“What was that?”

I woke up suddenly.

“What was that?” my wife, Annette, repeated worriedly, shaking me to my senses.

I mumbled incoherently as I clawed my way back to consciousness.

Something inhuman shrieked in the night. I heard it, now fully conscious.

“That!” Annette whispered loudly. “Did you hear? A scream. Every minute or two.”

“I hear it! What the hell?” I answered. And then, “Sounds like a woman in labour.”

Not impressed, Annette jabbed a sharp elbow into my tender ribs on behalf of all mothers in the world.

“What to do? What to do?”

The damn General betrayed me. Left me out in the cold. Literally.

The General is what I call my old, trusted, and rusted 1973 ¾-ton Ford pickup truck with four-on-the-floor.

Correction… what I call my parents' vehicle that I commandeered for my own personal use.

“That’s the ticket,” Little Johhny thought as he carefully reached for the black case resting atop the stack of boxes lining the cellar wall. Gently, he retrieved his pa’s trumpet from the well-worn leather case and confidently headed to Lilly’s basement bedroom.

“Lilly’s lair,” his Da called it.