Skinners
Page 8
Thom.
Thom in a tight, sky-blue Twilight t-shirt, just like the one from the store. Edward and Bella’s faces stretched across his broad chest, deforming their alabaster features. Thom, with unblemished arms where the faded green tattoos should be, downy puffs of hair, like a newborn’s, covering his temples. Next to Thom stood the ice tub man from the convenience store, a false grin carved across his sore-free face.
The thump of Thom’s unhinging jaws echoed off the bleachers, his chin hanging so low it obscured the movie title on his shirt. The low humming that issued from his giant mouth drowned out Steve’s next shout of warning.
Like a miniature flock of chimney swifts, the beautiful embers of starlight spewed forth, moving fast and precise in the warm, dry air of the gymnasium, seeking the upturned faces of the tired masses.
Chapter Seventeen
The gymnasium erupted with panicked shouts as groggy people extricated themselves from their sleeping bags, while others zipped themselves in, hiding from the spores.
Steve could only watch as a woman on the far side of the gym fell, her feet tangled in her sleeping bag. The swarm of spores attacked, burning into her cheeks. Her screams reached him above the surrounding shouts. And even above all that, Steve heard Angie yell, “Leland…NO…it’s not dad! Steve, grab him!”
Before he could react, Leland was past Steve, running toward the ice tub man, shouting, “Daddy! Daddy!”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Steve ran after the boy, pushing through the frightened, bustling crowd. Up ahead, he could see the man’s mouth stretch open, and the glowing orbs spill out. Leland continued his sprint toward the man, seemingly not bothered by the sight of his father’s face hanging open and puking lights.
Bill pulled his gun and fired two shots into the chest of Thom’s copy, knocking it to the floor, but the spores from the other man engulfed Bill’s head. Hollering, he flailed about, blindly firing the pistol.
Catching his prey, Steve grabbed a fistful of the boy’s shirt, and swung him back in the opposite direction. Leland turned, trying his best to pry Steve’s grip from his shirt. “It’s not your dad, Leland,” Steve shouted. “Come on.” He lifted the boy, slinging him over his shoulder, and ran back toward Angie. He could see her helping a groggy Thom up from the floor. Steve dodged and weaved, bouncing off fleeing people on his way to his friends as Bill’s gun still blasted from behind.
Someone elbowed Steve in the back, hard, knocking the wind from his lungs, sending him and Leland crashing to the floor. Through jostling bodies, he could see Angie trying to make her way to them, screaming her little brother’s name, but the tide of people washed her and Thom toward the open exit doors leading to the parking lot. In the purple pre-dawn light outside, Steve could see that the rain had returned.
Breathless, with a deep piercing pain in his ribs, Steve stood, pulling Leland to his feet. He pushed the boy toward the exit, the sight of the rain driving him forward. A man fell next to them, screaming as spores instantly engulfed his face.
The doors were too far; Steve realized this with a calm clarity that made him stop moving for a moment. The punch to the back had sapped him of his strength. Weakened, he could barely walk, much less run. He spied a crumpled white sheet at his feet, picked it up, pulled Leland close to him, and draped it over their heads. Steve urged the frightened boy forward, pushing through the crowd at an excruciatingly slow pace, in the direction of the open doors. At least he hoped.
He kept moving, fearing they’d bump into a wall or get shoved in the wrong direction. If they did, they were doomed. Steve shuffled on, his arms draped around Leland’s chest, feeling the boy’s panicked breathing as screaming people collided with them.
After what seemed an eternity, cool rain pelted his head, saturating the sheet. Steve managed to stumble a few more paces before falling to his knees, unable to go any further. Someone ripped the sheet away.
Shivering, Steve stared up into the faces of his friends. Angie clutched Leland to her bosom, tears mingling with the rain cascading down her cheeks. She thanked Steve over and over again like a skipping record. He heard her voice as if in the distance, echoing inside his head. Thom held the sheet, examining an enormous red splotch soaked into the white fabric, the look on his face one of concern and confusion.
His strength draining, Steve tilted, sitting down on the wet blacktop. Heat trickled down his freezing back, pooling in the seat of his pants. Thom’s face appeared in front of him. The old man pulled Steve’s head to his chest, lifting the boy’s shirt to examine the wound on his back. Dark blood flowed from a neat, round bullet hole.
“Hold on, son,” Thom whispered into Steve’s ear. “We’ll get you some help.”
Steve wanted to tell him he was fine, that somebody had just pushed him down, but he felt on the verge of sleep, too tired to even speak, as Thom rocked him like a baby, squeezing his face gently to his chest. It’s okay, Thom, he thought, God takes care of drunks and fools. That’s what my mom always says.
Replacing the frigid chill, warmth seeped through Steve’s body, especially where his cheek pressed against Thom’s drenched chest. In his mind, he smiled. As he rocked back and forth, love washed over him. He didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world than right here, right now.
As if in a dream, Steve could hear the roar of trucks, and gruff voices barking orders. Several pops of automatic rifles echoed from the gymnasium, and an amplified voice promised the crowd that everything would be fine.
Their saviors had finally arrived.
It’s okay, Steve thought.
We’re all okay.
Still rocking, tears filling his eyes, Thom hugged Steve’s limp body, stroking the boy’s soaked head. His voice cracked now as he whispered into Steve’s ear again. “You promised me you wouldn’t do anything stupid. But you saved that boy’s life.” He squeezed Steve harder. “I’m proud of you, son.”
Thom’s final words filled Steve’s thoughts as he drifted, weightless, like embers from a warm fire.
I’m okay…
THE END
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Craig Wesley Wall
About the Author
Craig Wesley Wall is the author of short stories, novellas, and novels, primarily in the horror and thriller genres.
A lifelong horror enthusiast, Craig’s work is the culmination of too many hours spent watching scary movies and reading books by such authors as Stephen King, Robert R. McCammon, Brian Keene, and many others.
Craig resides in the wilds of the Pacific Northwest with his wife and a bevy of dogs and cats. He’s constantly in search of the elusive Bigfoot, all the while convincing his neighbors that he’s not one.
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