The security guard comes barreling around the side of the truck, her gun raised. “Stop!” she yells. “Get on the ground!”
At first, Eddie completely ignores her, but when the guard starts yelling into her radio for backup he finallyturns around, throwing his one free hand in the air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
I turn and keep running.
Crossing the street, I find myself on the recently renovated grounds of a boutique motel, the campus sporting a distinctly hip “California desert” aesthetic. These buildings are covered with a stark white stucco, and a large set of bull horns hangs above the lobby doors. Nearby, a giant ironTleans against the outside wall of the lobby.
Despite the ungodly hour, there’s someone waiting for me when I burst through the door. A young man who’s been relaxing behind the counter immediately sits up in his chair, confused by the intensity of my entrance. “Welcome to the T, a curated lifestyle experience from Everett Vacation and Entertainment. How can I help you?”
I immediately crouch down, hissing through my teeth as though Eddie could possibly hear me all the way over here. “Call the cops!” I demand, then I scurry over to the window.
Pop! Pop!
Two resounding cracks echo through the night. The motel worker drops behind his desk, confused and frightened.
I carefully peer over the windowsill, gazing across the street to see Eddie lurching toward the security guard. She fires again, and again, and again, backed up to her booth now.
Meanwhile, the pit bull is retreating. The canine isinjured enough to surrender, limping down the block with a broken hind leg and its tail tucked under its body.
The fact that Eddie was strong enough to quickly subdue a full-grown guard dog—to break the animal’s leg and yank its jaws open—is deeply concerning. I’m not sure how much pressure a pit bull is capable of exerting with those giant mandibles, but I’ve certainly never heard of a human breaking that grip, especially someone in his late sixties.
The security guard fires another shot, this one causing Eddie’s shoulder to jolt back as it absorbs the energy. Unfortunately, it doesn’t slow him down in the slightest, only adding to the oddity of Eddie’s staggering forward momentum.
Eddie tackles the security guard, landing on top of her and holding her down. He grabs her wrist with one hand and cracks it to the side, prompting her to let out a terrible shriek and release her weapon. He places his other hand on the woman’s face, holding her against the cement.
Eddie pauses a moment, then makes two swift movements. He pulls the woman upward with nothing but the incredible grip of his palm, lifting her head about two feet off the ground and then slamming her back down against the hard pavement.
The crack is so loud that I can hear it all the way over here, a hollow pop without a shred of resistance. Eddie’s hand pushes all the way through her, hitting the pavement below as the women’s face erupts through his fingers in a crimson sludge.
I still don’t care about the woman, just as Eddie instructed, but the sheerpowerof this violent display is nothing short of terrifying. His strength is uncanny, fueled by something well beyond the limits of the human form.
Eddie stands up, wobbling a bit as he struggles to get his bearings. I can see now that he’s covered in dark, coagulated blood—mostly from the bullet wounds and the dog bite—along with a fine mist of security guard–skull fragments and gray matter. The fabric around his forearm is shredded to pieces, dangling in tassels and mixed with strips of his own torn flesh, all leading down to his gnarled red hand. Eddie lurches awkwardly as he moves, a distinct flop to every swing of his leg that suggests a well-placed bullet has shattered the bone.
His gait is slightly more complex, though, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Anyone else with this kind of breakage should be writhing in pain, or at least keeping their weight focused on the opposite side of their body. Eddie does nothing of the sort, barely seeming to notice that his new leg length has given his stride a distinct pitch.
Then again, he also doesn’t seem to notice the hole in his head.
Eddie takes a few uncanny steps, then pauses in the middle of the road, glancing around in a way that immediately floods me with the slightest hint of relief. He’s lost the trail. When he opens his mouth to call out, I plug my ears and turn away. I’m not quite sure what will happen if I accidently read his lips, but I’m not willing to find out.
“You need to get out of here,” I warn the young clerk behind the counter.
I search the lobby for an exit that doesn’t involve backtracking through the front door, and it’s in this moment that I spot a small television tucked away behind the desk. It’s barely visible, angled to keep late-night workers entertained.
Someone’s been watching the news. Even from this awkward sight line, I recognize the breaking story banner that stretches across the bottom of the TV in brilliant red. A reporter is talking directly to the camera, and although I can’t hear her voice, a stream of subtitles translate the words for me.
“This is the latest in a series of bizarre homicides being carried out across Palm Springs,” the reporter says. I can see now that she’s standing outside Club Flamingo, positioned on the corner where Eddie and I stood just moments earlier.
“The trio of suspicious deaths joins one earlier victim who was also discovered entirely flayed, as well as a handful of ongoing disappearances,” the reporter continues, clearly struggling to remain professional. “Authorities are urging anyone with information about this unfolding situation to call the number below.”
It takes a moment for me to fully comprehend what she’s saying.Flayedmeans skinned, but I haven’t seen anyone get skinned tonight.
Is that what Eddie’s been doing when he leaves me in the car? If so,why? He’s just fine with me witnessing every other ghastly mutilation he comes up with.
This reminder of Eddie prompts me to glance back over the windowsill, horrified to find him lumbering across the road with his awkward new lurch. He’s headed for the motel.
Eddie’s command once again surges through my mind—get the fuck out of here—and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for my interpretation. A frantic instruction to escape could mean a lot of things, like running at a full clip in some random direction until I pass out or Eddie catches up with me, but I’m too methodical for that.
At some basic level, the core of my being knows that “get away” also implies “don’t be stupid about it.”
