“YOU MIGHT SCARE everyone else,” I say to the Bug Man, knowing somehow that it’s not really him. I’ve been afraid of him this whole time, even after Charlie told us he was trying to help. The image of him lifting my friend up and carrying her through smoke and flames still nags at my brain. “But you don’t scare me.”
It’s both true and not true. I’m so scared right now that my knees are wobbling. The only thing keeping me on my feet is my grip on Ricky’s antenna. On the other side, the monster dressed as the Bug Man is just standing there. But my words must be true enough to cause some kind of reaction, because he tilts his head to the side, a silent question.
And that’s when I shove.
The antenna is heavy, but not so heavy that it can’t be pushed across the gravel rooftop. Its feet carve lines in the pebbles, dragging and scraping against bare concrete as I keep the momentum going, putting my whole weight into it, as if I’m charging toward a particularly intimidating linebacker. The assembly, though, seems to get lighter and lighter the more I push. It’s because there’s another set of hands on the antenna next to mine, gloved ones. Black leather stretching all the way up to a gas mask. It looks at me with those big, smoky lenses. One of the hands lifts and gives me a thumbs-up.
“Thank you,” I say to the real Bug Man. And together we keep pushing.
I’m surprised—not to mention delighted—when the anomaly takes a step back, putting itself even closer to the edge of the roof. I’m screaming now, pushing forward with everything I have. The antenna catches on its wires for a second, but then the wires snap, disconnecting from the box and wriggling away as the Bug Man and I charge forward.
The antenna slams into the anomaly, knocking it backward. One jutting piece of metal catches it in what’s supposed to look like its shoulder. Another jabs into the right lens of the gas mask, cracking it. The monster teeters backward, its ankles catching on the ledge. I shove the antenna all the way up to it, until the base knocks against the concrete and the whole thing starts to tip.
At first glance, the anomaly is still there, stuck between the antenna and the open air behind it. Then, as the antenna starts to fall, it’s just … gone. The whole hastily assembled network of steel and rubber topples off the roof. A ragged hunk of rebar digs into my forearm as it swings upward and over, slicing my skin open. I stumble back, bleeding, lose my balance, and hit the gravel.
I look up just in time to see the last extensions of the antenna vanish over the edge. The sound of it smashing into the ground below is like a hundred quarters dropping into the Pac-Man machine at the arcade. It’s the most satisfying thing I’ve heard all weekend.
A second later, a stray piece of metal emerges from my chest, coated in a glossy layer of my blood.
I look down at it with something akin to curiosity. A burning sensation in my back spreads, and the ground is pooling with a warm crimson puddle. My vision goes hazy, and the skyline of Windale—if you can even call it that—tilts.
Somebody comes around in front of me. One Bug Man … then another, the one with the cracked lens in its mask. They’re latched on to each other, sparring in such a weirdly human way. Except the anomaly, whose gloved hand is coated in my blood, begins to break free of its disguise, gray limbs shaking loose as the leather jacket peels away. Its flesh is stretched and sinewy, traced with bluish veins. Some kind of mouth droops down below the bottom of the gas mask, lined with mismatched teeth that look like they were collected from dozens of other mouths.
It lunges for the Bug Man, and the Bug Man ducks, catches the monster around the waist and lifts. He smashes the monster down into the gravel, hard, and stomps on it with one booted foot. But those gnarly hands come up, grab the Bug Man’s foot, and twist. There’s a dull cracking sound, and the Bug Man stumbles back.
Then he begins to sing.
It’s a high, wavering sound that drives into my brain the way a dull fork might. The audio signature. This is what it must sound like up close. It’s strangely beautiful. Mostly, I think, because I’ve never heard anything quite like it before, and probably won’t ever again.
The anomaly hits back with a signature of its own, this one even higher and sharper, as if someone turned sound into a nail and was trying to hammer it into my skull. I press my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t do a lot of good—the sound is as much in my head as it is outside it.
It builds and builds, each creature on either side of the rooftop, pushing their strength into these sounds. I think I might go deaf from it. Or lose my mind the way Clark Webber’s cows did.
Then the monster takes a step back, and I can see its gray flesh growing black splotches, like mold. It’s taller than the Bug Man, with vaguely human-shaped features that don’t feel like they were fully formed. It’s terrifying to be this close to it. Even more terrifying to think that my head might rupture before I get to see who wins this fight.
The Bug Man takes a step forward, then another. The sound he’s creating is so powerful, and between that and the anomaly’s, I think I might pass out.
All at once, the anomaly drops, hitting the gravel on pointed knees. The Bug Man takes his shot, closing the distance between them in a second. He grabs the monster by its face, one half of its asymmetrical jaw in each hand, and he yanks his arms apart. Meanwhile, he’s still emitting that sound, focusing it somehow, aiming it right down the anomaly’s throat.
Until the monster falls apart, breaking down into dry, clumpy particles that either fall and mingle with the rooftop pebbles or drift off on the warm summer air.
The Dagger Hill monster is gone.
And the Bug Man lives. Except he looks hurt. He’s stumbling, and the leather jacket seems to droop from his shoulders in a way it never has before, as if it’s too big for him. As if he’s shrinking inside it. The leather gloves are flopping loosely. There’s a crack in his gas mask now, too. He manages to get himself to the roof ledge, and he sits down hard on it, sagging sideways, as if he’s in pain.
The closer it got to Windale, the stronger it became.
But it wasn’t Windale that made the Bug Man stronger. It was the anomaly. One predator, one prey. The only catch is that without the latter, the former has to remain dormant. They may have been natural enemies, but they also fed off each other’s energy. The Bug Man might be dying right in front of me.
In the one good lens of his mask, I see my reflection … and others. I see bugs and lightning flashing in the clouds and a plane, wings burning, plummeting out of the sky.
When I open my mouth, a little dribble of blood comes out, and it’s almost impossible to breathe.
“Wha-What are you?” I ask.
He, it, whatever. There’s no reply. And I don’t think I need one. I did what I came to do, and so did he. I tip my head back, look up at the night sky as it shrinks away. I’m speeding backward across a field of darkness. It’s nice. Cooler. Quieter.
I close my eyes and let it take me.