When Harold saw the thing slithering out from beneath his bed he felt both vindicated and horrified.
His parents wouldn’t listen to him the first time he became aware of it’s presence. That’s why he wasn’t on the bed tonight and hiding behind his chest of drawers with a baseball bat.
When the thing slithered on top of his bed and wound itself around his pillow, he rushed out and smashed it into a bloody pulp!
The next morning.
“Have you seen a boa constrictor around?” his mother asked. “Billy next door said his pet boa escaped.”
“No,” he lied.
Zack pulled out the canvas bag of specially selected scat and poured it out. He picked up the two wooden sticks with extra large feet and carefully walked them away from the scat while disguising his footprints with a tree branch.
He hid in a tree so he could see the reaction of the Bigfoot hunters that he knew where nearby. Years playing the game watching men make idiots of themselves looking for a mythical monster. It was good for local businesses, like his.
The hunters came into view the same moment a powerful hairy arm choked Zack to death!
Raymond turned away from the radio in time to see his Mother’s worried eyes.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “This is just nostalgia radio with Orson Wells narrating War of the Worlds.”
Suddenly static. Sounds of people panicking. A man’s voice “This is not a drill” Fading. Static.
“It’s not for real, Mom. It’s from a 1938 broadcast.”
Static stops. A man’s voice. “The president was able to flee in Air Force One when…”
“Son! When Franklin Roosevelt was in office in 1938 there was no Air Force One!“
They both turned to the window in time to see the mushroom cloud.
Sgt. McGruder realized two things; he wasn’t going to get back to the base in time, and he couldn’t keep driving in the near white-out conditions.
He saw a Burger King. Went inside. It was empty except for one nervous counter clerk. He ordered a burger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw shadowy figures outside the glass door.
They came in. Two Hispanic teenage boys with desperate eyes. One reached into his pocket. McGruder’s instincts kicked in.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, watching the teen’s concealed hand.
“Si,” they echoed, as one pulled the stump from his pocket.
(Author’s note: this is my first attempt at writing flash fiction in 100 words. Quit a challenge. Props go to The Drabble blog site.)