Lance Hightower was bored. He was also cold but that came second. He tried to whistle a tune and it came out dead. His lips were too stiff from the cold. He looked around the cabin but that didn't help. So He stood up and walked out.

The room was full of botanists, environmental geologists, zoologists and a bunch of other -ologists. All they ever did was write research papers, pore over documents and Ogle over boring trees and samples of soil. A bomb could go off and they wouldn't notice as long as they had their plants and animals and soil samples. He couldn't really blame them though. They were just doing his job, it wasn't their fault he hated his. It was his fault he was a park ranger, it was his fault he was stuck here.

He had grown up with his drug addict of a mother back down in the south were it was much warmer. She and her boyfriends spent so much time knocked out that lance could count how many times he had seen them sober. His father had been some kind of hippie who drifted from place to place. When his mom had told him that she thought that she was pregnant he suddenly decided that he didn't feel like staying anymore and he drifted out of their life's, or at least that was the story he  managed to get from his mother.

His mother had a steady stream of on and off boyfriends. This week it would be Jim, next month it would be Ronnie then Pothead and back to Jim. Her favorite was Pothead. Lance had never heard his real name, he didn't even know if the guy had a real name. Everyone just called him Pothead, and nobody knew why. They were probably too stoned to bother. But as a kid lance always wondered. He created scenes over and over in his head on how Pothead had gotten that name. He had even once bothered to ask the bearer.

Pothead had just woken up and was eating breakfast. The fact that it was two o'clock in the afternoon didn't stop him from enjoying his cereal.

Lance had gathered up courage and slid into the seat opposite him, which was a big deal to eleven year old Lance.

One of his mother's friends had once offered him a lit joint. Lance had taken it and hid in the toilet. He had tried smoking it the way he had always seen his mom do it. He had coughed and choked. Without no breath he couldn't call for help. His eyes stung from the smoke and his small chest burned. He had fallen from his perch on the toilet seat, tried to stand up only to end up puking. He had sworn never to try smoking again and to avoid those strange men. 

He tried to make eye contact but Pothead's eyelids were so droopy he couldn't tell if he was awake or not. Lance cleared his throat. Pothead looked at him with dilated eyes.

"Umm... Why do they call you Pothead?" Pothead dropped his spoon and stared at the ceiling like the answer was written somewhere there. After a moment he spoke up.

"I don't know jack shite 'bout why they do, I'm fixing to get that chsnged" He says that and started laughing. To eleven year old Lance what he had said made no sense. He was about to ask what a 'pothead' meant when Pothead stopped laughing and looked at him. He stared at him like he couldn't believe his eyes. The eye contact made Lance uncomfortable. He had developed a policy for dealing with his mom's boyfriends. His friend Emory had told him how to deal with rabid dogs. It involved avoiding eye contact, bending your head submissively and no sudden movements. He didn't know if it was true, but it worked all right with his mom's boyfriends. But here he was now caught in Pothead's blue eyes like her was some deer stuck in the headlights. Emory's dad beat him all the time, so he knew what an angry man could do, or a bored man. He was about to take off for the door before Pothead could decide how he wanted to beat him, when Pothead broke Into a laugh. It was wild contagious laughter and Lance had to bite the inside of his cheeks to avoiding joining in.

"Ya' know this issa first time i'ever seen ya when I was sober. " And with that he continued his mad laugh. Lance had smiled back and slowly edged off the seat. From then henceforth he had continued his policy of avoiding his mom's boyfriends. Pothead never got to change his name he died a few months later when he fell from the roof why trying to fix it.

With a childhood like that it would have been expected that Lance would end up a junkie, homeless or in debt. But that's not what happened old man Mason saved him.

Old man Mason lived next to their house and was the Boo Radley of their neighborhood. He had a big pitbull that chained down with a chain way too small for it. He even had a sign that said " the pitbull can make it to the fence in two point five seconds. Can you?" So far nobody wanted to find out whether they stood a chance against his dog so they all avoided him.

It happened one hot afternoon. Lance was in his backyard throwing his tattered baseball at the fence and catching it. when the ball flew over the picket fence and into the next yard which so happened to be old man Mason's own. He couldn't leave the ball there. Emory had gone over with his mother to spend at a week at his grandparents place so Lance was alone and bored and that  baseball was his only distraction. 

He walked past old man Mason's place and saw that the front yard was deserted. Broken garden gnomes lay around the lawn. He offered a quick prayer and walked in. He went through the side to the back. At the back of of the house were many years worth of toys that had gone over the fence. He was tempted to grab all of them and make a dash for them, but he held himself. Mason or his dog could be anywhere watching, waiting for him to do just that. He bent down and picked up a baseball. It was tattered and dirty. Definitely his.

He was about to put it in his pocket when  he heard a loud bark.

Mason's Dog stood there. All seventy pounds of him bristling with aggression. He remembered Emory's advice. He stopped breathing bent his head and avoided eye contact. It didn't work. The pitbull took that as an invitation and rushed in. Lance had time to think about the box of playboy magazines that Emory had lent him.

A whistling sound penetrated the air. The dog sat down and Lance couldn't help but notice the dog's tail thumping on the floor. At the kitchen door stood old man Mason holding a Carving knife.

"Wha'dya doing there son?" Lance tried to speak but the words didn't come out. He didn't know which one was scarier. The dog or old man Mason with his carving knife.

"Spike attacks anything that enters the yard, especially little burglars. Are your a burglar?"d

"I ain't one sah."

"I'm kinda curious as to how you made it here. Why don't you come in and we'll have us a nice conversation. I'm sure I have some cool lemonade.

Oh God, old man Mason was gonna flay him and probably add him to his collection. He wasn't going to go in. He rather stay here, at least out here someone passing would see what was happening and call the cops.

"Ya commin' in or not son. Or would you rather I leave you out here with the dawg? I'm sure he'd appreciate the company."

That did it. He didn't want to be left out here with a dog that had muscles like a bouncer. Carving knife or not Old man Mason was  still human, probably.

The inside of old man Mason's kitchen was totally different from the one he had grown up in. The plates were arranged, the sink was empty, the table wasn't ridden with cigarette burns and the kitchen was clean while his was littered with food stamps. Lance wondered how he got his kitchen this clean. He knew that  rich people paid people to clean their houses, but old man Mason didn't look rich at all. The kitchen was clean but he could tell that the wares were old. 

Old man Mason poured out a glass of lemonade and offered it to Lance.

"Did ya drop in just to collect that ball." He said pointing at Lance's hand were he still held the ball.

"Yessir ."

"Seein' as you got some balls on you kid. Call me Mr Mason "sah" makes me feel beyond my years, Mr Mason will do. You gotta a name kid?" 

"Yessir, I mean Ol...Mr Mason."

"Then what is it, don't ya know it ain't nice to keep your elders a'waiting?"

" Lance."

"That's a'mighty fine name ya got there. I knew a Lance back in my days when I was a ranger." And that's how it started. Mr Mason told him bizarre stories of forests and parks and animals. Since of them were so wild that even eleven year old Lance could tell he was lying, but still the food and attention there was way better than his home.

Slowly Lance whose dream was to get a job at the local Dairy King began to dream of something bigger. That included new places instead of the same old buildings that had stood since his great grandparents time. New events instead of reliving the same cycle he had been living since. New people instead if the same people that he had been seeing since kindergarten and what better thing to be than a park ranger. The dream got him through those extra lessons at school that he had to go through to make it into college. The dream got him through those Boring hours in class. The dream got him through his pre recruitment training. Until he achieved the dream. Then he didn't know what to do anymore, he had achieved his life purpose and he had still had some extra time left.

The thing was that being a park ranger didn't really have much to it. Life settled back into the cycle he hated so much. His alarm rang the same time each morning.  He wore the same uniform. The same Holster. The same walk to work. The same jokes. The same stories and jokes. The same woods.

When the opportunity came to escort a group of naturalists he had jumped at it, but it was already settling into a pattern. Some people found patterns comforting. It offered them security. Lance didn't he wanted something different. Something unpredictable. The little thrills had turned weary.

A sound pierced the chilly air. It was a human scream, more screams followed it like an orchestra. He could hear his heart beat and his head felt clearer than it had ever been in a while. He knew he should run, but he also knew he couldn't. No he 

Wouldn't. This is what he had been looking for throughout his boring life. Excitement was just somewhere between those trees. He took off, at first in a jog then broke into a run.

He had left his shotgun in the cabin but he still had his standard issued Glock. But it didn't matter. He made it to the cabin sweating heavily under his parka but smiling insanely. He slipped on something and almost fell while climbing the stairs but that didn't daunt him, but the cabin's present state did. 

The cabin's rear wall had been completely ripped off. He realized that what he had slipped on earlier was blood. What was left if the scientists were strewn all over the floor. Their bodies looked like someone had taken a chainsaw to them, and in the midst of them all stood a man wearing yellow rags. His hair was a kaleidoscope of different colors and his eyes were tinted green. Not the irises but the sclera while his irises were a sick yellow color. 

He was watching lance with a playful gaze like a cat watching his plaything. Lance wondered how this guy had done this to everyone. They may have been unarmed and inexperienced but the stranger didn't have any weapons he could see. He took out his gun and pointed it at the man.

"Your the one responsible?" The stranger  nodded.

"How did you do it?" The stranger pointed over Lance's shoulder. It was an old trick that only worked on TV. But he couldn't help it he wanted to see what had done all this carnage. He decided to change the topic.

"How did you do that? What did it?" He said motioning to the missing wall.

"My friend. Couldn't enter. Too tight. Like shelter. Like you."

"Then how about this?" He pointed at the bodies littered round the room. The man pointed behind Lance. Lance would have still turned even if he hadn't seen something move out of the corner of his eye.

Hanging from the ceiling behind him were an assortment of different creatures all evil looking.

"They were hungry." And with that they attacked.

Author's Note: Happy new month🥳

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