Magic does exist. It exists in the way a bullet flies so effortlessly through flesh. It exists in the way poison devours your insides. It exists in the way a bomb explodes, fire pouring into the sky creating a mass of smoky destruction. In all this, Magic exists. No one ever said Magic had to be a good thing.
I look down at my hand, the squarular barcode teasing my fears. Every night at 1:15am, we check to see if it’s our barcode shining in the dark sky. It’s eerie. Like batman’s signal, only instead of bringing us hope, this beacon of light only brings us despair.
I look at my family, huddled around a fireplace for warmth, the frozen expressions on their unconscious sleepless faces only assuring that they are no doubtedly having nightmares. I want to protect them. But there is no protection from the barcode.
It’s 1:12. I better check the sky.
I walk up the stairs, towards the door with the blue paint job. It leads to our roof. I stand on it, my eyes glazed to the menacing gray, waiting to see the light.
Right on queue I see it. A barcode floating in the sky, an intricate pattern of lines and polygons weaving through its square form.
I look at my hand; not a match. But the barcode burns my eyes, retching my mind, screaming its familiarity.
Jimmy. It’s Jimmy’s barcode.
I run down the stairs, screaming my son’s name.
He wakes with a bolt, along with the rest of the family. My wife is crying, her hysteria soon about to take over the last bit of common sense she had. I calm her down, knowing we have only minutes.
I drag Jimmy down into the basement, his hand clasped in mine. It’s dark and damp down here, but it’s our best shot at survival.
“F***,” I yell at no one. Jimmy turns to me. He’s so strong, so sturdy. Maybe he will be okay.
“Dad,” he whispers to me. I look at him, allowing the concern I feel to show in my face. Why hide it?
“Dad, you know coming down here isn’t going to help any.” He looks out the small window in the upper corner. It’s covered in soot but you can still see the light breaking apart the dust particles, struggling to get inside.
“A couple layers of cement and wood will be nothing to them. They eat through steel. Their f***ing termites,” I know what he says is true. But I don’t want to believe it. I pull him close, holding his head in my arms, listening to his breathing, to his heartbeat.
I know there isn’t much time. We’ll be lucky for a few more seconds.
“Aghh!” Jimmy exclaims. “It’s starting.”
He calls out in pain, writhing in my grasp, his body twisting and curving like a snake caught in a net. Beads of sweat collect on his forehead as he fixes his face into a scowl.
“Honey!” his mother yells as she runs to his side. Soon his sister is here next to us.
Jimmy cries agony, his shrieks piercing through the damp darkness.
We huddle around him, holding him up until we know he’s defeated. We lay him down, still holding on, as the last minutes of his life come to an end.
I watch as my son’s face disintegrates, as his body becomes nothing more than bruised flesh. Small purplish holes pop up on his arms, his hands, his stomach. They crawl out of him, scurrying back to their master, satisfied with the job they’ve done of murdering my Jimmy.