《 ˈdi-sə-nən(t)s (Dissonance)》Entries 28-30

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28.

For another sweaty, uncomfortable 45 minutes, I agonized about what to say to ease the tensions between us. I thought maybe humor was the right move... then realized that cracking non-sequitur jokes after bringing up traumatic memories might not play well. Nostalgia, that was the ticket. I decided that was the way to go, but as I opened my mouth to bring up the time we got caught watching an old mud wrestling DVD, Phil asked, "Do you hear that?"

"Um," I said slowly. I listened but only heard the wind rustling through the treetops. "No?"

"That's because you and I are the only things makin' any noise. Been that way for about an hour."

"Okay... what am I missing?"

He adjusted his grip on his weapon, looking around before saying, "I think we're getting close to the Listening Post, and I think--"

I missed the end of his sentence, as it was drowned out by the sound of hooting—the perfect movie sound effect of an owl.

"There you go," I said, trying on a smile. "The owls disagree, apparently."

Phil unholstered the massive pistol, going pallid.

"Let me guess. You didn't hear anything," I said. He looked almost apologetic. Then everything broke apart.

29.

The first thing to happen was a dramatic change in air pressure, announced by a painful crunch-pop of my inner ears. Everything seemed muffled, though whether or not that was from my ears or the strange thick quality suddenly in the air, I'll never know. The next was an abrupt, continuous gust of wind that came from multiple directions at once. Phil said something, but I couldn't make it out. He was down on one knee, steadying his arm on another fallen branch. I found myself drawn to the point of severance of the limb... it was so neat and clean -- clearly not broken, not even cut with a chainsaw.

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Then, roughly 15 feet above us, the air began to distort. It looked like a compression error in a video file; nauseous technicolor artifacting spiraled out from a central point among the branches. The ground began to tremble, and something came through the broken sky.

30.

The owls flew out in formation like fighter craft. They were strangely majestic in their silent traversal.

"SHIT, THEY'RE HERE!" Phil bellowed over the maelstrom. I remember looking at him with a stupefied expression on my face. It was almost as if the combination earthquake and psychedelic whirlwind were irrelevant, and my brother was just a madman raving about owls. It wasn't until the handcannon thundered a disorienting report that I fully comprehended the absolute madness falling all around me. I ducked reflexively, looking over my shoulder toward the target of the shot.

One of the owls was on the ground, covered in the geometric vomit-distortion. Its image thrashed in visual garbage data before resolving itself into the form of the biggest arachnid I'd ever seen.

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