Chapter 46: Barricading

The aftermath of the chaos hung thick in the diner like a storm's residue, an eerie quiet punctuated by ragged breathing and the metallic scent of blood. Arlo watched as the patrons panicked, scrambling to stop the bleeding in Howard's neck. His wife Sandra sobbed uncontrollably, her hands trembling as she pressed a kitchen towel against the gaping wound. Bob and Jeep moved to help lift Howard, their faces pale with fear.

"Get him to the car! We've got to get him to a hospital!" Kyle shouted, grabbing one of Howard's arms.

Arlo watched silently, calculating. His eyes darted toward the window as his danger intuition prickled. A low hum filled the air, followed by a sharp, familiar buzzing sound that grew louder with every second. He cursed under his breath as he saw a dark cloud forming on the horizon. It wasn't smoke. It was a massive swarm of flies, blotting out the light and swirling toward the diner like a storm.

Arlo watched silently, calculating. His eyes darted toward the window as his danger intuition prickled. A low hum filled the air, followed by a sharp, familiar buzzing sound that grew louder with every second. He cursed under his breath as he saw a dark cloud forming on the horizon. It wasn't smoke. It was a massive swarm of flies, blotting out the light and swirling toward the diner like a storm.

"They won't make it," Arlo muttered. He pushed forward, speaking louder. "Stop! You can't go outside."

Bob glared at him, his hand on Howard's shoulder. "What do you mean, we can't? He's bleeding out!"

"I'm serious. Look outside!" Arlo pointed with urgency.

The group turned, their faces blanching as the swarm descended, smothering the building. Flies coated the windows, a living, writhing mass of black that cut them off from the world beyond. The door rattled as if something immense pressed against it.

"Holy Shit!," Kyle whispered. "We're trapped."

Howard's breathing grew shallow, his eyes fluttering. Arlo knelt beside him, assessing the situation with calm precision. 

"Move back," he instructed firmly.

"What are you—" Sandra began, but Arlo cut her off.

"Trust me." He pulled a vial from his coat, a low-level health potion he'd prepared. A faint red glow pulsed within the glass. He uncorked it and brought it to Howard's lips, tipping it carefully. "Drink."

Howard groaned weakly as the liquid slid down his throat. Sandra clutched her chest, watching in stunned silence. The bleeding slowed, the edges of the gaping wound knitting together. Within moments, the skin sealed completely. Howard coughed, his breath coming more easily. He sat up, bewildered, running a hand over his healed neck.

"My God," Sandra whispered. Tears welled in her eyes as she threw her arms around her husband. "You're okay! You're okay!"

"My God," Sandra whispered. Tears welled in her eyes as she threw her arms around her husband. "You're okay! You're okay!"

Their daughter clung to his side, sobbing. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"

Kyle, Bob, and Jeep exchanged wide-eyed glances before their attention snapped back to Arlo.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Bob asked, his voice low with suspicion.

Arlo offered a faint smile. "Let's just say I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to. And I only have four more, so don't waste them."

Bob opened his mouth to argue but closed it, nodding reluctantly.

Jeep's gaze shifted toward the old lady's body.

"She's getting warmer," he muttered, his brow furrowing. "Isn't she supposed to be... cold?"

Arlo narrowed his eyes and activated his [Observe]

Status Window

Gladys Foster (Possessed)

Race: Human/Angel

Level: 10

HP: 0/160

MP: 0 (Locked)

Stats: (Locked)

Skills: (Locked)

Status: Possessed

Remark: Possessed by an angel, granting her enhanced Dexterity, Strength, and Endurance that are borderline superhuman.

Threat Level: Low

The words floated in his vision like a grim verdict.

"She's not done," Arlo said, his tone flat. He stood and glanced at Bob. "We need to move her outside before things get worse."

Bob swallowed hard. "You sure about that?"

"Positive." Arlo's voice hardened. "Trust me, or we'll regret it."

.......

As Arlo, Bob, and Jeep moved toward the diner door, the weight of the old woman's corpse hung heavily between them. Bob grunted under the strain, eyes flickering nervously toward Kyle, who kept his shotgun trained on the body. Flies buzzed menacingly, filling the air with a sinister hum.

"Don't let it twitch," Kyle muttered, sweat trickling down his brow.

His grip was firm but tense. "If it moves, I'm blowing her head clean off."

"Relax," Arlo said, voice calm but with a sharp undertone. "She's dead. For now."

"For now?" Jeep's voice cracked as they lowered the body to the ground. "You saying she might—"

"Shut up and keep your eyes open." Arlo wiped his hands on his pants, the buzzing flies swirling too close for comfort. His danger intuition was on high alert, but he didn't flinch. His thoughts raced, pieces of the movie's plot clicking into place.

The rumble of an engine reached his ears. Arlo looked up sharply, heart skipping a beat. A police car approached, its lights off but unmistakable. He felt a strange, surreal jolt of recognition.

Paul Bettany. The man behind the wheel was tall, sharp-featured, and wore a grim expression. The character played by Paul Bettany from a movie—Michael, the fallen archangel who defied orders to protect humanity—brought to life. Arlo's mind momentarily flicked to Marvel's Vision, and he almost chuckled despite the gravity of the moment.

The police cruiser rolled to a stop. Bob raised his shotgun, stepping forward. "Don't come any closer!"

Michael got out slowly, hands visible, radiating an air of calm. His eyes scanned the group with an unflinching gaze. 

"Is that how you greet your customers?" His voice was soft but carried weight.

Bob narrowed his eyes. "I said stay back."

Michael moved forward, ignoring the shotgun pointed at his chest. Each step was measured, deliberate. Jeep swallowed hard, his grip on the shotgun tightening. 

Percy, the cook, called out from behind, voice cracking, "Bob, don't shoot! We don't need any more blood spilled!"

Bob hesitated, sweat gleaming on his brow.

Michael reached him in one fluid motion, his hand darting out with practiced ease. The shotgun was out of Bob's grasp before he realized what had happened.

"This isn't yours," Michael said quietly, examining the weapon before handing it back with a controlled, deliberate push.

Arlo stood a few feet away, watching intently. His eyes narrowed as he activated his Observe skill. The familiar tingling of information danced in his mind, then stopped.

A block. His [Observe] failed to penetrate.

"Seriously?" Arlo muttered, frustrated. He clenched his fists, determined to try again. He focused harder, staring into Michael's stoic face.

[Notification: Observed Failed due to the Target's High Level]

He growled under his breath, feeling the skill level inching upward with each failed attempt. With one final push of effort, the block cracked just enough to grant a fragment of insight.

His eyes widened as a partial Status Window flickered into view:

Status Window

Michael Demiurgos

Race: Archangel/Fallen

Level: (Blocked)

HP: 200 (Blocked)

MP: (Blocked)

Stats: (Blocked)

Skills: (Blocked)

Status: Weakened (Human Level)

Remark: An Archangel who has fallen from Heaven in defiance of the Biblical God's order, now trying to save mankind from the Apocalypse by protecting the Savior who will lead humanity to salvation.

Threat Level: Mid - High

"Damn it." Arlo felt his breath catch. He had barely scratched the surface, but it was enough to send a chill down his spine. The sheer force behind that block hinted at power beyond comprehension. And his Observe skill—leveled up from the strain—left him both satisfied and deeply unsettled.

[Skill Level Up!]

[Observe Leveled Up to Level 4]

As Michael moved with efficient calm, he opened the trunk of his cruiser, revealing an assortment of firearms and ammunition. His hands moved like a machine, calculating, distributing weapons with no wasted motion.

"More are coming," he announced flatly. The tone of his voice carried an unmistakable weight of certainty—no theatrics, no embellishment. He was a soldier stating facts.

Michael tossed weapons to the patrons. Kyle caught a shotgun, and Percy took a revolver with shaking hands. Jeep fumbled to load shells into a rifle, his eyes wide with panic.

Then Michael handed Charlie a pistol, his tone serious. "Do not be a hero."

When Michael threw an AR-15 toward Arlo, he caught it midair with practiced ease. The weight of the weapon was familiar in his hands, a grim reminder of battles fought in worlds where survival came down to firepower and reflex.

[Weapon Equipped: AR-15]

He glanced at the firearm, muttering to himself, "An AR-15… not exactly a lightsaber, but it'll do."

Michael's gaze swept over them again. "Get inside. Now."

The urgency in his command cut through any hesitation. People scrambled into the diner, clutching their weapons like lifelines. But Arlo didn't follow immediately. His eyes remained on the horizon.

The sky…

Darkness was creeping over it, not like a storm, but as if the very essence of night was bleeding into the day. The air grew heavy, oppressive, thick with a malevolent energy that coiled around his senses. It was far worse than what he remembered from the movie.

This isn't just a screenplay anymore, Arlo thought grimly. This is real.

The blackness expanded like ink spilling across paper, swallowing the sun's warmth. A low, ominous hum vibrated through the ground. Flies buzzed louder, a cacophony of death.

His danger intuition flared so sharply that it felt like ice slicing down his spine. Every instinct screamed at him to move. His feet were rooted for half a breath too long as he watched the spreading darkness twist in unnatural patterns.

Finally, he gritted his teeth, muttered, "Enough sightseeing," and sprinted toward the diner door.

He barely made it inside when the wind outside surged with a banshee's howl. Dust and shadows slammed against the windows.

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Inside the diner, the atmosphere grew tense as Michael's words weighed on the patrons. The hum of danger outside reverberated like a second heartbeat. Arlo moved purposefully, observing each person's nervous fidgeting. His mind raced with calculations, recalling moments from the movie and his own instincts to form a survival strategy.

"Bob, Jeep," Arlo called, his voice cutting through the muttering. "We need to block every window and reinforce the doors."

Jeep blinked at him. "The tables? You mean, stack them up?"

"Exactly," Arlo confirmed. "Glass is a joke to whatever's out there. We need a barrier."

Bob nodded grimly. Together, they upended tables, pressing them against the glass. The sound of scraping wood echoed in the cramped space. Percy, with his apron still tied on, grabbed a hammer and nails from behind the counter.

As they worked, Arlo scanned the room. Bottles of alcohol lined a shelf in the corner. His eyes narrowed. "You've got liquor?"

"Yeah, why?" Jeep asked.

Arlo smirked. "We're making Molotov cocktails."

For a second, Jeep stared at him like he'd sprouted a second head. Then, understanding dawned. He turned to Kyle. "You heard him! Grab every bottle you can find."

They set to work, filling glass bottles with flammable liquids and stuffing rags into the tops. The tension in the room thickened with every second. Even as the smell of alcohol hung in the air, the weight of the coming onslaught pressed down on everyone's shoulders.

Link padded over to Arlo, eyes sharp and ears twitching.

Arlo crouched, meeting his partner's gaze. "Stay with Charlie," he murmured. "Protect her and the baby at all costs."

Link barked softly, a sound of understanding. Arlo scratched behind his ears before turning back to the task at hand.

Outside, the last sliver of daylight faded. The sky bled into complete darkness, unnatural and suffocating. A cold shiver traced Arlo's spine as the final light in the diner flickered and died.

"Lights out!" Percy whispered, panic rising in his voice.

"Stay calm!" Arlo snapped, his voice sharp with authority. "Everyone, keep your weapons ready."

From the roof came a soft thud. Then another. The wind carried a distant, haunting melody, a tune that didn't belong in any sane world. The silence between each note stretched unbearably long.

"Do you hear that?" Kyle whispered. His fingers tightened on his shotgun.

The sound grew louder, closer. Tires squealed faintly. Arlo's eyes widened as he recognized the noise from the movie. An ice cream truck. The melody—once innocent, now twisted—bore down on them like a funeral dirge.

The truck's headlights pierced the darkness. Its driver's silhouette was grotesque, a parody of humanity. Arlo clenched his jaw, feeling the air grow heavier. His hands itched for action, the weight of the AR-15 grounding him in the moment.

"This is it," he muttered under his breath. "Game on."

=================================================

After the frantic preparations, the darkness crept in faster than anyone anticipated. The single flicker of the remaining outside light finally surrendered to the suffocating shadows. The diner plunged into an eerie dimness, and the patrons collectively gasped as the power failed completely.

"We'll check outside," Bob muttered. "Better to know what we're up against."

"Yeah, because nothing bad ever happens to the guys on the roof," Arlo deadpanned as he grabbed the crate of Molotovs he had helped assemble. His fingers tightened around the glass bottles. They felt like fragile hopes—volatile, but potent. He followed Michael, Bob, Kyle, and Percy up to the roof.

Once outside, the desert night stretched before them in ominous silence. The cool air prickled with tension. It wasn't until they heard the jingling melody of Pop Goes the Weasel that Arlo's grip on his rifle tensed. He peered into the distance and saw it—the ice cream truck, its cheerful tune warping into something grotesque as it neared.

"No. Way," Kyle muttered. His mouth hung open as the truck slowly came to a halt. "That's... just wrong."

Arlo's eyes narrowed as he steadied his AR-15. He exhaled slowly, locking the sight on the driver's door.

"This is where the clown metaphors go from funny to terrifying," he murmured.

"Is that guy even human?" Percy whispered.

The door creaked open. A man, unnaturally thin, slinked out. His movements were slow, calculated, like a predator savoring the hunt. He sniffed the air—a slow, deliberate inhale. Kyle's voice cracked as he muttered, "Oh man, he ain't looking too bad..."

The ice cream man's head snapped toward them, his dead eyes fixed. His smile stretched far too wide.

"Oh, shit!" Kyle hissed, repeating himself in rising panic. "OH, SHIT! OH, SHIT! OH, SHIT!"

The mouth gaped open impossibly wide, a cavernous maw that let out a blood-curdling screech. It echoed like nails raking through the fabric of the night. Arlo's blood chilled, but his face remained unnervingly neutral, a perk of being a Clown, the perfect mask in place. He didn't need to calm his expression; it was already unreadable.

"Get ready," Michael ordered.

The ice cream man's limbs elongated grotesquely. His arms, now jointed like an insect's, stretched unnaturally as he began crawling forward on all fours, his grotesque frame scuttling toward the diner like a twisted spider.

"FIRE!" Michael bellowed.

The air exploded with the thunder of gunfire. Arlo squeezed the trigger, each round a staccato beat of deadly precision. He counted his shots, his Danger Intuition flaring as he adjusted his aim to where the creature would move. Bullets ripped through the ice cream man's distended limbs. Percy cursed loudly, emptying his magazine in wild panic.

"Stay on target!" Arlo yelled. He fired three more rounds, each shot driving the monstrous figure back. Its limbs spasmed as lead tore through its grotesque frame.

Kyle lobbed a Molotov with a desperate arc. The glass shattered on impact, engulfing the creature in a bloom of fire. It screeched again, its writhing silhouette consumed by flames.

"Burn, you creepy son of a bitch!!!" Percy started, before the fire dimmed and the charred husk collapsed.

The roof fell silent except for their ragged breathing. Arlo lowered his rifle, but his eyes never left the smoldering remains. His Danger Intuition continued to hum.

"One down," he muttered, "and this was just the opening act."

****************************************************************************

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