Tim tasted metal.

No, not metal, blood.

Something hot and hard was against his face. It smelled funny. It smelled like heat and burnt acid. His eyes opened a fraction, squinting at something black.

Pavement. He was on the pavement.

He tried to move, and a bolt of pain zipped up his arm like lightning. He groaned, rolling his body away from the pain and onto his left side. His arm and shoulder complained, but let him move. Carefully he sat up. A thick wave of nausea washed over him. He took a deep breath, and slowly the acid in his throat eased back down.

His bike was next to him, the front wheel bent and two of the spokes broken in half.

"Crud."

Using the curb, he slowly lifted himself back onto his feet. The ground swayed dangerously around him. He found the trunk of a small sapling to lean against until it passed. His head was pounding. He must have hit it when he fell. Probably had a concussion. Good thing a car hadn't come along or he'd be toast right now.

No.

That wasn't right. It wasn't cars he should be worried about, it was those things.

The memory of what he'd been doing, where he'd been coming from flooded through him, filling him with a sense of urgency. He needed to make sure his family was all right. He looked up, scanning the street. Around him, the houses sat dark and silent. Were there people inside, hiding? Or had those things been by and they were... gone?

He picked up his bike, but there was no use trying to ride it. He pulled it along with him anyway. His house was only two blocks away. He could make it that far on foot.

Probably.

As it turned out, the walk was more difficult than he would have thought. The ground refused to remain still beneath him. He was probably weaving like a drunk person. He tried to keep his eyes trained on the yellow stripes that ran down the middle, but they alternately blurred and swayed. By the time he finally saw the blue of his house he was nauseas again and sweat was dripping off the end of his nose. The skin on the right side of his face stung where the sweat hit it.

Regardless, he'd made it.

He dropped his bike on the yard and headed around for the side door. He hadn't seen any of those things while he was walking, but he still didn't want to advertise that anyone was in the house. He stumbled into the cool garage, stopping to lean against the frame of the door.

Something crashed inside the Johnson's house next door.

Tim jumped, ducking inside and closing the door behind him, thumbing the deadbolt. He listened, but heard no other sounds. He walked as carefully as he could across the cement and up the two stairs to the kitchen, thankful for the handrail. He tested the door gently: Unlocked. In his head, he saw his dad coming in through this same door just... had it only been about an hour ago? It felt like days had gone by since then. Weeks even. Time had stretched like taffy, turning the last hour into an eternity.

He pushed the door the rest of the way open and stopped cold.

The kitchen table lay on its side, one of the legs broken and dangling. The chairs were tossed around the floor in various positions. Tim heard something pounding, and almost turned around until he realized it was the sound of his heart slamming against his ribs.

Only you can hear it, he thought to himself. Breathe. Keep moving.

He eased past the overturned chairs and table. In the living room, a similar scene greeted him. The cushions had been pulled from the sofa. The end tables had been knocked over, and one lamp lay broken on the floor. Against the far wall, the black screen of the television stared back at him like an enormous eye. Around him, the house was still and quiet. They'd been here, but they were gone. He was almost sure.

"Mom? Dad?"

It was just a whisper, but it still filled him with dread to make the noise.

"It's me, Tim!"

There was no response.

The house was empty. Something inside told him his parents weren't here, but he had to check anyway. He had to be sure.

He took the stairs slowly, stepping over the spots that he knew from experience were squeaky. At the top he stopped again, cocking his head to listen, but there was nothing. His parent's bedroom was at the far end of the hall. The door was open. Inside he could see their bed, still made, neat as a pin. Apparently the creatures had not come up here. Maybe they couldn't. Their bodies were super tall. Maybe coming up the stairs was a feat they could not accomplish.

Or maybe they didn't have to.

Because no one had been here, Tim's heart pleaded with his head. Because they were already gone when those things had come inside.

Tim's bedroom was on his right. His door was open too, as he'd left it when he went out this morning. He padded softly into the room now, scooping his cell phone off his dresser.

Where would they have gone?

The answer was swift and clear. Uncle George's house. He lived three streets away, at the end of a dead end road, and his place was a fortress. If they were anywhere, they'd be there.

Thump.

Tim froze. His mouth went instantly dry. Behind him, from the direction of his closet, came a dry scratching sound. It was followed by a soft, but distinctly plaintive aaarrow.

Tim expelled all of the air he'd been holding at once, feeling a giddy laugh bubble out. He crossed quickly to the closet and opened the door. A disgruntled Dudley greeted him with purrs and rubs.

"How'd you get stuck in there, Dud-man?"

He picked up the oversized black cat, who purred contentedly in his arms.

"Come on, Duds. I could use some company."

The cat carrier was in the closet, complete with a soft towel. Dudley didn't want to get inside it, but didn't put up too much of a fuss.

"Just for a few minutes, I promise."

On the way back out through the kitchen, Tim grabbed a few cans of cat food.

"Just in case, bud. I don't think we'll be there that long, but you never know."

Dudley stared at him with his enormous yellow eyes, neither confirming nor denying the claim. Tim exited as carefully as he'd entered, making sure to close the doors without making noise. If one of those things had been next door, he didn't want it to come snooping back over here.

A wave of heat greeted him as he left the garage, and he felt his right arm complain again. Hopefully Uncle George would have some aspirin or something. Tim hurried across the back yard, and through the Blake's back yard, then crossed over Pond and cut across Forest Drive. Around him, the neighborhood was hot and still. Waves of heat radiated off the pavement. As much as he could, Tim stuck to the shady spots, hopeful that his theory was right and that the creatures, whatever they were, didn't like the dark, cool places.

He cut across the yard of someone he didn't know, and saw his uncle's house. Beyond it, the trees pressed in, creating a welcoming sight filled with shadows. Dudley gave a plaintive peep.

"S'okay, Dud. Couple more seconds."

He hurried across the yard toward the front door, then stopped. His stomach plummeted. Not now. Not when he was so close.

The sight of Uncle George's front door answered back with stony indifference, the center of the wood dented and broken and the whole thing hanging askew in the frame. Down the street, something echoed with a metallic clang. Tim ducked his head and raced for the side of the house. Sweat ran down his neck and into his shirt, sticking it to the skin of his back. He pressed himself against the side of the house, panting. He pressed his eyes closed.

Please, let them somehow be okay.

He tried to calm his breathing. There was a shed in the back. Maybe they'd gone in there. Maybe they'd gone somewhere else to hide. He had to check. He had to-

"Tim!"

His head whipped around frantically.

"Uncle George?"

"Tim! Back here!"

He moved quickly to the back corner of the house. There, a few feet away from the shed, something was moving. A slab of grass was somehow suspended in the air. Beneath it his Uncle, well half of him anyway, was waving an arm. Tim frowned, trying to make sense of it. Then, from behind Uncle George, his father's head appeared.

In an instant he understood. The grass was not suspended midair, it was attached to a door that was lifted open. Leave it to Uncle George to have an underground bunker.

Tim rushed across the yard, waves of relief washing over him one after the other.

They were here.

They were okay.

They were safe!

Uncle George waved his arm. "Come on, come on!"

From down the street, there was a louder crash, and then a scream.

"Come on! They're still checking houses. Let's go!"

Tim handed the cat carrier to his uncle and scrambled after him down a set of wooden steps leading into darkness.

"Shut that thing and lock it!" Uncle George called back over his shoulder.

Tim's dad pulled the large door shut with a thunk. Bits of dirt rained down on them. Tim expected to be plunged into complete darkness, but a light flared, filling the space. Before he could take in anything else, his mother was crashing into him, her arms pulling him close.

"Tim, thank God!" Her hands pushed his hair from his face. "We were so worried. The reports started coming in right after you left, and-"

"Ow," he muttered as her hand found raw skin.

"What? Are you okay?" She pulled him away so she could look. "Did one of those things...?"

"I'm okay," Tim assured her. "I fell off my bike."

"Here," Uncle George shoved a first aid kit at them. "There's bottled water and a pail along the back there."

Before following them, Tim turned back to his dad, who also pulled him into a rough embrace, ignoring mom's protests. For a few seconds, Tim let everything else melt away. This crazy day and everything that had happened faded into the background, and he was just a kid, hugging his dad.

Slowly his bruises and scrapes resurfaced and he winced.

"Sorry-sorry," his dad said, quickly pulling away.

"It's okay, dad."

His father grinned at him. "Yes," he said. "Now it is."