A Fortress of Pebbles

Orion realized it was his birthday only after he retreated into the house to escape the noise. And the eyes. Mom and Dad were still outside, and he could hear Dad educating the reporters about where his property line was.

In the living room, nestled safely between the couch and Dad’s recliner, Orion turned on his phone to see if he or the house had made it onto the news feeds. One of the top headlines was “Meteor strikes Montana” – with an aerial photo of the concentric circles of damage surrounding the house he was currently cowering in. It did look a bit like a meteor strike, but already a warning with a recent timestamp read: The situation is rapidly evolving; check back for updates.

Another headline read, “Alien Life Confirmed” – with a photo someone had taken of a bone dragon silhouetted against the sky.

Another read, “The Wrath of God?” He clicked into this story, finding a reporter for CNN in the parking lot of a church in New York. Behind her, a sea of people spilled out of the cathedral. Many were on their knees clutching Bibles. Some were weeping. All were casting apprehensive glances at the sky.

“...more than sixteen sightings of the phenomenon thus far,” the reporter was saying. Then, screams from the crowd cut her off. She looked toward the heavens just as the camera wrenched upward to track a flash of fire emerging from the dark clouds. It circled the church once, giving everyone a clear look at its wings, its sharp beak, and the flames that surrounded it. Where it flew, it left a trail of sparkling embers.

At first, its size was hard to determine. But then it swooped down, grabbing a full grown man from the middle of the crowd. People scattered from the location, clothes and hair on fire. The man rose, writhing and burning into the sky and disappeared, carried by the demonic thing back into the clouds.

The reporter, crouched between two cars, was trying desperately to narrate the obvious into her microphone. Around her, the sea of people had become pure chaos as they fought to find refuge in cars, in the church. Also, behind, beneath, and atop each other.

It was then that Orion glanced at the date beneath the video and noticed something familiar about it. He read it again, and yes, it was official – he and Cassandra were thirteen today.

“Happy birthday,” said fake-Cassandra, sitting in Dad’s recliner. “Keep scrolling.”

In one newscast, live from a university lab, what looked like a bee with a glowing green abdomen was zooming angrily around the inside of a mason jar. The reporter was informing the camera that “an increasing number of reports have emerged regarding unusual insect bites." Meanwhile, two men in lab coats were relocating the mason jar into an empty aquarium, even as a network of tiny cracks were appearing on the glass jar.

The stories went on and on. A new volcano in Canada. A farm in Mexico overrun by creatures made of bone. An aircraft carrier in the pacific dragged down by what looked like an octopus from hell. Every now and then, in the slush of news, he caught a glimpse of his own house, or of Mom and Dad standing outside. Once or twice, he even saw himself looking out from the photos that Keely and the Parrot King had taken.

Even in the few minutes of scrolling, though, the headlines began to change. Words like “Armageddon” and “Apocalypse” began to appear in the titles. Most of these stories contained no new information – just a new narrative to frame the rest of the chaos.

“It’s only been a few hours,” said fake-Cassandra. “What happens when no one shows up for work today? You think the grocery stores will still be open by evening?”

Just then, Mom and Dad re-entered the house, followed by several of the neighbors. “Help move the furniture,” Dad barked. “We’re taking in refugees, apparently.”

It was surreal: Orion found himself moving Dad’s recliner to the edge of the living room, assisted by none other than the Parrot King and Keely. They were saying something about their house having “basically imploded” – or maybe Orion had just imagined this. After all, fake-Cassandra was there the whole time, and the Parrot King’s face kept growing feathers and a beak.

“Take the rest of them down to the bunker,” said Mom. Wow, that definitely wasn’t real. Not Orion’s finest moment when it came to maintaining a grasp on reality.

“Orion!” Dad yelled. Oh, shit. He was using the don’t-ignore-your-mom voice.

Suddenly, Mom’s surprisingly strong hands were gripping his shoulders. Her face was so close to his that he could smell the flowers of moisturizing lotion.

“Orion,” she said, “do you remember how to access grandpa’s bunker?”

And moments later, he was actually doing it – opening the bookshelf in Mom’s office, leading an entourage of refugees down the concrete stairs. Keely whispered “this is like so sick” – but it wasn’t quite enough to keep Orion’s panic at bay. Something about the old bunker had always terrified him. He still had nightmares about it.

At the bottom, there was a door with a combination lock. He half expected to open it and find…

(Blink: Ass-adu and Ass-ada trudged through the torchlit courtyard, a dark Spire looming to one side and the Fortress gates, shut tight, looming to the other. He unfurled his wings and breathed a jet of flame toward the distant cavern ceiling. It didn’t make him feel any less trapped, but it did relieve some of the pressure in his third stomach.)

…but it was just the bunker. Boxes of food and supplies lined the walls of the first room – a pantry of sorts. Beyond this was the living room. Standing beside a dusty pool table, Orion spread his hands and said, “So… yeah. This is the bunker.”

People clapped him on the back and called him a hero. The Parrot King fell to his knees and apologized for everything he’d ever done. Keely kissed him on the lips. Orion knew it wasn’t all real, but he chose not to think too hard about which parts were which.