gotten on his shirt, leaving a thick smudge,
brilliant against the meticulous, white cotton, a stoplight glow.
The virginal expanse of his shirt: violated. And his pants, where
he'd fallen, were scraped, maybe torn. The neat uniformity:
compromised.
As he stood there taking this in, absorbing
the ramifications, the rest of the gang, the rest of those sorry
musketeers, they were scrambling in all available directions. All
those errors were escaping to their burrows, dens, and nests. Alan,
he'd have to find them later. And he would, eventually. All of
them. Just...he just had to get to his car first. There was a first
aid-kit there, for the cut (festering, festering, turning green, oh
shit). There was iodine. And God, bleach, he hoped. And then, then
he'd go and round up them up, those errors. Then he'd embark on one
massive, gleeful correction. Just...give him a minute.
The street was empty by the time he reached
his car. And the car, he discovered, trembling, was locked. In his
rush he had left the keys in the ignition. He peered helplessly
through the window. His radio was in there too. All the while he
was losing valuable time -- untold microscopic intruders surging
further and further into his body...
Then came the gunshot. Coming from Joe's
building, the upper floors.
A second gunshot made Alan flinch. Instinct
quickly took over. Was Joe on the giving end of those bullets, or
the receiving? There was no question in Alan's mind what needed to
be done -- he was going inside. Forget the runners. Forget his car.
Forget even radioing for help. And forget his arm, his rotting
arm--
Focus. Alan straightened his shoulders.
Focus. Checked his gun. Focus. Then he forced himself to think
about how badly the world needed him. How he had never shied from
that need. How he'd strap the whole goddamn world to his back and
carry it to some better place, a brighter place, all on his goddamn
own, if that's what it took. Even if that world had Joe in it.
That's right, even Joe -- Alan wasn't leaving a single person
behind.
Alan turned around and began limping towards
the building. And the street, it was if it was anticipating him.
The narrow block, emboldened, seemingly reared up to meet his
challenge, readying to stomp, basking in its lush bankruptcy.
It wanted a fight, did it? Then Alan was more
than happy to give it one.
>> CHAPTER EIGHT <<
Joe watched, transfixed, as something darted
from the pipeline. It was too fast to see, latching onto one of the
nearest residents and pulling him swiftly toward the opening. The
guy slammed sideways across it. He must have been about Joe's age,
long haired, like a shabby yogi. He screamed as his body began to
crunch under the weight of whatever was climbing up the pipe,
pulling on him like a handle.
Joe spun sideways as someone lumbered past
him. There was a frantic, crippled exodus as the most ill and
malnourished of the top floor's residents mounted unsteady and long
ignored legs, relearning to balance. Some of them crawled -- so
atrophied they looked like scribblings rather than people, their
spines folded like a 7 or looped like an 8.
Wordlessly, the secretary hurried to join
them.
Joe grabbed him by the arm. "Where the hell
are you going?"
"This isn't my business, lawman." He was
trying to yank his arm loose.
People were yelling from the elevator. The
residents were cramming inside, everyone jostling for a spot
furthest in, away from the open door.
The guy at the pipeline screamed again as he
fell hard to the ground, laying motionless below its mouth. There
was a moment of quiet. Joe thought maybe it was over.
And then it appeared.
It unfolded itself through the opening --
something from the deep, a creature from down in the ooze,
breathing a brackish, fly blown smog. It was a vision to make men
mad, to melt the brain's circuitry. And of all its displayed
horrors, Joe was helplessly drawn to one in particular -- a growth,
a profane and pulsing sac that spasm'd on its chest like
brilliant against the meticulous, white cotton, a stoplight glow.
The virginal expanse of his shirt: violated. And his pants, where
he'd fallen, were scraped, maybe torn. The neat uniformity:
compromised.
As he stood there taking this in, absorbing
the ramifications, the rest of the gang, the rest of those sorry
musketeers, they were scrambling in all available directions. All
those errors were escaping to their burrows, dens, and nests. Alan,
he'd have to find them later. And he would, eventually. All of
them. Just...he just had to get to his car first. There was a first
aid-kit there, for the cut (festering, festering, turning green, oh
shit). There was iodine. And God, bleach, he hoped. And then, then
he'd go and round up them up, those errors. Then he'd embark on one
massive, gleeful correction. Just...give him a minute.
The street was empty by the time he reached
his car. And the car, he discovered, trembling, was locked. In his
rush he had left the keys in the ignition. He peered helplessly
through the window. His radio was in there too. All the while he
was losing valuable time -- untold microscopic intruders surging
further and further into his body...
Then came the gunshot. Coming from Joe's
building, the upper floors.
A second gunshot made Alan flinch. Instinct
quickly took over. Was Joe on the giving end of those bullets, or
the receiving? There was no question in Alan's mind what needed to
be done -- he was going inside. Forget the runners. Forget his car.
Forget even radioing for help. And forget his arm, his rotting
arm--
Focus. Alan straightened his shoulders.
Focus. Checked his gun. Focus. Then he forced himself to think
about how badly the world needed him. How he had never shied from
that need. How he'd strap the whole goddamn world to his back and
carry it to some better place, a brighter place, all on his goddamn
own, if that's what it took. Even if that world had Joe in it.
That's right, even Joe -- Alan wasn't leaving a single person
behind.
Alan turned around and began limping towards
the building. And the street, it was if it was anticipating him.
The narrow block, emboldened, seemingly reared up to meet his
challenge, readying to stomp, basking in its lush bankruptcy.
It wanted a fight, did it? Then Alan was more
than happy to give it one.
>> CHAPTER EIGHT <<
Joe watched, transfixed, as something darted
from the pipeline. It was too fast to see, latching onto one of the
nearest residents and pulling him swiftly toward the opening. The
guy slammed sideways across it. He must have been about Joe's age,
long haired, like a shabby yogi. He screamed as his body began to
crunch under the weight of whatever was climbing up the pipe,
pulling on him like a handle.
Joe spun sideways as someone lumbered past
him. There was a frantic, crippled exodus as the most ill and
malnourished of the top floor's residents mounted unsteady and long
ignored legs, relearning to balance. Some of them crawled -- so
atrophied they looked like scribblings rather than people, their
spines folded like a 7 or looped like an 8.
Wordlessly, the secretary hurried to join
them.
Joe grabbed him by the arm. "Where the hell
are you going?"
"This isn't my business, lawman." He was
trying to yank his arm loose.
People were yelling from the elevator. The
residents were cramming inside, everyone jostling for a spot
furthest in, away from the open door.
The guy at the pipeline screamed again as he
fell hard to the ground, laying motionless below its mouth. There
was a moment of quiet. Joe thought maybe it was over.
And then it appeared.
It unfolded itself through the opening --
something from the deep, a creature from down in the ooze,
breathing a brackish, fly blown smog. It was a vision to make men
mad, to melt the brain's circuitry. And of all its displayed
horrors, Joe was helplessly drawn to one in particular -- a growth,
a profane and pulsing sac that spasm'd on its chest like
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