Marin's Dale

VII

It moved with the litheness of a monkey. But this was no wild jungle. This was a manmade, concrete jungle, complete with walls and windows and wide asphalt roads shooting this way and that; and overhead hung tangles of wires and light poles, and the intricate gadgetry powering the once impressive rush of human purpose.

The purpose had vanished. As had the humans. But Michael could sense it around him. The silence was deafening, but Michael knew that somewhere it was waiting, and waiting...

and biding its time till that one final tick-tock of the clock when the world would come crashing down faster than a comet from Hell.

Michael slowed his breathing. His gun was held out in purpose. He had to be ready, because when it came, it came with a full head of steam. It wouldn't slow till it was dead. And hell or high water, the damn thing was bent on living.

"Come on out... you sunnavabitch..."

There was a shriek.

Michael whipped around so fast, his neck could snap. He was going to take it down and burn it like the i—

Teeth—a tunnel of fangs and death—swarmed his face.

                ###

Michael Petrone jerked up, half expecting to see the being in front of him, with the darker-than-blood blood and the ghoulish face and venomous eyes. But instead there was silence.

He was sitting in his cop car, and he was burning. His shirt was completely stained now. Dehydrated beyond belief. His air conditioning wasn't working.

Michael rubbed his eyes. How long had he been out? The dreams were becoming more detailed. They were growing, all stemming from that same horrid seed.

He peered out to the distant gate surrounding the far end of the police station. The fields beyond with the shrubs were empty. There had been figures there before, he knew he had seen them. He wasn't mistaking this—he had seen them wide and clear.

Michael looked to the sky. There was a rip in that sky. The murderous red was spilling out.

                  ###

Faucets dripped, leaked. The wheeze of rusted pipes emanated from somewhere beyond stained walls. An array of porcelain sinks and identical mirrors lined the front. A window of rippled glass to the right of the stalls on the back wall refracted sunlight.

Malcolm Ghulic stood at a sink. He stared into the mirror. His face was translucent. Deep, sunken bags below his eyes revealed blackened, spindly capillaries beneath the flesh. He took a grating inhale. The veins swelled against the translucent flesh of the face; every miniscule vessel and its surrounding sinew bulged as if he were a slug bearing its innards.

The irises of his eyes were almost completely gone. Malcolm hung his head as he coughed and muttered a curse under his breath. He took another deep breath. "Get it together, come now..."

This was a most peculiar situation. He touched at the spot again, right on the lobe. This liquid could be the result of many circumstances. He had to maintain a calm and levelheaded disposition. Now was not the time to lose it.

Malcolm stared into the mirror once again. The face staring back was not his. It had the deathly, ghoulish, pitted eyeballs of a fevered being. A being losing its human connection. Losing its life—a sure but steady draining. Malcolm felt his heart strain.

"Come on, you have this... you have this. Now come on..."

One could repeat again and again, letting it become a mantra. The focus was integral. Remembering to breathe and release, always breathing and feeling, continuous in one's absorptive flow. Malcolm calmed himself. This was not the way to go. No, no, no...