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A boy no older than twenty kicked a ball down the street, completely unaware of the menacing appendage hovering over his head.
The human mind is a peculiar thing. If a person doesn’t expect to see something outside of the scope of their everyday life, they don't. It was a wonder humanity hadn’t been consumed in its entirety by monsters centuries ago. Survival was due, in no small part, to those of us who could see, those who chose to act.
The appendage wasn’t exactly an arm, more a long, goopy tentacle that curved its shape toward the boy. The end stretched and thinned, forming a green, mucus-like baseball mitt. The soup was about to strike.
“You, boy,” I called.
The boy continued kicking his ball and paying no mind. The slime mitt inched closer to the boy’s head.
“Boy,” I said again, this time louder. “I’m talking to you.”
He put his foot on the ball and turned, a mean look on his young face. “First, I’m not a boy. I’m eighteen—a man.What do you want, lady?”
I approached until I could get a good look at the threat literally hanging over him.
I pulled a pen from my bag and swung it over his head, to determine if there was an invisible attachment between the creature and its prey. There was not, which was lucky for the child. The soup had not yet begun to feed.
The boy ducked. His face contorted in anger. “What are you trying to do? Poke my eye out?”
The slime mitt re-congealed into a tubular shape, moving slightly away from the boy. It still remained, a shadow hanging over him, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
“If I’d intended to remove your eye, I would have it in my possession at this very moment,” I told the boy. “I never miss.”
“You’re crazy. Seriously, get some help. I’m outta here.” He picked up his ball, turned, and began briskly walking away from me.
I pulled the salt shotgun out of my bag. It’s always better to keep these things hidden as long as possible, given shotgunsdoregister to the average human.
The boy glanced back over his shoulder.
“Holy—”The boy’s eyes grew into saucers. He dropped the ball, threw his hands over his head as if the gesture would somehow protect him, and ran full-speed away. He tripped over his untied shoelaces and crashed down to the ground. He scrambled back up to his feet.
I aimed at the monster appendage, not over the boy, but at the ground just behind him. And I fired.
The loud shot boomed against the blacktop and echoed against the brick buildings. Below the noise was a second, equally loud sound—a terrified scream.
“There’s no need to fear,” I told the boy. “I’m here to help you.”
He looked at me in shock and horror. I looked at the appendage. The salt was doing exactly what salt should do. It ate holes into the green goop. The appendage sagged, landing on the boy’s shoulder, then slid slowly down the back of his shirt, leaving a green slime trail.
“What are you even looking at?” he asked in a rush. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s my job,” I told him.
“I’m going to die.”
“Not on my watch.” I shot again, severing the end of the appendage from its source. The end slipped from the boy’s back and fell to the ground, shriveling and blackening like an exceptionally large charred shrimp.
The boy took off like a terrified bunny, bolting as far from me as quickly as possible. Either he’d remember this encounter as a near-death experience, where a fabulously dressed middle-aged woman had nearly murdered him, or he’d rationalize andforget it entirely. More likely, it’d be the latter, as young men had the fragilest of egos. Either way, he’d never know the truth. He’d wash the slime from his shirt, never having noticed it, and never knowing how close he had come to being a monster’s snack.
With this encounter at a close, I followed the hose-like appendage flailing on the ground back toward its source. The longer I followed, the more goopy appendages I happened upon. They wove throughout the streets, thrumming with energy, a vast system of cords that intended to feed on the town’s residents.
If they weren’t already.
At the center of the web, I found the town hall. Thick goopy roots reached out in every direction. This was where I’d find the soup.
Massive roots poured out from open windows and doors, and down the stone staircase at the front of the building. There were no people here, only an increasingly noxious stink. These were the types of situations I couldn’t understand. How did the people of the town completely give up their central building and still not notice anything was amiss? Magic, and ignorance, worked in mysterious ways.
I climbed the stairs with my shotgun at the ready and watched for movement. Halfway to the top, there was no more bare stone to walk on, only roots to scale. This close to the source, the tentacles were more solid than goopy. Still, as I climbed up, my knees sank down a few inches into the squishy surface. The toes of my pink baby doll pumps fared worse. I kept my shotgun up out of the muck and used my elbows to shimmy my way toward the door.
