"Fee, fie, foe, fum - I smell the blood of an Englishman! Be he 'live or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread!"

"Mom, what's that song mean?"

Trish turned away from the TV set long enough to catch her mother's shrug.

"It's just a ditty," Patricia said, "and that's just an old Popeye cartoon. The evil giant sings that ditty when he comes looking for Popeye."

"Is Popeye an Englishman?"

"Uh... no, I think he's American...?"

"So Popeye smells of spinach, and the giant thinks he's an Englishman because Englishmen smell like spinach?"

"You want spinach for dinner?"

The girl squirmed with the effort of the decision. Her mother smiled, expecting a reluctant no.

"Okay!"

"You can have spinach, if you promise to eat it. Maybe you'll get big and strong. Now go to the bathroom."

"Okay."

The girl switched off the kitchen TV set and started for the bathroom down the hall - then she spun around and stared at her mother with alarm.

"I won't get arms like Popeye if I eat spinach?"

Her mother giggled.

"You think too much, Trish. Off you go. Dinner's ready soon."

The girl obliged. Patricia took out a small packet of frozen spinach from the fridge and emptied the green cubes into a pot. The Chicken Tikka was simmering on the stove, and the rice was almost done.

Patricia Janssen (formerly Patricia Bean) was in her mid-thirties, her brown hair dyed blond and cut short, framing the somewhat hard face. The exercise bike by the living-room TV kept her waistline within what passed for just below overweight. Trish, her six-year-old daughter, shared with Pat the large brown eyes and an inquisitive expression. Her cellular phone played an incoming-call jingle. She picked it from her belt as she stirred the spinach, not bothering to watch the number of the caller.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Pat. It's me. How are you and Trish doing?"

"We're... fine, Fred. And you?"

"Shouldn't complain... uh, is this a bad time for me to call?"

"I'm making dinner. Listen, could you call back later? I've had a terrible day at work, and I'm dead tired."

"Could I just have a word with Trish?"

There was a pause.

"Fred... are you sober?"

"Come on, Pat. You know I've been clean for six months."

"You keep saying that. A friend of mine swears he saw you drunk on the town, a few days ago."

"What? I bet that was Jasper. He's always been after you. Can't you see he'd make up that kind of story to scare you? You shouldn't listen to him."

The pot of spinach spouted steam; the rice began to smell burned. Patricia turned off the stove and lifted the pots off the hot plates.

"Shit. Look, Fred... trust is the issue here. If I could ever find a way to trust you around Trish, I'd love to see you meet her. She loves you still. You mustn't think I'm being the vindictive divorced woman here. I have to look out for her. I'm sorry."

After a few moments of silence, a reply: "So am I, Pat... but I appreciate the honesty. At least we can still talk to each other. Well... you take care now."

Patricia poured some cold tap-water into the burned rice and scooped up the unburned parts into a bowl. "Gotta stop. You take care, too. Bye." She put the phone back in her belt, took the bowl of hot rice, and...

"Is Dad coming?" Trish asked behind her back.

Pat spun around, and nearly dropped the bowl. Trish stood and looked up at her with eager, anxious eyes. The kind of look that begged not to be hurt by a negative reply.

"Dad's not coming, honey. Let's eat. Here." Patricia handed her the rice bowl.

They sat on opposite sides, both facing the TV set in the corner. Patricia turned down the volume and switched to a news channel. Trish picked at the warm spinach with her fork. Outside, two dogs from the neighborhood went into a barking frenzy.

"Ought to be a rule against having dogs here. Won't you try your spinach, hon?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Don't you want to grow up big and strong?"

The girl, not quite old enough to go to school, threw her mother a dark look. Patricia stopped eating and held out her hand across the table. Trish regarded the hand disdainfully, and held up her fork as if she considered stabbing it. Suddenly, the TV image flickered, and a tremor caused the entire kitchen to shudder. Trish grabbed the end of the table and Patricia stood up.

"Don't worry, honey, it's only a tiny quake, it'll blow over..."

They waited, holding their breath, and the tremor died away in a few seconds.

"There." Patricia settled down on her chair. "Now -"

The second tremor rocked the house; their table glasses fell over; framed pictures came crashing down from the walls; a crack appeared in the big kitchen window. Patricia shrieked, rushed around the table and lifted her six-year-old daughter into her arms. The shaking increased in intensity, and now a deep rumbling filled the air.

Holding Trish in both arms, Pat staggered through the kitchen to the hallway. Kitchenware rattled in its drawers, plates spilled out of cupboards and shattered at her feet; she squinted as shards of china flew at her, and she ran for the door. It was locked; Pat let Trish down on the carpet and fumbled in her pocket for the right key.

The tremor went on and its pulse grew more rhythmic, like a beating of immense drums. Pat turned the key and pushed the door open, dragging Trish with her. As they came out on the driveway of their small house, they realized that the entire neighborhood was coming out.



The Janssen family house lay in an older suburb just east of northern Los Angeles County, built down the side of a hill - one hill among many. On the top of this hill stood a thin grove of pine trees, where children went to play. The road through the suburb went in a loose zigzag pattern, down the hillside toward the freeway. All traffic on that road had stopped; drivers waited inside their cars for the tremors to subside.

Neighbors were running out onto the street in droves; anxious parents dragged bawling children. Mrs. Alder who lived next door walked up to Patricia. Alder's nine-year-old son struggled to release his hand from her grip; the boy's hair was full of soap suds, and he was in his underwear.

"Pat!" the woman cried, straining to stay upright in the constant shimmying of the ground. "Is it the big one?"

"Maybe... but should there be this much noise?"

Mrs. Alder picked up a phone and made a call. "Hello? Hello? F***ing phone isn't working. TV isn't working. What if the waterpipes break? Somebody's got to call for repair."

"I can... oh my God, what's that!?" Trish gave out an ear-piercing shriek and squeezed her little arms around Pat's neck. Both mothers stared past the roof of their house, at the pine grove at the peak of the hill. The pines were toppling over like dominoes, crashing into the ground, and a roar of rising earth and rock drowned out the deep rumbling. The top of the hill seemed to disappear in a giant cloud of dust and debris.

Pat felt her daughter wet herself.

Then she too lost control and wet herself.

From the dust ascended a pale, scarred dome. It pushed rocks and tree trunks in all directions. The dome had to be at least ten feet wide. More of it became visible, and they could see it had two knotted, twisted ears, dripping with dust and sand. The dome turned slowly, and it became clear that this was a huge bald head as its face came into view.

Screams of panic filled the streets; some people laughed hysterically, as if they thought they witnessed a joke or a prank. The creature's eyelids squinted and opened. A pair of yellow, muddy eyeballs glared down at the suburb. Its body twisted and forced itself up through the hilltop. Its naked chest swelled as it drew in air, clawing at the ground with stubby hands twelve feet wide, and it turned its eyes from the midday sun.

The noise of the emerging creature was so terrible that Pat could barely hear Trish shout: "Mom, it's coming for Popeye..."

When the thing's whole torso had emerged, its mouth let out a deep roar. It resounded like a sonic boom and windowpanes shattered across the hillside. The tremors began to decrease in intensity.

Mrs. Alder pointed west, to the distant hillside of another suburb across the valley, and screamed: "Look! Another one!" A second giant creature was rising from the ground in a cloud of dust; the surrounding houses looked like a model landscape next to the gigantic bald humanoid.

The creature in the Janssen suburb climbed out of its hole and slowly crawled into a standing pose on a pair of thick, proportionately short legs. Again it drew in air and roared. The roar that rolled back sounded like an echo, but it was more than that: a reply from the other giant.

The housewives and children and commuters stood frozen, staring wide-eyed at the giant that had risen in their neighborhood. Standing upright, it measured a hundred feet tall and towered above the houses. There was no doubt that this thing should be called simply a "giant"; it was roughly human in appearance, pale, coarse-skinned, naked and male. Its breathing sounded like a steam train gaining speed, and a sudden waft of reeking air told the onlookers that the giant was anything but clean.

Fixing her gaze on the giant on their hilltop, holding her daughter so hard that Trish began to cry, Pat slowly walked backwards toward her car which stood parked by the curb.

Mrs. Alder and her son stayed paralyzed, gaping at the sight of the giant. It drew one huge hand across its eyes, as if to scrape dust away, and sniffed through the broad, grimy nostrils of its nose.

From the corners of the giant's black-lipped mouth, drool leaked out across the chin, and trickled down the short, thick throat. A sucking, bubbling low sound came from its rounded belly. The giant was hungry. Pat leaned against the side of her Nissan and pushed the remote-lock key. The doors clicked, she opened one and pushed Trish into the front passenger seat. The hill vibrated with a powerful thump. The first giant was taking its first step.

Still standing on the lawn, Mrs. Alder was crying and screaming at her son, who was hiding behind a hedge and refused to move.

Pat turned the ignition key; the car engine made a half-hearted attempt to start, and died. She gave out an angry sob and turned the key again. Again, the engine failed to get going.

The car now shook with each step the giant took, and the thumps grew stronger. Trish was crying. Pat slammed her fists at the dashboard, cursing the car.

Right then, her phone played the incoming-call jingle: a beeping rendition of Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.



(NEXT)