Displaced - Book One of the Alternate Reality Series

Chapter 20

He grunted, then yanked his hand back and shook off the buzz.

That attempt produced different results, but while painful, it wouldn't stop a killer in his tracks. So, he grabbed one of the chairs by the dinner table, pulled it back, and lifted his foot atop the seat. With his knee raised and bent, he reared up and away, then banged the pipe against his bone.

"God fucking dammit!" he howled, letting the pipe clatter to the floor, as he doubled over and collapsed.

Down on his backside, he used both hands to massage the jarring throbs. He must've struck a nerve, as the blow wasn't overly powerful, but nonetheless sent white heat lancing through his leg.

With his hands still massaging, he knew such a strike would slow a murderer and then some. Then his hands stopped altogether. He didn't even strike with full force.

While the pain mostly passed, Eric continued sitting there, hands still on his knee, eyes losing focus. What if on the Keeper, he did use full force, and not against his knee, but by slamming the pipe against his head? Hell. That's why he entered with his original body, to make use of its five-foot ten-inch frame, and one-hundred-and-sixty pounds of lean thirty-four-year old muscle. But could he?

Virtual reality or not, doubt crept into his digital mind about his ability do this. After all, what would whipping that pipe into someone's head feel like? Hell, what would it sound like?

Wet thumps he assumed, like striking a soggy sandbag, at least initially. The follow-up strikes would likely produce wet cracks, doing so as the Keeper's skull fractured, breaking further with every blow. And when considering all the blood vessels running through the cranial cavity, he next envisioned slipping on dark red fluids while trying to escape.

So could he actually do this?

He didn't think so. Then he recalled Victor Vane's murder video, including the ruby-red torrents that it showed.

He weakly shook his head.

It would've been nice if people could simply forgo sanguine showers in the first place, but tonight, that wouldn't happen. Tonight, somebody's blood would spill, and he needed to decide whose. With that, he got up off the ground, and picked up his pipe.

As Eric walked through 1950s L.A.'s nighttime streets, he likewise noticed them appearing different. However, the variation felt more pronounced than his apartment. He figured the difference lied in his altered vantage point and his purpose. After all, Lana never entered this world to inflict harm. Because Eric had, the world's normally glowing sense of comfort transformed into something dark and haunting, the eerie sense deepening as the Paradise Apartments came into view.

Eric stayed in the park across the street, about ten feet inside, cloaked underneath the shadowy trees. He kept his gloved hands inside his sweatshirt's pocket, his right feeling the pipe as it protruded from his jeans pocket. His nervous fingers massage the metal for comfort, which helped, until Victor emerged from his lair.

Eric inhaled the park's earthy air, then waited, seeing which direction Victor would travel. He turned right, and Eric followed suit, though at a much slower pace.

He only matched Victor's speed after falling some fifty-feet behind, doing so to decrease chances of detection. To decrease chances further, he slowed while entering the street's many darkened pockets, and walked fast while out in the hazy strips of light.

Eric kept on this way as the wolf stalked up Bishop Street. Then some fifteen minutes later, and after having turned down numerous side streets, Victor came across another series of apartments. They weren't different from the five or so complexes they passed earlier, only after reaching these, he cast cautious looks about, then started up the stairs.