His already-soaked bandage spilled more blood, and sheets of it poured out, rushed into the bag and over the floorboard and passenger seat.
“Ah, shit!” Chris pulled his hand into his lap, smashed his palms together to try and stop the bleeding.
Tiny sizzling pops came from the bag now, along with a sound like a bunch of balloons deflating. The bag thrashed more violently for a couple of seconds, then went still. Smoke drifted up, filled the car with a sewage stench that induced a gag from both men.
“What the fuck is that?” Spade, with his shirt collar now covering his nose and mouth, leaned his head forward, peered toward his bag.
“My hand…it…what the hell, man?” What the fuck is going on!
Spade looked toward Chris, saw him cradling his bleeding hand. “You bled on ‘em, didn’t you? Yeah you did. And you turned those little fuckin’ things into soup, man.” He laughed. “Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
“They ain’t after me, dawg. Well, maybe at first they was, but now? Whatever those things are? They know you special, they know you can stop ‘em.”
“Special? I’m a fucking part-time handyman! I’m not…this can’t…”
“Look, man. I ain’t no genius, but it’s obvious that whatever’s in your blood, it’s killin’ the fuck outta these things. It can’t be a coincidence, ain’t no way.” Spade climbed back up to the front seat, fished the two pistols out of the bag one at a time with his uninjured hand along with a couple handfuls of bullets, his face pinched in disgust the whole time. He tossed the dripping bag out the window, then started wiping the black liquid off the guns with his shirt. “This was all meant to happen.”
Chris wanted to argue, but found himself unable to. How can I be special? I’m a loser, a fucking spoiled rich kid turned slob.
“I was s’posed to jack Red, take his drugs, or whatever the fuck those things were. You lived right above me, man. My homeboys were s’posed to eat the drugs, s’posed to die. It all leads back to you.”
Chris slammed his head backward on the headrest, opened his palms and stared at them, flexing his fingers. The blood had slowed, but still dripped from the wounds, rolled down his forearms.
Spade chuckled, turned in his seat to look Chris right in the eye. “I get it, man. I fuckin’ get it. You’re-”
Spade screamed, his voice taking on a bestial tone for a quick moment. His body spasmed, slamming into the dashboard, the seat, and the door. He turned toward Chris, grimaced to reveal spear-head like teeth protruding from his gums, blood flowing as they pushed themselves out. From his shoulder, where his shirt was stained black and red, emerged a slimy black tentacle.
Chris flinched away as Spade turned to him, his eyes tight knots of pain.
The tentacle slithered out of the stinger wound, as thin as an earthworm, then swung toward Chris. Something round rode the tentacle’s length, starting at Spade’s shoulder, making the hell flesh bulge. It looked like a snake regurgitating an egg, and when the round object made it to the end of the tentacle, the flesh parted, tore, and revealed a yellow eye.
“Shit!”
Spade couldn’t speak, could only bare his teeth, fangs still growing, as the cords in his neck stretched and tightened. When his eyes finally opened, pink with veins, a slight red glow in the center of his pupils, he blinked, and the tentacle eye blinked in perfect rhythm with him. His injured hand flailed, then went rigid, his fingers curled into claws. White crag-like bone obtruded from the bite wounds on his hand, like long, serrated talons.
Chris thrust his arms forward, grabbed the tentacle with both hands and squeezed. It shrieked, the eye blinking rapidly. The slippery flesh shriveled in his grasp, and Chris reached out with one hand and smeared a swipe of blood over Spade’s face.
Spade gasped, but the tone was deep, not his voice, and he jerked his body against the door, breaking
“Ah, shit!” Chris pulled his hand into his lap, smashed his palms together to try and stop the bleeding.
Tiny sizzling pops came from the bag now, along with a sound like a bunch of balloons deflating. The bag thrashed more violently for a couple of seconds, then went still. Smoke drifted up, filled the car with a sewage stench that induced a gag from both men.
“What the fuck is that?” Spade, with his shirt collar now covering his nose and mouth, leaned his head forward, peered toward his bag.
“My hand…it…what the hell, man?” What the fuck is going on!
Spade looked toward Chris, saw him cradling his bleeding hand. “You bled on ‘em, didn’t you? Yeah you did. And you turned those little fuckin’ things into soup, man.” He laughed. “Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
“They ain’t after me, dawg. Well, maybe at first they was, but now? Whatever those things are? They know you special, they know you can stop ‘em.”
“Special? I’m a fucking part-time handyman! I’m not…this can’t…”
“Look, man. I ain’t no genius, but it’s obvious that whatever’s in your blood, it’s killin’ the fuck outta these things. It can’t be a coincidence, ain’t no way.” Spade climbed back up to the front seat, fished the two pistols out of the bag one at a time with his uninjured hand along with a couple handfuls of bullets, his face pinched in disgust the whole time. He tossed the dripping bag out the window, then started wiping the black liquid off the guns with his shirt. “This was all meant to happen.”
Chris wanted to argue, but found himself unable to. How can I be special? I’m a loser, a fucking spoiled rich kid turned slob.
“I was s’posed to jack Red, take his drugs, or whatever the fuck those things were. You lived right above me, man. My homeboys were s’posed to eat the drugs, s’posed to die. It all leads back to you.”
Chris slammed his head backward on the headrest, opened his palms and stared at them, flexing his fingers. The blood had slowed, but still dripped from the wounds, rolled down his forearms.
Spade chuckled, turned in his seat to look Chris right in the eye. “I get it, man. I fuckin’ get it. You’re-”
Spade screamed, his voice taking on a bestial tone for a quick moment. His body spasmed, slamming into the dashboard, the seat, and the door. He turned toward Chris, grimaced to reveal spear-head like teeth protruding from his gums, blood flowing as they pushed themselves out. From his shoulder, where his shirt was stained black and red, emerged a slimy black tentacle.
Chris flinched away as Spade turned to him, his eyes tight knots of pain.
The tentacle slithered out of the stinger wound, as thin as an earthworm, then swung toward Chris. Something round rode the tentacle’s length, starting at Spade’s shoulder, making the hell flesh bulge. It looked like a snake regurgitating an egg, and when the round object made it to the end of the tentacle, the flesh parted, tore, and revealed a yellow eye.
“Shit!”
Spade couldn’t speak, could only bare his teeth, fangs still growing, as the cords in his neck stretched and tightened. When his eyes finally opened, pink with veins, a slight red glow in the center of his pupils, he blinked, and the tentacle eye blinked in perfect rhythm with him. His injured hand flailed, then went rigid, his fingers curled into claws. White crag-like bone obtruded from the bite wounds on his hand, like long, serrated talons.
Chris thrust his arms forward, grabbed the tentacle with both hands and squeezed. It shrieked, the eye blinking rapidly. The slippery flesh shriveled in his grasp, and Chris reached out with one hand and smeared a swipe of blood over Spade’s face.
Spade gasped, but the tone was deep, not his voice, and he jerked his body against the door, breaking
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