As ink blots are interpreted differently by each viewer, so are the text blots from The RawShock Tales

 (#9) They're Coming...

by

John P. Cater

Copyright 2006

They’re coming to take my life. The roar grows louder with each passing minute. It’s beginning to shake the walls—the same walls that once surrounded a young man and his hopeful bride starting a new life together. Now they’re closing in on me. I want to scream.

My trembling hand ever so slightly parts the tautly drawn curtains. Light beams in, stabbing a knife into my private darkness. Hesitantly, I peer through the opening and see it staring back at me--- the white harbinger of death moving slowly down the street, chewing up memories and lives with each stop. Oh dear, tears are blurring my vision. I wipe them with a wet tissue. I think I’m going to need another one—maybe another box. I’ve used so many now.

My mind sweeps me back. Only two years ago sadness overtook my life when Harold became sick, very sick. My loving husband and faithful companion for the past fifty-six years, my rock of Gibraltar fell victim to the avian flu. His years of feeding the ducks and geese out by the lake finally took its toll. Doctors said a man of eighty years couldn’t survive it. They were right. He died still loving those ducks and geese. They were his life. How could he have done that to me?

Oh, God, how I grieved. My life was so empty. I cried constantly until Mildred suggested I find a little friend. One day she asked, “Maggie, why don’t you go out and find a little dog to keep you company?” I laughed in jest, “Mildred, I’m too old for that. Who would take care of it when I’m gone?” She replied, “Well, of course, I would. That’s what sisters are for.”

I thought about Mildred’s question for a week, weeping constantly. Then one morning I woke up and asked myself, “Why not?”

That evening I brought home Little Killer, a tiny six-week-old Yorkshire Terrier. My, how he brightened my life. I made him a pillow castle in the corner and he became king. He didn’t mind if I was old like everyone else, he just loved his pillow castle. My tears were soon replaced by laughter and smiles. My life has truly turned around. Little Killer and I have grown to be inseparable. Now, he’s my life.

Then, reports of a new pandemic hit the news. A few coyotes and wolves were found with a mutated virus that could kill humans. It’s called the canine virus. Those geniuses in our government decided that in order for us all to be safe, all dogs must be eradicated. They’re sweeping neighborhoods, one house at a time, looking for, and killing, dogs they find... they’re coming for my Little Killer. He's only got a slight cough.

I look over at him curled up sleeping soundly in his pillow castle. He couldn’t weigh more than six pounds. He has no idea what’s going to happen. How could he possibly hurt anyone? I wipe the tears from my eyes with a wet tissue. I sneeze and cough. I think I’m going to need another one.

The roar is intense. I peer through the curtains and see the large truck stop in front of my house. Animal Control is emblazoned on its side. Four men get out and approach my door.

Peacefully, I sit in my recliner and load my Glock with four Teflon-coated nine millimeter rounds, one for each man. My sickness doesn't bother me. I look over at Little Killer and whisper, “You’re going to be just fine, little man.” He sleepily raises his tiny head and squints back. He’s still king.

I wipe the tears from my eyes with a wet issue. I’m going to need perfect aim.

Knock... knock.

“Come in.”