Everything was golden- the morning sunlight coming down from the sky, the wheat in the field outside the house, the moment, everything. Dew clung to the entire world and gave the yard a surreal shimmer as the lightest of summer winds tickled the long stalks of wheat, making them gladly wave back forth in a slow rhythm. Birds whistled tiny songs in discord with other but perfect harmony with the wind. Light filtered through the branches of the huge oak tree in the front yard, warming the porch to a perfect temperature for doing absolutely nothing at all, which is exactly what the two men on said porch were doing.

     A single can of root beer sat between them, mouth open in a silent scream, lamenting its demise as the life inside it was slowly drained away. The man on the left picked it up and took a sip, and you could almost hear the can crying as it was languidly emptied. He swallowed, gave a refreshed sigh, and replaced it. Its clink against the small wooden table was all the audible protest it could muster.

     The man on the left smiled. The root beer wasn’t cold, but hell, who didn’t like a sugary treat every now and then? He leaned back in his porch chair, clasping his hands behind his head and letting his long legs splay out in front of him. He was a skinny fellow, with a big nose and big teeth and big eyes and ears. He was not ugly to look at, just odd enough so that no one forgot his face. His hair was cut very close to his head and was tinged around the edges with grey. He wore a green t-shirt which proclaimed in capital letters “ATHLETIC DEPT,” and was already stained around the armpits and collar with sweat. His jeans were ratty and grass stained, but they fit well and so did his boots. The boots were perfect; waterproof, worn in, and light enough to run in, nothing he owned gave him more pride. All things considered he was happy with how he looked, and he was happy with the root beer sitting next to him, and he was happy with the man sitting next to that.

     The man on the right was considerably more handsome than the one on the left, but he wore his beauty without vanity. He had blond hair that reached his earlobes and an unusually straight nose. His eyes were so blue that they were almost grey, and his teeth were perfectly aligned and white. He wore a white t-shirt and blue jeans, and his feet were bare. His boots and socks sat next to him, just in case. They were comfortable, but they were not waterproof and too clunky to do any proper running in. This was ok, since he liked being barefoot anyways. The bitter scent of his exposed and unwashed feet was not strong enough to waft up and reach either man, and therefore did not ruin the pristine gold of the moment.

He took a drink from the can of root beer, and neither man heard it complain. The man on the left smiled at the field in front of him, then at the man on his right.

     “This is nice.” He said it resolutely, not like a whimsical man but a sincere one. The man on the right smiled and leaned back too, lacing his fingers behind the back of his head in a position identical to the first man’s.

     “Yeah.” He believed it when he said it, but his fingers twitched and moved a little, wishing to feel a fret board under them. “I like it here.”

     The man on the left gave the blond man a dark look. The blond man was taken aback.

     “I didn’t say-”

     “John we can’t !##&ing stay here.”

     “Mickey!”

     “@@&* you for ruining my morn-”

     They both saw it at the same time. A monster in the shape of a man was standing in the field where once there was an unbroken horizon. He seemed to be slightly off balance, as if one leg was hurting him. His head was slightly askew, resting on the empty space created by a massive chunk missing from the side of his neck. Dried blood caked both the front of a bright orange vest and the camouflage shirt beneath it. The front of his jeans was too covered in the dark liquid, possibly from the neck wound or from any number of unseen gashes and bites. One arm was missing a hand, but no blood ran off the exposed bone or hit the ground. He was covered in blood, but he was not bleeding. It was hard to tell what color his hair was under all that blood. He was a standing dead thing, a moving corpse. Even from about thirty feet away Mickey and John could hear the thing growling and hissing. It spat more blood down its front as they watched.

     None of the three men said anything for a while, the wind no longer feeling pleasant but dark and ominous, carrying their scent for miles across the state. Eyes met eyes, but only one pair really saw the truth. Nothing was said for long seconds that stretched out like a hyper extended joint, pulling, grating on the nerves. Eventually, Mickey stood and walked inside. His boots made small, echoing clomp sounds on the porch as he moved. He reached in the door and grabbed a hunting rifle before sitting back in his chair. Clomp. Clomp. Every sound felt deafening to John as he silently watched his friend. Mickey raised the rifle, taking careful aim at the motionless thing. He drew a big breath in, and then let it out slowly. When the gun went off, the sound felt quieter than the boots, insignificant, powerless. The bullet ripped through the morning air and crashed into the monster’s head, sending blood spraying out through the air behind him. The red liquid glinted with gold for an instant as it hung in the purifying presence of the morning sun. The body fell back into the wheat with a soft whump, and everything looked shockingly normal again. When Mickey threw the rifle down on the porch, the clatter felt like an explosion.

“God &@!$ing damnit!”

Long seconds passed. The morning was deceptive; the hue of the golden sunlight remained unchanged, the breeze still carried the sweet scent of apples through lungs and memories, and the wheat stalks still swayed back and forth in their unsteady rhythm, as though completely unaware of the swiftly descending terror. If they tried hard enough, both men could have let themselves be fooled by the sight of the sunrise. They seemed to toy with the idea as they did not move, longing to recapture the image of a morning uninterrupted. John slowly bent forward and began mournfully pulling on his socks, the rustling sound of fabric against skin drawing every demon for a hundred miles down upon them. 

“I’ll get the car.”

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