The Fly-By-Nights by Brian Lumley Page A

floating out of the darkness. Four of them in fact, a quartet of fly-by-nights, their eyes as luminous as burning sulphur. And they were coming fast, surging through—or over, as it seemed to Garth—an ankle-deep ground mist which like themselves had sprung up as if from nowhere!
    This time the safety catch on Garth’s weapon was in the off position, and despite that he was still a little dazed he aimed at the closest of the monsters and squeezed off a hurried shot. He was lucky; one flaring eye was snuffed as half of the creature’s head flew away like so much vile froth. The undead horror at once stumbled to a halt, threw up its arms and crumpled down into the mist and rubble.
    The others were much closer now, far too close, and Garth’s mouth was dry as dust as he saw them separating, making targeting more difficult. Again he took aim, this time at the central apparition for that was how they appeared—like insubstantial revenants, wisp-like—despite that they were real and at least partially solid! But for all Garth’s terror he concentrated and stilled the trembling of his hand and trigger finger to squeeze off a second, far more measured shot.
    Ah, but the fly-by-nights knew that he was here now and had begun to weave from side to side, shifting like blown smoke and rapidly closing the distance between themselves and their intended victim! Garth’s shot had struck its target in the shoulder, by no means a fatal injury. The creature’s shoulder slumped and its arm fell to its side, dangling there; but its other arm and incredibly long hand remained stretched out in front as before, with talon fingers crooked and grasping. And its face…!
    But Garth mustn’t so much as look at its face…except to frame it in his rifle’s sights before pulling the trigger. This time he was dead on target, and the fly-by-night uttered a thin mewling sigh or cry—as if it knew that this was the end—in the instant before its face flew apart.
    Garth’s yell, of triumph and horror combined, was a sandpapered rasp as he tried to lift his weapon from its niche in the brick barrier. But to his amazement, his disbelief, he no longer had the strength! Fear had not unmanned him, but it had drained him!
    And the two remaining fly-by-nights were upon him, rags of clothing and long hair fluttering, eyes blazing, and salivating jaws chomping vacuously where the monsters flowed over his makeshift barrier almost as if they sailed upon the writhing ground mist! The closest of the things was directly in front of Garth, its breath foul in his face, its hands clutching broken masonry to find a measure of purchase and launch itself at him. He need only unfreeze, wake up from this hypnotic-seeming nightmare and squeeze his trigger…which he did, with scarcely a second to spare. And shooting the fly-by-night in its skinny neck he blew its head off!
    But out the corner of his eye Garth saw the final member of the quartet in midair, shrilling in maniacal rage as it flew at him like the vengeful—or simply crazed?—wraith that it was. And the barrel of his rifle was trapped beneath the cadaver of the one he had just this second destroyed!
    Garth gasped his dismay and jerked back his head as taloned fingers stabbed at his face—only to be snatched away from him as a deafening blast sounded nearby and his attacker was thrown back onto the tottering barrier like a bundle of rags. Then, as the fly-by-night hissed and screeched, trying to drag itself up onto its scrawny knees, there came a second blast that silenced it, hurling it back over the barrier and down out of sight.
    But that sound, those blasts: Garth recognized them of old. The ear-splitting roar of his father’s pump-action shotgun! And there stood Zach Slattery, his weapon smoking and mouth framing silent curse-words. And never a sight more welcome!
    Before Garth could speak his father had hobbled around the barrier to its far side, and once again—just once this time there sounded his