The Lighthouse
By: Turboencabulator
“Jesus Milt, I thought you said this was a care package.” Jones said, peering into a shoe-box
sized package. “What even is that?”
He picked a silver rectangle out of the box, slightly bigger than a deck of cards.
Milt leaned over, all six and a half feet of him stretched out from the radio desk to snatch it
lightly. “That. Is a vintage Walkman. Quartz-locked drive, Dolby B noise suppression, auto
reverse, and a proper goddamn alloy head. And that’s the care package for just me, assbag. Your
stuff is in the kitchen.”
Jones handed Milt the box. “You and your weirdass music.” He said with a smirk.
“Me and my weirdass music that will still work while they fix the satellite uplink.” Milt said,
picking through an assortment of cassettes in the box. “Also we should apparently prepare for a
real blower coming down from Canada. I made sure they sent us fresh earplugs.”
“Oh thank god.” Jones said, heading down the tight spiral staircase, his wide frame turned a
bit to fit in the confined space. “That fucking foghorn is a nightmare machine.”
Jones shook his head, putting the radio set back on scanner mode, and put in a tape of Jethro
Tull, filling out his logbook. He wrapped up tight against a draft that they couldn’t quite pin
down in the brick tower. The week had been consistently cloudy, making their batteries run low,
and they had yet to bring up the wood for the heating stove, to conserve electricity.
After neatly filling out the log, Jones stood up, setting the music aside, and went
downstairs. He grumbled, thinking about what to cook, and eyeballing the barometer next to the
old iron coatrack, just inside the weathered door. He could see the colored fluid inside
dropping a point every few seconds.
The small but sturdy wooden table and chairs were littered with packing scrap, and Jones leaned
out the door to see Milt going into the generator shed, a skip in his step and two jerry cans
in hand. He turned back, going through the items in the latest shipment.
Cheese, tobacco, a slightly discouraged bottle of whiskey, a few books, lots of batteries, and
more were taken out and neatly piled, leaving the box for Milt completely alone. He was twitchy
about his mail.
A clatter and thud sound accompanied Milt wheeling in a crate. “Last one.” He said, kicking the
door closed behind him. “This one apparently wasn’t on the manifest. A special request from the
department or something.”
Milt muscled the top open with a crowbar, and peered in. “Jones. Dude.”
Jones leaned over and looked in as well. The box had six bottles of wine on one side, and in
the middle was a group of bagged vegetables and cold packs, surrounding a foam
container. Lifting the top, they lay eye upon a half dozen well-marbled steaks.
“Well I know what I’m cooking tonight.” Jones said, grinning and lifting out two steaks, and
putting things away in the fridge and freezer.
Sunny and Hurley were two fluffies, standing on the rocks on a strange island. A day ago, they
had been nestled in their box-housie down by the smelly water place, when two humans had
laughed, spat at them, kicked them around, and dumped them in a sorry-box on one of the boats.
Then the scar-faced scary man had opened the box, found them and all their bad poopies, and
threw them out on the land.
“Speciaw fwien? Huwwey no knu whewe dis is.” Hurley said, nervously flapping his useless wings.
“Sunny no knu eiver. Wets get up da hiww an have wookie-seesie.” Sunny said, standing up and
wincing from the bruises gained by being tossed off a boat.
The duo managed to slowly make their way up the sand and gravel slope to the table-flat land of
the island proper. The light was fading, and a fog was coming in, but off in the distance was a
big tower, with a bright light on top, turning on and off and on and off.
“Wook, dat must be da hoomin-housie.” Hurley said, and began making his way towards it. Sunny
hesitated, then followed. “Bu’, speciaw fwien, dat nu wook wike housie, dat aww wed an wound
and taww.”
The fog had consumed the two, and the chill had set into their bones. A shape emerged from the
fog, a large round opening, turned against the wind.
“Hewe, dis guud housie fow fwuffies, tuu widdle fow hoomins tu get in!” Hurley said. “Yu go in,
Huwwey fin beddie-gwass an newsie-papews.”
Sunny peered in, and though it seemed odd, it was very clean and definitely dry. She trotted
in, flicking her tail at Hurley. “Dis vewwy nise.”
He giggled, and sniffed her haunches. “Mebeh find in widdle bit.” He said, and started to
follow her in.
With a giggle she pushed him away with a hindleg. “Nuu, not untiww we hab nummiepiwe.”
“Hoomins gib nummies. Speciawwy fow soon-mummah.” Hurley said, and edged up behind her.
Sunny made a whinny noise and ran into the hiding place. “Nu! Not yet siwwy!” She shouted,
giggling.
Hurley pursued her, until the hiding area narrowed down. Sunny tried to wiggle and turn around,
but found herself unable to. Hurley dodged a buck and mounted her, but due to the tightness of
the space, he couldn’t get very far. Each thrust and grunt made Sunny get wedged in.
Eventually, a buck landed, and Sunny felt it. Hurley got knocked square between the eyes, and
passed out. With all her might, Sunny tried to wiggle loose, but could only kick and shout,
muffled inside the tube.
“Dude, it’s thick out. Turn on the foghorn.” Milt said, eyelids heavy from a big dinner and
several glasses of wine.
Jones leaned over and flicked a switch. Instead of the usual deep tone, there was a creak, a
groan, and a sudden loud pop sound.
A pair of high pitched screams were heard, and in the sunset out the window, Jones saw two
fluffies fly across the water, skipping a few times, before impacting on a rock
outcropping. The waves took them.
“Dude I think I’ve had too much wine.”