Icon #36 Whistling

#36

“What are you doing, son?” Asked Officer Bender, who everyone called Officer Squint due to his unfortunate habit of leaning in close to things and puckering up his face to see them better.  The man stopped in front of where Kent sat with his legs crossed at the ankle and tucked back under the bus stop bench.

“Nothin’” Kent replied eloquently.

Officer Bender leaned in close, and Kent knew what was coming.  He pulled back, holding up a hand.

“Geez, you don’t have to rub noses with me to see me,” he complained.  “I’m just sitting here.  Is there a law against sitting on a bench?”

Bender stared down at him and frowned.  Kent’s legs weren’t just tucked under the bench, they were arranged so that his feet held a piece of cardboard over the grating of a street drain.

“Unless you’re waiting for a bus,” Bender said, “You’re loitering.  Loitering IS against the law, as well you know.  Get on up from there and get home, before I walk you there myself and turn you over to your father.”

“He’s not home,” Kent said.  He pressed his feet even tighter against the cardboard and gripped the back of the bench, as though exerting some sort of pressure against an unseen force.  “Not going to be home today.  He’s on a business trip.”

“Your mother then,” Bender insisted.  “She’ll be worried.  Get on home now.”

Kent turned his head and began to study the trash overflowing from the can beside his bench.  He made no move to rise.

“I’m not going to ask you again, son,” Bender said.  “Get up off the bench and get out of here.  What are you hiding down there, anyway.”

Kent glanced down and frowned.

“Hiding?” he asked.  “I’m not hiding anything.  What would you hide in a storm drain?”

Bender ignored the question.

“Get up,” he said.

Kent did as he was asked this time.  The cardboard rippled out, like it had caught in a sharp breeze, the second he removed the weight of his shoes.  He stepped back, still watching Bender.  The officer ignored him, bending at the waist and leaning in close.  He puckered up his face and actually dropped to his knees, poking his head under the bench and shoving the cardboard aside.

The tentacle whipped from the broken hole in the center of the grate with incredible speed. Bender gave a short yelp and tried to backpedal.  He pulled, turning to where Kent stood watching.  He tried to ask for help, but only a gurgle of sound escaped – the tentacle has wrapped tightly around his neck.  Then, with a wet, popping sound, whatever had him – took him.  Kent watched as the thing dragged the officer through that impossibly small hole.  The sounds of flesh and bones popping and bursting was loud, and Kent looked around to make sure nobody saw.

It was over in a matter of moments, and when he was sure the coast was clear, Kent grabbed the cardboard and slapped it back over the hole.  He sat on the bench and pressed his heels back tightly against it to hold it in place.  He watched traffic.  He whistled, trying to appear nonchalant.

After a few moments, he leaned down and called out softly to the void beyond the grate.

“Say hello to father for me.”

The cardboard rippled once, and then was very, very still.

Written by David Wilson - Visit Website
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