The husky things were burned potatoes. Next to Joe. Where the woman had been. But the way I figure it, they went up there. Both of them....
The police gave me a rough time but eventually let me go. What happened to Joe could have been the result of lightning. Lightning, they said, can do funny things. Nobody ever found the truck. I could have told them that. It had gone—up there.
Home?
I did some investigating. There'd been a meteor fall two days before we picked up the load of potatoes. I saw the farmer and asked him about the meteors. But he merely insisted—vague as before—that something had fallen into his barn, through the roof, from the sky.
Figure it got among the potatoes. A sentience of some kind. Figure it was sleeping. Figure the motion of the truck stirred it to life. Figure it could—well, take over things. Like the potatoes. It became the girl, to keep me busy. Like Joe. It took over Joe so it could drive off on the deserted beach. Like the truck. It took over—and changed the truck into a, well, something—so it could get back where it started from. Me? I must have been immune.
Or am I? Because a few minutes ago something crashed through the roof of my new truck, into the van. I don't know what, but I'm afraid to go look. What would you do?