23 August 2008

Fatal Cure - Chapter 12

We walk fast. One of us puffs like a tired, old steam train.
Our stalker walks slowly, catching up incrementally every time I rest. Kristine takes the lead, running ten metres ahead then waiting in frustration as I plod on, head down.
I check my bearings and see Kristine has come to an abrupt halt, looking right and left several times in agitation. We’ve reached the outer edge of the subdivision. A massive earthen drainage ditch stretches away on either side.
We have to cross it. Without slowing or assessing the drop I walk past Kristine and step over the edge. A mini avalanche of dirt and stones accompanies me down. Then the pack digs in, turning my uncoordinated slide into a roll. I cover the last metre in a loose collection of limbs and groans. Kristine dithers for another second then glides down, giving me time to pick myself up and point at the other side. Part of the wall is eroded by past storms into handy foot and handholds.
I shove Kristine’s butt to help her scramble up. It’s got a nice firm feel to it that I probably won’t be experiencing again anytime soon.
Jeez, what’s the go with that thought? I’m about to keel over, there’s a Creepy right behind us and I’m still able to register the feel of a girls butt. My sex drive has no limits.
I stall near the top. I bet Kristine is thinking about my arse in a different manner. She reaches down to grab my extended hand, tutting loudly.
The ditch should slow the Creepy down. Far as I know they don't climb. I look back. The host is a ‘he’, and he has caught up. My fingers touch the grip of the Ruger.
“You going to shoot him?”
I shake my head. Shooting accurately is difficult for me under normal circumstance but with this wavering double vision there’d be no chance. Even if I did hit him, a gunshot would draw a thousand others like flies to rotting meat.
And it might leave another Crawly to deal with.
The Host halts at the lip of the ditch fixing us with his complete attention. His slack Botoxed face is hidden under an unruly growth of hair and ragged beard. However, his eyes are starkly visible. I get the feeling he’ll stand there indefinitely.
I might have too if Kristine’s voice and fists punching my chest hadn’t penetrated the encroaching fog.
“Nnnnnnngggh, come on, snap out of it! Oh God, please don't lock up on me now.”
The Creepy’s dead stare was as hypnotic as a Crawly’s. For a tiny moment words swam inside my head. Something along the lines of: ‘Stay where you are. We will attend to you shortly.’
Screw that.
I shake Kristine off, gambling that I can get myself moving by leaning this failing body forward until my reluctant feet either step forward or I take a face plant. They chose to protect my looks. Thank you feet.
Kristine constantly checks that our watcher stays where he is. I concentrate on the shallow arc of a covered foot bridge looming large in the distance.
The structure was a major landmark in its day, providing access for thousands of commuters into the train station sandwiched between the inbound and outbound highways below.
We take a handy cycle path that led towards it. Signs facing the motorway cause old advertising jingles repeat themselves annoyingly inside my head. They advertise products that will never restock looted shelves.
A large fenced car park, covering several acres, comes up on our right. Only a handful of dusty cars remain in the vast lot.
More than a handful of Creepies guard them, scattered about the enclosure unevenly. Forty or fifty that I can make out.
They don't see us.

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