Lieutenant John the T-Rex halted suddenly and threw his stubby arms out to the side. “Hold up here men.” Behind him he heard the two rookies stumble to a stop.

John hunkered down and studied the lines, peering across no-man’s land into the darkness beneath the bed. Had he seen movement? T-Rexes weren’t known for their excellent vision.

Hell. How did I land this duty? he thought. The answer came to him immediately. Because there’s nothing more for you to do. It was hardly a question worth asking. The lines around the bed were set, manned, watched. The lamps were lit, the skipping ropes were laid down. The only thing remaining was constant vigilance. That, he could not provide. Not through engineering.

One of the rookies behind him pushed close, “What do you see in there, Rexy?”

Babysitting rookies was the only job left.

John didn’t deign to answer. He’d taken an immediate dislike to this rookie. He was cocky and walked with a swagger. Monster fodder as far as John was concerned. A mouthy blowhard in the meantime. I should bite this one’s head off right now. I’d be doing everyone a favour in the long run.

But John couldn’t do that. As much as he wanted to. He was still new to the corps, still learning the ropes. It could only make a poor impression with the rank and file if he went around biting the heads off of new recruits when their lines were already so severely stretched.

‘Solidarity and all that. No head biting,’ Billy had said. ‘But give them the impression you’ll bite their heads off.’

John was okay of that. Biting heads off was trouble. Plus, it was what everyone expected of a T-Rex in a position of authority. He wouldn’t give the haters the pleasure of being right.

“Shutup, kid,” he said. “This is important.”

“Sure thing, Rexy.”

“That’s Lieutenant John the T-Rex to you, soldier.”

“Right.”

“Not Rexy.”

“What do you see, Lieutenant John the T-Rex?”

John sighed inwardly. But if I ever need to bite someone’s head off to make an example of someone, I’m randomly selecting this guy.

The two foot perimeter around the bed had been maintained since the night of the incursion. No monster activity had been reported since and the men were beginning to feel secure again, but they were tired, and getting ornery. In the absence of complacency there’s fatigue, impatience; eventually doubt begins to sneak in. As bad a threat as any.

Orders had come down from the top:

Men: Pay no attention to the crushing dark quietness that preys on our souls. Don’t let its quiet darkness overcome your spirits like perfect black oil corrupting a tall glass of pure white milk. We shall prevail.

Signed,

Commander Billy

Morale had been much improved after that.

John couldn’t see much happening in the two inch gap between the bed sheets and the carpet. A great debate had struck up around whether the sheets should be drawn up, or left to hang naturally low. If the sheets were hanging low, the monsters might be able to move undetected behind them, and possibly undertake another sneak attack. If the sheets were pulled up, however, they were less restricted if they did choose to strike. Sleepy little fingers and toes dangling over the side of the bed would be more vulnerable.

In the end the sheets were left to hang low. The monsters wouldn’t be able to see out as easily, but neither could the good guys see in. All consideration to the little toes.

John pulled himself up to his full height, three times that of the rookie. “I see you being close to insubordination, soldier. That’s what I see.”

“Sorry, sir, John the T-Rex, sir. Just want to do my part, sir.”

He’s not sorry.

Bite his head off. Bite his head off. Bite his head off.

“Don’t let it happen again soldier.”

“Longshot.”

“What’s that, soldier?”

“It’s Longshot, sir, John the T-Rex, sir. That’s my name, sir.”

"Don’t overdo it. And don’t let it happen again, soldier Longshot.” And as an afterthought he added, “...soldier.” John turned away and rolled his eyes. He couldn't let this guy get under his skin. He'd never win the respect of the corps that way. 

Behind them, the other rookie had taken a knee at John’s warning, and had stayed down during the altercation. Standing, he pushed his helmet back off his forehead and stuck his chest out.

“I’m Private Percy,” he said as John turned around.

“Hey, nobody asked your name, rook,” said Longshot.

John said, “Good to meet you, private. Good cover position. Ok you two, follow me. And keep one eye on the darkness under that bed. Tell me if you see anything moving.”

Private Percy snapped a salute. “Yes, sir!” Longshot adjusted his crotch and spat over the skipping rope divide into no-man’s land.

They marched on. John stopped every so often to inspect a kink in the line, or to offer pleasantries with a Joe Corps soldier. With men maintaining a watch over the door to the attic, and keeping a constant vigil over their inner sanctum, the line was much thinner than John would have liked. The men he met had long stares and sour mouths. Little was said. Night was coming on and their attentions were stretched.

Behind him, keeping their distance to avoid being struck by John’s swishing tail, the two rookies talked as they went. John the T-Rex ignored them. Let them enjoy their talk while they can.

Longshot said, “Nice cover back there, what was it, Private Prissy. You took cover right behind me.”

“That’s Percy. And I apologize if it seemed that way. I just hunkered down where I was. No harm meant.”

“Harm to my pride, rook” said Longshot. “I don’t like being used as a human shield.”

Percy threw his hands up. “No, I didn’t mean anything like that. I was just keeping an eye out, like the Lieutenant said.”

Longshot laughed. “Don’t sweat it rook, I’m only yanking your chain. I don’t care what you do. I don’t really have any pride to get hurt.”

Percy took off his helmet and ran his hand over his immovable hair. “Stop calling me rook. I don’t like it. You’re just as new as I am.”

Longshot laughed again and hoisted his long sniper rifle higher on his shoulder. “We may be the same age,” he said, “but you’re the rook. Look at you....”

Private Percy was a generic World War II action soldier dressed in Khaki head to toe. His wide flaring pants were tucked into a pair of half-hidden boots. His helmet was lime green, and that was the most anyone could say about it: it was green: as like much of the rest of his uniform, it lacked definition and detail. A mottled chest denoted camouflage of some sort, or perhaps rank and designation. Lines around his body could have been the seams of his clothes, or perhaps simply flaws in his construction.

“...you’re lucky you have a gun,” scoffed Longshot. “Hell, you’re lucky you’re wearing pants. Because it sure looks like somebody forgot to requisition the rest of your uniform, rook.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Check this out, rook.”

Longshot was the latest in military scare tactics. His pants were kept tight to his body by Kevlar kneepads which covered his shins almost down to the top of his black, shiny boots. Black body armour covered his chest so that not an inch of him was unprotected, even under his armpits, and his black helmet, which swooped down in a stylish curve to the back of his neck, had a reflective face guard that he could put down and seal himself away completely from fire.

Some snipers wore ghillie suits to hide in tall grass. Longshot wouldn’t be able to hide anywhere, except maybe in a coal mine. Whoever designed Longshot’s outfitting wanted the enemy to think: Anybody wearing that much reflective black material has to be a badass; I’m just going to surrender now.

Longshot clunked his rife off his knees, his chest, his helmet. “See this. I could get shot anywhere and keep on grooving just like normal. No problems. Hell, I could get run over by a herd of elephants and come up laughing. I’ll be careful when I’m turning around quickly around you. I wouldn’t want to give you a concussion or something. That helmet doesn’t look good for much other than boiling soup in. Get it at a yard sale?”

Private Percy’s face had a hurt pinch to it. “My helmet’s fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

“Fine for getting shot in, rook. Take a look at my helmet. Like I said, I could get shot in the face and keep smiling.” He held up his sniper rifle, three feet long, black and reflective like the rest of him, with dials and scopes covering every inch. “Unless I got shot in the face with this baby,” he said. “This is the latest in long shooting technology. It’d pop my head clear off like a dandelion. I could cut your toenails with this gun from a mile away. With this I could put a shine on your buttons – if you had buttons. I could probably even use it to make soup if I wanted; I just haven’t figured out how to do that yet. Because I like using it for shooting, see, so I haven’t bothered to check out how to make soup yet. That gun that you got there, what’s it good for?”

Private Percy held up his standard issue Garand. “For shootin’,” he said. “It’s good for shootin’. You’ll see.”

Longshot copied Private Percy’s accent. “Good for shootin’ out a little flag that says BANG.”

Private Percy didn’t respond and they followed Lieutenant John the T-Rex in silence. Longshot studied Private Percy openly as they walked. He whistled sarcastically and shook his head. Private Percy was just as conspicuous in ignoring him.

Finally Longshot said, “Hey, rook, you got pockets on that uniform?”

Private Percy didn’t answer right away. It was obvious that he did. One bulging pocket on his left leg. “Yeah. I got a pocket,” he said eventually.

Longshot laughed. “Wowee. One whole pocket? That’s amazing. Check this out. You want pockets I got a million of them. Too bad you can’t borrow some.” He began patting himself down. “You want knives? I got knives. I got two of them on my arms here. Check this out, one of them on my leg, and oh, I almost forgot about this one right here, in my boot. Almost hidden by my Kevlar bulletproof armour. God I love my Kevlar bulletproof amour. That’s why I’m wearing so much of it; I love it.”

Longshot began rummaging through his various pockets which stuck out of his arms, legs, chest, shins. He was detailed down to the last button, which shone as they passed beneath the lights. He pulled out a handful of bullets, stuffed them back, and explored another pocket. “Hell, I don’t even know what I have in some of these. What’s this. Hmm, binoculars, a chocolate bar, compass, picture of your girlfriend....”

Pocket after pocket. “Oh hey, another knife.” Private Percy stared straight ahead.

Longshot closed his last pocket with a smug snick of the clasp. “So, uhh, what you got in your pocket, Private Prissy? Your one pocket.”

“I dunno. I haven’t looked.”

“You didn’t tell me that your name was Private something or other.”

“Didn’t think I’d have to by now.”

“What you got in that pocket, Private? What you got? You got a map? A map in that there pocket?”

“I dunno.”

“A map. You got yourself a little map?”

“I might.”

“A little map in that pocket you haven’t checked?”

“Might come in useful if I get lost.”

Longshot roared with laughter. “I knew it! Prissy got himself a map!” His cheer echoed inside the cover of his helmet as he guffawed.

Prissy had had enough. “Hey, shut the hell up. You’re one damned rude soldier, you know that buddy? I didn’t come here  to be made fun of by my own rank and file. I came here to fight the war against the monsters. I’m not gonna stand for it.”

“Whoa. Whoa. Just having a little fun, Private Prissy. Relax. I was only joking.”

“That’s Private Percy.”

“And such language too.”

“Sorry.”

The men walked in silence again. John the T-Rex had stopped to talk to a couple of soldiers. The light above them had burned out, casting strange shadows over their position near the southwest corner of the bed. The men looked frazzled. Their shoulders were low and their eyes were tense with anxiety.

Longshot turned to Private Percy seriously. “I like your shirt,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I like how there’s nothing on it. I like how it’s beige.”

“Khaki. Thank you.”

“It really brings out the detail in all the wrinkles you have.”

“Yes.”

“It’s good to have wrinkles.”

Percy was quiet.

Longshot said, “I’ve always said wrinkles were the key to winning this war. Glad you brought some wrinkles along.”

John the T-Rex snapped a salute to the two soldiers, turned quickly, and lumbered over to where Private Percy and Longshot were talking. The soldiers manning the post jumped his swishing tail with hardly a flicker and somehow managed to return his salute while doing so.

“Okay you two, enough goldbricking. This is your placement.”

Private Percy thrust his chest out. “Yes, sir!” Longshot unslung his rifle and leaned on it.

“At ease soldier.”

“Yes, sir!”

“As you can see, this posting is particularly dark. Two of the lights above have burned out and we don’t have the supplies right now to replace them. Whether the lights burned out because of some plot by the enemy, or simply through bad luck, we don’t know. I suspect it’s just gremlins.”

Private Percy’s eyes widened. “We’re fighting Gremlins too, sir?”

John the T-Rex shook his head. “Sorry, private. Poor choice of words. I just mean to say that what can  go wrong, will go wrong. Murphy’s Law and all that.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Intelligence has no idea whether this spot is likely to be attacked. I think it’s as likely a spot as any. More likely, really, with all these weird shadows here, and it being the end of the line and all. Hell, I’d practically put money on it. Understand what I’m saying, recruits?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Sure thing, Rexy.”

“Very well. Be on your lookout. Don’t take any chances. Anyway, your orders.... Private Percy....”

“Yes, sir! Ready and willing, sir.”

John the T-Rex lumbered over to the edge of the skipping rope which demarcated no-man’s land from their secure line. “Private Percy, do you see under that bed?”

“N-n.... yes, sir.”

John ignored the stumble. “Under there, Private Percy, is the enemy. Even now I have no doubt they’re watch us tirelessly with a thousand terrible eyes. They are implacable. They feel no for sleep. They know no fear, no solitude, no fatigue, only a deep and ageless hunger that knows no satisfaction. Why this is so, we don’t know. But their only goal in life is to lurk in the shadows and terrorize us who live in the light.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your orders, Private....”

“Yes, sir!”

“Is to venture out into no-man’s land, halfway between here and the enemy lines....”

“Um, yes?”

“And stand there.”

“Stand there, sir?”

“Stand there, Private.”

“Um....”

John carried on. “Now I know you’re new, and I know you can’t see under that bedsheet with it being so dark and all, but there’s creatures under there that’d curl your toenails just to see them. Some of them have snakes for eyes, and some of them aren’t much more than black holes with teeth that want to swallow a man whole.”

“There’s some good eatin’ on a Private, I hear,” said Longshot, seriously; “Meat’s all tender.”

Private Percy half turned, “Hey....”

“And all of them have different methods of attack,” said John, speaking over the heads of the two new recruits. “Some of them have bellies full of flame they’ll fire at you before you have time to say marshmallow; we won’t even find your bones, just a pile of ash. Some of them are quick as lightning; get a man in their terrible jaws before you can blink; the best thing you can do for that man if you see him being taken is pray the thing is hungry so it won’t play with him too long.”

“Um, sir?”

“Then there’s others that’ll get in your mind, make you think of kinder days, and people you love, and when you’re distracted sneak up and turn you into a puddle of brown goo. You’ll hardly notice because you’re still daydreaming, melting away with a smile on your face. It might not look so bad for the soldier melting away, but it’s not pretty to watch, let me tell you.”

“Sir?”

“One time I saw a man’s head explode. Wasn’t a single thing wrong with him until then PLAP went his head! Just like that, PLAP!; suddenly his head wasn’t there anymore. He fell over with his cigarette halfway to his mouth. Still don’t know what monster did that to him. Haven’t seen it happen again since. I can’t even be sure what I saw that night....”

“Sir?”

“What is it, Private?”

“Sir, what am I supposed to do out there... if the monsters do decide to attack?”

“Why, you stop them, Private.”

“Stop them, sir?”

“You stop them, Private. Those are your orders. Straight from the top.”

“How do I stop them, sir?”

“Decisively, Private. You stop them decisively.”

“If you say so, sir.”

Longshot was leaning on his rifle with a grin. “Might want to only take the one bullet, Prissy. That’s all you need.”

John lifted a part of the skipping rope line back onto the building block from which it had fallen, a yellow number eight on the side. “Boredom is going to be your worst enemy, Private. Out there, hour after hour with nothing happening, a man can grow complacent. He might let his guard down for just a minute, might want to yawn or think about going for a piss. And that’s when men die, soldier.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My advice to you, Private, is to shake things up a little to stave off the boredom. Every so often try turning your back to the bed as a change. Turn your back and stretch your arms and yawn like everything’s okay. In fact, stretch your arms and call back to the men stationed here, tell them that everything is normal and fine, that there’s no monsters for a hundred miles.

“Yes, sir.”

“Pat down your pockets a lot, as if you’re looking for a lighter. Nonchalant whistling, as well, usually helps alleviate the boredom. Walk around with your hands in your pockets, whistling nonchalantly, like this.”

John demonstrated and it was a strange sight to see a dinosaur gazing at the ceiling, pretending he had pockets so he could put his hands in his them, and blowing air through his teeth as dinosaurs have no lips.

“Got that, Private?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Just don’t get bored.”

“Don’t think that’ll be a problem, sir.”

“Good. You’ll do just fine. Okay, you other recruit....”

“Longshot, sir, T-Rex, sir.”

“Yes. Longshot. Listen carefully.” John pointed behind the lines to the far wall by the closet. “You see that bureau back there, pushed against the wall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I want you to take you gun and go up there. Get up there as high as you can, way far back from all the action.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you need someone to help you get up there, there’s a force of Lego men stationed near the base. It should be no problem to get them to help you carry up anything you want or need.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“If you want a latte or a nice cup of tea, don’t be afraid to ask them. That’s what they’re there for.”

Private Percy was standing nearby, muttering to himself. John pointed again, his stubby claw scanning back and forth, trying to remember the layout of the upper bureau.

“When you get up there, rookie, you’re likely going to be there for a while so I want you to get comfortable.”

“Can do, sir.”

“Find a nice fluffy sock or an old hat to lie on. There’s a few up there. They’re very comfy.”

“What would you recommend, sir?”

“Always been partial to the hats myself. They're nice and woolly. But there’s a few smart wool socks which have a very nice weave to them.”

Private Percy was dancing in place as if he had to go to the bathroom very badly. Finally he blurted out, “What the hell? This isn’t fair!”

John looked over his shoulder. “What was that, Private?”

“You say something, Prissy?”

Private Percy sputtered incomprehensibly a moment, then lowered his eyes. “Nothing, sir.”

Longshot cleared his throat. “Sir, question about the mission, sir....”

“Ask away, recruit.”

“Sir, the Lego brigade at the bureau, do they have cinnamon for hot chocolate, or would I have to drink it raw, like an animal? No offense meant, sir.”

John nodded seriously. “None taken, recruit. And certainly, they have cinnamon, nutmeg, whatever you like.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Never hurts to tell them to Irish it up a little either.”

Private Percy could be heard to mutter, “Seriously?”

Longshot nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir. Very Irish. Understood. What should I do once I’m in position?”

“Recruit, once you are in position, I want you to watch the same quadrant of under-bed as Private... Private... the Private here. It’s a large sector. More than one man is needed to cover it.”

“I see, sir,” said Longshot. “So I should eliminate any threat I perceive to Private Prissypants, sir?”

John shook his head. “Not necessary, recruit. The Private will be out front. It’s his job to handle the immediate threats.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But if anything were to happen to the Private, make sure you take note of all the details. Be ready to give a thorough report, despite how gory and bloody and disgusting they may be.”

“Hey....” said Percy.

“Often helps with cleanup later if we knew which way all the limbs flew.”

Private Percy’s shoulders were slumped and his eyes were hanging low. He said, “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This is insane.”

John turned around, facing no-man’s land again. “You got a problem with your orders, Private?”

Private Percy sputtered, “Well... yes, sir... I mean....”

A voice from the darkness answered for him. “The Private said it’s not sane,” said the voice. “And he’s right. None of this is sane.”

In the shadows, the glowing end of a lit cigarette flared. They hadn’t seen it until now.

Now that, thought John the T-Rex, is exactly why we need more men down here. He could have been anybody... or anything. I can’t wait to get out of here.

As the soldier stepped forward, John’s breath hitched in his throat. It was Bazooka.

There’s men like Bazooka in every army. Stories get told and retold about him until he’s a walking legend. He could be a ghost; his exploits could be an old wives’ tale. What parts are true have been forgotten. Except this army was different. In this army, nobody retired unless retired forcefully. The evidence of Bazooka was Bazooka himself, standing before them as real as day.

No way was Bazooka a ghost. He emerged from the shadows with a pronounced limp. From the knee down his leg was a smooth default white, no boot, no foot, just a rounded appendage which used to be shaped like a boot. John couldn’t stop staring at it.

That’s from the time Billy left him outside all winter and his right leg was half immersed in a puddle when he was found in the spring.

At one time Bazooka’s shirt had been covered with a red number fourteen. The top half of the four was missing and now the fourteen looked more like a 1t.

Under all that crushing ice for four months. No one to talk to. Nothing to see but white.

His left eye was similarly white; gone, absolutely gone. The squirrels did that to him, thought John. In the spring when he thawed out of the snow, the squirrels tried to take him away and he fought them off with one leg still trapped in the ice. 

Rather than fashion an eyepatch to hide his deformation, Bazooka had drawn another eye himself where the old one used to be. It was poorly done, obviously sketched without a mirror, and haphazard, too large by a third, and off center.

This was the first time John had seen Bazooka up close and he found himself wanting to take a step back as the soldier emerged from the shadows.

Four months in the ice, remembered John.

“These men have their orders,” he said. “I don’t make them up.”

“Ours is not to question why....” said Bazooka, a twinkle in his remaining eye.

“Err, that’s right,” said John. “I get the orders and I pass them along.”

Percy’s voice had a squelch to it. “I’m gonna get killed, Lieutenant.”

“You’ll do fine, Private,” said John. “Remember your training.”

“What training? I got taken out of the package and now I’m here.”

Bazooka’s voice was slow and guttural. “That’s right, Private. You’re gonna die. We’re all gonna die. None of this is sane and we’re all gonna die. You’re the first person I’ve seen around these parts with any sense in a hell of a long time. Pleased to meet you, son. What’s your name?”

Private Percy looked first to John, who said nothing, wanting to see where this would lead. The Private then hoisted his rifle and answered, “Percy, Private Percy, sir.”

Bazooka took a drag of his cigarette. “Pleased to meet you, Private Percy. I hope we find all the pieces of you after the all clear has been given.”

Percy gulped. John said, “There’s no need for defeatist talk. He’ll be fine.”

Bazooka shook his head. He’ll be fine the way we’ll all be fine. Unfortunately we’re all gonna be dead. No two ways about it. Look up there. What do you see?”

Bazooka was missing the thumb of one hand, his kung-fu grip forever compromised. That was the hand he pointed with, John suspected, on purpose.

Billy was doing his spelling homework on his bed before going to sleep. Crisscrossing beams of light surrounding him allowed for no shadow, however slight, to touch his body. He moved not a muscle, and appeared the very image of a stoic commander.

Longshot was the first to speak. “Yeah, so what?”

“Keep watching,” said Bazooka. So they did. Thirty seconds they stared and said not a word to one another. John’s eyes were beginning to water. He felt suddenly aware of his breath coming and going, slowly, evenly. What was it they were supposed to see?

“Okay, old man,” announced Longshot. “I give up. What are we looking for? Do we get a prize if we find it?”

“How many pages has he turned in all the time we’ve been watching? Are his eyes moving at all?”

John struggled to see if Commander Billy’s eyes were following the lines of the page, and he realized they weren’t.

Longshot scoffed. “Oh, is that all, old man? You’re sitting here in the dark staring at the Commander telling us we’re gonna die because he’s spaced out? Goddammit man, get a better hobby."

Bazooka paid Longshot no heed. “It’s the squirrels for all of us, gentlemen. The sooner you realize it, the better off you’ll be.”

“There’s no squirrels in the house, old man.”

Bazooka nodded. “Each man will find his own squirrel when the time comes. Won’t be long by the looks of our Commander there. We heard the Civilians earlier. The oversight committee is worried with how the war is going. They’re going to take over the war effort from the Commander. Mark my words.”

“No way, old man.”

“And if these so-called reinforcements are what we can expect in the future with a civilian chair in charge, we’re all in big trouble.” With that, Bazooka took a big drag on his cigarette. It’s end glowed fiercely, and he dropped it to the ground. Stubbing it out with his white foot, he limped back into the shadows. "Each of us is gonna meet his squirrel." 

John hadn’t said anything in a while, but it was his job so he opened his mouth and hoped the right words came out. “Okay, enough lollygagging. There’s work to be done. You have your orders. Now get to them.”

Percy protested. “Sir, this is ridiculous.”

“Your orders, Private. This is your last chance.”

Private Percy, grumbling, turned and slowly arched himself over the skipping rope. "Goddammit,” he said.

Longshot had shouldered his sniper rifle and was turning towards the far bureau. “Hey, watch that language Private Prissy. There’s soldiers present.”

John the T-Rex lingered. He looked up and watched Billy on the bed for a full minute. No new pages were turned.

Mr. Sawyer stomped the snow from his boots. The lowest part of the door behind him dragged on the ground. Bringing it to, he put his foot against the bottom of the door and nudged it closed. A big windstorm had swept through the previous fall. Since then, half the doors in the house didn’t quite close properly.

A starter home, the realtor had called it. Lately, Mr. Saywer had grumbled to a fellow professor, A home that was starting to fall apart, maybe.

Mr. Sawyer called out, “Anybody home?”

“In here,” called his wife. Where here was, she didn’t say. He’d just have to explore.

He took off his boots and laid them aside. A cold tongue licked his foot. He realized he’d been standing in water and jumped back. But he’d only realized it because the water had soaked through his sock. Too late then. He rubbed the bottom of his foot against his pants and moved on.

Andrea was in the kitchen. Tiny orange pucks of carrots and green basketballs of brussels sprouts were fanned out over the counter. Basketballs were the round ones, were they not? His nostrils widened with the promise of sweet onions frying on the stove, almost burnt but not.

Mr. Sawyer threw his briefcase down on the table next to the backdoor. “What a day,” he started. “My T.A. was sick and I had to mark all three hundred papers by myself. Took me until two o clock to do that alone. And I started it at nine. Then James came in and asked if I could substitute for Wilma on Thursday. She’s out with the flu. God I hope I don’t get that. It’s been going around. She’s got three classes tomorrow, two on Wednesday, and a test on Friday. And I have no idea about how to teach Pre-Sophoclean philosophy. So that’s going to be a mess.”

He could feel a draft coming from the door behind him. It was old and its paint was peeling. The window in the center, sure it was nice, looking out into their yard, but it was old and thin, and even a little warped, the way ancient windows sometimes got. Probably brittle as a sheet of ice too. Might shatter if they slammed the door too hard. Especially now that winter had come.

Mr. Sawyer rubbed bits of dirt off his feet he'd picked up from around the door. His wet sock was stuck to his foot. “Oh,” he laughed, “and then Stan asked me to fill in for someone on their hockey team Friday. I was thinking I might do it. For the experience of it all.”

Mrs. Sawyer had paused in her cutting and was standing idly by the wooden island in the center of the kitchen, looking at her husband quizzically.

Mr. Sawyer looked up for his wife’s reaction and thought, Damn. Andrea is doing her squinty eye look. “Stan said I could borrow some extra equipment of his. Imagine that,” he said, “Me playing hockey. On skates.”

Mrs. Sawyer took a half-hearted chop through an already sliced dice of carrot on the counter. The animation left Mr. Sawyer’s face. He sighed. “What did our boy do now?”

Mrs. Sawyer picked up a zucchini and started cutting it into larger pucks. “Had a visit from Mrs. Chatman this afternoon.”

Chop chop chop CHOP.

“She was most displeased with our little angel.”

“Is she the one from down the street? With the blue car?”

“No. Right across the road.”

“Okay. What did Billy do?”

“Well, it turns out that Billy... stole all of her daughter’s Barbie dolls.”

Mr. Sawyer laughed. “Is that all? God, I thought you were going to say he lit the house on fire. Or you caught him watching the Disney Channel. But that’s not so bad. Probably just a game they're playing.”

Mrs. Sawyer padded over to their old green stove in her bare feet. She threw a handful of veggies into the pan and the oil sizzled in appreciation. She never wore shoes or socks around the house, even in winter. In summer had to be tortured into donning footwear outside in case there was glass around.

“I knew you were going to say that,” she said. “And let me tell you. For a little girl to have her Barbie’s stolen is no laughing matter. That little girl was distraught. She was in tears, Daniel.”

“Okay. You’re right. I never thought about that. Still, Andrea, boys....”

“No.”

“What?”

“Boys will be boys? That’s not it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew you were going to say that, but that’s not it. There’s more.”

“Oh.”

Mr. Sawyer could feel his left leg cooling. His wet sock felt like he'd just donned it straight out of the freezer. That draft is really, really bad. Probably costing us a fortune in heat.

“When Mrs. Chatman left – and she was pretty mad, let me tell you – she has this vein by her ear which is sorta gross, really, and sticks way out when she’s mad....”

“Andrea...?”

“Right. Anyway. When she left I went to talk to Billy. I found him playing with little Jenny’s Barbies....”

“Well that’s perfectly normal too. I remember when I was a boy, I used to go over to my grandmother’s house. The only toys over there besides the ones I brought myself were my cousin’s old Barbies. I used to pretend that this doll with high boots – actually, now that I think about it, they were rather suggestive boots for a Barbie doll, way up past her thighs....”

“Daniel...?”

“I’d pretend that one was Wonder Woman and use her to fight all the other dolls. And I think a carving of an old man playing the banjo too....”

“Daniel, that’s not what I’m getting at.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t care that he was playing with Barbies. He plays with those boy dolls all the time.”

Mr. Sawyer grinned. “Well, it’s not really the same. They’re action-figures, dear.”

“Daniel,” asserted Mrs. Sawyer. “Not the point.”

“Right.”

Mrs. Sawyer shook the pan on the burner. “Like I said, I went to Billy’s room and found him playing with the dolls.”

“And...?”

“He had made a big stage out of his bed, and all his toy soldiers were on the floor in front of it.”

“All of them? He has a lot.”

“Most of them. Some were scattered around the room. A few of them were up really high. He must have been climbing on something to put those so high, Daniel.”

“Boys like to climb, dear.”

“Daniel, it was a U.S.O. show. He had all of Jenny Chatman’s Barbies on the bed performing for the boy soldiers. He had at least a dozen of them set up on a stage he’d made from his desk drawers.”

“That’s very interesting.”

“I'm worried it's strange, Daniel.”

“It’s not that strange, Andrea. He’s just playing with his army men. Mind you, it’s a little degrading, perhaps. Were the Barbies doing anything else?”

“No, just on the stage.” Mrs. Sawyer cleared her throat. “Billy said troop morale was low and his men needed a break from the rigors of combat.”

"I see."

"A reminder for why they were fighting."

“Well... all boys play with their army men in different ways. It’s normal. He has a healthy imagination. What else did you say to him?”

The stir fry on the stove was starting to smell really good.

“Not much. I asked what sort of show they were putting on and he told me I had to leave if I wasn’t a civilian entertainer pre-approved by the corps’ recreational co-ordinator.”

“Right.”

“Daniel, you’re a boy. You played with army men when you were a kid. Did you ever set up a U.S.O. show?”

Mr. Sawyer chuckled and got up from the table. He leaned against the wooden island opposite his wife and popped a carrot puck into his mouth. “Honestly, it was so long ago, I don’t remember. I was more about the big Tonka trucks than the army men. Back then they really made those trucks sturdy. Out of metal.”

“I think maybe you should have a talk with him.”

“It’s perfectly normal for a boy his age, Andrea.”

“He had music playing. I think it was Creedence. Suzie Q.”

“The boy has fine taste in music.”

Mrs. Sawyer relaxed. “Well, if you think it’s all okay....”

Mr. Sawyer smiled reassuringly. “I do.”

Mrs. Sawyer took the frying pan off the burner and turned on the overhead fan which started off clanging noisily. “Oh. One more thing Mrs. Chatman said while she was here....”

“What’s that?”

“She said little Jenny wanted to send her hello to the funny Scottish ninja man.”

Mr. Sawyer blinked and tapped his fingers on the island. He chewed on his lip and scratched his belly.

“Okay. Maybe I should have a talk with him.”

Dear Diary. We are under siege. It is not a siege in the conventional sense. It is a siege of the mind. The enemy has broadsided us in our own inner sanctum, and as a result, the SENSE of our own vulnerability is our new greatest weakness.

"HEY, NOW THAT'S A GOOD BEASTIE. SIT UP FOR STORMSHADOW! ATTA BOY! GOOD BEASTIE."

A dark quiet has fallen over all fronts. It has been very dark and very quiet. Too dark and quiet. We are drowning in dark quietness.

"OY BEASTIE, I BETCHA CANNA FETCH THIS ONE OUTTA THE AIR!"

I suspect this dark quiet is a part of the Monster's plan to let us stew in the idea of our own insecurity. Here we sit while out there they grow stronger. Even if that isn't the case, I cannot help but think those thoughts, and that, too, may be what the enemy has intended.

"Sir! Sir!" Fightmaster Stormshadow ran up to the barricade of lamps which marked the no-go zone around Billy's bed. He retained the stealthy sneak of a ninja even if his mannerisms had become crude and boisterous. Billy hadn't heard him approach.

"Sir, you ordered me to tell you if n' when I made progress with the big beastie."

Billy put his pencil down and looked up from his writing. "Excellent, commander. Has the beas... enemy prisoner opened up to you about enemy positions, strategic placement of scary shadows, the implementation of imminent lightning storms?"

"Better, sir! I've taught him to sit up and beg. Watch this, sir."

The Creature From the Black Lagoon had been released from its skipping rope cage with the hope that it might sympathize with its captors and be more forthcoming with enemy information; however, it was not allowed to venture past the lines surrounding Billy's bed, and was required to stay on its current side of the room.

Fightmaster Stormshadow had fought him on the second point, but Billy wished to take no chances with the creature being recaptured by the enemy after having spent so much time in Billy's bedroom, possibly gaining valuable intel. So no going near the bed where it could be grabbed and pulled underneath by monster hands, and the closet door had to remain shut at all times.

Fightmaster Stormshadow ran back to where the creature was waiting for him. Its two inch claws and translucent fish fangs glittered in the light, and Billy shuddered involuntarily. "Who's a good fella!?" shouted Fightmaster Stormshadow. "Beastie wanna treat?"

At that, the monster squat on its hind legs like a dog and thrust its neck out, all ten claws hovering in the air in front of it. Fightmaster Stormshadow then threw a wiggly snack up into the air where the creature snatched it in its powerful jaws and sucked it in.

"Good beastie! He's a real corker, ain't he, sir?"

Billy stared a moment. He tapped his pencil on his open journal. "Soldier," he said, "Was that one of my jelly worms which you just fed to that prisoner?"

"Aye, sir," said Fightmaster Stormshadow happily. "The big beastie loves 'em."

"I see," said Billy. "Well done, soldier. Carry on."

Fightmaster Stormshadow ran up to the ugly monster and patted him on the belly. The creature's reptile lips pulled back from its mouthful of rending teeth with pleasure.

"Alphie," said Billy into his wrist radio, "Come in, Alphie."

Alphie was Billy's second in command, and the computational brains of their war effort, in charge of logistics, tactics, robot voices. Alphie answered immediately. "Yes, sir?"

"Alphie, I have a question for you."

"Yes, sir."

"Alphie, would it be considered militarily unethical to order a nuclear strike against one of my own soldiers?"

A pause. "Is it me, sir?"

"No, Alphie, not you."

"Is it Scuba Steve, sir."

"No, it is - wait, why would you ask if it's Scuba Steve?"

"It may affect the outcome of your query, sir."

Billy puzzled, "But Scuba Steve is a fine soldier, is he not? Unless he's doing something I should know about?"

"I want his position, sir."

"YOU want to be the underwater corps? Goddammit, Alphie, you're a robot. You'd explode!"

"I've always dreamed of being an olympic swimmer, sir."

Billy sighed. "Dammit, Alphie, it's Fightmaster Stormshadow. He's fed my jelly worms to the enemy prisoner."

"In that case, sir, I'm afraid it would be ethically compromising."

"Dammit. Thank you, Alphie. Over."

Billy looked over to where it looked like Fightmaster Stormshadow was trying to teach the monster how to roll over. Each time its hard flippers smacked against the spokes of Billy's bike, he cringed.

Billy returned to his book.

Dear Diary, War is Hell.

*

The light was dim in the bedroom. The closet door swung open an inch with a quick creak. A slightly longer creak could have been the house settling, could have been the tree outside shifting against the house, but this creak was just perfect so a listener would know it was the closet door opening slightly, and stopping, though not by accident. Perhaps by a hand?

As good as a hello, that short creak, or a boo. It filled the room and seemed to soak into the walls, and faded slowly.

The door opened into a boy’s room. Obviously a boy’s room. The bed at the center was rolling with monster truck sheets. The far walls were  shelves jammed with military toys and robots and trucks onto every inch. Pincer hands and back tires poked tenuously over the edges in many places. Above the bed hung a black dragon kite wearing a baseball cap, the streamers of its tail flying above a desk and a computer. Socks, shirts, coils of pants, covered everything. The laundry basket in the corner was empty, feeling pointless.

The door opened and darkness spilled out. As the door opened slowly, noiselessly now that that initial creak had happened, an inky shadow sharply fell – not merely darkness – the absence of light – but a projection of black, the opposite of light. The clown nightlight in the plug next to the door struggled against it and failed; its red nose dimmed. A scent like musty old dust followed the shadow, billowing into the room like stormy snow on a wintery day.

The lump of the boy on the bed was very still. The boy was asleep. The darkness could hear his sleep noise.

“HONK! PEEEWWWWW. HONK! PEEEWWWWWWWW.” 

Very loud snores. There was even a whistle following some. The boy was very asleep. Practically in a coma.

From the shadows surrounding the bed a tiny voice said, “Kick the beastie inna scones!” 

The voice was hushed by a second voice and the billowing darkness did not hear.

A webbed and scaly foot stepped onto the carpet. A wet and gurgled breathing came from the closet. Stealthily, another foot followed the first: scales, tumours, long toenails, sticking from every angle.

The same tiny voice whispered, “Kick him inna scones?”

A gravelly voice answered, “Somebody shut him up or I’ll bite his head off.”

The light from the clown’s nose dimmed further as the creature from the black closet stepped fully into the room. It’s top half was hidden by shadow. Two inch claws extended from its hands, raised up to its chest with its fingers splayed. It turned towards the bed.

“Now?”

“Wait ‘til it’s away from the door.”

“Green bastard.”

“I’m going to ignore that, soldier.”

What little light had survived in the room crawled up the monster’s muscled torso which resembled a turtle’s shell, as it took another step forward.

“NOW!”

Billy flung his sheets back and hopped up from the bed in his pyjama fatigues with the sleeves torn off. With a satisfying WHAM!, and a rush of air, the closet door slammed shut behind the monster, effectively cutting off his escape and severing the dark shadow in the room. Light burst from every corner and the floor exploded into an anthill of activity. The Joe Corp, which had been hiding in two pairs of strategic jeans and four dirty tube socks, on the floor, surged forward pushing a rolling chair and a lamp on roller-skates. Positions were secured, flanks were rounded. What looked like a concentrated madness was actually a carefully wrought and well executed plan. Each soldier knew his job and in seconds flat the monster was contained inside an impenetrable triangle formed between the chair, the lamp, and the closet doorknob.

Penned in with a red skipping rope made of the world’s toughest known material: stretchable plastic, the monster barked in exclamation, tried to retreat a step and found itself blocked. It extended claws and lurched toward the Joe Corp at its feet, but was blocked by the barrier of the skipping rope. 

Hands on his hips, Billy surveyed the scene with pride. His men had done well. It had been a long time since the enemy had tried an incursion into his deepest stronghold, his very inner sanctum where most of his troops were stationed. It was daring, and it was stupid. His intelligence corps had reported that the monsters were going to make a push for the heart of his operation, hoping to catch him off guard.

They must be desperate to try such a doltish plan, decided Billy. They’re weakening. Their penetration into the attic has left them stretched, and they know it. They’ll try anything.

Billy came around the bed. “Good job men.”

“Target secured, commander,” saluted John the T-Rex the best he could with his short arms. 

Fightmaster Stormshadow had immediately climbed atop the chair upon securing the monster inside its makeshift pen. From there he yelled, “We snookered the beastie good!”

Billy saluted him. “Well done, Fightmaster Stormshadow.”

On the floor, John the T-Rex, Billy’s chief of the engineering corps, sighed. “Sir, I have a complaint to make against that soldier. Who’s his commanding officer?”

“Fightmaster Stormshadow is special forces, lieutenant. He works alone.”

He’s been most unruly. I feel he put the operation in jeopardy.”

Billy shrugged. “Special forces. Nothing I can do about it.”

John the T-Rex had recently been promoted to head of the engineering corps, replacing the Joe Corps’ Engineer, Tollbooth. The Joe Corps had needed a fresh infusion of ideas; they’d grown complacent of late, too sure of themselves. So Billy had promoted John the T-Rex. He knew it would be difficult for John to fit into a platoon which already had tight-knit bonds with one another, especially seeing one of their own was being replaced. But Billy had faith in the Joe Corps. They always did what was best for the company.

And if they didn’t, he’d given John the T-Rex permission to eat them. That had helped too.

The penned creature was dodging back and forth in what little space it had. It was ugly, with skin stretched between his toes and fingers, scales on its arms, and a hard carapace for a stomach. A black color, with knobs and protrusions all over like pieces of tar, it looked like a suit of armour with a fish’s head.

Something about that struck Billy as odd.

“Alphie,” said Billy into his wrist, “Does this monster look familiar to you?”

Alphie was always at the ready, and answered immediately. “Yes, sir. Definitely.”

Billy waited. Alphie did not elaborate.

“Well, Alphie?”

Alphie sounded reluctant. “We have captured the Creature from the Black Lagoon, sir.”

Billy looked up at the monster’s fish head. Its tiny fishy slits of eyes were watching him carefully, and gave him the willies. Alphie was right. It was the Creature from the Black Lagoon; No doubt about it. Even the way it was standing with its knees bent, it looked like it wanted to be hovering over a darling in a swimsuit.

Atop the back of the chair, Fightmaster Stormshadow said, “Should nae have watched that movie t’other night, eh Commander. Purdy scurry for a wee one, nae?”

Billy turned red. “I’ll write you up for insubordination, soldier! Not another peep from you.” Such blatant dissension among the ranks could not be tolerated.

“Had y’shakin’ in your knickers, eh sir.”

“You see what I mean,” said John the T-Rex. “Most unruly.”

Billy sighed. He had to admit he had a soft spot for Fightmaster Stormshadow since he’d sacrificed his own well being in order to save him from Aunt Sylvia’s fruitcake.

“He’s not in his right mind, Lieutenant. He’s a fine soldier. Special forces.”

John said, “If I may, sir, I believe the term, special forces, when applied to this soldier, has an entirely different meaning.”

“Nothing I can do, lieutenant.”

Damned monster scum. Be the ruin of us all. Nobody in this war is in their right mind. But I have to endure, have to keep fighting. For freedom. For the children. For the right to bare arms. Why bare arms were important Billy wasn’t sure, but he’d damn well fight for them. He’d already torn the sleeves off most of his pyjamas as a gesture of solidarity.

Billy flicked on another lamp near the end of his bed and rolled it closer to the Creature. His room was filled with lamps. With such firepower at his disposal, he could kill a scary shadow at a hundred yards. To navigate his room he often had to walk around them as they were scattered strategically. He liked to be able to reach out and flick on a light at any time.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM, MONSTER?!” yelled Billy. “Do you think you can intimidate me with these sneak tactics? How many men – monsters – do you have guarding your headquarters in the basement? What is your overall troop strength? What are your preparations for Valentine’s Day? Answer me!”

The Creature barked shrilly and lolled its tongue out of its mouth.

Billy looked to John the T-Rex. John looked back at him. Not what they were expecting.

Billy tried again. “Monster! What are your primary objectives? Where do you plan to attack next?”

Beside him, John said, “It’s okay, er, monster. Nobody here will hurt you. You just have to tell us what we want to know.”

Good man, that lieutenant. Billy commended himself for promoting him. Perhaps he’d give himself a medal for it later.

The monster stared back at them with its yellow eyes, and then barked at them again.

John muttered, “What the hell?”

Billy was cautious. Has to be some sort of trick. These monsters are devious, unscrupulous, not to mention big jerks. Eat your feet as soon as look at you. Too much is at stake. We have to be on our guard.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon looked behind itself and then spun around three times before sitting on the floor where with one huge, hooked flipper on its foot, it scratched where its ears would be if it had ears and not tiny holes in its head.

Billy raised his wrist, stupefied. “Alphie, are you reading this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you make of it?”

“It’s a dog, sir.”

“Dammit Alphie, it’s the Creature from the Black Lagoon and a monster spy, not Fido the wonder puppy.”

The Creature from the Black Lagoon had curled up on the floor with its scaly head resting on one of its crooked arms, looking at Billy with sad yellow eyes.

“All behavioural indicators point to dog, sir,” said Alphie.

Is everybody here crazy but me? “Goddammit, Alphie, it’s not a dog. Look at it! It could eat six dogs in one sitting and not even chew. It’s got claws as long as bullets and teeth as sharp as a shark’s. It’s a killing machine from the deeps!”

“It’s trying to lick its butt, sir.”

Fightmaster Stormshadow was growing animated on the back of the chair, shifting foot to foot, stretching his neck for a better view. “He canna quite reach sir, but he’s givin’ it a devil of a try.”

This is going nowhere. “End communication, Alphie.”

“Over.”

“Ach, now he’s got it,” said Fightmaster Stormshadow. “Atta boy, beastie. G’it in there.”

Billy put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. “Gentlemen,” he said, sounding tired, “this monster before us is not a dog. It is quite obviously the Creature from the Black Lagoon, or ‘a’ Creature from the Black Lagoon. I don’t know if there are more of these... things. What I do know is that – and I repeat – it is not a dog; it is a vicious killing machine. So you can forget all that dog stuff right now. That's the sort of stupid howash you'd see in a bad 1950's movie. Gentlemen, this is the enemy!”

John the T-Rex cleared his throat, which was a guttural process, and said,  “Not hogwashing, sir. I believe Alphie was referring to brainwashing.”

“Brainwashing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“E’s not quite finished with ‘is backside yet,” called Fightmaster Stormshadow, “but he very well might do his brain next. His tongue’s long enough, sure it is. Damn impressive.”

Billy ignored this. For many reasons. And looked very conspicuously nowhere else but at John the T-Rex. “Brainwashing the Creature from the Black Lagoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why on earth would the monsters do that?”

John simply shrugged.

Matters were getting out of hand. “It is not a dog. It is a monster sent here to scare us, to rip us into tiny pieces of sushi, and eat us. Is that clear?” Why do I need to explain this? Billy had to pull this together. The only way they were going to settle the point was by making it admit it was a vicious killing machine by any means possible.

Billy turned back to the creature and put his hands behind his back. “Lieutenant,” he said, “I do not relish what we have to do, but the good of our... our good is at stake here. Extract the necessary information from the creature by any means possible. We must make it tell us its mission, John. That is our prime imperative.”

“Sir?”

“Make sure to find the whereabouts of the monsters’ forward base. They are up to something, lieutenant. I can smell their leathery hides toiling away day and night, meaning to destroy us.”

“Um, sir?”

“Diabolical plans are afoot.”

“Sir, I really think you should see this....”

“What is it, lieutenant?”

“Look, sir.” John pointed towards the creature’s pen with his stubby arm.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” cried Billy, finally losing his composure. “Fightmaster Stormshadow, what the hell are you doing, man?”

Fightmaster Stormshadow had jumped down inside the protective pen caging the creature and was rubbing the monster’s belly. “’E likes a good pat, sir,” said the ninja.

“Goddammit, cease and desist that, immediately, soldier. There shall be no... fraternizing... with the enemy!”

“Everybody likes a good pat, I figure,” Fightmaster Stormshadow laughed. “I know I does, depending on wheres you do it.”

The Creature’s eyes were rolled back in its head and because it lacked a tail, it swished its foot back and forth instead, apparently enjoying the belly rub immensely.

John the T-Rex could not stop watching. “This is most unusual, isn’t it, sir?”

Billy took a deep breath. “The damn thing thinks it’s a dog,” he said. There could be no other explanation for what he was seeing. No creature, especially one that lived in the bottom of the ocean, never to see the light of the above world except when it had a sudden desire for bikinied flesh, could fake such a look of intense contentment as Billy was seeing right then. He believes. He truly believes. Incredible. Billy surveyed the monsters grimace of joy and dismissedd the idea that he might even be a little jealous.

“What are your orders, sir?” asked John the T-Rex. “Should I still fetch my pliers and blowtorch?”

“I have soccer tomorrow,” said Billy. “And it’s very late. I’m going to bed. We’ll deal with this in the morning. Tell the Joe Corps to set up a perimeter around the creature. No one gets in and out. Two man watches, high and low, at all times. The utmost level of attention,  you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

"And because Fightmaster Stormshadow seems to have taken such a shining to the thing, let him take care of its toilet and dietary needs. I hope they’re ample.”

At this John sounded more pleased. “Oh, yes sir. Bikini women twice a day, sir?”

“Dearth of those around here, I’m afraid, lieutenant. Tell Fightmaster Stormshadow to scrounge up whatever he can find. And lieutenant....?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him to stay away from my jelly worms. If I find any missing, I’ll strap him in a bikini and feed him to the monster. Goodnight. And job well done lieutenant.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

Billy crawled back into bed, yawned, and turned out the light. Closing his eyes, however, did little to calm his mind, which continued searching, searching. Billy needed answers. Only he wasn’t entirely sure what the questions were yet.

There’s something I’m missing about this whole thing. What is it? Why the Creature from the Black Lagoon? Other than the obvious...? It belongs in the water, not in a closet. It’sa fish out of water. It probably couldn’t even run very fast if I had tried to escape. Those gills on its neck were working overtime just standing there.

His mind wanted to wander away from the creature to other matters, but Billy wouldn’t allow it. He had to focus. He had a mystery at hand, a monster trapped in the very heart of his operation. It was unsettling. He could smell the scent of brine and sea salt wafting off the creature from where it was penned up, ten feet away. He could hear Fightmaster Stormshadow’s coos of reassurance to the creature. They had the opposite effect on Billy. They were most unsettling.

Why brainwash a hideous monster from the deeps into believing it’s a human pet? There’s something I’m missing. Maybe the monster has four other monsters inside of it like a Russian doll? Maybe he’s infected with some sort of evolved form of cooties? Hell, maybe they did it just to mess with us?

Billy snickered at the thought. If that was the case, he’d foiled their plans. He’d gone to bed instead of fretting all night and being a loopy grump the next morning. He’d get his beauty sleep, mixed-up monster or not. If the enemy was filming his antics somehow for their own amusement, perhaps through a hidden hook-up on the Creature, they wouldn’t see much since he’d fooled them and turned out...

The light!

Billy bolted upright in bed and yelled, “LIGHTS ON! EMERGENCY ACTION ALPHA! OPERATION SPOTLIGHT! GO GO GO!”

Billy fumbled for his bedside lamp. It was pitch black in the room. His hand spilled the glass of water his mom had placed by his bedside. He bumped his alarm clock. For Billy, every spot of exposed white skin tingled, expecting the touch of a cold claw.

The room is dark! My nightlight is dead!

Around him in the darkness he heard the click click click of lamp buttons being pushed, lamp chains being pulled. Still there was darkness. He pulled his legs up tight and fumbled for his lamp knob. Where’s my damn light? A shuffle of worry was spreading through the room as troops bumped into one another in their confusion. The floor was awash with dizzy motion and a growing buzz of concern.

Finally a lamp lit in the corner of the room, near the closet. Then another nearby. Billy could see his lamp button clearly now. How he had missed it he didn’t know. In his excitement his hand must have circled it multiple times.

Billy raised himself to his knees and looked over the edge of his bed. No monster hands, tentacles, no suckers. The coast was clear. More lamps lit all around the room. “Light them all,” he ordered. “All the lights.”

Soon lamps were lighting across the span of the room, but it was clear there was a dead zone around the bed on all sides, and the nightlight was not just burned out, it was gone. 

Billy spoke into his wrist radio. “Alphie, is everybody present and accounted for?”

“Yes, sir. We’re all here.”

“The creature, is it still penned?”

“Affirmative, sir. Even if it wasn’t, I think Fightmaster Stormshadow has a new pet.”

Billy rubbed his chin. “Dammit, Alphie, how many troops did we have stationed around the bed during the earlier operation.”

Alphie sounded more cold and logical than ever. “None, sir. We needed every last one to push the chairs and man the skipping ropes. Ten men still in the infirmary, sir. Necessary, sir.”

"It was all a feint, Alphie.”

Those bastards. Such effort simply to make a statement. 'We can get at you.' That’s what they’re saying. They snuck into my room and stole my nightlight right out from under my nose. Devious bastards. We didn’t expect the bed. Dammit. Dammit. At times like this Billy wished he were old enough to puff on a pipe to calm himself. That always seemed to work in the movies.

Billy scrounged up more troops from the lowest layers of his toybox. Old care bears were conscripted into service, also a broken dump truck with a face, and a spiderman missing one arm. He placed the new soldiers in easy positions and spread his troops as thin as he dared to cover the entirety of the room, all the exits. More to the point, all the entrances: mainly the closet, the bed, beneath his dresser. From his drawer he dug out two replacement bulbs for strategic lamps which had been sabotaged. That being done he sat up in his bed holding a flashlight in either hand, determined to stay alert, and remain with his troops to keep morale high after their mutual failure.

In the corner the Creature from the Black Lagoon was curled up on the floor and snoring happily. He would be the only one getting any sleep that night.