American Drop Bears

 

Janet looked over at Brad, sweating in the driver’s seat. He looked over his shoulder away from her, trying to wipe his upper lip surreptitiously. She twisted her ring and bit her lip. 

“Where you taking me, lover boy?” 

“Hey babe,” he said huskily, “you know Lover’s Lane? We’re going past that. We’re going to Lover’s Avenue. Lover’s Promenade. Lover’s Landing Strip.”

“Oooh,” she said in a high pitch. “That sounds… dangerous.”

They glanced at each other, holding tenuous eye contact, then burst out laughing.

“Lover Boy?” he barked out.

“Babe?” she replied, starting to laugh-cry. “Lover’s Promenade?”

“It could be! Anywhere we go… will become Lover’s Promenade. A paradise on earth.”

“Drive, you doof,” she said. “Let’s go make out like we’re in high school.”

Brad pulled under an oak tree by the river, edging onto gravel. He turned the car to battery, playing Sade, and smelled Janet’s neck. 

“Did you steal my Acqua di gio?” he asked, laughing. 

“I thought it was mine,” Janet said, “then it was too late to get it all the way off. I think it works for me. The enigma of cypress and lavender highlights my clean and modern lines…”

“I’m not that much of an egoist,” he replied, “but for you…”

If this were a movie, the camera would circle the car and pull back, wide-angle against the river, sunset in pinks and purples so bright as to be tacky. This was real life and, in the little attention that Brad didn’t command, all Janet noticed was the seatbelt poking her side, the barely-open windows fogging, and a sudden Wham! against the sedan’s roof. They jerked away from each other and Janet straightened her shirt. 

Brad held her hand with his right hand and put his finger to her lips with his left. She nodded, eyes wide. Her senses were over-tightened and about to snap. She pointed up, finger shaking slightly. There was an indent about the size of a crock pot in the ceiling. The fabric strained against it.

Thirty seconds went by. No sound apart from the river and Sade. Brad turned off the car, the sudden absence of her voice like a blanket ripped away. There were no streetlights, but the moon was full. Branches waved and the moonlight dimmed and brightened as clouds moved past, but there were no human sounds. No branches snapping or distant motors. They sat another minute, hand in hand, until Janet asked Brad to take a look. He gestured at her (seriously? alone?), she gestured back (I’m right here! You’re the tough one!) and, after a few more rounds of the silent communication developed by any couple in a long-enough term relationship, Brad stepped out of the car. 

Janet stared at his khakis. He moved around the front of the car, leaving the door open, then circled it. He leaned in, laughing.

“You’re not going to believe this. It’s a fucking sloth.”

Janet’s relief disappeared.

“You know how I feel about those,” she said. “Can’t trust them. Let’s just go. Like, right now.”

“No, be brave for me,” Brad said. “Step out. We need to figure out how this thing dropped on the car. Don’t they live in the Amazon?”

“The cloud forests of central and south America,” said Janet. “It shouldn’t be here. Something is wrong. We need to leave. Now. Please. We can make out at home. In the basement.”

“No, babe,” Brad said. “Come look.”

Janet breathed in and out. It was a sloth. Maybe. Maybe Brad was wrong. Maybe it was a strangely-colored raccoon. That was it. Brad was seeing things wrong in the dark. She opened the door and, unable to decide if she should stay close to the car or far from the sloth, ended up hanging awkwardly against the window. 

She looked at the car roof. There was a mass of tangled hair, moss-covered, blending into the green of the paint. The back was a straight tube, limbs with too many joints protruding, and eyes blinked. The thing’s head went directly into its neck; she hadn’t noticed it at first. 

“Oh SHIT,” she exhaled. Janet was back in the car with the door closed, slipping in like an eel. “That thing’s alive. We need to go. Brad, we need to go. Let’s go. Brad.”

He hadn’t responded. Janet could still only see his khakis. She had been so focused on the sloth outside that she hadn’t even looked at him. 

He still didn’t reply.

“Brad…” Janet was whimpering. “Please answer. Brad.”

His legs jerked. Blood began leaking through the roof and the metal began to indent, slow and unstoppable. The tip of a bone-claw edged through the tan upholstery. Janet leaned back against the seat, looking for anything to help, then threw herself across the gearbox and pulled at Brad. He folded, allowed himself to be drawn inside. His right hand was bleeding rhythmically. She took off her shirt and wrapped his hand, pressing hard. Holding pressure, claw sinking through towards her head, the first thing she wondered was if he had lost a half-soda can of blood like they talk about in first aid trainings. She was going a little mad, she thought. This wasn’t real life. 

“Reverse,” she heard. Brad was gasping. “Move us into reverse. Now.” 

Janet did so and Brad drove with his good hand, maneuvering backwards around trees. The riverside wasn’t romantic anymore. 

Wham!

Wham!

Wham!

More animals dropped from the canopy, one hitting the engine. It splayed on the hood, black eyes, doll-like eyes staring at them. There was no soul in those eyes. It articulated towards them. The fabric above continued ripping slowly. 

“They’re all around us,” Janet whispered. Brad’s blue lips moved, but she couldn’t hear him. “I love you, too. I love you.” 

He shook his head, gasping. He moved his hand away from hers, trying to get to the glovebox. “Need tin.”

Janet pulled it open, nearly ripping it off the hinges. She was looking for a gun, even though she knew Brad didn’t carry, and the only thing she could find at first was the corolla’s manual. She pulled it out to show him, then saw the Altoid’s tin. The car jerked as another sloth fell onto the trunk. Small craters popped around them like mushrooms, each one another sloth appearing. 

“Here it is, baby, here’s the tin, what’s in here?” 

Brad took it from her, opening it carefully, blood slickening the metal. He pulled out a tiny skull (a shrew or mouse, maybe?) and onyx cabochon and placed them on the dashboard. He took his keys out of the ignition and used his carved bone keychain charm to crush the skull into dust. Brad was repeating something repeatedly and with great effort. He swivelled his head, ducking as the claw tore through the fabric. It was at least four inches long. The car jerked suddenly as a tire blew. Brad grabbed the gem and held it to his chest, continuing to chant. Janet grabbed the keys and carved moose charm from him.

Alces…. Nihil… Alces….

Janet stared at Brad. He was too pale and she grabbed his hand again, re-applying pressure as he held that stone. She raised it over his heart, hunching to raise it while staying as low as possible to avoid the coarse sloth hair coming through the roof. Something loud moved outside, giant shadows, and Janet sobbed. She didn’t want to die by sloth. That was the most horrible, undignified death she could imagine and… it was happening. Brad’s head lolled. The one on the hood was tapping against the glass, quizzical. A small ugly pug nose came through the roof, mucus dripping against her neck. The teeth started to appear, then the garish face stripes, and Janet cringed away. She lowered Brad’s hand and crawled on top of him, covering his body with her and waited for the end.

She huddled over Brad, face down and snot pooling in his neck, eyes closed as the car rocked. Something giant moved like thunder outside and blood rained through the roof.

In the morning, Janet stepped out of the car. Brad was alive, somehow, and she moved him to the backseat. She shifted into gear, flat tire grating, driving over piles of dead sloths flattened by dinner-plate sized hooves. 

"I always knew you couldn't trust those fuckers."