CHAPTER 12
The light crowning Cane's head was not doing its job. A small orange circle on the ground in front of him was the only evidence that the thing worked at all. He was on his hands and knees, completely under the back porch, and just before going under the trailer itself. Slowly he extended his neck until his head was through the hole in the skirting. Now he could really see how inadequate his light was. This new darkness beneath the trailer swallowed up its minuscule rays after only a foot or so.
Cane was livid—his his anger focused on the cumbersome battery in his left hand. Not only was it awkward to carry, but it was almost dead. It was also the only one that he had. That made him even madder.
He would not be stopped. Not tonight. He was bound and determined to kill the coons beneath his trailer. The six cans of Milwaukee's Best in his belly probably had a little to do with his brave determination.
Once Cane maneuvered himself through the opening in the skirting, he turned left and headed towards the north end of his trailer. The scrappy, rustling noise that he had heard earlier came from this direction. Something was down there, beneath the spare bedroom, and Cane was going to make things right.
Progress was slow and especially tedious. Beneath the trailer was a labyrinth of pipes, air ducts, phone and electrical wires. After hitting his head on a few different things right when he got started, Cane learned that it was best to proceed using a military crawl-with his head down and pulling himself forward with his elbows. This way did, however, render the already feeble light completely useless. Now, he could see nothing but the dark muck that lay inches from his face.
On Cane crawled. For thirty feet or so he contorted himself through the maze of hardware around him. He soon found himself near the extreme left end of the trailer, and movement became less encumbered. He figured he was directly beneath the spare bedroom that was so rarely used.
He needed a break. The confined crawling had taken a physical toll on him. He lay his face down on the cool earth to relieve the pain in his neck and shoulders. The ground here was not as wet as the muck near the center of the trailer, and for that Cane was thankful. He was also sobering up.
Cane didn't know if it was all the sweating he was doing, or if he had just lost track of time. Either way, he was losing his buzz and his desire to stay underneath his home any longer. He was tired, dirty, and there was a spot on his right calf that he missed with the mosquito spray. There was no way he could manage to scratch that part of his body.
This is just about the dumbest shit I've ever pulled.
Cane took a couple of long, slow breaths. He needed to gather himself. Uneasiness was creeping into the picture. His skin cooled and raised up; a bolt of adrenaline shot through his stomach and out the top of his head. This wasn't good. Full blown panic couldn't be far behind.
He continued to breathe in a very controlled manner despite his fluttering heart. He was using every trick that he knew in an effort to calm himself. This was no place for a panic attack.
After almost a minute, Cane's breathing exercises seemed to help. He was feeling better. Now he had to get out from under here. Backtracking was out of the question. He didn't have the stamina or the nerves to stay under his trailer the length of time it would take him to get back to the opening under the porch. That left Cane only one other option. He would have to kick open a new hole in the vinyl skirting.
He didn't like the idea of damaging his own home, but he liked the idea of staying under this trailer a second longer than he had to even less. He had to act fast. The fear was rising up again. He could feel a knot growing in his chest.
Cane lifted his head off the ground and reached out with his left hand to feel for the mobile home skirting. His fingers grazed it at once. It was close. He turned his head in the same direction and brought it close to where he felt the skirting. He could see it with the light once he got right up on it. He found a seam, and quickly decided upon a spot to aim his kick at. With one fluid move, he was on his back with his feet towards the outside of the trailer. He was ready to bust out of here.
He bent his knees and scooted his bottom close to the skirting. He drew both legs back. His knees were above his chest, and his legs were tightly coiled and ready to strike. Then, from the corner of his right eye, he saw the darkness move.
Something was coming towards him.
It was no raccoon.
From the sound the ground made as the form passed over it, Cane could tell it was much bigger than any of those little pests. It was close to. It was coming from the far end of the trailer, and now it was no more than ten feet away. He lashed out with both legs and all his strength.
The skirting did not break lose. It was too new, and the screws holding it in place were too strong. In fact, the recoil force of the blow actually pushed Cane a little towards whatever was down here with him. The panic washed over his body the instant he realized that things didn't go as planned.
He frantically kicked at the skirting some more. Nothing. He aimed his head and the light in the direction that the noise was coming from. Still nothing. He raised the pistol, pointed it in the same direction, and unloaded it in rapid succession.
The muzzle fire gave off enough light for Cane to see what was coming for him. He was sorry that he did. He couldn't move. Or scream. His entire self locked up in terror. He knew he hit the damn thing, but he could still hear it worming towards him. It was going to kill him. He could see that in its eyes. They were dry and black- blacker even than the darkness surrounding them. There was death in those eyes, and Cane understood that.
It was almost upon him.
He could smell it now. The stink reminded Cane of road kill.
It grabbed him by the hair atop his head.
Cane soiled himself and finally managed a scream. He also broke free from his temporary paralysis, but it was too late. By the time that his survival instinct took over from the fear, he no longer had any chance left to survive.
It had both of its gaunt hands wrapped around Cane's head. The thing was pulling him closer. It was unnaturally strong, and Cane could do nothing to stop it. His second scream was cut short when the center of his face was tore off. With one vicious bite, Cane's beak-like nose and thin upper lip were ripped from their place. Its teeth were not sharp, so the thing smashed and tore more than it cut. The pain was shocking, and Cane reflexively pulled on the trigger of the empty gun. The barely audible clicks of the pistol did nothing to halt the attack.
The second bite killed Cane, but his body was too full of adrenaline to stop just yet. Even after a large chunk of his neck, just below his jaw line, was taken from him, he continued his struggle to distance himself from his attacker. The thing let him go. He would not go very far.
Cane could feel the trail of his own hot blood as it flowed down his chest and beneath his abdomen. He was crawling military style like before, but his arms and legs felt like they were asleep. It was getting harder and harder for him to move at all. And he was so tired.
Maybe if I just rested for a minute . . . it's so dark anyway . . . and cold all of a sudden . . . can you smell without a nose? . . . I'm dizzy . . . nobody's gonna find me under here . . . I think I shit on myself . . . I should pray or something . . . wait, is that me lying there? . . . where's the light everybody talks about?
The Peacock Angel: Rise of the Decarchs Page 21
