Shifting

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“Are they dead?” Vance hissed in my ear.

I gestured for him to be quiet. I stared at the wreck for a full minute more, but nothing changed. The steaming sedan lay on its side in a ditch full of dead leaves. The windshield was a spider web of silvery cracks. A long, pale arm had punched out a hole through the windshield. A single fly crawled over the knuckles in hops and jerks.

The fly on the knuckles vanished.

“What do you think, Gannon?” asked Vance, still whispering.

I glanced at him. He was my younger brother, the only family I had left. Like me, his hair was black and his eyes were blue. His face was bloodless and tight with fear. His breath came in hard puffs that made white plumes in the crisp air. It was a cold day for Indiana in October. You could feel the first frosty promise of the winter to come.

“I think they’re dead,” I replied.

“Are they going to stay dead?”

“I hope so.”

“Are we going down there?”

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