The Ray

Jane Garcia was emptying the tumble dryer in the laundry room when the ray hit. She felt it come in through the window. She didn’t quite see it, but perceived it; a tenebrous nestle of translucent squiggly lines like a spider web shot from an archer’s gun, swarming in from the sky. She didn’t hear any planes or drones. But what she felt was astonishing.

Her right ear imploded. It was the only word most apt to describe the sensation. She went momentarily deaf in it immediately. Then she heard a pulse in the eardrum, which shot into her brain and down her spine to the bottom of her feet. The pulse was like a deafening roar from the ocean, only electronic and tinny and sharp. She’d been holding her phone in her hand, and now her fingers clenched it tightly, almost crushing it in her grasp. Her other hand raised to her temple, in an attempt to tame the shaky, skipping throb in her skull. It sounded like some ancient industrial machine being fired up for use in an old Victorian factory. She let out a squeaky yelp from her throat and slammed the dryer door.

Moving quickly into the living room, she realised that every one of her limbs was alive with fire and pain. Her stomach did a somersault. She projectile vomited all over the sofa, no chance of reaching the toilet, and dropped to her knees on the floor. Then she was aware of a burning in her hand. Tears blurred her vision, and made her think that her phone was melting. It wasn’t, but it was hot and inflamed, the battery having swollen and popped the plastic casing. She dropped it in a hurry.

First day as an FBI Agent going great.

“I know what this is,” she mumbled to herself, wiping her mouth. “This is an anomalous health incident.” She cackled wryly, looking at the land line. For months she’d been studying these kinds of ‘accidents’ and now one had happened to her. She made it to the telephone with wobbly legs, unsure of how far away the floor was from her feet, and unsure of how much distance she was putting between each step. It felt like moonwalking drunk in slow motion over a turbo carousel.

Her director Wallace answered on the second ring. “Garcia?”

“Luka Sokolov’s got me,” she told him, breath barely a whisper. “Through the window in my laundry room. An ultrasonic acoustic ray. I’m out of action for the moment. My brain’s in pieces. I’ve lost my balance. I’m nauseous. I’m–”

“Try not to panic,” Wallace replied. “We’re closing the net on Luka as I speak. This will be his last attack, I assure you. Now, what you need to do is this: Immerse your head in a sink full of water for at least thirty seconds, and then rest your skull against a stone wall. Do you hear me? I need you to do this immediately.”

“I know, I know, it dampens the signal.”

“You’ll be alright. We’ll meet for lunch, when you’ve recovered.”

“Correct.”

Jane hung up and got her crap together. She wanted to be there when Wallace nailed Luka. She wanted to be the one putting electrodes on his fingertips. This was nothing. She had a meeting with the director to take care of. A meeting with the director of the mutha-f**king FBI.

Zombie Publications 2025