Shadowrun

Shit. Who was it—when we found out they were coming? Oh, it was Mikey Leech, that little shit. And Dopey Small and what’s-his-face, Chet—Chester. Anyways, we heard they were coming so we got the hell out of there—ran for it—ran for the woods.

It was one of those nights, so we left our jackets and stuff inside and just booked it for the forest. Mikey started bitching after about twenty feet.

“Guys, guys, come on, hold up.”

We just told him to shut up and run faster. He must’ve heard them howling ‘cause I heard it a few minutes later—sounding like a bunch of beat up mongrels tearing at an old, chewy steakbone. No wonder he was shaking.

The woods aren’t far behind my house but the ground was all mud from the rain before. We stuck down to our bootlaces, especially Smalls, being heavy and all…he trudged through it like a marine though. I thought about jumping on his back and letting him carry me to safety. I was scared. I tried to make sense of something else to keep my mind busy.

I remember the moon distinctly. Maybe because it was so big and red—maybe because they always came out on nights like this. I was used to seeing it—the bloody moon on the tip of the world; it was eerie. It rolled along the hilltops, bouncing, swaying, dancing to the beat of our muckcovered boots and quivering hearts. How did it get such a deep color? It wasn’t altogether red; there were some purples and oranges tye-dyed in.

We ran until our fingers throbbed and the trees’ scratched at the glowing crimson face in the sky—black and starscattered. I couldn’t make a line with my eyes to separate the tops of the dark oaks and pines from the abyssal night. They were, at once, ten and a thousand feet high, saplings and elders, terrible and magnificent. I couldn’t possibly say how murky it was—the blackness and the trees were one, married in a dusky union for purposes of deception. At first—until my eyes adjusted—I was blind. I stumbled over stubborn roots, jutting up from the floor, fallenover trees, gopher holes, my own feet, Chester’s heels. He said nothing of it. I think he looked back at me, or at Mikey—hanging to my shirtback. Shit, it was dark. We had to slow down. They were at our backs. We could feel it—hear it. Bawling desperately, groaning. The trees echoed their cries—stealing our courage. I wanted to curl up, hug myself and claw my arms until I bled. I wanted to be a seal, helpless—bleating. Their teeth. They would devour me, leaving nothing but bones and gristle. Get off me, asshole, carry your damn self. I chilled violently. The path—where was the goddamn path? We had to slow down for Mike.

My eyes opened across the slender pines that marched for miles ahead of us. Each step dragged us deeper, was heavier and harder, kept us together. The guys muscled on—so I moved too. Smalls in the lead, Chet behind him and me—pulling Mikey along and searching for the trail. We did this shit before—daytime and dusk, but never darkness. And never with bloody fucking Lucifer on our asses.

As I looked, I remember this; I saw a shadow of significant size—thirty or forty feet ahead. I didn’t say anything, but I kept both eyes on it. It was watching me as well—low, rumbling breath. I told the guys we should check a little further west. Smalls groaned and Mikey asked which way west was, Chet pointed left.

“That’s what I thought.”

So the four of us broke from our line, scattered to the left a bit and reassumed our march. I strained my neck to see it. A glisten—a blink—a twinkle, and it was gone.

Tight strands of moonlight, pure silver, penetrated the treetops—bullets for werewolves. I followed the shiny beams down to their death amongst the leaves and muck. It all had a sort of ethereal dreaminess, as though I could wake up at any moment feeling not scared shitless, not exhausted, not a steamy bowl of hot gray and red dissipating into the biting air. I dreamt it before, the running, their howls, my pounding chest. I woke up in sweats then, pools of dread. The real thing was harder; I couldn’t just tighten my face and click my heels; I had to escape. There it was!
Over there! I grabbed Smalls and full-steamed it into the glowing mist. The trail had no markers but for the thin veil of haze that tickled the foot of the mountain. When the moon hit it just right it sparkled like diamonds, abandoned amongst the treeroots.

It’s one of those paths, tight and snaking, cut by deer and timberfalls. You need a brain to make it up this son-of-a-bitch. We had a couple. I swatted Mikey’s clinging hand away and told him to get up ahead of me. I’ll take the rear. He mumbled something and grabbed ahold of Chet.

Their hungry groans began to fade as we pulled up the mountain trail. Terror still boiled in our veins. We picked up our pace. The rocky-dry path rose above the mud, making for quicker steps. My feet were soaked. So cold. Smalls must have been terribly cold. He wouldn’t bitch about it though, that’s just how he was. The way I figured it, he was meant to lead.

Maybe we could go back now. I hadn’t heard them for a few minutes when I noticed the moon again. It looked like a great eye, peering through a dark mask. I swore I could reach it. A few more feet. A distant growl howled from below. We kept hiking. A steady wind followed us. It came sweeping down from the peak stirring wisps of fog then reversed—spiraling upwards. We were the only four people in the world now. At least it seemed that way. The mountain gust was our only friend; it bit our ankles and tossed our hair. It lapped our frozen faces—a playful companion.

Shear, jagged walls stood rigidly to our left. Each step was potential pain; the loose stone was like walking on marbles. The mountain rose a few thousand feet high and we had come about two-thirds of the way. Still, from where we walked to the summit, looking up, the rock blanketed half the sky, the stars and now the moon—falling quickly from its perch. I figured the other side saw an increasingly brightening sky. But, ours was still black. It was like this for, I would guess, a half hour.

By the time we reached the summit the sun had just started licking the countryside. It was a tremendous scene. We lined up, facing the east. I’d never seen anything like it: The brightness of the greens, the birds singing jovial ditties, the yellow sun, the colors, like a painting—a masterpiece, the clarity of everything, of the world, of our lives—our existence. All our cares, our worries, cast aside—our terror, the numbness—gone. A warm fluidity joined us atop the peak, connecting us with God’s majesty, with nature’s splendor, with each other. I glanced away from the scene only for a second to catch, by chance, a sparkle sitting in the corner of Small’s eye. He smiled.

In the light, the descent went smoothly. No one said a thing, the beauty of our world left even Mikey speechless. I hadn’t heard anything from the pack, which at one time, had seemed to claw at our bumpy backskin. It was safe to relax. We coolly came upon a small town, silent and still.

It was one of those graveyard towns, where the sun don’t go in certain corners where it obviously ain’t wanted. One of them settlements where the phone lines are taller than the buildings and used more often by birds than callers. I wouldn’t say it was an evil place, but I got chills along my neckhairs just about the same time that Mikey exclaimed,

“This place is creepy.”

We stumbled up to a dirty street. Idle Lane. Tumbleweeds would have been too cliché, but somehow they seemed more than appropriate for this place. Lining up, shoulder to shoulder, we passed empty streets and dusty houses. The air was musty. I was tired. The blinding sun made our eyes mere slits. Through this narrow lens I swept side to side. My periphery caught a glimpse of shadow, so I stopped. I recalled the figure from the woods, if I could see it in the light. The alleys were dark though and I lost it.

“What’s that?”

Smalls noticed it first, coming from down the road. At first it was just a fuzzy blur, bobbing, approaching. The sun behind it, it looked like a dandelion, wafting in a summer breeze. The shape brought something terrible. We weren’t sure what, but I was sure it was evil. I looked around for a place to hide, nothing—dark alleys where more evil lurked, no doubt, and open, arid, deserted roads. We huddled closer. We took a silent oath—confront the beast.

So there we stood, the four of us, like outlaw desperados, on the run, facing our final confrontation. It approached, slowly. There was a hobble to its step. I noticed that it had four legs and maybe fur—some fur. Mikey looked around frantically, planning his bail. My dusty lungs wheezed and I held back a chokecough. The wind had died and the warm sun, about eye level, started sweating my forehead. My trigger finger itched; my arm hair stiffened. The creature trotted menacingly toward us—obsidian eyes. It snarled, spouting foam—dripping hunger from its black lips. We cowered—together. I slipped behind Smalls—broad shouldered kraut—his shade fully embraced me. I counted the pebbles by my right foot—anything to distract me. Five—Six—Seven. Then I heard, I remember this, Chet—Chester, starting to chuckle. It was a low, polite laugh but it startled me a little. I looked up and it was just a dog, a fucking dog.  Mikey was bent down and the thing was licking his face. There were strands of slobber sticking to his cheeks and Mikey was all smiles, scratching its ears. I don’t know what was more pathetic. So we had this dog now, walking beside us—mangy and hobbling on two and a half good legs—sun in our faces—no one around.

We should have rested, but we walked to the end of town. Something was still off, something about it. The houses were dingy and brown, all of them. But each one was different—same ninety-degree angles, but different dinginess’. Some were rosydingy, some greendingy, daisydingy, eggshelldingy. It was an all too perfect place—no grass anywhere; there were white picket fences and flowerbeds—empty. Tall chimneys and satellite dishes gouging the sky. There were bicycles and baby’s carriages with dolls inside, floral drapes, window blinds, but no people. Flat soccer balls, abandoned shoes, clothes wires hanging listlessly; everything was so—decrepit.

I went up to one of the houses, rubbed the dirt away. It was pink—I mean really pink. Magenta—no no, like a flamingo—flamingo pink. I went over to the next, fucking blue—robin’s egg. The next, yellow, daffodil yellow.

“We should go back,” Mikey said.

He said it a few times, throughout the night and into the morning. He had the dog by the scruff of its neck. Its dumb eyes bobbed around like a clumsy metronome.
Smalls started wandering back into town. We followed. I thought I heard the howls again—behind us. I didn’t say anything. The guys were mostly silent except for Chet’s occasional grunts and groans of agreement to questions that no one asked. We wandered around the desert town for about an hour until it got too hot to stay out of the shade. I suggested checking some doors and finding a place to sit down. The first door was this big, heavy white one smack in the middle of a turf green place with two tiny windows facing the road. It opened.
         
Inside the air was hot but it didn’t blister like the sun. The ceiling fan worked but the lights were all out—it wafted humid air around the room and stirred up the ancient dust. Smalls and I sat on this purplish couch, he sunk into the middle and I leaned on an arm. Mikey crouched in the doorway leading from the front hallway to the living room—mussing that canine’s fur. Chet, buzzing with curiosity, clunked upstairs. My eyes fell.

It wasn’t more than a minute later when I heard a high, screeching note from above me—a stomping and a fumble. I looked over and Smalls was gone. I saw something blur out the front door. My arms and neck were sticky from sweat. The windows were too clouded with grime, so I went over to the door.

I was alone.

Maybe he was still upstairs.

Each step squeaked under me and the railing was too loose to hold onto. The white walls were stained with ashy black. Upstairs a narrow hallway led to a single room at its end. The door was open just enough so that I could see movement within—A high window scattered sunlight across the hall, dancing at the foot of a large cross that hung on the wall. I didn’t read it, but something was written on it. I inched toward the door, careful not to make a sound. The floor was surprisingly cooperative. Shadows flashed. I felt a sudden anxiety. We should name the dog Shadow. I heard the gnarling beast behind me. I turned quickly and the thing darted past me and into the room. The door swung open violently and snapped shut. Terrible sounds came from the room. I couldn’t explain them if I tried—like a blender full of tacks and silly putty. I don’t know why but I didn’t stop until I got to the door. I wish I had ran, like Smalls; I should have ran.

I opened it carefully. Shadow’s tail wagged pleasantly, his head was buried in the corner. Mikey was right next to him on his hands and knees. Mik—I started, but caught myself. I slid my head in a little. Strange dark goo sat stagnant on the floor. Shadow jerked his snarly head side-to-side—matted ears flopping. The two of them were new best friends. The door eased further into the room. Keeping my hand on the knob, I used it as cover and inched in. The excited beasts played fervidly in the corner. I almost smiled; he seemed so content—the simplest things, sometimes, the simplest things. I slipped in unnoticed and the door sprung shut. Shadow’s mangled ears perked up.

The room was empty except for the four of us.