* * *
Laughing.
She was laughing.
In spite of the pain, in spite of the rage, in spite of the fear, she was laughing.
Almost free.
She broke through the tree line, nearly colliding with the fence surrounding the cell tower, and made a bee-line for the car. Feelings—relief, anticipation—she'd thought dead, or so-close-as-to-be-no-different, had reawakened, stretching their limbs and looking around.
And it'd only taken the slaughter of a dozen people and being batted around like a cat toy for her to discover this.
She cackled, spritzing the air with blood.
Almost free. Almost.
She yanked the driver side door open, then dived into the car, already reaching for the keys still in the ignition.
Which were gone.
She froze, and everything broke within her with a sound like shattering glass.
“No,” she shrieked, as if volume could make the keys reappear.
The wretched scream of twisting metal and then the driver side door was gone, flung with a crash into the underbrush. Thomas's white hands darted out of the darkness and ripped her from the car. His voice crashed down on her like waves breaking on rocks.
“Fucking worthless bitch!”
He heaved her through the air and she bounced liked a basketball along the access lane, the air getting punched out of her, shredding the skin off her arms and face. The back of her head met a rock, and white comets shot across her spinning vision. Her ribs, pulverized now, jabbed and poked at her soft insides. Her hand, still holding the .38, spasmed, and she fired a shot that seemed very far away.
She came to a rest finally, and her vision was a gummy haze. She felt herself bleeding in a half-dozen places, and it was like a drain-plug had been pulled—every bit of Thomas's power she'd fed on was leaving her, turning her into just another broken human.
“I think we both knew this was inevitable,” Thomas said, his voice reverberating through her head. “No more LA, no more road-trip, no more us. I can do a lot here. I can have a lot of fun here. So, I'll stay and you…well, you won't, Patricia.”
She made herself smile, with blood leaking from between her teeth.
“I want that very much,” she said, forcing herself to speak as clearly as she could. “You fucking prick.”
And then the world filled with light.
* * *
A flash, off to the right, a bit up ahead.
And then a voice, what a nightmare would sound like, riding on the air. “I think we both knew this was inevitable.”
John sat bolt upright, like a man suffering a widow-making coronary, and his foot momentarily hit the brakes. The tires shrieked. The smell of peeled rubber filled the car, cutting through the stench of mold and sulfur.
He hit the gas again and the cruiser surged forward. He saw the access break in the tree line and wrenched the steering wheel right, two tires coming off the ground.
His headlights pinned a woman bleeding on the ground—
The waitress?
—and a figure towering over her, a vague, black humanoid form that jacked every nerve to ten.
John slammed on the brakes, but was out before his cruiser had come to a full stop, yanking his pistol from his holster. He leapt over the woman without a downward glance and launched at the thing, already firing.
And the thing laughed at him.
It was as if a switch had been thrown, and he had an instant of returned reason—brief wonderment of how so much could've happened so fast—before the thing batted him aside with what felt like a thick marble beam. John's shoulder broke with the sound of snapping twigs. He crashed into the underbrush, losing his gun. He hit a trunk and his broken shoulder burst into holy, righteous fire. He peeled his throat shrieking.
The nightmare figure came for him, picking him up by the shirt with the ease of someone lifting an empty laundry bag. John bit his lip and felt blood trickle down his chin. He felt a growing warmth on his chest but didn't immediately recognize it. There were more pressing matters.
“You look familiar,” the figure said, and it seemed his voice was both audible and in John's mind.
My brother.
He tried to say it, but couldn't find his voice. He felt that warmth, dialing up slowly and spreading outward. A strange sound, like crackling cellophane, grew in his ears as his pain began to lessen.
And the creature seemed to feel it, too.
It made a strangled noise and some of the darkness left its face, revealing a cleft chin, a mouth seemingly crammed with needle teeth.
Took Eric's head off.
It tried to speak, “What—” and then it felt like John's chest exploded in white light.
The creature dropped him, the light revealing white hands, monstrous nails. Its bulging black eyes, too large for an otherwise normal face, glared at John with a mixture of hatred, confusion and pain.
“What—” it tried to say again, but the warmth was building and climbing, the light blinding, making John wince. The creature went crashing through the brush back to the access road.
John grabbed at the light. His St. Anthony medallion, its details almost obliterated by its illumination.
What the hell?
“Motherfucker,” the creature barked, and John looked up. It was still retreating, the darkness drained, revealing a man younger than John. It bared its teeth at him.
And the light in John's hand was fading as the pain in his shoulder returned. John staggered to his feet and lurched towards the creature, ignoring the rusty-saw-burr of his shoulder.
Immediately, the light returned, the buzz grew louder, and his pain faded.
“Got you,” he breathed, and was able to run.
* * *
Tommy's pained scream brought Patty to a soupy consciousness. She raised her head just in time to see him, devoid of his Master of the Dark look, diving into the underbrush. A moment later, a burly cop, holding what looked like the tiniest LED lantern, appeared and chased after him, grinning.
This is what blood loss does to you.
She lowered her head, waiting for the lapping gray waters of unconsciousness to pull her back out again.
Get up.
She didn't want to. Tommy had done enough. But that interior voice wouldn't let go.
This is your only chance.
Patty raised her head again and vertigo clopped her one. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them, repeated the process until she could, more or less, see clearly.
Now you can get away.
She looked at the idling cruiser, blinking against the headlights. She could just see the driver side door, open like an invitation. She started for it, not really thinking. She reached the bumper. Pulling herself up, a fresh burst of pain, like a fat, crackling lightning bolt, seized her and she went face first into the cruiser's hot hood. She hugged her abdomen, but that did no good.
This pain came from deeper. From where she fed on Tommy.
Too much. Too much on too little.
She'd always known she depended on Tommy's feedings, that it made her stronger, sharper, kept her young-looking, without any of the drawbacks Tommy had as true undead, but she hadn't really known the extent of that dependence, how much it sustained her.
Hold out. Just hold out. Wait it out, just like a junkie.
The hood burned her cheek, the sudden cold-sweat on her brow dripping and sizzling on the metal. She pushed herself until she just leaned on the car, and used it to work her way around to the door. Another bolt of pain came, driving her to her knees.
C'mon. C'mon!
Tommy howled, an anguished scream from deep in the woods. He sounded like he did back in that bar, when they were both human and all was right in the world.
“No, it wasn't,” she breathed, and her voice was thick.
Still, she turned towards the woods, away from the door.
Get in the car. Get the hell out of here. Go to Nipton and kill that numbfuck
deejay and steal his car. Don't turn back.
Not a scream this time, but a shriek. Pain. Tommy was in pain. Like all those years ago. And she'd acted without thought then.
Patty was already moving before she caught herself, hugged herself as if to hold her body in place.
What am I doing? I am done with this. I am almost free.
What felt like a taloned-hand burrowed deep into her gut, and she projectile-vomited blood against the side of the cruiser.
Can't. I can't. This isn't something—
But she couldn't finish the thought. In the back of her mind, and two feet to her right, she sensed the door to her freedom, to the person she could've been, without Tommy and his secondhand power and the leash both he and it had put on her. The woman the good little girl would've grown up to be.
And she was turning away from it.
When the next shriek came, Patty got moving, getting to her feet, heading for the woods. When she reached the .38, she bent over to pick it up and didn't fall.
* * *
Vampire. It's a vampire.
But the thought held no weight. Unimportant. More important was the power in his medallion, building him up, leading him after the creature. Every muscle and nerve sang in harmony.
The creature stumbled and John leapt at it. St. Anthony brushed the top of its forehead and flesh hissed like hot grease. The smell of burning flesh was stupendous. It screeched and shoved him away, holding a hand to its head. John backpedaled and fell on his ass. The creature pulled its hand away. The darkness was gone except for the gleaming cores of its oil-drop eyes. A comet of scorched flesh arced across its brow.
“Who the fuck do you think I am—Evil Ed?” it asked. Its voice was odd when drained of power, like it spoke around a throat full of snot.
It bared its teeth as it straightened and its skin darkened, blending in with the shadows. “Gonna bleed you, man,” it said, its voice deepening, becoming thunder in Hell. “Do you know what the fuck I am? Gonna keep you alive long enough so you can feel every…fucking…drop.”
It approached, slowly, and the darkness poured in around it like black water.
John felt around behind him, finding a rock. As the creature reached for him, he swung the medallion—a part of him noting the way the darkness shrank away as the creature cringed. He brought the rock around and slammed it into the side of the creature's face. Teeth broke like piano keys and it fell.
John jumped onto it, straddling it, and brought the rock down again and again, holding the medallion above. Animalistic triumph seized him, made him howl as flesh gave and bones crunched. A tough, black fluid, like crude oil, flew in spatters.
He tossed the rock away. His arm was slick to the elbow with the creature's blood.
The creature moaned beneath him, its head dented and broken.
“I know what you are,” he breathed, seizing a broken branch. He wound the medallion around the tip and raised it like a spear. “And I sure as shit know how to kill you.”
* * *
She stumbled and fell and didn't scream only because she didn't have enough air. Her labored pulse beat at her vision, made her body lurch. The .38 hung from her hand like a weight, but she didn't let go.
Mistake.
She stumbled and her side hit a tree. She blinked and saw the cop, straddling Tommy, beating at him with a rock in one hand, while the other held the mini-lantern. What the fuck was that? A crucifix?
She watched the cop toss the rock away and pick up the branch.
Leave him. Leave this. He deserves it.
Her torso burned, but she didn't know if it was from the pain or something else.
“I know what you are,” the cop said, winding the lantern around the branch. “And I sure as shit know how to kill you.”
He hefted the branch.
Let him. Let him. LET HIM!
She didn't know she was going to fire until the sound battered her ears and the recoil surged up her arm. The cop fell, screaming and holding the mess that his hand had become.
Stop this. Turn around.
Hugging her abdomen, she stumbled towards them, taking in the scene. The cop, cradling his hand, gaped at her. She ignored him and approached Tommy. His arms and legs moved weakly, almost independently of each other. His face was a ruin. Beside him, the branch, now in half, with what appeared to be a glowing medallion.
Shove it in his mouth and blow his fucking head off.
She felt that tug in the back of her mind: Patty. Patty, help me.
She shook.
Leave him. Leave this. It's not too late.
And then the cop steamrolled her.
“Bitch,” he bellowed, driving her to the ground and driving already-broken bones into soft and vulnerable places.
Everyone thinks I'm a bitch today.
She spewed blood into his face as he strangled her with his good hand and tried to pull the .38 away with his bad one. He head-butted her and suns exploded in her eyes. Gagging, she pressed the .38 between them and emptied the cylinder.
The cop stiffened, the pressure on her throat instantly gone. He was gaping at her again, but she didn't think he really saw her.
Nothing new there.
He crumpled in a way that reminded her of balled paper and fell to the side. She gagged on snot and blood and pain.
That steel fishhook in her head: Patty, I need you.
Her hands clawed at the dirt, pulling herself around.
The medallion. Get the fucking thing away.
She saw it, still glowing, and crawled towards it. When a fresh wave of pain crashed into her, she didn't stop. Behind her, making the soundtrack, the cop moaned as he tried to hold his guts in.
She picked the medallion up and hissed as it burned in the center of her palm. A St. Anthony medallion. Was the church she'd gone to, all those years ago, called St. Anthony's?
Who gives a fuck?
That tug in the back of her head: Away. Get it away from me.
She held it a moment longer, as if undecided, but she knew, deep down, the decision had been made.
She threw the medallion away.
* * *
Later, she lay on her side, staring at nothing. Consciousness came and went, the pain ebbing and flowing like the tide. She had no idea how much time passed, only that it was still dark when the cop was finally killed.
“Here, honey,” Tommy rumbled behind her. His voice cracked and gargled oddly. His wrist, cut open and already welling with his blood, appeared in front of her eyes.
She stared at it, then forced her eyes closed. Let me suffer. Let me die. Then the other part of her, now a permanent fixture, spoke up:
You haven't begun to suffer yet.
“C'mon, honey,” Tommy coaxed. “You need this.”
She opened her eyes and the wrist was still there. She licked her lips and hated herself for it.
Your suffering's just begun.
She gripped Tommy's wrist and, shaking, brought it to her mouth.
Paul Michael Anderson
Musical Inspiration for “Crawling Back to You”
"Crawling Back to You" is loosely based off the Tom Petty song, which is the penultimate cut from his 1994 solo album, Wildflowers. The album's slow, weary vocal line, as well as its themes of resignation and inability to let go, sparked the overall emotional thrust of the story. Originally, years ago when the story was conceived, the protagonist and antagonist roles were reversed--and there's still something there that I might come back to at some point—but when I finally sat down to write the piece, I saw that inability to let go not as an ambivalent or possibly positive thing—as Petty seems to, in his song—but as an obsession, an addiction. An inability to think rationally and ignore your best interests. I further tried to tie that obsession/addiction within toxic relationships with power, helplessness, and the status quo—serving all that up with blood as the noxious sauce on that cyanide sundae. So, the song became a wall I bounced my story off of, in a way.
When I finally sat down to write the story, I had just rewatched the 1987 film Near Dark, as well as just wrapped an interview with Craig Spector, who had written the 1984 novel The Light at the End, for Jamais Vu - The Journal of the Strange Among the Familiar. I wanted that late-1980s/early-1990s feel to the piece, even if it took place during modern day (I tried to make as few modern references as I could). Oddly enough, that harkens back to Petty—and "Crawling Back to You" the song—as well. Petty, love him or hate him, is timeless, both fitting and not fitting into whatever decade he happens to inhabit at the time.
From the private journal of Doktor Otto Kerner, Hauptsturmführer-SS Medical Officer assigned to Auschwitz-Birkenau Camp, Oświęcim, Poland.
30th December 1944
Subject 21. Polish male. Age forty-two. Laborer. Jew. He lasted two minutes longer than the previous subjects. Pulse normal. Respiration normal. This may be because of the refinements I made to the opening chords, though I can’t rule out other factors: his constitution was greater because of his background as a laborer, and he seemed better fed, unlike many of the starved subjects in the camp.
Deterioration first showed in the eyes. The capillaries burst. Blood streamed from his sockets. As I approached the concerto’s end, the subject became non-responsive and exhibited catatonia. Pulse slowed. Subject showed signs of accelerated ageing: wrinkles creased his face; all the color bleached from his skin; his hair turned silver then white.
The subject expired exactly sixty-six seconds after I finished playing. I must complete an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death, but I suspect it will be heart failure or another disease common to old age. So far, the transference of life has failed, and all of my subjects have expired.
I cannot keep an audience.
I felt a short burst of energy, a renewed vigor, but the effect was fleeting and didn’t improve my health in any measurable way. I’ve tapped into powerful magic, but cannot stabilize it. The premature cessation of the transference sent my body into shock. I nearly did not recover and required a night of rest and vitamin shots to stabilize my metabolism. I’ve lost five kilograms since the experiments began. My skin blackens in patches. Scales harden along my thighs, and the nails on my fingers and toes turn purple. I am becoming something new. I wonder if I will be beautiful.
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