Printed from https://shop.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2312400-THE-THUNDERBOLT
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Horror/Scary · #2312400
Absorbing power from lightning the Thunderbolt uses this power to hurl bolts at people
Corbin Birdman, was a nearly two hundred centimetres tall white South African, with a strong, but understandable Afrikaans accent with long yellow-blond hair. Dressed in a mustard-yellow suit, he stood before the reception desk of the Whistler's Arms Inn in Prescott Street, Perry. In the Glen Hartwell to Willamby region of the Victorian countryside.

Corbin ting-tinged the bell, on the polished oak reception desk.

"Hold your horses," said a pleasant female voice from behind him. After a few seconds Dolly Maguire, a huge-breasted thirty-something with long flowing brown tresses stepped forward and walked behind the counter: "What can I do for you?"

"Corbin Birdman," he introduced himself: "I've got a booking for two weeks."

She checked the PC registry, and then said: "Of course, Mr. Birdman, I'll have Lotto help you with your luggage."

She tinged the bell three times and a teenaged Porter, dressed in a gaudy red bellhop costume, complete with funny hat appeared from a door behind the counter.

Handing him a key card, Dolly said: "Take Mr. Birdman's luggage up to room 226."

Taking the key, Lotto said: "Hey, are you related to the Birdman of Alcatraz? What a crap movie that was!"

"Take his bags up and don't be impertinent!" snapped Dolly.

"Keep your tits in, Chesty Galore!" said Lotto. Ducking just in time as she tried to swat him with her hand: "Follow me, Mr. Birdman."

With Dolly glaring after him, Lotto led the new arrival across to the slim black-doored elevator, then took him up to the second storey. Where the walls were covered in floral wallpaper, and the carpet, once orange, was so dirt-laden that it had become a dark brown.

Nice housekeeping they do here? thought Corbin with a smirk. Not caring about the state of the carpeting. Although the bedroom itself was a little better: bare lacquered floorboards with a large faded floral oval rug tacked down beside the bed. The bed was a king single with shabby but clean cream-coloured sheets and a moth-eaten grey quilt.

"There's blankets if you need 'em," said Lotto, handing over the key card: "But in summer, it's unlikely."

Lotto held out his hand, then when the South African ignored it, asked: "How about a tip?"

"Certainly ... Don't drink and drive, it'll get you killed."

Realising that he wasn't getting a tip, Lotto strode surely out of the room, muttering about, 'Wisenheimers'.

Over at Deidre Morton's boarding house in Rochester Road, Merridale, they were just sitting down to one of Deidre's divine meals: roast lamb, with roast or mashed potatoes, your choice, roast pumpkin, steamed peas or beans again your choice, plus baby carrots, Brussel sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower, plus gravy in plenitude.

"This looks heavenly," said Natasha Lipzing. A tall lean grey-haired woman. At seventy, the oldest guest at the boarding house.

"Superb," agreed Terri Scott. A beautiful ash blonde, at thirty-five, she had been recently promoted to Senior Sergeant, thus top cop of the local area.

"Scrumptious," agreed Freddy Kingston. A tall fat retiree, bald except for a Larry Fine-style ruff around the back and sides of his head.

"Yummy," added Sheila Bennett. Also in her early thirties, she was Terri's second-in-charge, a Senior Constable with shoulder-length orange-and-black striped Goth-style hair.

"It's all right," said Tommy Turner. A short obese retiree with yellow blonde hair: "But where's my glass of brandy."

"We're having rum trifle for dessert," said Deidre Morton. A short plump sixty-something brunette: "Can't you wait for that?"

"No, we had an agreement," insisted Tommy. Still surly about Deidre having seized his secret stash of alcohol: "One glassful with each meal!"

"Oh, very well," said Deidre. Getting up she got him his small glass of brandy from the black lacquered kitchen cabinet, which had a large lockable drawer.

"That's more like it," he said, pouring the brandy all over his meal: "Now that's a superb roast."

"That's disgusting," amended Natasha.

"Just look at your own food and don't look up while eating," advised Colin Klein. A redheaded crime reporter from a big London newspaper, at forty-eight, he was spending his long service leave in the Australian countryside. And was dating Terri.

"That's probably safest," agreed Deidre Morton.

Corbin Birdman had just finished his tea of steak and vegetables when he announced:

"I might go out for a short walk to walk off that excellent meal."

"Don't go too far," warmed Dolly Maguire: "The weather report says there could be lightning later. You don't want to get caught outside in it."

"Don't worry," said Corbin. Standing he headed out into the reception area, followed by the busty brunette.

As Corbin headed across the brown lacquered floor toward the front door, Dolly stepped behind the reception area. Reaching under the counter, she lifted out a large floral umbrella.

"At least take this with you, in case it rains," she said, holding the umbrella out toward the blond man.

"Thank you," said Corbin, taking the umbrella from Dolly.

After one last ogle of the brunette's more than generous chest, the South African man headed outside, and into a strong headwind. Although the wind did its best to keep him from leaving the inn, like an omen of danger ahead, Corbin managed to push his way through it without too much trouble.

Soon he had left the grounds of the Whistler's Arms Inn and was heading down Prescott Street, then toward the edge of Perry, and off into the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest beyond. Although the headwind kept trying to prevent it, Corbin continued forward until he was well out of sight of Perry township.

He had barely entered the forest proper when the first lightning flash boomed its sonic boom, striking a red gum tree not far away from him.

Instead of running from the lightning, Corbin Birdman walked toward the blasted gum tree which had given off a great burst of eucalyptus as it shattered beneath the lightning blast.

Dropping his umbrella, Corbin raised his arms to the sky and shouted: "Come to me God of Thunder! God of Lightning!"

And as though answering his call, thunder crashed, and lighting boomed, racing down from the sky to strike the man in the chest, knocking him smoking to the ground.

Again and again the thunder crashed, and the lightning boomed, each lightning bolt striking the smouldering figure of Corbin Birdman. Slowly, but surely burning away his mustard-coloured suit until he lay naked, semi-conscious, upon the bed of pine needles and dried gum leaves.

With each strike, Corbin began to glow as though gaining power. And gradually he began to grow, increasing in girth and height until he was three metres tall. Then five metres, eight metres, ten metres tall. Again and again, he was struck: twenty, thirty, fifty times. Each time continuing to grow until he reached his final height of twenty metres tall.

Now fully naked, and glowing like a house on fire, Corbin rose to his feet. Looking into the sweet-smelling forest, he raised his alms again as though in salutation, and he walked forward and then started to walk upwards. As though climbing stairs. Although there were no stairs there.

Higher and higher he climbed up into the air until more than a hundred and fifty metres above the forest floor. Then his greatly lengthened legs began striding forward through the air as though quick-marching across the ground. As he strode through the air, looking for a target for his newly developed powers.

No longer Corbin Birdman, he was now the Thunderbolt, a South African demon of legend, which had now come to visit in the Victorian countryside.

He strode along for ten minutes are so, searching high and low, left and right, no longer concerned by the lightning bolts that continued to strike him ... without doing him any harm, merely reenergising him, strengthening him.

Finally, his vigilance was rewarded. Hearing a motor to his left, he looked around and saw a tarpaulin-covered truck travelling away from the nearest township, deeper into the forest. Heading for one of the numerous nearby farms.

Like Zeus from Greek legend, the Thunderbolt raised his right arm, which now carried a giant lightning bolt. Taking careful aim, he hurled the lightning bolt after the covered truck, cursing as the bolt struck the gravel road metres behind the truck.

"Jesus, Lord Above!" said Harry Spearman as the lighting struck just behind his truck: "Thelma was right, I should never have gone out in this weather."

He was only ten kilometres from his cattle station. But as a second bolt struck the road seemingly centimetres behind his truck, the farmer wondered whether he could make it. He considered pulling over and running into the trees. But he knew that trees were often blasted by lightning. And the experts claimed that in a lightning storm, you were safest inside a moving vehicle.

But does that apply to a dodgy old Ford truck like this? he wondered as a third lightning bolt missed the pull bar of the truck by a couple of centimetres making the back end of the truck jump a few centimetres into the air.

"Dammit!" cursed the Thunderbolt as the third lightning bolt missed the moving vehicle. He pulled back his right arm to launch a fourth bolt, still drawing power from the lightning that continued to strike him. Then the gum trees surrounding the gravel road closed over the truck.

Although the Thunderbolt could still see the moving Ford well enough to stride after it, the trees protected it from any more of his bolts. He considered abandoning the truck and searching out bigger prey but was just angered enough at his failure so far to stubbornly continue after the vehicle. He knew that the truck would have to turn off eventually, heading toward one of the numerous local stations. Thereby giving him a better chance at destroying the truck and driver alike.

Harry Spearman continued along the gravel road heading toward his cattle station. He could hear thunder crashing and lightning booming, but no longer just behind his truck. But unaware that the lightning was regularly striking the giant figure of the Thunderbolt, recharging the creature that had been Corbin Birdman, renewing it, allowing it to continue to generate lightning bolts, which it would be soon hurling after Harry again.

Reaching the turning to his farm, Harry stepped out of his Ford truck and raced across to open the chain link gate, wishing he had never had the old wooden gate replaced.

He had barely reached the gate when the Thunderbolt hurled another lightning bolt, which struck his truck full-on. Destroying the cabin, and setting the truck on fire.

Thrown against the metal gate by the blast, Harry climbed the gate without bothering to open it and started running down the dirt road toward his farmhouse half a kilometre away.

Gloating in delight at finally having struck the truck, whose motor soon exploded, making him laugh aloud, the Thunderbolt failed to notice the tiny figure of Harry Spearman fleeing as fast as his one hundred and sixty-two centimetre frame would carry him.

Just for the Hell of it the Thunderbolt threw a second lightning bolt at the truck. However, two lightning bolts struck him as he was throwing, reenergising him, but throwing off his aim. The second bolt missed the truck by twenty metres but the Ford had been reduced to little more than molten metal by then, so the Thunderbolt was contented. For the moment...

But he soon turned his attention to the large, rambling farmhouse not far away.

"I told you not to go out on a night like this," said Thelma Spearman.

"Hello to you too," said Harry. He staggered onto the grey, deal wood patio outside the front door of the grey-painted weatherboard house.

Hearing an explosion near the outer farm gate, Thelma asked: "Is that the truck?"

"Afraid so," said Harry: "I got out of it in the nick."

She stared at the burning truck for a moment, then said:

"Well, come inside where it's safe." Unaware how wrong her words would turn out to be.

Thelma put an arm around her shivering husband (as much from fear as cold), and led him down the kangaroo-skin-covered hallway toward the kitchen at the rear of the farmhouse.

"So you made it alive?" teased Velma, his twelve-year-old daughter, a gangly brunette like her mother.

"You owe me five bucks," teased her ten-year-old blond brother, Dallas.

"Don't tease your father, kids," said Thelma. Making them grin mischievously, but shut up.

The Thunderbolt strode a few paces through the air toward the Spearman Cattle Station. Then lifting his right arm he hurled a lightning bolt toward the farmhouse. Misjudging the distance so that the bolt fell fifty metres short.

Cursing, he hurled another bolt, which fell half a dozen metres short. Grinning broadly, he raised his arm to hurl again, when a double lightning strike upon him, throwing the Thunderbolt's aim off so that his bolt flew over the farmhouse, hitting an outdoor toilet behind the house.

"What the...?" cried Harry as their outdoor dunny exploded.

"Lightning hit the lavvy," said Velma.

"Be grateful it missed the house," said her mother. Shivering as a dark omen told her it would not be long before one did hit them.

Outside the Thunderbolt started to hurl bolt after bolt at the farmhouse, sometimes missing by hundreds of metres as lightning strikes threw his aim off. Other times he had direct hits upon the farmhouse, until the roof suddenly collapsed, killing the four Spearmans inside.

Almost in the throes of sexual ecstasy as his night's work started to finally pay off, the Thunderbolt hurled bolt after bolt, long after the farmhouse had been razed to the ground. Long after the Spearmans were dead.

Hearing lowing behind the shattered farmhouse, the Thunderbolt looked round to where two hundred Jersey cows stood in a field not far behind the farmhouse. Panicked by the lightning, both natural and the bolts thrown by the creature which had been Corbin Birdman, the Jerseys started bashing themselves against the railing of the paddock trying to escape into the open field beyond.

Grinning a broad shiteater grin, the Thunderbolt hurled a few lightning bolts toward the paddock. Not trying to hit the cattle, merely to increase their panic, until the Jerseys managed to crash through the fence, stampeding into the open fields beyond.

Laughing demonically, the Thunderbolt turned and started running through the air, back toward the blasted red gum tree. Where his excitement had started for the night.

Half an hour later, a naked Corbin Birdman, no longer the Thunderbolt, crept out of the forest and hurried naked through the streets of Perry township. Until reaching the windowed door of the Whistler's Arms Inn on Prescott Street.

Although hidden from view from the street, Corbin hesitated to stay outside long. Especially since the lightning was still booming. After a moment's hesitation, he crept across and opened the door, relieved to find it unlocked, and poked his head inside the inn. Seeing no one in the reception area, he sneaked inside and crept across to the stairway, realising that it was too dangerous to risk the small elevator.

He had reached the second storey and was creeping down toward room 226 when a door behind him opened just a crack.

Inside the room Lothario Grossman (a.k.a. Lotto) peeped out and watched in amazement as the naked figure of Corbin Birdman crept toward room 226, then quickly stepped inside and locked the door.

"Aha," said Lotto aloud: "Now where's he been naked? And more importantly, how do I use this to my advantage?"

Over at Deidre Morton's boarding house at Rochester Road in Merridale the next morning, they were settling down to a sumptuous breakfast at 7:00 AM when a knocking came at the front door.

"Now who can that be?" asked Mrs. Morton.

"Uh-oh!" said Sheila Bennett. She started to eat her breakfast of porridge and treacle, plus a plate of vegemite crumpets, as quickly as possible.

"Don't wolf your food," said Deidre Morton. Getting up she headed toward the front door.

"Gotta or won't finish," said the orange-and-black-haired Goth chick. She knew only too well who would be knocking on the door at that time of the morning.

"Donald? Stanlee? Come on in," said Deidre. She led the two men back toward the dining room.

Donald Esk and Stanlee Dempsey were both police sergeants under Terri Scott's command. Stanlee was tall, well-muscled, with raven hair; Don Esk a tall bull of a man with dark brown hair and a large scar down the left side of his face. Although forty years of age, he could easily pass for thirty.

"Told you," said Sheila. She continued to wolf down her breakfast before they were called away.

"Who's been murdered this time?" asked Colin Klein.

"Yes, do tell," said Natasha Lipzing, a lifelong fan of murder mysteries and true crime stories.

"No one, necessarily," said Stanlee. Looking uncertain for one of the few times in his twenty-year career.

"Lightning struck the Spearman farmhouse, killing the whole family," explained Don. "The funny thing is, it also struck Harry's Ford truck, which for some reason was parked half a kilometre away, on the road outside the farm.

As they stood looking at the razed farmhouse, Don added:

"But Harry wasn't inside the truck, his body was found inside the farmhouse along with Thelma, Velma, and Dallas."

Looking from where fire-fighters and Emergency Services people were hunting through the wrecked farmhouse, toward the gate half a kilometre away, Terri said:

"Why would he abandon the truck so far away, and walk down from the roadway to the farmhouse?"

"Maybe he feared being inside the truck if lightning hit it?" said Stanlee: "We've found where lightning struck a number of times on the road heading toward the farm. Maybe he thought he was safer on foot?"

"Maybe?" said Terri, not convinced.

Pointing toward where lightning bolts had struck short of the farmhouse, Don Esk said:

"There are a number of strikes short of the house. Almost as though the lightning was chasing him!"

"But that suggests the lightning had intelligence?" said Sheila Bennett.

"Or something with intelligence was somehow controlling the lightning?" said Colin Klein, guessing correctly.

"Are you suggesting a mad scientist has invented a weather machine?" asked Terri: "Like on those 1940s and '50s theatre serials?"

"Oh I love those old black-and-white serials," said Sheila: "In fact, I think there was one called Buck Gordon versus the Lightning Bolt!"

They headed down to where Jesus Costello (pronounced Hee-Zeus), and Elvis Green were examining the four corpses, before allowing the ambulances to take them away.

Out of curiosity, Terri asked: "So how did Buck Gordon finally defeat the Lightning Bolt, Sheils?"

"Degaussed him with copper wire if I remember correctly."

"Well, if the Lightning Bolt has somehow stepped out if the serial into our reality," said Colin Klein: "Let's just hope the Building and Works chaps have plenty of spare copper wire hanging about."

"Don't they use fibre optics these days?" asked Terri.

"Uh-oh," said Sheila, making them all laugh.

"What's so funny?" asked Jesus Costello. The chief administrator and chief surgeon of the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.

"Fibre optics," said Terri. And Colin, and the cops all started laughing again.

Turning to Elvis Green, the local coroner, Jesus asked: "Has it ever worried you how goofy our local constabulary all seem to be?"

"For more than forty years now!" said Elvis. He was nicknamed due to his adoration of Elvis Presley.

"Well, I've only been in the area for just over six months now," said Tilly Lombstrom. A tall shapely fifty-plus brunette, Jesus Costello's second in charge: "But they've already got me worried!"

Colin Klein and the police walked across to where four ambulances were parked, with eight paramedics waiting for permission to remove the corpses.

"Strong Arm, Chezza," said Colin. Greeting the two most senior paramedics: Derek Armstrong, a forty-something black amateur bodybuilder; and Cheryl Pritchard, at nearly sixty-three the oldest paramedic in the area. A tall muscular woman, also a bodybuilder who spent most of her Saturdays at the local gym with Derek, and Sheila Bennett.

"Okay," called Jesus Costello looking up from the corpse of Harry Spearman: "You can take this one, Strong Arm, Chezza."

"This one too," said Tilly, finishing with the corpse of Thelma Spearman.

"And these two," said Elvis, finished with the corpses of the two children.

"So what's the verdict docs?" asked Colin Klein. Having followed the paramedics across to the razed farmhouse.

"They were killed by the collapsing house, then their corpses were incinerated by fires started by the lightning strikes," said Jesus.

"So nothing for us to get involved with?" asked Terri.

"Not that I can see ... at this stage."

"There's still the lightning strikes that seem to have been chasing the truck," pointed out Stanlee Dempsey.

"Just an illusion caused by the unknown quality of lightning," said Tilly: "Just over a week ago there were eighty thousand lightning strikes one night in Melbourne and surrounding suburbs. God knows what kind of weird patterns that must have created."

Terri and co. spent the next few hours investigating and photographing the lightning strikes that had missed the farmhouse. Plus the ones that seemed to have been pursuing the Ford truck.

By the end of the day, they had a myriad of photos and no evidence that any crime had been committed.

"So do tell all?" asked Natasha Lipzing as they returned to the boarding house for tea. Trying her best not to look too excited, or ghoulish.

"Nothing to tell," said Terri, bursting the old lady's bubble: "Just lightning strikes from what we can tell."

"Oh," said Natasha disheartened.

An hour or so after tea, Corbin Birdman set out for his after-meal 'walk' again; now dressed in a red jacket and black slacks.

"Going out again?" asked Lotto. Trying his best not to grin knowingly at the South African.

"I always have a daily constitutional after dinner."

"Better take the umbrella again," said Dolly Maguire, reaching under the registry counter for it.

"Thank you," said Corbin, not wanting to cause suspicion by refusing her courtesy.

Outside, Corbin Birdman loped through the streets of Perry, unaware that Lotto the porter was following him from a distance.

Corbin raced through the township, heading into the neighbouring forest, not stopping until he had reached the lightning-blasted red gum from the night before.

Where the Hell is he going at such a pace? thought Lotto, grateful that he was young and fit. Not hyper-obese like most of the residents at the Whistler's Arms.

This time Corbin was careful to remove his clothing, which he placed beneath the blasted red gum. Then raising his arms to the sky as the first crash of thunder came, followed by the sonic boom of lightning, he began to chant:

"Come to me God of Thunder! God of Lightning! Fill me with your mighty power great God of the Elements!"

What the Hell is he...? wondered Lotto, lying on the dried gum leaves and pine needles a dozen metres away.

Then as if answering his summons, twin bolts of lightning roared down from the sky, striking Corbin and knocking him off his feet.

Yet still, Birdman continued chanting: "Come to me God of Thunder! God of Lightning!"

Again and again, the lightning struck Corbin thirty, forty, fifty, eighty times. Then, as Lotto watched in disbelief, Corbin Birdman began to stretch and grow, increasing in height and width, until he was a half a dozen metres wide and over twenty metres tall.

That's impossible! thought Lotto, refusing to believe what his own eyes told him. Easing backward in fear as the naked colossus, which had been Corbin Birdman climbed back to its feet. Standing erect as bolt after bolt of lightning struck it, energising it until it started to glow a golden yellow like a giant lantern.

Then again the Thunderbolt began walking forward and upward. As though climbing an invisible staircase, until he was over a hundred metres above the forest floor.

"Impossible!" said Lotto, unaware that he had spoken aloud.

He continued to watch as the Thunderbolt started striding through the air with huge footsteps, searching for more prey to have fun with.

"Impossible!" said Lotto again, wisely deciding it was time to return to the Whistler's Arms.

Wilhelmina, a neighbouring town had been a ghost town from 1978 till the turn of the century. Then skyrocketing land prices in Australia meant that the land became too valuable to be left standing vacant. So a dozen or so land sharks had moved in and bought up vast tracts of land dirt cheap, built cheap houses up it, then resold the houses at usury prices. Relying upon the gullibility of city slickers to not know the true prices in outback areas.

One such area was a new housing estate, on what the land sharks had Christened Varnier Street. Much further into the forest than anything that had been part of the original Wilhelmina township.

A row of thirty or more two-storey two-bedroom villa houses had been started. Most were nearly built. None were legally occupied, however, a dozen or so squatters had moved into the four most completed houses, relying on the recent rain-and-lightning storms to keep the builders away for a while.

"Sweet," said Lori Morrison. Sharing a Hawaiian pizza with her boyfriend, Deni Hartley.

"It'd be sweeter if you had your tits out," said Deni.

"What is it with blokes and tits?" asked Lori (nee Loridana).

"Well, you've got 'em, we don't, so we wanna play with yours," explained her boyfriend.

"Fair enough," said Lori. Putting down her pizza slice, she ripped off her T-shirt, then picked up the pizza slice and began eating again.

"Now this is sweet," said Deni. He reached around her so that he had a pizza slice in his right hand and her left breast in his left hand.

"Blokes!" she said with a giggle. Secretly pleased by the attention.

Overhead the Thunderbolt roamed through the sky, drawing energy from each lightning bolt that struck him. As he searched the local countryside for a likely-looking place to have his night's fun.

Inside the villa house Lori and Deni finished the pizza, then Lori cleaned up. Which comprised her taking the pizza box across to the front door, opening the door, and frisbeeing the box as far as she could out into the neighbouring forest.

"You know you're a natural homemaker, babe," said Deni. Standing up, he hurriedly undressed, knowing what always came next after sharing a Hawaiian pizza.

"Thanks, babe," said Lori. Giggling, as she shimmied out of her slacks. Which she left on the floor near the front door.

The Thunderbolt had almost passed over Wilhelmina, before noticing the lights from inside three or four of the villa houses on Varnier Street.

After a moment's indecision, he decided that this would be his playground for the night.

Inside the villa house, Deni Hartley was lying naked on his back on the yellow plaid patterned sofa, his erection thrust into the air. While Lori Morrison sat astride him, riding his penis cowgirl style, waving around an old straw hat she had found when they moved in, shouting:

"Ride him cowgirl!"

Laughing, Deni tried his best to grope her generous C-cup breasts as she rode up and down on his manhood. Finally, frustrated that they kept slipping out of his grasp, he tossed her over onto her back, making Lori squeal in surprise. Then, grabbing her large breasts hard enough to hurt her, he began powering his way in and out of her at an almost frantic pace.

"Yes, ride me, cowboy!" shouted Lori. Not caring who heard her, as each brutal thrust took her closer and closer to her climax. Deni might be only so-so to look at, but she had to give him credit that he knew how to hit her G-spot, bringing her to a shrieking orgasm every time.

Aiming carefully at the first house in the row, the Thunderbolt launched his first lightning bolt. Delighted as it hit the two-storey villa house, blowing away most of the upper storey.

Lori had started to shriek out her delight as Deni continued to thrust almost sadistically in and out of her... When the explosion from the house next door shattered their pleasure. And to her dismay, Deni stopped powering in and out of her.

"What was that?" asked Deni, as another explosion came.

"Oh God! Don't stop now!" pleaded Lori, almost crying from frustration.

Then another explosion rocked the house next door, rocking the villa house, until the young lovers both fell to the teak floor of the villa house.

Overhead the Thunderbolt delighted at the sight of the completely raised villa house. Turning slightly to his left, he hurled another bolt. This time at the top storey of the house where Deni and Lori lay on the floor.

"Aaaaaaah!" shrieked Lori, as the top storey of their squat exploded.

"What...?" said Deni, starting to stand.

Then, the top storey collapsed down onto them, killing the pair of young lovers.

Lori's last thought was: "That was the only time he didn't make me climax!

Then she died.

Overhead the Thunderbolt threw bolt after bolt at the long row of look-a-like brown brick villa houses. Delighting in the chaos that he caused, as roofs exploded and collapsed, people inside screamed and tried to race outside. Two teenagers succeeded, but he shot them down with two lightning bolts. The first bolt killed them both; the second was just to make certain.

Villa house after villa house came crashing down as the Thunderbolt hurled bolt after bolt at the row of houses, laughing a deep monstrous laugh at the destruction that he caused. Revelling at the power he gained each time another lightning bolt struck him, making him glow golden-yellow like a beacon while reenergising him. Thus helping him to wreak his destruction against the thirty or so almost completed villa houses that made up Varnier Street, Wilhelmina.

Inside the houses the screaming continued as the Thunderbolt threw bolt after bolt of lightning down at the houses, delighting as one after one the houses came crashing down. One after one the lit-up houses darkened, and finally the last of the shrieking stopped. As the last of the dozen or so squatters died beneath the rubble of the second storey. Or fell to their doom if in the upper level.

Soon all thirty-plus villa houses had been reduced to tinder, which the Thunderbolt set alight with bolt after bolt of lightning. He stood in the night air glowing with power and delight as the row of houses burnt.

Then, as the lightning storm started to abate, sensing his power starting to weaken, the Thunderbolt turned and started quick-marching through the sky. Heading back toward the blasted red gum where he had left his clothing hours earlier.

He reached the tree and started to walk down toward the forest floor. Barely reaching the ground when his power suddenly faded away and the Thunderbolt was reduced back to mere Corbin Birdman.

Corbin hurriedly dressed and then started at a steady lope back through the forest toward Perry Township. This time, fully dressed, he did not have to hide for fear of being seen, thus he made better progress to Prescott Street, and then down to the Whistler's Arms Inn.

This time, he found the front door locked. However, as he pushed the door, he heard footsteps within the Inn.

After a moment, the door opened and beautiful busty Dolly Maguire looked surprised to see him outside:

"What are you doing out at this time?" she asked. A little annoyed, and a little pleased that, like most men, he talked to her chest.

"The lightning woke me, and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went out for a walk," he said. Not bothering to mention that he had been out the whole night.

"Well, it's after seven o'clock, I'm just preparing breakfast. So there's no point going back to bed."

"I might just have a quick shower, then change," said Corbin, heading for the elevator.

The elevator door opened before Corbin could press the button, and out stepped a startled-looking Lotto Grossman almost collided with him.

"Sorry," said Lotto. He ducked around the guest, clearly not wanting to stay near him, although Lotto was usually a wise-talking bigmouth.

What's his problem? wondered Corbin Birdman as he stepped into the elevator.

Over at Deidre Morton's boarding house in Rochester Road, Merridale, Terri Scott and the others were seated at the kitchen table. Watching as Deidre placed plates of crumpets, porridge, toast, and other victuals upon the table.

This time they had almost finished breakfast when the knocking came at the front.

"Who can it be this time?" said Deidre, getting up to go to the front door.

"Take your pick," said Colin Klein: "Stanlee, Don, Jessie, Paul, Drew..."

"There's no need to be so..." began Terri. Stopping as Deidre said:

"Jessie, Paul, what a delight. Please come in."

"Told you," said Colin, as Deidre led the two policemen into the dining room.

Jessie Baker was a tall ox of a man, around thirty, with bright red hair. Paul Bell was tall and thin with long stringy black hair. Both men were police sergeants under Terri's command.

Taking a seat at the table, as proffered, Jessie said: "It's happened again."

"Not another Loch Ness monster sighting?" teased Colin.

"They've finally got a close-up, in-focus picture of Big Foot?" suggested Terri.

"Someone has captured a live Tasmanian Tiger?" said Sheila Bennett between mouthfuls of Vegemite crumpet.

"No!" said Jessie, not in his usual jocular mood that morning: "Sheila's Lightning Bolt has razed the villa houses in Varnier Street, Wilhelmina, during the lightning storm last night.

"Completely razed?" asked Colin.

"Yup, all thirty-two of them," said Paul Bell: "Best guess close to a thousand lightning strikes hit them."

"They weren't occupied though, were they?" asked Terri. Also losing her jocular mood.

"Not officially," said Jessie: "But they've found about ten corpses in the rubble, so far."

"We're assuming squatters," said Paul.

"Okay, breakfast is over ... at least for us five," said Terri, pushing back her chair to start toward the front door. Closely followed by Colin Klein and the other three cops.

Not quite an hour later they arrived at the devastation that had been Varnier Street.

Half a dozen of the corpses had been taken to the Glen Hartwell Hospital already. The others were being examined by Jesus Costello, Elvis Green, and Tilly Lombstrom, assisted by two senior nurses: Annie Colfax, and Topaz Moseley. Annie the Nurse-in-Charge, was an ash blonde in her late thirties; Topaz a gorgeous platinum blonde aged thirty-two. Both women were thin and barely a hundred and sixty centimetres tall.

"Any survivors?" asked the redheaded reporter, Colin Klein, by way of greeting.

"None so far," said Jesus, without looking up.

Putting on safety gloves and shoes, Terri and the others pitched in to help search for survivors. But by the end of day the Department of Buildings and Works was using bulldozers to shift the majority of the devastation away.

Sitting down to tea that night Terri said: "What are the chances of a thousand lightning strikes hitting a single row of houses, taking them out one at a time, like a marksman taking out a row of targets."

"There were hundreds of lightning strikes in other places last night," pointed out Colin: "Both in towns and throughout the surrounding forestland."

"Yes, but over a thousand concentrated in one small street, comprising thirty-two two-storey villa houses," insisted the blonde policewoman.

"So ... what ... you think Buck Gordon's Lightning Bolt really has come to life here?" asked Sheila.

"It wouldn't be the weirdest thing to happen in the Glen Hartwell to Willamby area over the last forty years or so," insisted Terri.

"That's true," conceded Colin: "This area has developed quite a bit of an almost Lovecraftian reputation down the years. Even in England, we get the occasional stories about this area. Although they're usually printed alongside the latest U.F.O. tales in the sleaziest British tabloids."

While the others went into the lounge room to watch TV after tea, Colin, Terri, and Sheila stayed at the kitchen table arguing the merits of different theories for the peculiar pattern of the local lightning strikes.

Until Deidre Morton notified them that it was 10:30, so they followed the others upstairs to their various bedrooms.

Over at the Whistler's Arms, Corbin Birdman had just finished a delightful pork and orange roast, with all the trimmings. Made more delightful by the sight of Dolly Maguire's more than ample 35DD bosom as she leant over to take his order or just to talk to him.

At first aloof toward him, Corbin realised that the thirty-something brunette had become attracted to him.

"That is wonderful," he said to her magnificent chest.

"I'm glad you like it," said Dolly, bending over him so that her vast bosom was almost touching his face.

Tempted to reach out and grab the wonderful orbs, instead, he took one of her hands in his to gently stroke. Finally raising his gaze to her eyes, he saw her lids fluttering as she was almost climaxing.

Standing, he gently led her out of the dining room, over to the elevator, then up to his room. Almost as though mesmerised Dolly Maguire did not resist as he led her into his room. He hurriedly undressed them both, then carried her across to his bed. And soon they were in the throngs of passionate lovemaking.

For more than three hours he rode the curvaceous brunette, filling her and coating her Mons, stomach, and breasts with his semen. Until he was spent, and Dolly had passed out from exhaustion.

Although exhausted himself, hearing thunder crashing and lightning booming outside, Corbin reluctantly abandoned the sleeping brunette. He hurriedly redressed, then went out into the hallway. He checked both ways, then locked his bedroom door, before starting down the stairs toward the reception area of the inn.

He stopped at the reception desk for a moment to make certain that no one was about, before heading outside.

As Corbin stepped away from the inn, Lotto Grossman stepped out from where he had been hiding behind a long abandoned workshed. Beside him the teenager wheeled a small motorised bicycle.

Knowing where Corbin Birdman would be heading, Lotto stayed well back out of hearing range as they walked through the darkened streets, then out into the forest beyond. Although the crashing of thunder and sonic booming of lightning drowned out all other sounds.

Corbin Birdman was gasping, about to collapse when he finally reached the blasted red gum tree. He hurriedly undressed and held his arms out again in salutation chanting:

"Come to me God of Thunder! God of Lightning! Strike me, invest me, with all of your mighty power!"

As requested three lightning bolts struck the blond man at once. Making him scream as he was knocked off his feet.

How can he survive it? thought Lotto, watching from half a dozen metres away.

Again and again and again the lightning struck Corbin. Thirty, fifty, eighty or more times, until he began to glow like a lantern again. And as his strength returned he managed to force his way to his feet, despite the continuing bolts of lightning striking him.

Then, at first slowly, then more rapidly Corbin began to grow, to expand out till he was nearly five metres wide and more than twenty metres tall, like a giant golden, living statue.

Looking into the forest he began walking up into the sky again. Striding up non-existent steps until he soared high into the sky.

As the Thunderbolt started in the general direction of Glen Hartwell, Lotto finally mounted his motorised bicycle, put it into gear, and started after the creature. Relying on the crashing thunder and booming lightning to drown out the sound of the motor.

For nearly an hour Lotto followed the high-stepping Thunderbolt until they indeed entered Glen Hartwell. Well, Lotto entered G.H., the Thunderbolt strode above it, as they headed down Blackland Street toward the southern end of town. Finally stopping over the empty Glen Hartwell High School which ran from Blackland down to Wentworth Street.

Less than twenty years old the two-storey complex was impressive by the standards of inner Melbourne. Let alone a town of not much more than five thousand people in the Victorian countryside. A mixture of redbrick buildings and some blue stone buildings to give it a unique blend of old and new looks. With a large gym, a largely digital library, and most of the mod cons of any big city high school.

Impressive! thought Lotto.

Seconds before the Thunderbolt hurled his first lightning bolt into the large gymnasium. Part of the black tiled roof exploded. But the gym remained largely intact.

Angered, the Thunderbolt hurled bolt after bolt at the gymnasium, until it was reduced to brick dust, splintered wood and broken tiles.

Grinning idiotically the creature hurled bolt after bolt at the library next, reducing it also to rubble, before moving on to the physics and chemistry labs. Quickly reducing them to rubble.

Then he switched his attention to the maths department, then the English and humanities rooms. Before moving on to the Technical drawing and art classrooms. Followed by the Social Consciousness rooms, the behavioural adjustment rooms, then each of the other classrooms one by one until only the caretaker's room remained.

Huddled inside his small bedsit, Constantine (Con) Lopez watched in horror as the gigantic glowing creature reduced his school (as he thought of it) to ruins. Too horrified to even worry about his own safety as he saw the Thunderbolt winding up his right arm to hurl a bolt right at his bedsit.

Knowing that Con slept there, Lotto watched in horror as the monster started to hurl a bolt toward the caretaker's building.

Then, startled by the sound of approaching sirens, the Thunderbolt changed its mind. Lowering its right hand it dropped the last lightning bolt which exploded on the bitumen quadrangle. Turning, the creature started running through the air, back toward the blasted red gum tree in the forest outside Perry township.

Lotto waited until the fire trucks, ambulances and police cars pulled up outside the devastated high school. Just a fortnight before school resumes! though Lotto: Boy, the kids will be delighted!

Ten minutes later Lotto was explaining what he had seen, showing them video footage he had taken on his mobile phone.

"Looks like you were right about Buck Gordon's Lightning Bolt, Sheils!" said Colin Klein. As they watched the video of the creature destroying the school.

After talking to the volunteer fire brigade for ten minutes or so, Con Lopez trotted across toward Terri and co. to tell them his incredible story.

"That's it!" said Con, pointing at the video that they were all watching: "That's what I saw destroy the school."

"You're certain?" asked Terri Scott.

"No doubt about it," said Con.

"Now, if only we knew where to find him?" said Colin.

"At the Whistler's Arms inn," said Lotto: "Where I work. Room 226. I saw him sneaking out last night and followed him. But wasn't expecting him to change into that thing, so I wasn't able to follow him. But tonight I brought my motorised bicycle with me and was able to follow him. He goes by the name Corbin Birdman."

"Ironic since he flies through the air," said Terri.

"Actually he runs through the air," said Lotto. He went on to describe exactly what he had seen that night and the night before.

"Walking up imaginary steps?" said Sheila Bennett.

"That's exactly what he does," agreed Lotto.

"Then let's go get him," said Terri heading toward her police blue Lexus.

"You don't think we can just arrest him?" asked Colin.

"You have to try, man," insisted Lotto.

They strapped Lotto's bike to the roof rack of the Lexus, then headed off toward Prescott Street, Perry.

Back to normal, Corbin Birdman took the elevator up to the second storey, then returned to his room. Where he found a semen-drenched Dolly Macguire still sleeping off their marathon lovemaking from earlier.

Never one to let an opportunity go by, Lotto hurriedly undressed, then joined Dolly on the bed. Deciding that she was too sticky to lie on top of, he rolled her over onto her plumpish stomach, pulled her swelling butt cheeks apart, and slammed his manhood between them. Driving twenty-eight throbbing centimetres in through her sphincter muscle, making the brunette scream out in her sleep. However, she did not awaken as he reached around to grab her 35DD breasts in his hands to squeeze and grope as he started to sodomise her at a savage pace. Reenergised by the lightning he was able to sodomise her endlessly and might have done so all night...

If not for the hammering that came at the door of his bedroom.

"Open up!" demanded Terri Scott from the hallway.

Ignoring the order Corbin continued to sodomise Dolly brutally, enjoying her sleeping whimpering. Whimpering half from pleasure, half from agony, as he thrust rapidly in and out of her plump backside, enjoying the heat and tightness. Although no virgin, she had clearly never let herself be sodomised before.

"Right, take the door down," ordered Terri to Paul Bell, who stood beside her, holding a small battering ram.

"I have a passkey," said Lotto, holding the key card out toward Paul, just in time.

Putting down the metal ram, Paul took the key card and ran it through the lock to open the door.

Inside they clicked on the light and saw Corbin still sodomising the buxom brunette. Unaware of them, he screamed aloud as he unleashed a fiery load of semen deep into the sleeping brunette's bowels. She murmured in pleasure and pain but still did not awaken.

I can't believe she let him bum her! thought Lotto. Unable to take his eyes away from the voluptuous figure of Dolly Maguire lying face down, naked upon the king-single bed.

"Right, Corbin Birdman...?"

"This is all consensual," said Corbin: "Before you get the wrong idea."

"Was the Spearman Cattle Station consensual?" asked Terri Scott.

"Or the Varnier Street Villa Houses in Wilhelmina?" asked Colin Klein.

"Or the Glen Hartwell High School tonight?" asked Lotto.

"Catch!" said Sheila Bennett. She tossed an orange-coloured object at Corbin. It hit him in the chest and bounced straight off without hurting him.

"What the Hell was that?" asked Terri.

"A ball of copper wire," said Sheila: "I thought it might degauss him."

"He only needs degaussing in the form of the Lightning Bolt," said Lotto.

"The Thunderbolt," Corbin corrected them before he could stop himself.

"Well, whoever you are, you're nicked, as they say on British Cop Shows," said Colin Klein.

Not bothering to argue with them, Corbin Birdman got off the bed, after one last lustful look at the sleeping brunette, and allowed himself to be led out of the room.

But once outside, he broke away from the police, raced down the corridor, and ran straight out through a four-paned window at the end of the corridor.

"Jesus!" said Terri. She led the procession across to then down the stairs toward the reception desk.

Staying behind, Lotto carefully locked the bedroom door, then used his mobile phone to snap off forty of fifty pictures of the naked brunette, thinking again: I can't believe she let him bum her!

Then, he carefully rolled her over onto her back, to take another fifty pictures.

Then putting down his mobile phone he climbed onto the bed and between her buxom thighs, which she willingly spread for him. Gasping in delight as his twenty-centimetre penis filled her vagina. Moaning as he started to thrust in and out of her, lying across her plump body to take her vast breasts into his hands to squeeze with all of his might. Almost biting one of the nipples off in his excitement.

Dolly yelped in pain and pleasure but started thrusting her voluptuous body up at him. Matching him thrust for thrust.

Outside, they found Corbin Birdman lying face down, screaming in agony from two broken legs.

As Stanlee Dempsey started to move him, Corbin screamed, and Terri warned: "Better not move him till the ambulance gets here."

"You're the boss, Chief," he said.

Inside room 226, Lotto pulled out of the buxom sleeping brunette and sprayed her face and 35DD chest with his semen. Then rolling her back over onto her stomach, he spread her butt cheeks apart and lunged forward, sodomising her even more brutally than Corbin Birdman had done earlier.

At first, she moaned and protested in her sleep at the rough treatment. But soon she was thrusting her prominent behind back up at him, matching him thrust for thrust. Even in her sleep needing the pleasure and pain of the brutal sodomy.

For hour after hour, he sodomised her, until, finally soon after dawn she started to awaken.

"What...? What's going on?" she demanded. Rolling over onto her back, she cried out at the agony in her backside.

"Don't you remember, Angel?" he lied: "You got a little drunk last night, seduced me, then took me up here. We've spent the whole night shagging."

As she started to cover herself with her hands, he said: "No point, sweet stuff, you posed naked for a hundred or so nude pickies for me too. So I've seen, and had, everything you've got."

"Oh, my God, what have I done?" she asked herself.

"Seduced a minor, which means gaol time, unless I agree not to tell anyone," he said. Climbing on top of her again, he pushed her down onto her back and entered her vagina with a sudden lung, starting to thrust in and out of her again.

For the next six weeks, Corbin Birdman lay in a bed in the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital, before he was well enough to be transported down to Russell Street, Melbourne.

"Well, that's the last we'll see of him," said Terri Scott. As the train departed for Russell Street carrying Birdman, Stanlee Dempsey, and Jessie Baker.

"But I'm guessing it's not the last weird mystery we'll have in the area this year," said Sheila.

"Oh, God, don't even say it," said Colin Klein. Making them all laugh.

© Copyright 2024 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia
© Copyright 2024 Mayron57 (philroberts at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://shop.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2312400-THE-THUNDERBOLT