The alley suddenly smelled of sulfur, and the air instantly became stagnant, making it hard for Elliott to breath. He winced as the smell grew stronger, burning his nostrils. The three things glared down at him with probing eyes while clicking their teeth.
Totally oblivious, the three men continued arguing, but Elliott could no longer hear them.
“I . . . I think I mi . . .” Elliott paused to breath, and then decided it would be best to be on his way.
The thing riding on the larger man raised its left tentacle-like arm. Black slime dripped down onto the cement at Elliott’s feet. Then he shuttered at what came next. The thing shoved the maggoty tip of its protruding arm into the large man’s ear. Black goo oozed along the side of the man’s face as the grotesque extremity penetrated the ear canal. Slithering deeper, it somehow entered the man’s head. The wet slapping pop that it made as the limb punctured the ear sent chills down Elliott’s spine. Using his hands, while in a seated position, he started to backpedal away from the three men and their riders.
It was too late.
Only a moment after that thing inserted the tip of its arm into the large man’s head, the man was no longer interested in the conversation he was having with his two friends. He broke away from them and lunged at Elliott. The homeless man screamed as the large man and his rider fell on him. Half expecting the man to lash out in another fit of punches and kicks, Elliott blocked his face with his arm. Rather than feeling a harsh pounding fist, he felt a warm wet splash.
He opened his eyes and looked up. The thing that was on top of this man had used its free arm to attack. The slap it provided didn’t hurt at all. It was just wet and warm. Slime and black sludge covered his dirty coat.
“What the . . .” Elliott started to scream.
And then it came.
Black, thick plasma shot out from the end of the gray creature’s maggoty tip. The sludge landed on most of Elliott’s right hand and the sleeve of his coat. When he was a kid, he had seen a few of those crazy sci-fi movies. He looked down at his arm and saw that it was burning and red, but then it started to change. It was swelling fast. He stood to his feet to run. Bringing the slime covered hand in closely to his chest; Elliott took off as fast as he could. He ran back the way he had come and heard two more wet slapping pops. His mind raced with the image of the other two men getting probed by the hideous riders they unknowingly carried.
The pounding steps of pursuit followed, but he wasn’t going to look back. He needed to get away. His head throbbed in unison with the flowing blood of his heart. With one foot in front of the other, Elliott looked down. His right hand was rapidly growing larger. He couldn’t even see his knuckles. His hand finally started to burn to a point that he could no longer endure it and it was getting hard to focus as the pain surged through him. Like a slowly inflating balloon, he watched as his skin stretched, separating from the muscle and bone beneath.
The chase remained steady as the pounding feet in chase matched his own. Elliott cringed, trying to force back the pain and think of what he should do. He couldn’t outrun them for very long. He stole a look back and instantly regretted it. The brief moment not looking where he was headed had been costly, because he slipped on a slick puddle of water. Falling forward, like before, Elliott brought both hands out to catch his fall. His right hand slammed hard into the pavement as he tried to catch himself. Just like any balloon blown up too much, the thin skin of his hand erupted. Only this balloon wasn’t filled with water of hot air. It was filled with blood, meaty tissue, and sinew. The bones in his hand compressed like wet rags in a meaty mesh of blood and pulp. The pain that shot through his body as he fell wasn’t nearly as bad as watching his hand burst and fold under his weight. Elliott screamed, fell to the ground, and cradled his wounded hand. As the rain fell around him, the puddle of water he found himself laying in began to fill with gore and blood.
The frantic footsteps grew closer.
When Elliott looked up, he didn’t see three men hovering over him. He saw the riders and the abyss beyond their gaze.
Elliott Racca passed out from the pain that was too great. He never woke up again.
When the creatures were finally done feasting, the only thing that remained was a pile of blood and mangled bits of unrecognizable meat. The creatures had devoured the bones, and the rain washed the gristle and gore down the alley and into the sewers, leaving nothing but at big red pile of plasma. By morning, the rain would wash that away too.
Elliott was no more.
Chapter 2
Greg Teeter gripped the steering wheel of his rustic green 1998 Ford Ranger while careening left and right through the winding roads of Highway 165. Greg knew these roads inside and out, and he pushed the truck nearly to 85 miles per hour, despite the heavy rains. He knew each turn, pothole and ditch miles before reaching them. Almost 31 years old, he had more than fifteen years of experience on these winding roads. He’d made the trip to Alexandria from Monroe countless times. Monroe was a little under two hours away from Alexandria and Highway 165 was a straight shot. At this rate, he could make the trip in just over an hour.
Hell, it had been done before. A little rain wouldn’t do much to prevent it from happening again.
The rain beat against his windshield. Not only did it make it hard to see, but it also drowned out the music. Greg leaned forward while cranking the volume up on the radio. The album spinning on his iPod was none other than For those who have Heart by the one and only A Day to Remember. He loved all their albums, but this one was special. The hardcore breakdowns in this album were different. Better. Something about them just got him moving—got him in the mood to do something. Anything. Made him feel invincible. The song Plot to Bomb the Panhandle came on next and that only surged the eagerness even more. Greg beat his fist on the steering wheel in rhythm with the song. That spot on the steering wheel was worn from the constant abuse.
“You’ll get what’s comin’ to you!” Greg shouted aloud with the singer just before the breakdown. “I’ll make my stand right here with my friends! . . . Get up!”
Greg’s aggressiveness toward the steering wheel wasn’t entirely just the music. He was aggravated. As he led the truck down the winding road, he couldn’t help but rehash the night’s previous events.
His grip on the wheel tightened, his pumping first became harder as the iPod changed to a new song. Gutcheck by Gideon blared through the crackling speakers, already blown from years of misuse.
He had driven all the way out to Alexandria tonight to meet a girl that he had been talking to on the internet. They met on an online message board and after months of surface level chat, had decided to take it a step further and meet in person. As the words of Gideon bellowed out from the dashboard, Greg’s aggravation grew. He had been stood up. He was also out all of the gas it took to make the trip. That stuff wasn’t cheap these days.
He bit his lip and punched the steering wheel.
“Stupid bitch. Drove all the way over there for nothing. See if I don’t delete your ass when I get back to the house.”
The anger grew inside as he continued down the narrow roads, his wipers already kicked into full gear. It was getting harder to see outside and turning his bright lights on washed his view of the road out even more. Dwelling on the fact that he would have to explain being stood up to his roommate only fueled the fire. Greg’s blood boiled. He could feel his head getting warm and his muscles tensing. It wasn’t his fault that he was almost 31 and still single. When you were his age, you were supposed to have it all figured out by now. Know what you wanted to be and already be that, and if you weren’t like that, the girls didn’t bother giving a second look. It wasn’t like his hair was graying or even receding, much. He wasn’t overweight or a heavy drinker. He just didn’t have his act together; plain and simple. Greg wanted to be a rock-star when he was younger. Everyone did. You couldn’t fault him for trying. He had done some minor touring in his late twenties with a few bands, but they never got t
hat big break. He was the guitarist for The Swindlers. That’s just it. He was the guitarist. They had done a solid year of touring and even put out two records on a no-name record label. Most of their bigger shows were generally close to home where they had regional fans and support, but outside of that, shows got thin and things got harder to book. Which is why, two years after his last band, The Swindlers, fizzled to nothing, he was close to 31 and working a dead-end job as a waiter at a dinky little Mexican restaurant in Monroe. Probably the only real cool thing about working at that hole in the wall restaurant was that the occasional fan would stop in for a bite and recognize him. Nothing like getting a little extra tip-age for a napkin autograph. Before the fallout with his band mates, he had been something. People looked up to him. He was cool. But no one listened to gutter-punk these days. Things had changed. It was a dead scene. It was all hardcore breakdowns and singer-songwriters these days. Singing was not Greg’s greatest talent. That’s why no girls had really taken notice in the last two years. They wanted men with degrees or careers, not fleeting memories of living in a van and shredding on a guitar.
When he toyed with the idea of forming another music project, his ears burned with opposing opinions. You’re getting too old or grow up, or why not look for a career were just a few of the things his friends and family told him. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was time he gave it a rest and quit chasing the trashy girls he found online. Pipe dreams sucked anyway. He wasn’t dumb. He knew what kind of girls they were. The kind that wouldn’t think twice before sleeping with him. Those weren’t the kind of girls you bring home to Mom and Dad. But when you were as desperate as a 31 year old could get, there weren’t many other fish in the pond. He just hadn’t found the right one. That was all. She was out there somewhere. He could become something if he wanted to. He just needed to be inspired and to find someone to inspire him.
Things would start to look up, eventually.
The music switched from the hardcore antics of Gideon to the folky whimsical-whispers of Iron and Wine. The soft words of his roommate echoed in his ears. Dude, once you quite looking . . . that’s when it will all start to fall into place. Danny, his roommate, was right. He needed to quit trying so hard and quit worrying about what everyone else thought. But Danny didn’t know anything. Just because he was only 22 and nearly finished with college, that didn’t make him an expert on life. Greg felt his blood pressure return to normal. The soft words of Sam Beam’s folk songs ushered him into a calm state. He needed that. Especially after how crappy the night had turned out to be. The soothing acoustic music was a nice change and Greg found himself loosening up and leaning back in his seat.
He breathed a heavy sigh. The sweet release of forced adulthood and looming opinions lifted from his shoulders.
Waiting for the winding roads to straighten out, Greg took his iPod into his hands. With his eyes jumping from the rainy roads to the iPod, then back to the road again, he shuffled through the playlist.
“Man, that’s what I need right there. Need to chill out on the metal and do some relaxing,” he said, setting the songs to a more mellow mix.
Thunder erupted in a bright flash of white straight ahead. The explosive roar was deafening as the clouds cracked like a massive whip. Startled, Greg dropped the iPod. He felt it come to rest on the floorboard beneath his feet.
“Shit,” he said, steeling one last glance at the road.
Catching a straightaway, Greg reached down for the device. Feeling around beneath his feet, his hand only came away with dirt, dust, and a crusty nickel.
“Come on . . .” He glanced at the road again then looked to the floorboard.
The iPod was all the way to the front of the floorboard, just out of reach under the brake. He took his foot off the gas to make room for his arm as he reached further down.
“Got it!” He came away victorious.
Setting the device to the desired listing of soothing songs, he placed it beside the ashtray. When he looked back at the road his heart sank. Although he had let up on the gas, he was going close to 65mph when he saw it. Like something out of the Matrix, time stood still. Frozen in what felt like a constant state of endless slow motion, he saw it jump out. His chest tensed and his heart fluttered. He clenched for impact. The veins bulged on his neck as he tried to swerve and slam the brakes, but it was too late. From deep in the brush off to the left side of the road, a deer leaped from absolutely nowhere. As the truck started to pivot to the right, the woodland creature collided with the grill. It happened so fast that all Greg caught of it was its reflective eyes bouncing off the headlights. The truck slammed the deer head on and Greg lost control. Even with the seatbelt on, his head crashed into the steering wheel. His vision blurred for a blink as he tried to focus. Turning the wheel sharp to the left to keep from ending up in the ditch, he overcompensated.
The rustic green 1998 Ford Ranger flipped. The sudden decision to yank the wheel sent the truck on its side. Had he been going slower the truck might have only flipped once, but it didn’t. The truck rolled not twice, but three times as it skidded across the pavement and into the ditch.
Greg winced in pain. His chest, his back, his head—hell, all of his body ached. His mind raced in confusion at what happened and where he was. With the world upside-down, his vision blurred. The blood rushing to his head made his face feel swollen. He tried to move, but couldn’t. He was stuck.
“Somebody…anybody…help me…” he tried to shout.
Even in his own head his voice sounded distant. Calling out had only made him feel worse. His head throbbed and his vision worsened. He tried looking out at the road, but couldn’t. All he saw was darkness. He felt rain beating down on him making his left arm wet. The cool water soaked into the fabric of his black Impending Doom t-shirt. He hadn’t remembered the window being down. He looked out again, feeling around. He felt grass and broken glass beside him. Beyond that was nothing but darkness. He heard the faint cries of a dying animal; probably the one he just hit. Thunder rattled in the sky after a bright flash of lightening. Sharp pain surged though his head. His eyes felt like they were being pressed in as the sky lit up again.
Trying to block out the pain, Greg drifted off to some other place. Although he could still feel himself strapped upside-down in the truck, the throbbing in his head faded as the memories surfaced. He was in the kitchen. His mother was there, and so was his dad. He was six years old and they were all happy. He remembered it like it was yesterday. His mom’s blonde curly locks bouncing about on her head as she pulled the cookies from the oven. His dad was pouring everyone a glass of milk and the room filled with the scent of oatmeal raisin.
Just as she was pulling them off the warm pan and onto a serving dish, Greg blacked out.
* * *
The consistent buzzing in Greg Teeters head was what finally brought him back to the surface of consciousness.
“Yyyyyyoooooouuuuuuuurrrrriiiiigggggtttt.” The dazed sound rattled inside his head like flapping moths.
He tried opening his eyes, but the world around him was flooded with color. He felt warm and sick all that the same time.
“Yooooouualllitt?” The words grew clearer.
Greg heard rustling right outside. He opened his eyes wide enough to give them time to adjust to the brightness. He heaved a great breath of air and felt his chest crack. He had gotten a broken rib or two in his day and recoiled at the feeling. He cringed and let go of the air in his lungs.
“You all right?”
Greg blinked. He was dimly aware of the wet warmth that coated his forehead. He remembered where he was and what had happened. Only now, his entire back was soaking wet and he wasn’t upside down. He felt wet grass between his fingers as he tried to stand. His face contorted in a horrid display of pain.
“Hey now. You wanna take it nice and slow, ya hear?”
Greg lifted his hand over his eyes to block the bright lights beaming down on him. Behind the flash of white was the silhouette of a very large
man. Greg looked away, his eyes strained. He was lying next to the truck. It was a mangled mess. Completely flipped over, the driver side window was busted out and the windshield was splintered in a gray lining of webbed cracks. Smoke bellowed out from the hood. The bumper and grill was severely dented. Splatters of red gore and matted brown hair stained the front of the green truck.
“Ahhh . . . my truck.”
“It ain’t the truck I’d be worryin’ about, son. It’s that head a yours. Got a pretty nasty cut.”
Greg felt his receding hairline. It stung to the touch. His hand came away covered in clotted crimson. He sat up and looked around, the dizzy feeling finally starting to pass.
“What the hell happened?” Greg asked, meaning to say, ‘Who the hell are you?’
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