Truncated

Vignette

The police chief bent over the podium in his baby blues, hugging the box clutched against his chest. Above him hangs a fan that is dangling loosely. Never had he been so nervous about speaking to a crowd of reporters. They’re asking questions about the shootout. They speak at the same time, elbowing each other. As the questioners became more heated, so did his face. A thumping lump in his forehead showed.

A blonde, tan makeup-splattered reporter’s daisy lips uttered a tense inquery. A plump sweat machine sounded out an echoey fury-laced piss article laying the blame on the chief. The chatter boiled and steamed.

The chief’s box starts to expand. A nail pops out and another. The crowd grows in volume, and now the box is too hot to palm. It slips out of his hand and lands on the floor, splintering into pieces. The sea of journalists go quiet and direct their attention at the box. A scratching amplified by the microphone shushes them. The box’s contents wobble towards them, falling into the crowd. A plume of smoke obscures the stage, and the room grows dark. The chief is no longer visible. Reporters fall over each other trying to make it to the exit. They scream for the chief. They holler for the lights to turn back on. The floor is heating. Those who were unconscious are set on fire. Then a rustling by the podium. The chief’s shadow grows above those who are alive. He grabs hold of the microphone and demands that the light be turned back on, he asks for the box to be returned. The chief digs for his flashlight, but it can’t be found. He jumps down. The floor is steaming under his boots. He stops when he hears a snap. Crunch. Growing in size to the height of a child, the creature reaches into its gurgling mouth and yanks out a fresh white tooth. The crowd tramples and clobbers, drenching the hardwood. Blanketed by choking smoke, a survivor blindly stumbles towards the stage. A deadeyed reporter trips, falling into the gaping mouth.

When the smoke cleared, the room had emptied. Only the chief remained. He crawled back on stage and fell at the podium. The notion that they had filed out of there was impossible, he thought. Sirens sounded. Firefighters and paramedics scanned the area only to come up empty. There was no fire, nor was there a single human trace.

The box was found, more or less in the form of a lump of black. The chief went home, refusing medical observation in favor of working through the night piecing together the odd events of the conference.