Whitley crouched low on high branch, the thick bunching of
leaves and his dark clothes helped him blend into the darkness that seemed to
swallow up the dense woods behind the frat house. He had sensed the creature too late, and now
two more people were dead.
He was out of practice.
His skills were rusty, and his senses dulled. He and Charlotte had spent too much time
playing Dean and assistant, and not enough time preparing themselves for when
the dimensional rip would appear. As he
watched the security guard’s body shrivel and waste away he could feel a tug of
guilt in his gut.
He should have sensed the Mythos.
He watched as the creature’s slick, writhing tentacles
retracted back into the small, quivering slits in its shoulder blades. Then it reached down, easily scooping up both
emaciated bodies in one large, gnarled hand.
Quickly its skin began to darken, from gray to a pitch black, and it
slipped back into the trees.
This is was the first thing that seemed to be working in
Whitley’s favor. The last thing he
needed to do was have a potentially public showdown with the Mythos in the
backyard of a frat house. Sure, the
campus was quiet tonight, but a violent battle was sure to draw attention, and
more potential victims.
He could hear the creature moving beneath him, and Whitley
began to follow, doing his best to keep a safe distance. While the creature stuck to the ground,
Whitley stayed high up, the branches creating a perfect pathway through the
thick growth of trees. Although he was
built thick and muscular, each movement was perfectly timed and graceful,
creating minimal noise as he leapt from one branch to the next. If anyone had been able to see him, and Whitely
had made damn sure to keep his visibility as low as possible, they would have
thought that he was floating through the air.
The Mythos was picking up speed, and Whitley found himself
struggling to keep up. A crackle and
buzz in the small earpiece hidden in his right ear made him flinch.
“You find him yet?”
Charlotte’s faded in and out as she spoke, bursts of static making her
hard to understand.
“I’ve got eyes.”
Whitley scanned below him.
“Fuck.”
“What?” The static got worse.
“I had eyes.” He
froze, perching high on a branch. “I
lost him. Damn it, Charlotte.”
“What way was he heading?” The static eased a bit, and
Charlotte’s voice came in clearer.
“Looked like he was going back towards the main campus. I think he…”
Whitley didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence.
There was a loud woosh of air, and then something collided
with Whitley’s back. It was light, but
the impact was enough to throw off Whitely’s balance, sending him toppling off
the branch, and onto the rocky ground below.
He landed with a hard thumb, the earpiece knocked
loose. He felt a shooting pain in his
side as his torso connected with a rock.
It felt like two of his ribs had cracked. He opened his mouth to cry out in pain, but
the fall had knocked the wind out of him.
He was grateful for that. Calling
out would only draw more attention to him, and he was in deep enough shit as it
was.
Gritting his teeth he rolled onto his back, the pain in his
side increasing. He tried to take in a
breath, and found that he couldn’t. His
cracked rib must have punctured his lung.
He was in even deeper shit than he thought.
“Whitely?” The faint
sound of Charlotte’s voice traveled from the discarded earpiece. “Whitely, what’s going on?”
Whitely turned his head towards the sound of Charlotte’s
voice, and could now clearly see what had knocked him off the branch. Sprawled out on the ground, it’s skull now
almost completely caved in, was the body of the security guard.
“Such a pest.” A low,
raspy voice seemed to call out from all directions. “A Hen Warrior, here at this quaint little
college. Would have guessed.” There was laughter. “And they didn’t even send their best after
me. I’m offended.”
“Fuck you.” Whitely managed to croak out the two words, then
doubled over in pain. Air was leaking
into his chest cavity, and the increased pressure was enough to make him see
stars.
“No,” the voice continued, “I think it’ll be you who’ll be
fucked.”
The voice was replaced by the sound of the rustling of
fallen leaves and small twigs being pushed aside. He didn’t need to look to know what was
heading towards him.
Tentacles.
He hated tentacles.
He had never been on the offending end of one before. Most demons usually chose female victims due
to some evolutionary imperative to mate.
Now he was getting an in person demonstration as to what all those poor
women had suffered.
He felt something wrap around his right ankle, then his
left. His legs were pulled wide. Something slick and sticky wrapped around his
neck, and he felt his body roughly lifted off the ground, his legs
splayed. He tried to reach up, to pull
the tentacle away from his neck, but his wrist was caught before he could even
make contact, and his right arm was violently wrenched behind him. The left soon followed.
In his mind he kept repeating one phrase over and over
again. He couldn’t open his mouth. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how bad
the pain got, he could not scream, he could not part his lips, not even one
inch.
Two red eyes burned bright in the darkness before him. He heard a soft chuckle. “Tight lips won’t
stop me. Won’t even slow me down. There are… other wholes I can use. Plan to, actually. Hope you don’t mind.”
Before Whitley could register what exactly the Mythos had
just said to him there was a sharp rush of air, and the tentacle around his
neck went slack, falling to the dirt below.
The other tentacles that bound him pulled back, releasing
him, dropping him down onto the ground.
When he landed, he screamed. He
couldn’t help it. Once his eyes stopped
watering he looked up. There was
Charlotte, tall and sleek, sword in hand.
Bright blue liquid dripped from the blade.
The Mythos hissed, but didn’t attack.
“Can you walk?” She didn’t turn to him as she spoke, instead
keeping her focus on the two glowing, red eyes that watched them both.
“Maybe,” rasped Whitely.
“You little bitch.”
The creature laughed again, louder this time. “Don’t worry, there are plenty more where
that came from. Not tonight, though, and
definitely not for you. Not my
type. However, I’ll do you a service,
just this once. Collect your man, and
lick your wounds. Next time we meet, I
expect a real fight.”
The glowing eyes blinked out, and the faint sound of running feet could be
heard, heading away from them and into the impenetrable dark of the woods.
He could see Charlotte’s body relax, her sword dropping to
her side. She turned to him, shaking her
head.
“You look like shit,” she said.
“Feel like it, too.” And with those few, strained words,
Whitley passed out.
