Free Going Bovine by Libba Bray Page B

of electricity, and a small, dark hole opens up in the murky center of those clouds, a black eye giving off no light at all. The rest of the sky crackles like a laser light show. A neon spear of lightning strikes a small tree close to the road. With a huge pop, the tree explodes in a shower of flames. I’m startled and lose my balance. My bike skids out and away, and I roll on the gravel, thudding my head against the road. With a hiss, I sit up. My vision’s blurry. The horizon’s doubling. My head aches and my knee’s bleeding.
    The tree’s still burning, blooming with fire leaves. As I watch, bits of fire leap free and then, man, I must be higher than ever or my brain got banged up, because what I’m seeing now cannot be happening. Those leaves of fire grow and change, like something’s inside waiting to be born. The one closest to me evolves as quickly as one of those time-lapse photography experiments in science: the small, hunched-over form unfolds, spreads out, takes on mass, intention. It stands, stretches taller and taller, maybe seven or eight feet high. A huge, burning man with eyes black as the hole opening above us. Oh God, there’s three, four, now five of them; they burn so brightly, flames licking off their bodies like blue-orange sweat. They sweep their arms out this way and that, and where they pass, the land curls up in blackness. This makes them laugh, which is a horrible sound—like the screams of people burning to death.
    One of the fire giants notices me. Our eyes lock. My blood pumps a new rhythm—runrunrunrunrun. It’s like the fire giant can sense it. Screeching, he points a fiery arm in my direction, and the heat blows me back. Holy shit. Head ringing, face sunburn-warm, I scramble for my bike and try to pedal like I’m not hurt and fucked up. The bike wobbles, then straightens. The smell of smoke is strong in my nostrils. Behind me, I can hear that horrible screaming.
    Just make it to the turnoff. That’s all. Just. Don’t. Stop.
    Somebody’s standing in the road.
    I hit the brakes, nearly skidding out again. It’s dark, and hard to see, but somebody’s definitely there. And he’s big.
    “Hello!” The panic in my voice freaks me out. “Call the fire department!”
    The guy doesn’t move.
    “Hello? Can you help me?”
    A sonic boom of thunder drowns me out. Lightning crackles around us, and I get a glimpse: Big dude. Black armor glistening like oil. Spiked helmet, steel visor. Sword. The light bounces off the sword in arcs that hurt my eyes. Sword. He’s got a fucking sword! Darkness falls again, and after the intense lightning, the night seems thicker than before. I can’t see, can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but breathe quick as a fish washed up on the beach, hoping to catch a wave back to safety. Lightning shreds the dark for another two seconds.
    He’s gone. The road ahead’s clear.
    Rain crashes down hard and fast; it spurs me into action. With my heart going punk in my chest, I tear up the road, putting as much distance as I can between me and whatever that scary weirdness was back there. Only when I’m safely around the turnoff do I look back: In the downpour, the burning fields are smoking down to charred ruins. The fire gods and the big dude are gone. And up in the sky, there’s nothing to see but clouds and rain.
    The empty oblong bubble with its question-mark icon stares back at me, white and unknowing. “Trust me,” I want to tell it. “I don’t even know how to start this search.” Humungous, futuristic knight dudes standing in the middle of the road? Menacing, seven-foot-tall fire giants? Black holes over suburbia?
    Maybe it was a tornado or some optical illusion or that pot was laced with some Grade-A Hydroponic Strange. Under the glare of the computer screen, I type in “bad pot experiences.” What comes up is page after page of people who’ve passed out at parties and had Asswipe written on their foreheads in permanent marker, kids