Slag Attack (13 page)

   
His foot hits something hard and he goes shooting forward, knocked off his feet. He scrambles to his knees before one of the slags plows into his chest, driving him down into the sand. The tiny particles invade his nose and eyes and he can hear and feel the thing’s teeth puncture his leg.

   
He cries out in pain, looks down at the thing. Twisting around, he casts his glance back toward the tent. More slags, larger slags, come from that direction.

   
He doesn’t think he is going to make it to the tent today.

   
Standing up, he knows he should remove the thing from his leg. But that will take too much time. A paranoid part of him says maybe these larger ones also contain a more poisonous venom he isn’t immune to. He dismisses that notion, figuring having his insides liquefied is better than standing here and being mauled by this slag’s cousin. He will drag it back to the house with him and then he will show it why it shouldn’t have fucked with him. The running is a little slower and he is accosted by two more slags. Swinging out the leg that already has the slag attached, he fends them off. They tumble away and begin fighting amongst themselves. If only he could turn all of them against each other.

4.

Finally, he reaches the house, practically throwing himself inside. He is weak with blood loss and pain. The blood, at least, he will be getting back at dinner.

   
Holding the gun by the barrel, he bashes at the slag’s head and mouth, not really caring that he occasionally slips and bashes himself in the shin. The most important thing is separating himself from this parasite. Once it releases its grip on his leg, Darren pulls Luke from his pocket, flicks it past a couple of sparks until there is flame and then holds the flame to the two gaping holes on his leg, cauterizing them. He clenches his teeth together and grunts, spewing forth every curse he knows.

   
He looks at the slag on the floor and knows he will have a feast tonight. Maybe it will be the highlight to an otherwise disappointing day. Until he remembers the taste. He can’t imagine that taste magnified to the size of this thing. He almost thinks he would prefer to eat a steaming pile of his own shit.

   
Eventually, he does eat the giant slag. He eats little bites at a time. They are heinous and he thinks he would rather be dead. Still, long after the thing has rotted, he continues to eat. Luke chars little bite-size pieces, dulling the taste.

   
Luke gets sick, spitting out little sparks before producing a low flame. Darren is sure to use Luke’s dying breaths to get a nice fire started in the fireplace. He has been lazy about this the past few days. One day, Luke stops producing a flame. Darren figures that is pretty much the death of the lighter. He puts him in the pocket of his stinking jeans. Occasionally, he pulls him out and flicks him, hoping he will kick out a flame, however small.

5.

More and more, Darren holds the gun. It is a hefty little Glock that isn’t really so little. Darren names the gun “Gary.” Gary the Glock, he thinks it has a nice ring to it.

   
Will he ever use it?

   
He doesn’t know. He has left one bullet in there for a reason but he continues to hold on to some dying hope.

   
The slags continue to grow until they become giants. Some of them are nearly as tall as the house and Darren figures any chance he has of escape is over. Even worse, they seem to know he is in the house. They circle hungrily, pressing their sick little snouts to the windows and sniffing. Jesus, he thinks, if you’re going to take me just come in and do it.

   
He sleeps more and more. Every day seems gray. The ocean is an endless rhythm, lulling him to sleep. He has lost so much weight he can encircle his biceps with his hand.

   
One morning, he is awakened by the house shaking. He doesn’t know what is going on. He doesn’t really want to know what is going on but he figures it out anyway. The slags are lifting the house from its moorings. At first, he wants to believe they are taking him to the tent. The house and the tent, what a lovely romance, he thinks. But he isn’t going toward the tent. He is going toward the ocean. They walk him out and release the house. Careful to make sure he still has Gary, Darren scrabbles up to the attic, out the window and onto the roof.

   
It is kind of like a boat. He is a captain, going out to sea. No. It is more like a Viking funeral and he thinks about touching Luke to the shingles to see if they will burst into flame until he remembers Luke is dead.

   
The lapping waves drag him directionally toward the tent but further out to sea. He looks longingly at the opening of the tent. Yes. He is sure he can see fabulous things inside. At this very moment, he is sure he sees a woman, a beautiful woman with long blond hair, pass through the flaps and stare out at the violent sun bursting over the ocean.

   
Darren looks at Gary. Sinister Gary. Blessed Gary. Gary with his promises to make all of this go away. Then he looks at the tent.

   
He dives into the ocean and swims.

6.

He tries to keep the figure on the beach in focus but the waves are choppy and he’s swimming more or less one-handed, trying to keep Gary above the water. He doesn’t think Gary will like water much at all. He desperately plunges his legs into the water, trying to find purchase but he just goes under, sucking the salty water into his mouth. He rises above the water and coughs.

   
The beach comes back into view. He must be about fifty feet out. If the figure is still there he can’t see her. It’s possible she is covered up by the slags standing on the beach. There are at least ten of them.

   
Shit.

   
Darren figures he has two choices. He can either give up where he is and let the sea reclaim him, take him for good. Or he can reach the beach and use the one bullet he has left to shoot himself in the head. Provided Gary will even shoot. The waves take him under again and he bobs to the surface and vomits out the ocean water.

   
He rolls over onto his back and relaxes. There isn’t really any reason to be in a hurry to reach the beach since it will most likely mean death. Lying on his back and looking up at the blue sky is more relaxing and it feels more productive. With each tug of the waves, he goes shooting toward shore. He looks at his house out in the ocean. He figures there must be slags out here too. They’re everywhere. He’s known that for a very long time. He feels stupid for getting his hopes up.

   
He tries to stand again and this time, his feet find the rough sand. He turns around and walks toward the beach. Even from here, he can tell the slags are twice as tall as he is. They even have fully formed arms and legs, although they are much thinner than their bodies. Now they are neither slug- nor maggot-like. They are, if anything, more human-like.

   
He presses Gary to his temple and walks slowly toward the waiting line of slags.

   
Darren hears a loud sound and he jumps and accidentally squeezes the trigger.

7.

Click.

   
His body goes immediately slack with... was it relief or fear? Didn’t he
want
the gun to go off? Didn’t he want the gun to scatter his brains all over the beach so he didn’t have to face indubitable mauling from the slags?

   
No.

   
Because he had heard that other shot and once he recovers from nearly wasting himself, he realizes the slag in the middle is missing its head. It staggers out to him, a couple wobbly steps on its too thin legs before plunging into the sand on the beach, some kind of yellowish tinged liquid running from where its neck would be if it were human.

   
Then there’s another shot and another slag’s head erupts.

   
And another.

   
And another.

   
And Darren knows there’s no point in standing around and waiting for things to get better than this. He digs his feet into the sand and takes off running toward the tent hoping whoever is doing the shooting will cover him if one of the few remaining slags makes a lunge at him.

   
Running to the right of the slags, they shift and try to run toward him. They were probably quicker as crawlers. Their running is shaky and not very fast.

   
Another one erupts and then another one and Darren is almost to the tent. He keeps his eyes focused on it. The shooter must be hiding just behind the flap of the tent.

   
The final slag drops to its knees, crouches down, and springs toward him like a snake. He throws himself into the sand, thinking maybe he can crawl the rest of the way. There’s another shot and he knows that slag is dead, as well. He reaches the tent and stands up.

   
He realizes his beautiful woman is not beautiful at all. She might not even be a woman. She is very large.

   “
Follow me!” she barks over her shoulder and Darren does.

   
She is charging toward a fire blazing in the middle of the tent. She looks like a football player in a summer dress. She dives into the fire and Darren swears her hair separates from her head but he doesn’t give himself time to think about it and dives in after her.

8.

The flames engulf him and he thinks maybe he has just done a very stupid thing. But he figures the end result is going to be the same, given his choices. He just wouldn’t have chosen to be burned alive.

   
But the flames are only momentary and then he’s falling through blackness before landing in ice cold water. For a moment it feels like he loses consciousness and then he feels hands wrapping around his arms and pulling him out of the water. He opens his eyes but everything is a black and orange flickering swirl. He’s standing on his feet and rubbing his eyes and looking around and trying to make sense of it all. He vomits out some water. He’s surrounded by the smell of burning hair and people. Faces. People like him.

   
He sees the woman he followed into the flames. She isn’t really a woman at all. A man with a large hairy mole on his left cheek. He’s holding the charred wig in his hands, wringing it out. To his left is an extremely thin man with an eyepatch. He’s wearing one of those black military sweaters, the kind with the leather patch on the shoulder. To his left stands a woman who might have been attractive at one time. There are more people behind them. People who are moving closer to the commotion, trying to see who has joined them. The room is long and narrow and cavelike, lit by torches.

   
The man with the eyepatch takes a step toward Darren.

   
He thrusts out a bony hand.

   “
My name’s Mark Shell,” he says. “I’m the leader here.”

   “
Where...” Darren stammers. “Where is here?”

   “
Underground.”

   
Darren continues looking around. They have to be pretty deep under the ground. It doesn’t seem possible. The tent wasn’t more than twenty feet away from the ocean at high tide. If they were this far underground they should be covered in water and wet sand. Buried.

   “
How?” Darren says. If he can clear away just a little bit of the confusion, he can start making some sense of everything.

   “
How?” Shell asks, almost mockingly.

   “
How are we underground? There should be water.”

   “
Let me introduce Pearl.” Shell motions to the maybe attractive girl to his left. “She’s the queen of a town called Hollow City. Or, she used to be. She’s able to make things happen. She’s a good person to have on our side. Come on,” Shell approaches Darren and throws an arm around him. “You need some food and some rest.”

   
And he drags him back into the underground lair and he is fed better food than he has had in a very long time.

9.

While eating, Darren can’t help observing the people around him. They are all dressed as Shell is. Even the man who had been dressed like a woman is now wearing the black paramilitary gear. Except they all have one sleeve that extends to the very end of their hands, so it looks like they have one hand and one extra long arm. They all move about rapidly and look very busy. They speak quickly in clipped tones, as though there isn’t any time for lazy conversation.

   
Darren notices a lot of slags.

   
Some of them hang on the walls, in various states of evisceration. Some of them move about freely. Some of them are alive and chained throughout the lair. Some of them are tiny. Some of them are as large as he is.

   
He finishes eating his spaghetti in a can, moves the can aside and leans forward onto the table, resting his head on his arms. It feels nice. He feels safe here, even with all the slags. Maybe it’s all the humans. Maybe it’s all the paramilitary gear.

   
Shell sits down on the bench across the table from him and raps on the wood.

   “
Listen here,” he says. “There are some things I should tell you about our operation but first I need to ask you if you mind losing your left arm.”

   “
Losing my left arm?”

   “
Yeah. Like having it lopped off.”

   “
Yes. I would have to say that I am opposed to losing my left arm.”