It Arrives in the Gloom of the Storm

TW: Description of child deaths

You would not be the sixth.

That mantra repeated in your head as you walked through the deserted streets of your neighborhood. Your father’s knife was heavy in your back pocket. Dad would be furious that you stole it, but he’d understand once you came home. Your younger brother Michael desperately wanted to join, but you made him stay home. He cried and clutched your leg, sobbing about how he’d miss you if you died. Your heart twinged as you hugged him extra tight and promised to come back. The plan would be foiled if he came along anyway. According to the police, the thing in the truck only took people who were alone.

It always came at the same time, just before a thunderstorm hit the neighborhood. When the smell of petrichor creeps in people’s noses, when the wind picks up and has the slightest chill, when the first cold drop falls upon a forehead, people know it’s time to shut themselves away. For when the clouds darken to a deep gray and the rain begins falling in earnest, the black truck comes into town, slowly creeping in search of stragglers.

The first victim was Charlie, the town’s resident rich boy. Famous for throwing his mommy’s money around and wearing a bevy of designer clothes, he was never seen without sycophants, wannabes and leeches around him.

He said, "It's on me!" or "Put in on my card." so much, they were basically his catchphrases. He was the type you envied and secretly worshiped in equal amounts. The one time he was alone, when he stumbled out from a local dive after a raucous party, was when the thing in the truck attacked. For a boy with almost no survival skills, he managed to free himself initially. The rope burns on his wrists proved his lucky escape. Witnesses reported hearing cries for help and the reving of an engine. One woman was brave or stupid enough to try helping, but was met with the sight of the truck ramming Charlie against a light pole once, twice, three times. It seemed if the thing in the truck couldn’t have him, no one could. None of those adoring fans attended his funeral, but you and Michael attended to give flowers to Charlie's grieving mother. She burst into tears immediately, and sent you both home with hugs, profuse thank yous, and crisp one-hundred dollar bills. The bouquets of daisies weren’t anything special, but they were probably the only gifts Charlie had ever gotten from a friend.

The second was Theodore, the sweetest little boy you’ve ever met. He rode his red bike every morning with his dog Rocket, delivering newspapers with a cheery wave and a massive grin. You remembered how his face lit up when you gave him five dollars in exchange for the morning paper.

"Thanks so much, Mister!" he'd squeaked. The energy from his smile could’ve powered the town three times over. One day, Rocket came home with no Theodore in sight. Half the town joined his parents in a frantic two week search. His mother finally found little Theo and his red bike half buried in the woods. His body was curled in the fetal position, and chunks of hair and flesh were gone from his corpse. The autopsy confirmed that the mysterious bloody holes on his body were dog bites, and they were from a much bigger dog than Rocket. The folks living near the woods reported seeing the black truck drive through their neighborhood in the dead of night. Theo’s dented red bike was tied in his parents front yard and surrounded by dog plushies, a constant reminder of Theo’s presence. You missed his high pitched laugh to this day.

The third boy was Dante. There was…so much to say about him. To put it simply, he was a blond whirlwind of rage fueled by cherry Coke, bloody fights and punk rock. Dante and his boys were terrors you never dared cross in school. They spent their time sniping at teachers, fighting anyone who looked at them funny, or skipping class to play pinball at the arcade. His name was top of the leaderboard every time you went, and you’ve never managed to beat his high score. But he got really famous after he came out to everyone in the middle of the lunchroom. After brazenly kissing his boyfriend Paul in front of shocked teachers and students, he made an announcment,

"If you got a problem with us, we can settle this shit anywhere and anytime!" You suspect the thing in the truck decided to take him up on the challenge. When the police found him in an alley, rain-soaked and lips blue from the cold, it was clear he’d fought for his life. There was blood under his nails and skin in his teeth, but tests mysteriously brought up nothing. In the end, Dante life was snuffed out due to numerous blows to the head, and deep purple finger-shaped bruises around his neck. Paul and the rest of Dante’s crew were devastated. You never see Paul without Dante’s red leather jacket, eyes blank and shoulders slumped as if he had died himself.

The fourth boy was Simon, the saddest of the bunch. He was the star quarterback of the local football team, always scoring the winning touchdown at the last second. Along with being tall and confident with a loud laugh, he was sweet as cherry pie. He comforted you when you found out you didn’t make the football team.

"You were great out there! They missed out on a star." You were so flustered at the time, you could only squeak out a thank you before hurrying off. Now you wish you could’ve said more, or at least offered him a ride home the day of the thunderstorm. Simon got caught in a monsoon when he was taken. Witnesses say he was running along the sidewalk with his backpack over his head as rain pelted the sidewalk and streets. You've gotten rides home from neighbors during storms, Simon probably went into the truck willingly. Simon was gone for almost two months, the longest any of the victims had been missing. He was finally found in an abandoned shack at the edge of town, hanging from a rope tied to the basement rafters. Everyone laid flowers down at his funeral, and the school named the football field after him. But the most horrible part of the whole ordeal was his letter. The police had discovered a letter from Simon to his family, saying he was sorry for being stupid enough to go into the truck, that he was ready to die to escape the pain inflicted upon him, and that he missed and loved them. His family was so distraught, they moved out of town and were never heard from again. You always eat your lunch on the bleachers now, Simon’s comforting words in your mind.

The fifth… You swallowed a lump as you thought about Joshua. He was the first person who talked to you on your first day of school, the one who protected you from meathead bullies, the one who taught you to throw a punch, the only boy who made your heart flutter and your stomach fizz with giddiness. You tutored him in math every other day after school, and he was doing so well. He’d gone from straight D’s to getting three A’s in a row on his last tests. He’d wrapped you in a jubilant hug when he got his third A, making that ordinary day the best of your life. But on that fateful night, the night you finally kissed Joshua and he kissed you back, it started to rain. Joshua assured you that since he lived only a few doors down, he would be fine.

"I'll be careful, I promise. I gotta stay alive if I wanna kiss you again." Off he went, pressing a final gentle kiss to your forehead. But the short distance and running in between backyards didn't stop him from being taken. You desperately led your own search party with Michael by your side, ignoring the police’s orders to stop. Many sleepless nights and missed days of school later, the police found him. They found sweet, brave Joshua with his crooked grin, constantly bruised knuckles, constellations of freckles, and the resolution to never give up on anyone or anything, cold, bruised and bloated in the Evergreen Lake.

Dad forced you to go to school despite Joshua's death. You were reminded of Paul's half-dead state as you trudged through the crowded halls. But through the numbness, renewed bullying, piles of missed assignments, and Dad yelling at you to get over it because, “That stupid boy knew the rules, it’s his own fault he’s dead”, resolve emerged. The only way this would stop was if someone ended it. The police couldn’t, no one was brave enough to step outside, and you were sick of reading about friends and neighbors dying. So during the next thunderstorm, you packed your lockpicking kit in your backpack, stuffed Dad’s knife in your pocket, and walked to your possible death with your head held high.

A cold raindrop hit your forehead. More drops followed until buckets of rain soaked your shirt and sneakers. The only things keeping you company were the heavy sheets of rain, deserted streets, dead leaves, empty buildings… And the black truck slowly creeping behind you. Your heart stuttered as the tires crunched over the cracked asphalt. Everyone’s heart probably did the same when they heard it. But the difference between you and them was the knife now clutched in your hand. You turned and marched to the truck, flicking the sharp, silver blade open. You gripped it tight and stood tall as the truck slowed down and cracked open the door. Over the pounding rain, a voice emanated from the shadowy interior. It was male and female, high and low, soft and resonant, entirely inhuman. Its words rang like a blaring siren in your head.

“Truck bed’s already full, sweetheart. I'll come for you next time." The door began to close, but not before a familiar face peeked out, eyes wide with terror.

“Help! Don't let it take me, please!" Whatever was in the truck pulled little Michael back and slammed the door shut. The knife fell from your grip as you lunged for the door handle. The thing started driving before your fingertips could brush the metal. You pounded the side of the truck until your fist ached, screaming for the creature to stop, screaming that Michael was didn't deserve this, it could have you instead, it could keep you forever if it wanted, just please let Michael go, please, please, please-

Your foot caught on a crack in the street. The world careened downward as you slammed on the ground, nose breaking against the street. Blood filled your mouth, your hands and knees were scraped to hell, and bits of street were embedded in your cheeks, but that didn’t stop you from running. Just a little more, you thought. Just a little more until you reached the taillights. Just a little more until you reached the truck handle. Just a little more until you could end this nightmare. But inches turned into feet, and feet turned into miles. Your feet grew sore, your lungs screamed for air, and pain bloomed as your adrenaline gradually wore off. You collapsed to your bloodied knees and gasped for air as the truck continued on. You were left cold and alone, and you could only watch as the black truck slowly disappeared into the gloom of the storm.

You would not be the sixth.

End.