge out even more.

"f.u.c.k... I'm gettin' too old for this shi-"

Something slammed against the door, hard.

Terry jumped, almost dropping the shotgun.

He heard even more noises. There was more than one of them out there. His heart raced. The light flooding the kitchen through the window illuminated the area in an eerie glow. Blues and purples danced across his refrigerator and tile floor.

He tried to see outside through the window, but the light was too much for his aged eyes.

A long slender object slammed through the window next to the back door. Gla.s.s shattered, falling to the floor. The object was there one second and gone the next. It almost looked like a spear of some kind. Terry couldn't tell in the darkness and fluttering colors. It moved too fast. More noises erupted outside, followed by a persistent banging at the door. Whoever was outside wanted in. That was for d.a.m.n sure. On the other hand, what they were saying wasn't clear. A lot of odd grunts and hisses that didn't seem natural. Didn't sound like noises a man would make.

The spear jutted though the window again, staying long enough for Terry to determine that it was in all actuality, a spear. He took two steps back, b.u.mping into the counter near the sink. His eyes shifted from the window to the door, and then to the window again. He lifted the shotgun at the ready and tried steadying his aim. His arms and hands shook both from nerves and old age.

"I... I said... get of a my property now... befo-"

A hand reached into the window. Terry felt his heart stop. It wasn't like any hand he had ever seen. It was covered in hair and had long pointed fingernails sharp enough to kill a man.

"What the h.e.l.l is-"

The backdoor to the kitchen kicked open, swinging inward fast. It slammed against the wall and Terry jumped. The gun went off making him flinch again. It jolted his body as the sh.e.l.l exited the barrel. The loud report echoed through the house. His ears rang. A few drops of urine drizzled from his d.i.c.k soaking the front of his whitie-tighties.

The silhouetted figured at the door fell back into the gra.s.s outside. Terry saw it happen. His jaw fell agape as he watched the buckshot spread across the intruder's chest in the darkness. He had never actually shot a trespa.s.ser in all his life. Sure, he'd had to give out more than half a dozen verbal threats each year with all the teenagers and hunters crossing his property, but never actually had to do it. His skin suddenly felt hot, then ice cold. His blood pressure rose. Like he had said, he really was too old of this s.h.i.t.

Forgetting about the others he had heard, the sudden noise farther out in the yard startled him back into action. He raised the shotgun. It bobbed up and down as he took several slow steps toward the door. He needed to get a look. Needed to call the cops and probably an ambulance. He gripped the gun tighter, trying to keep it from shaking, but it did no good. As he reached the door, he could see the figure still lying in the gra.s.s where it had fallen, the figure's chest full of holes. Taking a quick glance away from the body, he looked out into the yard. In several random spots there were various lights. Some bigger than others. But where was the light coming from? He looked around, puzzled by what he was seeing. Each spot that was lit up seemed to have no natural source. The light was the source, just floating in mid-air like some type of magic trick. He waved the barrel of the shotgun around a few more times, skimming the perimeter. He saw no one, just the bizarre lights. He heard no other strange noises.

Maybe I was just hearin' things and this fella here was the only one. Sure as h.e.l.l sounded like more than one.

He looked down at the unmoving body before him. In the darkness, and with all of that odd light dancing around in the yard, the figure on the ground was cast in shadows. Terry found that peculiar. That much light should have pushed the shadows away, but instead it seemed to be creating more darkness. He looked around in the yard one more time for good measure, and then reached to his side, flicking the light switch on the wall in the house. The back porch light kicked on, illuminating the body.

Terry Wilson gasped.

"What the h.e.l.l... is this s.h.i.t?"

It was like a man, but it wasn't a man at all.

It was a monster. An abomination. It had the body structure of a large man. It was covered in a thick coat of gray fur and had abnormally big ears like that of some bears. Its nose was flat and drawn in close. The creature had long sharp claws. In some respects, it kind of reminded Terry of a racc.o.o.n. He'd had countless of those types of trespa.s.sers, the likes of which he did have the luxury of shooting at a time or two. But how could this exist? It was the body structure of a man. When he'd shot it, it was standing up-right like a f.u.c.king human. Upon closer inspection, he determined that the thing was for sure dead. It wasn't moving or breathing. The countless holes, in and around the creature's chest, leaked red. Terry had pretty much hit the thing dead center. Just to be sure, he reached down, prodding the being on the leg with the barrel of the shotgun.

As he leaned in jabbing its leg, he realized something else.

It was wearing clothes. The clothing was primitive, but it was clothing just the same. The man-animal was wearing a necklace made of bone and had some type of makeshift cloth wrapped around its waist covering what Terry could only a.s.sume was its gender-parts.

He was so elated with the odd and unexpected creature and the lights still flickering in the yard that he felt like it was all a dream. Any minute now, he would wake up in his king size bed fit for two all alone, ready to face a new day. Alone. He was too busy staring at the thing lying in the gra.s.s before him, contemplating this crazy dream he found himself in. Too busy in fact, he didn't hear the window in the living room break. Or the intruder climbing into the house. He didn't hear the footsteps drawing closer, creeping up behind him. His eyes were wide, his mind fl.u.s.tered with questions. Namely, where the h.e.l.l this thing came from... It could be big boot, maybe... and what where those lights in the-"

When Terry Wilson heard the thing step up behind him in the kitchen and felt it breathing down the back of his neck, it was too late. He didn't even have time to spin around. He felt a sudden sharp pain in his back, and in that same instant, just like the kitchen window, a long slender spear punctured his chest. Only this time it wasn't gla.s.s that shattered to the floor. The creature jabbed it further and Terry watched it extend farther out before him. Meat and blood covered sinew clung to the sharp tip of the spear. Terry couldn't breathe. He looked down at his chest and realized then that the chunks of meat and muck on the end of the sharp object were his own internal bits. He coughed, trying to gasp for air. Crimson spewed from his lips as his mouth filled with the iron taste of warm blood. He gagged swallowing most of it down. His left arm fell limp to one side, dropping the shotgun. It clinked, coming to a rest in the gra.s.s. His other hand grabbed at the rod sticking out of his sternum. His hand slipped on the wooden pole and came away red. His vision wavered and his knees buckled. For a second or two he even felt as if he were floating in midair. It was then that he realized that the creature holding the spear was holding him up. His legs and arms were just dangling, limp and lifeless. The creature must have let go, because Terry then fell to his knees. Everything started to go black. He thought of his ex-wife and how he missed her. Remembered what it had been like all those years ago to share that big bed. It had been lonely without her. Just as he started trying to remember her face, something out in the yard distracted him.

Something was coming out of the floating lights.

More monsters.

Terry Wilson fell forward, the spear still shoved through his midsection. He was dead before his corpse even hit the gra.s.s next to the creature he had just killed.

2.

Lewisburg was a charming little town and that's how the towns-people liked it. Great coffee. Food enriched with character. Shop owners dedicated to the customer. And yes, the Victorian look that couldn't be found in any other place. Houses in the town were cla.s.sic Victorian-era two and three story variety, and quaint one story cottages. Of course, like any other small town, it had its share of dilapidated mobile homes. The gra.s.s was kept trim and tight in the areas where it grew, which wasn't much of anywhere. Most of the land was dry sands and thick clay. A small town like Lewisburg is usually lucky if there's a decent one-screen movie theater, maybe a community dance troupe. But a bowling alley? This speck on the map in the Greenbrier River Valley laid claim to one of the first bowling leagues in the country. But a claim to the past is about all it held. The lanes were long torn out and thrown away. Erected in 1902, the building now served as Lewisburg's creative control tower, attracting an unlikely band of artistic characters, back-to-the-land types, and retirees.

The large mountains that nestled around the valley and the river, in truth, were what kept the economy going. With only one way in and out of town on Highway 105, it was easy to show up and never leave. That's how most locals got to be locals. Visited and decided there was no reason to go. It was a perfect slice of heaven. The tourist attraction of mountain climbing, hiking, and whitewater rafting was a staple to the small community. Without the spring and summer seasons of great outdoors, things would have definitely been different.

Right after dusk, before the night took hold, things always quieted down. Aside from occasionally hearing Frank Edelman's four-wheeler wreaking havoc through the many trails surrounding the town on the weekends, all that could be heard was the wildlife. Owls hooting on their perch. Wild dogs howling in the night, communicating with one another from long distances. Crickets and frogs got so loud at night that, at times, they would drown out Frank and his four-wheeler in the woods.

A lot of the townsfolk would argue the town was dying. With the sudden economic recession and the election in full tilt, many would say that Obamacare was to blame for all of the problems. That wasn't the case. Every business had its slow seasons and Lewisburg, West Virginia was run like a small business. Things would pick up. They always did.

Some would even venture to say 3,830 is a pretty large number. Well, it would be if we were talking about the number of light bulbs Frank Edelman changed at the bowling alley-turned Recreation Center every month. But that wasn't what they're talking about. That was the town's population. Sure, there are a lot smaller towns in America, mind you. However, compared to the census taken back in 1902, that number had surprisingly dropped rather than increase. Although a lot of visitors would drop in and never leave, this was more of a retirement town. The death rate just never did seem to even out with the new arrivals. You would guess that was to be expected. It was in the middle of nowhere.

Frank had worked at the old Recreation facility almost his entire life. Well, his adult working life that is. With his 22nd birthday only a few months away he had already put in more than five years as the janitor. No matter how often he tried to argue that he was the custodial staff, his friends would just remind him what that meant: Janitor. So what if he cleaned the bathrooms, mopped the floors, serviced the AC until nearly as old as the building, and changed the light bulbs? Someone had to do it. He enjoyed the job and made good money, too. At least that was what he told himself on nights like tonight. Tomorrow was to be some big local art opening for some of the retired folks. They already had the inside transformed into a gallery of sorts. It was his job to make sure everything else was in working order before the big opening the next day. Check all the lights, change any that were blown, clean the bathrooms extra well, mop and wax the halls, and take out the trash.

He hated it when they had big events like this coming up. Especially on such short notice. He was finally down to the last item on the list, which was taking out the trash.

The back door to the Center swung open. Frank strolled out with a full bag of trash slung over each shoulder. The MP3 player in his back pocket was on shuffle. Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd blared through the ear-buds. Although small, the headphones could crank out some noise. He had to walk about twenty paces before reaching the dumpster at the back of the building. Once there, he dropped both heavy loads of trash at his feet. His head bobbed in rhythm with the music. The night sky was clear and the moon high overhead. The moon was bright tonight. The mountains that wrapped around the Lewisburg valley were illuminated in its wondrous glow.

Unlike a lot of friends his age, Frank loved it out here. It was quiet and a lot of times, breathtaking.

He stretched his back and pulled out a pack of smokes from the front pocket of his blue coveralls. He wore the bulky jump-suit looking outfit when he worked to keep his actual clothing clean. The building was so old and dusty that every night after work his coveralls were generally in bad shape.