by Brian Bakos
***
A shock wave of horror crashed into Stu; pain stabbed through his chest. He couldn’t move his beam from the ghastly sight. Blood was seeping from Hank’s lacerated throat. His head lolled over, and glassy, terror-stricken eyes gaped at them.
A horrified moan went through the crowd. They drew back slowly, inexorably; their mass crushed Stu against the railing.
“Oh God,” somebody whimpered.
Stu trembled violently; his breath came in painful gasps. He felt a hand at his throat. He dimly recognized the face of Dougie’s father, frenzied with terror, thrust into his.
“What’s going on!” the man shouted.
Somebody ran off down the path, others followed. A stampede ensued.
“What’s happening!” Dougie’s father screamed, his voice shooting up an octave.
The iron fingers tightened on Stu’s throat, jerking his head back and forth. Consciousness began to fade.
Barely aware of what he was doing, Stu swung his flashlight around and struck the man hard in the face. The flashlight shattered, but the iron grip on his throat relaxed.
Stu gaped in horrified fascination as the dark silhouette of the man lurched away, a choked, gurgling noise issuing from its throat. The man stumbled backwards like some dreadful marionette, then disappeared into the darkness.
Stu was alone now, shaking with absolute terror. His knees gave out; he couldn’t stop himself from sinking to the bridge planks. The night closed in to suffocate him. His slow-motion descent continued as he slipped through the railing and hit the stream be below.
He lay on his back staring up into the sky. He didn’t even notice the chill water penetrating his robe. An airplane passed overhead, its red light flashing. With each flash, the light grew bigger, dominating more of the sky and filling it with lewd color. A scream pulsed within it, becoming louder with each beat.
Stu was on hands and knees scrambling up the embankment. A single terrified thought raged through his brain.
Must get back . . . must get back . . . must get back!
Heavy brush blocked the route. He detoured into the woods, stumbling along through the trees. The pain in his chest stuck viciously again. He ran on, feeling nothing under his feet. The darkness was filled with unhuman pandemonium – screams, grunts, and footsteps getting very near.
The pain struck again. He crashed forward, tripping on a tree root. As he sprawled in the underbrush, unable to move, Stu’s snotty nose began to run over lips and into his mouth.
“I must take care of this cold,” he murmured, listening and waiting.
Healer
Richard had barely struggled to sleep when the alarm inside his head jarred him awake.
“Ohhh,” he groaned.
The young man stretched until his knuckles banged up against the wall. He yawned repeatedly, the yawns blending into a cry of distress.
Ah . . . Ahhh . . . AhhHHHHHHHH!!
That entire night he’d writhed under the strain of his terrible dream. He’d seen Father standing in the bedroom doorway pointing a dead finger at him – demanding, cajoling. He’d felt the old terror grab hold of his innards with an icy fist.
Fear and exhaustion lay with him in bed. The Power was taking control again.
He reached for the empty wine bottle which served for an ashtray and dumped in out onto copy of Metro Times, the leftist rag which served him as a newspaper since he’d gotten fired from his last job. At least the thing was free.
He sifted through the butts and selected one not too burned nor soaked with wine. After a moment’s hesitation, he lit up. The tobacco, supercharged with noxious gases, made his thumping headache worse.
It was pointless to keep resisting.
Richard flung aside the covers and got out of bed. He was only mildly surprised to discover that he was fully dressed, including boots. The doorbell rang.
“What now?”
He stomped to the door and yanked it open, surprising a paper boy out on the porch.
“G-good morning ... sir,” the boy said in a barely audible voice. “Would you like to re-subscribe to the Free Press?”
Richard did not answer. His bizarre looks – wild hair, clothes twisted on his body, blanket fuzz clinging to his beard – clearly frightened the kid.
“You can get the first month for only ...”
The boy’s voice trailed off all together. He thrust a complementary newspaper into Richard’s hands and retreated down the steps.
“The people on this route!” he muttered.
Richard tossed the paper onto the sofa. Terrible luck, that boy coming by. Because of him, Richard had had to open the door, admitting that it was possible for him to leave the apartment. He didn’t want to leave, but now he must.
On his mission.
But even as he entertained these bitter thoughts, Richard knew they were false. Of course he would leave today, paper boy notwithstanding, as he had left on other occasions – chasing his ruinous fate.
Can’t I refuse, just this once? he thought desperately. Why doesn’t somebody stop me?
There had to be more to life than this stinking misery. How much longer could he go on? But there was something deep at his core that compelled him, made him put on his tattered coat, push open his door and stumble down the stairs into a late winter morning.
I’ll go downtown like I did the last time.
A short walk in the freezing wind got him to the bus stop in time to catch the 9:35. He waved vigorously when the bus appeared. Even so, the driver applied the brakes too late and shot past the sign, as if he were reluctant to pick him up.
When Richard entered the bus, the driver shrank away as if from a pestilence. The bus was almost empty; Richard spoke to no one.
Two miserable hours downtown failed to reveal any prospects. The wind seemed to have depopulated the streets; even the busiest areas were mostly deserted. He retreated to a cafeteria where down-at-heel, elderly men sipped coffee – nobody suitable. Richard seemed alone in a world without hope.
You see, I tried. It just won’t work today, he pleaded. It’s not my fault. Leave me alone, please!
The dominating urge gripping him ignored his appeals. It became stronger, growing impatient with his failure. He continued the search until the fierce weather finally drove him off the streets. He was half frozen when he boarded another bus for a return to the southern suburbs.
The bus had just paused at the traffic light by a community college when Richard spotted his quarry. She was exiting the main building via the parking lot door, walking slowly with a cane. Even from this distance, it was easy to see that her body was twisted from some affliction; she leaned back grotesquely into the wind as she walked.
That’s the one!
Richard scanned the area. Nobody else in sight.
“Let me off here,” he ordered the bus driver.
The driver was about to protest that this wasn’t a regular stop, but he thought better of it and opened the door. He was glad to get the creep off his bus.
The didn’t notice Richard coming up from behind. He was quite near her when he caught sight of the couple looking out from the building’s glass doors.
Damn!
They seemed in no hurry to leave their post, but stayed put gazing out into the slushy parking lot. Why the hell were they doing that? Richard tried to appear natural, as if he were simply waiting for a ride.
A blast of wind blew the notebook out of the disabled girl’s hand. She stooped slowly to retrieve it; a bit of sun poking through the clouds gleamed on her auburn hair.
Then she noticed Richard standing next to her.
“Hi,” she said.
Richard didn’t answer.
A trace of alarm flickered in her eyes. She stood up again, as straight as her deformed body would allow, and turned back to watching the entrance road at the far end of the parking lot.
The couple finally left the door, but now a car was stopped at the entrance road waiti
ng for the traffic to clear. Richard was in grave danger of discovery now, but the power was incinerating him, bursting out on its own.
He grabbed the girl’s shoulders and shook them violently.
“I’m here!” he shouted.
The girl’s cane and notebook fell from her hands. A scream failed to make it out of her throat.
“Please . . . oh, God!” she whimpered.
But Richard continued the manhandling. The girl’s head snapped back with each jolt. Richard reached an arm under her crooked legs and lifted her completely off the ground. He was laughing maniacally now, tossing her repeatedly like a big rag doll.
A car pulled up.
“Hey you!” the driver shouted.
A man charged out of the car. Richard dumped the girl onto a shrub and took off for the athletic field beyond the parking lot. He was not much of a runner, and capture seemed imminent. But then his pursuer slipped in the slush and crashed down against the curb.
“Ahhh!”
The man lay temporarily paralyzed from the blow to his rib cage. The girl remained in the bush sobbing, snow and blood mingled with the tears on her scratched face.
When his pain subsided a little, the man stood up and limped over to her.
“Don’t worry, Sis,” he said. “I got a good look at him. We’ll find the bastard.”
He helped her out of the shrub. The pain in his bruised ribs was so intense the he didn’t comprehend the truth at first. Then it hit him a sledgehammer blow.
Sharon, the disabled little sister he’d been looking out for her entire life, was standing before him straight and normal. Her deformities had totally vanished!
“M-my God . . .” he gasped. “My God!”
He wrapped her in his arms. She was burning hot, almost too hot to touch. Looking over her head, he saw the healer reach the end of the field and jump over a fence.
