A biologically related host.
A biologically related host.
A biologically related host.
Biologically related.
My eyes snap wide open.
He’s headed for Marlo.
Block Party
When panic is cranked up to the absolute maximum, it doesn’t really feel like panic anymore. Instead of some anxious rush, the whole world just kinda disappears. I’ve recently learned that pain can also function like this—that there are finite limits to our senses, and what lies beyond is a mystery.
Blindingpain.
Blindingpanic.
A whole slice of time has disappeared from my memory, that much I know. When the world starts returning it comes in fragments of observation, little shards that flicker into my conscious brain and then disappear just as quickly as they arrived.
A loud crash. My wrist hurts. Vomit taste. Everything sticky. Numb face. Someone’s screaming.I’mscreaming. Waste of time. Gotta move.
Marlo’s in trouble.
This last fragment of thought pushes in deep and sticks, a sharp point caught in the fleshy mass of my brain. While the storm of mental images continues raging on around it, this marker remains steadfast.
I focus on the aching beacon, pulling my consciousness toward it. The closer I get, the more surrounding details reveal themselves. I see the bohemian bungalow. I see the coffee table I’m handcuffed to. I see a massive pool of wet crimson that creeps out from the nearby bedroom and blooms across the wooden floor.
A cloud of pheromones still hangs in the air, thinning slightly after Eddie’s departure but leaving behind a pink haze. There’s something hypnotic about the way the tiny fuchsia particles drift and sway, like I’m trapped at the bottom of the ocean.
Of course, these are just the particles that are visible to my naked eye. Who knows how far Eddie’s influence can stretch without a human body to contain it? Who knows how hopeless this situation really is?
“Pull itthe fucktogether!” I snap, yanking myself into alignment.
I can do this. I just need to stay focused. What sits before me is a messy problem, an unruly tangle of yarn that will only straighten out if I move through it one step at a time.
Task number one: remove these handcuffs.
Coming out of my belligerent mental fog, I can see now that the metal has chafed my wrist raw, the bruises finally transitioning into a slow degloving. If it weren’t for the factthat half my face is missing, I probably would be bothered by this bracelet of carnage, but right now it means nothing to me. I’d have no problem sawing off my own hand if that were my only means of escape, but in observing this scene I notice something that could be even more efficient.
I heard the table crack when Eddie slammed into me, but at that point there was a lot more to keep track of. Now, without the distraction of an extradimensional, five-foot-long, talking earwig, I can see that the wooden rung I’ve been attached tohas, in fact, fractured slightly.
This table is made of old, sturdy oak, and my knowledge of vintage furniture tells me that it’s much harder than bone and outrageously heavy. In most circumstances I’d be stuck here, but the force of Eddie’s tackle has not only torn the skin from my wrist, it’s offered a path to escape.
Gritting my teeth from the pain, I crouch down and investigate the oak bar I’m fastened to. The crack is enormous. I climb into position, lying on my back and pulling up my legs so that I can extend them against the table with the full force of my body.
I pause for a moment, making sure I’m positioned exactly where I should be and then fully accepting just how much this is going to hurt. If I had more time, I could probably find something to slip between the metal and my raw flesh, but right now there are more important things to consider.
I push back with a sudden jerk, putting all my force into this single movement.
“Fucking fuck,” I hiss through my teeth, bracing againstthe throbbing sting that radiates down my arm. My wrist tugs against the bar, and to my relief the oak bends a little under the pressure.
There’s a second, much louder crack, then a third as I repeat this process.
With my fourth push the whole thing gives way, sending me sprawling back onto the floor. I’ve hardly landed before I’m rolling over and sprinting toward the door.
Stop. Think. Plan.
