by Ryan Ambrose

Created on: September 10, 2008

The Clock Tower

It was a quarter until midnight, and the clock tower tolled the time in the rich, resonating knell of iron bells.

It was not what Howard wanted to hear. He gaped nervously at the wrought-iron clock hands as every note rang out like a dirge. The old-style clock was the center of life in town anymore, and it was all that could be afforded since they came. In fact, much had regressed and decayed in the archaic nightmare life had become since they came.

They would be here soon, and he was outside, like a fool.

"Oh dear God, no." Howard broke into a nervous run, loosening his tie with one finger as he panted along, trying to beat them home. All manner of things had conspired to leave him in this mess. A late night at the office hadn't been enough to dissuade him from the risk of going home, but then his car had refused to run about halfway there. He cursed himself again for refusing to stay at his workplace, behind the solid steel doors that kept them out. But he had thought he could make it in time, and that decision may well have delivered him to them.

His fear caused him to redouble his efforts, because his house was only four blocks away. His cheap brown suit was already disheveled, and his shirt was soaked in a cold sweat. The walk this far had left him panting, and since the overweight Howard rarely exercised as a cubicle dweller at work, the run hadn't helped. So despite his fear, he only lasted a minute before he staggered to a stop, gasped for breath, put his hands on his knees, and glanced at the clock yet again.

The two wrought iron hands on the immense face pointed precisely to the correct Roman numerals, telling him he only had eleven minutes left. Precise, because they had hired someone who did nothing but keep the immense clock on time. Precise, because every life in town depended on it. Howard envied the clock keeper now, because he did his job from behind the tower's thick steel doors. It was a place he wished he was now.

Howard began to run again with a pained, exhausted limp. The street was deserted, and the houses and buildings on either side had their doors locked into place. All were massive steel doors with complex electronic locks and time-delay window shutters that kept their occupants safe. Big, protective slabs of steel driven open and shut by motors, because even keyholes were enough for them to get you. Too many people had learned that the hard way when they first came, and Howard wished he was behind one of them instead of

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