Mankat: "The Overthrow" Episode 1
- Thread starter Galen4
- Start date
Chapter 5
…And a gnashing of teeth
…And a gnashing of teeth
By the time Michael reached home, he was convinced that he was having a breakdown. Nothing else could explain the surreal city that now replaced San Francisco. From the back windows of his cab, he had noticed changes that seemed to get more pronounced as he sped past each city block. Landmark buildings were now gone. Temple-like structures seemed to have sprung from nowhere. Everywhere he looked ancient Egyptian motif dominated the architecture, artwork, people’s clothing.
Even his taxi driver had made him fear the onset of paranoid schizophrenia. When Michael had first entered his cab, the driver had been a portly good-natured man who had chatted about the crazy weather, and most prominently about how his gay son was wavering on a decision to join the Army. Yes, he was sure about all of that. He had even discussed this with the man.
And then…
Well, somehow, the driver had become withered and bald, studying Michael through the rear view mirror with sunken, vulture-like eyes. How or when this transformation occurred, he couldn’t say. Adding to the craziness was a feeling of familiarity, as if the driver had always been that way, while the other version of him was a fuzzy misrepresentation of existing facts…a false memory.
He wanted more than anything to believe he had gone mad. It was better than the alternative; that the universe was nothing more than an intricate rug that someone or something was now pulling out from under everyone’s feet. Or perhaps two different realities were competing for dominance-----and one was eating the other like a cancer.
When he finally reached home, the now ghoulish driver had only pointed a gnarly finger at his meter rather than speaking. Michael stuffed a large note into his hand and told him to keep it.
He had felt the man’s intolerant glare upon his back as he sprinted though the downpour to home.
Now that he was here, his anxiety only seemed to get worse. Shaking off his umbrella, he flicked his gaze around the living room, half expecting it to twist before his eyes into something aberrant.
He found his dad sitting alone in the kitchen. He was disheveled and looked exhausted. One hand was curled around a bottle of Kentucky Whiskey and the other around a half-full glass. For a moment, he gaped at Michael in fear. When recognition came, he smiled, but it was a broken expression. Richard Chase waived a half-hearted gesture of greeting.
“Dad, are you alright?”
Richard huffed at that, as if it were a bad joke. He went back to staring at the refrigerator.
Michael walked into his field of vision. “Dad, what’s wrong?” Under the circumstances, the absurdity of his own question wasn’t lost on him.
Richard Chase didn’t seem to hear. “I asked Leonard to pick us up. I hope you don’t mind, son.” He had spoken mechanically, as if he were reciting a piece of rehearsed script.
Of course he minded. Leonard Shelvin was the last person on Earth he wanted to sit next to in a confined space. But considering the hair-raising events of the day, he found it hard to care.
“Dad, about going to the museum…” He took a deep breath. He had trouble articulating what he wanted to say next. The concepts were slippery and wiggled away from him the more he tightened his grip. “Dad, something’s happening. I don’t know what…it’s hard to explain. But I don’t think it’s safe to go out tonight.”
There was only the rumble of thunder and the now familiar sound of pelting rain. Police and rescue sirens blared through the night, both near and far. Their noise was just as constant as the storm. Michael let all of that stretch between them, silently prodding his father for a reply.
He eventually got one. “You worried about the storm?”
“More than that, more than that! Haven’t you noticed? Haven’t you seen what’s going on out there?” His exasperation came out in an electric burst.
Richard nodded dumbly. He took a swig from his glass and started pouring another. It seemed that he understood the nuisances and subtexts of that question. His deportment was that of a haunted man. “Yeah, yeah. I have. It’s like everything’s…poisoned now...” His voice faded off to be punctuated by a helpless shrug.
His father’s validation brought panic one step closer. If what he had been experiencing was a real phenomenon and not a delusion, the implications were mind-boggling, terrifying…
Richard turned his wheelchair around to face him. “You’ve got to be there tonight. That’s all I do know. So let’s go. Let’s just go, son.”
He tried again. Familiar aggravation, born from countless arguments, laced his words. “Dad, never mind the damn museum! This is an emergency! I don’t know what kind of an emergency but everything’s on the line now! Our life, our freedom!”
“Then listen to me. I may not get the chance to say this again; I don’t know how things will end up when…when this storm passes. So I want you to know-----”
There was an insistent honking from a car horn.
Richard waved off his incomplete thought. “That’s Shelvin. Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Absolutely insane. We shouldn’t be leaving the house-----“
“We’re going!” Richard snapped. “Mike, please stop arguing with me.”
Michael rubbed his forehead, knowing that the battle was lost. “Christ. Okay then. But at least let me help you downstairs. It’s pouring out. Besides, that was the whole point of me stopping here first anyway.” He didn’t bother to mention that he’d have rather crawled the rest of the way than ride with his fiendish taxi driver.
The horn blared again, then became an angry tat-tat-tat, as though Shelvin were being held up for an appointment.
“Go, I’ll meet you in the garage.” Richard mustered every liter of horse manure at his command to make the statement convincing.
Michael scowled disapprovingly. He stomped out, muttering under his breath.
It was a full minute before Richard Chase finished his interrupted thought. “I love you, kid.” He emptied his glass and pushed back from the table. He then unbuttoned the top half of his shirt and looked down at his left breast. He stared with resigned dread at the tattoo above his nipple. The image of a demonic snake almost felt as if it had been branded into his flesh. The heat it generated was spreading through his entire body. The hot flashes seemed to pulse in time with the storm.
As he rolled out of the kitchen, he could feel it settling over him; it was a smothering blackness, as cold as a graveyard shadow. Doubtless it was no coincidence that whatever had been stalking him all day had chosen this moment to pounce.
A scream rose from his chest, but it never had the chance to emerge.
***
Michael pulled open the passenger’s door to see a grinning Leonard Shelvin behind the wheel. He was alone. Rachel’s absence, he decided, was one of the few blessings he could count.
“Hey Mike.”
“Uh-huh. Just pop the trunk so I can put dad’s chair in the back. He’s on the way down.”
He slumped into the passenger’s seat only to avoid getting drenched from the downpour. Once he was inside, Shelvin backed the car into the open garage.
As they drove into the garage, the car radio crackled and sputtered. At first, Michael ignored it. But then, he began to hear things that caught his attention. Reaching over, he turned up the volume.
The newscaster’s voice sounded distant, despite broadcasting from a local station. “----Believe that President Obama may be moments away from declaring a national state of emergency…” The transmission faded in and out, allowing only snatches of the announcement to be heard. “…Of mass hysteria…the country …far away as Europe and the Middle East…”
Frowning, he tried to tune the station back in, but only received static.
“Some weather we’re having, aye?” Shelvin said through a blank face.
“Uh-huh.” Michael could no longer bear sitting next to him. It was like being subjected to an ultrasonic noise that was slowly driving him mad. “I’ll go check on dad, he should have been down by now.”
“Sure, sure. Hey mind if I come up, too?”
Rolling his eyes, Michael waved him forward. Together, they tromped up the wheelchair access ramp to the second floor.
“Hey dad, are you ready?” Michael called out.
There was a light clatter from the kitchen.
“Dad? If you still wanna do this, we should get going…”
Richard Chase emerged from the kitchen. When he appeared, Michael’s blood felt as if it had frozen solid within his veins. He wobbled on his feet, as vertigo made his stomach drop.
His father stood before him on crutches. His wheel chair was absent. His ponytail was MIA as well. His beard remained, but was cut close to the skin. But perhaps the most profound change was in his demeanor. Richard Chase no longer possessed that sardonic bemusement that had for so long characterized his personality. Instead, he radiated suspicion and misery, somehow blending both emotions into an unpleasant grimace.
Michael’s cognitive skills were still on strike. “Your chair! I mean-----you can walk now? I mean, what happened?”
To Shelvin, it was all business as usual. He stepped around Michael and shook Richard’s hand. “Good to see you again, Richard.”
Richard dipped his chin humbly, as if the president had just paid him an unexpected visit. “And you, Leonard. How did you find my last donation to the Temple?”
“Always appreciated.”
The two exchanged more pleasantries. They blathered on about the Chase Museum’s finances and Shelvin’s new position at the “temple”, whatever that was. Their entire conversation was an execution in nonsense, as far as Michael was concerned.
He closed his eyes, trying to reel in his escaping wits.
Finally, he mustered his courage. He circled his father, staring at him with disbelief. “What is this crap?” He seethed.
“Richard, I see what you mean. I’m glad you brought this to my attention.” Shelvin unbuttoned his suit.
Richard looked away, his eyes watering. “I’m sorry son.” He murmured in a tight voice.
Chapter 5 continued
“Sorry about what?”
Stepping back, Shelvin withdrew a small handgun from his inside jacket pocket. Casually, he unlocked the safety.
“I’ve tried. You know I’ve tried with you. But you’ve always been so damn rebellious.”
Shelvin was consoling. “You did the right thing, Richard.” He brought up his arm, and to Michael’s utter shock, pointed the gun directly at his chest. “It’s better this way, don’t you think? After all, this is much better than what would have happened to you at the temple.”
Now hoarse with misery, Richard continued to ramble. “I didn’t want this, you know I didn’t. But you’ve always refused the mark, you refuse to join the temple, you flaunt Holy Law. What was I supposed to do? What else was I supposed to do?”
The gun barrel seemed to swallow him. He froze. He refused to believe that he was a split second from death. As Shelvin began to squeeze the trigger, Michael hoped desperately that when the bullet hit, he would awaken from this nonsensical nightmare----even if he found himself in an asylum. At this point, he would have preferred the reality of a straightjacket.
As it turned out, Shelvin was the one who got hit. Michael could only make out a dark streak, like a cannon ball. It came from across the room and crashed into the other man with enough force to knock him clean into the adjoining kitchen. The gun spiraled out of his hand to land somewhere behind the sofa.
He gaped at his unlikely savior.
Oilslick dropped to the floor nimbly, having easily absorbed the impact from the blow. The cat’s muscles rippled under a heavy sheen of black fur.
Richard was both surprised and afraid by Shelvin’s sudden reversal of fortune. He stood there with his mouth chewing away on silence. Then, he hobbled a few steps towards his son. “Mike, I know you don’t-----“
Oilslick growled at him, stepping in front of Michael protectively. Its legs coiled, ready to launch itself like a missile.
“You were gonna let him shoot me?” Shock was quickly becoming rage. “You were gonna let that little prick shoot me? Are you outta your freakin’ MIND, dad?”
His dad appeared confused for a moment, as if he were trying to process conflicting information. “Mike, you have to understand, I didn’t want, I mean I was afraid you might-----“
“I’m calling the cops.”
“I already did,” Shelvin said from the kitchen. He picked himself up from the floor, grimacing with pain as he clutched his side. He snapped his cell phone shut and pocketed it. “They’re on the way up right now.”
“Good,” Michael shot back defiantly. “Your prints are all over that thing. I can’t wait to press charges.”
Shelvin smirked with enthusiasm. He took off his glasses and began cleaning them on his dress shirt. “Well,” He replied conversationally, “We’ll just see who presses charges against whom, won’t we?”
He glared at Shelvin ferociously, wondering why he was so smug.
There was a loud thumping from the downstairs garage. Then a deep voice called up through the stairwell (Which had been a wheelchair ramp seconds earlier.) “San Francisco PD! Anyone home?”
At first Michael felt relief-----until he wondered how the police could have arrived within seconds of Shelvin’s call, and during a monstrous rainstorm no less?
Shelvin waggled his eyebrows playfully.
“Up here!” Richard called back.
A bald, stocky police officer appeared in the doorway, taking in the room with rapid-fire glances.
Michael knew something was wrong at once. The uniform was more gray than black. His badge was an irregular shape…and most disturbing of all: a snake was intertwined through the badge’s emblem. There were letters on the badge’s inner curvature in English, while hieroglyphic characters ringed the bottom.
Richard attempted to appease the man. “Sir, everything’s under control here.”
The police officer drilled him with a warning stare. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He did a double take. Then he slowly inspected Richard from head to toe, his eyes lingering on the crutches. “Are you a cripple, sir?”
Paling, Richard’s voice dropped to a choked whisper. “No, no. This is just temporary.” He raised a crutch, as if to imply that he could toss it away anytime he pleased. “I should be back on my feet by the end of week.”
The cop was a hungry wolf, eyeing his dinner.
Shelvin took charge. Smoothing his rumpled suit, he approached the policeman. Pointing out Michael, he said, “Officer, I’d like to report that this young man has violated Holy Law and committed blasphemy.”
“And you are---?”
“Leonard Shelvin. I’m the Supreme Administrator for the Temple.” From his pocket he retrieved an ID and a small certificate, which contained an official looking seal of some sort.
The officer squinted at his documents, then at him. “What exactly has he done?”
“He refuses to wear the mark of the temple, and…” Shelvin jutted a bony finger downward. “He owns a cat!”
As if on cue, Oilslick emerged from behind Michael.
The officer jumped backward, grabbing at his sidearm. “Son of a bitch!” He yelped in disgust. “I thought those things were exterminated back in the sixties!”
Oilslick leaped into the air. The cat’s single jump covered the breadth of the living room, a distance of no less than forty-two feet. It shot forward as is if from a slingshot, crashing through a window and dropping away into the storm.
There was a large boom as the policeman fired a single round after the departing animal. His shot went wild, and the sliding glass door blew apart from the wayward bullet. He cursed again.
Holstering his weapon, he turned back to a trembling Michael, who had taken refuge behind the dining room table. “Listen, son…owning a cat is a felony. So I want you to think very carefully before answering my question;” He walked around the table to address his subject. “Does that…thing belong to you?”
“Yeah,” He replied numbly. His brain was in a logjam, overloading on bizarre information.
The officer shook his head with plastic regret. “Okay, then. You’ve just admitted to blasphemy. Turn around and place your hands on that wall.”
“I didn’t break any laws…my cat…you can’t just…”
“NOW!” The cop’s gun had reappeared in his hand.
That was when the second policeman arrived through the door, his own gun drawn. “Shots fired! Shots fired!” He was yelling into his radio.
The first policeman spun around. His face twisted into surprise as he looked upon a partner he no longer recognized.
Apparently, the feeling was mutual. The new arrival was dressed in a perfectly normal uniform. It was in stark contrast to the Gestapo-looking garb of the other man. “George, what the hell is going on in here?”
“Gestapo George” brandished his weapon menacingly. “What are you doing in that costume? Drop your piece, Jacob. I said DROP it.”
“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” Jacob yelled. Both men held each other in their sights. “Put it down George, put it down! What are you---?”
“Drop it, drop it---“
“What the hell are you DOING?”
“I said DROP IT!”
Michael saw what was coming next, but the thought barely registered before the chaos was upon him. There was a roar of overlapping bangs, as if fifty firecrackers had gone off in unison. Walls, furniture, shelving décor, it all began to explode from careening bullets. He found himself on the floor but couldn’t remember getting there. Fighting panic he dragged himself across the carpet. “DAD! DAD! Get down!”
He soon realized his father was already down. He crawled over to discover Richard face first on the carpet, his crutches strewn out of reach. The din of thundering gunshots seemed to go on forever. Bullets hammered into the walls and ceilings, raining plaster and wood splinters atop him.
He rolled his father over. His upper torso had three red holes in it. Richard’s eyes fluttered upon being moved. “Mike…” He whispered, “You gotta stop this.” But his voice was lost in the roar of gunfire.
“You’re gonna be okay, dad. You’re gonna be okay. Just keep your head down.”
It stopped. A ringing silence followed. The smell of gunpowder permeated the room.
Michael cradled Richard in his hands feeling desperately for a pulse. He found it, but it was weak and erratic. “Hold on, just hold on.” He spun to his feet, shoving aside the obvious question of why two police officers had been engaged in a gun battle-----and the danger of knowing that only one of them might be on his side.
The living room looked like a war zone. The police officer that had entered last now lay dead, propped against the open door with a quarter of his forehead missing. Gore splattered the surface behind him.
The gray clad policeman rose slowly from his crouched position, still holding his firearm in a two-fisted grip. He let Michael benefit from an audacious leer, made all the more disturbing by the sprinkle of blow back material that now covered his face.
This time, Michael wasn’t impressed. All that existed for him was his father. “Call an ambulance!” He shouted. “He doesn’t have long!”
The officer’s dull pupils drifted down to Richard. “He’s a cripple. What the fuck do I care?”
“You son of a bitch,” He whispered. He began to move towards the phone that was mounted on the far wall.
“Hey, where the hell are you going?” The officer growled.
Before Michael could respond, he felt a large hand push him forward. He stumbled. When he recovered, he found himself looking down the barrel of a gun for the second time in one evening.
“On the floor, you dirty non-believer! I said down! NOW!”
This time Michael didn’t freeze. His hand flashed outward with a will of its own. There was a loud sizzle, as if something had been dropped onto a pan of hot grease. The officer screamed in agony. The gun clattered to the floor in two pieces, both parts of it now molting piles of liquid.
The policeman was yelling louder now. His wounded hand was stuffed under his left armpit and he was rocking back and forth on his feet.
Whatever foreign impulse had gripped him the first time, now commanded him into action again. Michael landed a clumsy roundhouse, which arrived much faster than it should have. What was more, his punch lifted the man completely off his feet, where he landed back-first on the dining room table. The surface shattered and he fell among a pile of splintered wood.
He didn’t waste a second. He wheeled about, aiming once more for the phone.
"The Overthrow" Episode 1
His father’s lifeless face reached out and rooted him to the spot. He knelt down, looking more closely-----hoping that what he had seen was a mistake.
It wasn’t. He threw his arms around Richard’s body, burying his face in his father’s neck. Wrenching sobs tumbled out of him, one after the other. “Aww, Goddammit, no, no, no…” He protested.
He sat on his knees for some time, cradling his father’s body and allowing his tears to mingle with the blood and sweat upon his neck.
How much time went by was debatable. At some point he heard a light cracking noise and realized something was moving behind him. He jerked his head around in time to see Shelvin reaching for the unconscious officer’s gun. Noticing Michael, Shelvin pulled his hand back like a child caught pilfering the cookie jar.
Shelvin held up his hands playfully. “I was just trying to do you a favor.”
Michael lowered his father gently back to the floor and closed the vacant eyes. Keeping a vigilant stare upon Shelvin, he reached down and yanked the tablecloth from under the officer’s prone body and covered Richard Chase with it.
By the time he finished, sirens could be heard wailing over the storm. The noise grew louder as they approached.
“Remember when you manhandled me this morning?” Shelvin rubbed his hands together with relish. “Go ahead and try it again.”
Michael was breathing heavily as he wiped away tears with his sleeve. “You’ve got something to do with all this, don’t you?”
Shelvin snorted. “You’re even dumber than your old man.”
He took a threatening step forward. “Listen, you little ass; I don’t know how you’re mixed up in all of this, but my father just died.” His throat clenched up. He coughed angrily to bring his voice back. “If you know something, you better spill it!”
The sirens were now very loud, as what sounded like a fleet of squad cars pulled up outside the house.
Shelvin looked at the ceiling wistfully. “Well, I’ll tell you this much; your bitch mistress is too late. She’s many years too late.”
“This the San Francisco Police department! Exit the premises now and keep your hands in the air!”
In some peculiar way, Shelvin had a calming effect on Michael. The loathing he felt for the man was now so instinctual, so primordial, it actually seemed to give him a feeling of purpose. His jittering nerves and pounding heart began to smooth into a normal idle. However, he quickly discovered a drawback to his newfound calmness: more disconcerting thoughts.
It occurred to him that the only person left that he cared about was a woman who despised him. Worse, he had no idea if Rachel were dead or alive-----or changed.
Shelvin seemed to pick up on his angst. “You’ve got nowhere to go. You’re going to have to surrender to the cops, you know. If you do that, I might put in a good word for you.” He winked.
“I have a better idea: why don’t I plant my foot-----“ His threat trailed off as his newborn clarity sounded an alarm.
Shelvin was stalling him. Maybe long enough for more demented cops to arrive. Or maybe to keep him away from someplace else. Either way, he considered Michael a threat.
Silent understanding connected them. Michael knew.
And Shelvin knew that he knew.
The attack was as sudden as it was outrageous. Shelvin’s head seemed to rush at him, as though it had disconnected from his body. His mind took a snapshot of an impossible image; a mouth stretched to grotesque proportions, flashing fangs and a snaking tongue. He lurched backward just as something snapped around his shirt, ripping part of it from his body. He used the momentum and turned it into a sprint, seized by the frenzied need to escape. He leaped into the air and broke through a side window, much as Oilslick had done minutes earlier.
Considering his awkward landing, the two-story drop should have broken his leg. Instead, he felt his ankle go out as he hit the ground and rolled down a rain slick embankment. He tumbled onto one of the many residential streets that tangled around the house.
He cried out in pain as he scrambled to an upright position. He could tell that his ankle was at the very least fractured, probably even broken. He conducted a brief examination of the rest of his body to make sure the shards hadn’t opened one of his arteries. Jumping through windows looked great in the movies, but in real life, plowing through glass resulted in serious injuries. He supposed it was dumb luck that his cuts were only superficial.
Looking back up the embankment, he saw the orange and yellow glow of police lights from atop the ridge. The sheets of rain that were now drenching him, gave the lights a halo-like effect. They were shouts and the muffled bark of a megaphone. He couldn’t make out what was being said.
He wondered which version of the police force had arrived. Not that it mattered. Either way, it was prudent not to loiter.
He began to walk. He felt the rain slap him as though it were a giant wet hand. Lightning flashed almost every minute now, and thunder was so constant, he could almost march to its beat.
Any lingering hopes that this was all some kind of bizarre nightmare or schizophrenic episode had now been dispensed. His father’s bloodstains on his shirt and his own injuries were silent testimonials to the validity of his predicament. From here on out he vowed to accept the evidence of his senses, no matter how fantastic a message they were sending.
He shuffled to a stop, realizing he would need to leave the street if he wanted to avoid detection. He crawled behind a large bush that was set back from the road. Crouching down, he tore a piece of his sleeve off to wrap his wounded ankle.
As he bent to the task, he realized that he had picked the museum as his destination. He figured the compulsion must have been a residual impulse from earlier, for it certainly made no sense to go there now.
Or did it? Now that he thought about it, just where the hell was he going to go, anyway? It was likely the world was short of safe harbors just now.
Something slinked in the darkness, a stealthy shadow that peered at him with unearthly green eyes.
He threw up a hand to ward off the monster, for he had seen those eyes before…in his dreams…and back at the therapy ward…
Only at the beginning can the end be undone, Michael…
But it was only Oilslick-----a cat that he both recognized and didn’t. One thing was sure, though. He was probably looking at the only friend he had left in the world.
The cat stood erect, and then swung its head in a specific direction. It repeated the gesture twice, before trotting off the way it had been pointing.
It stopped and went through the same movements again, eyeing him expectantly.
The message was clear: Follow me.
He no longer questioned. His teeth chattering, Michael Chase limped through the rain and the darkness after Oilslick, as though the animal were a beacon leading him to sanctuary.
Chapter 5 continued
His father’s lifeless face reached out and rooted him to the spot. He knelt down, looking more closely-----hoping that what he had seen was a mistake.
It wasn’t. He threw his arms around Richard’s body, burying his face in his father’s neck. Wrenching sobs tumbled out of him, one after the other. “Aww, Goddammit, no, no, no…” He protested.
He sat on his knees for some time, cradling his father’s body and allowing his tears to mingle with the blood and sweat upon his neck.
How much time went by was debatable. At some point he heard a light cracking noise and realized something was moving behind him. He jerked his head around in time to see Shelvin reaching for the unconscious officer’s gun. Noticing Michael, Shelvin pulled his hand back like a child caught pilfering the cookie jar.
Shelvin held up his hands playfully. “I was just trying to do you a favor.”
Michael lowered his father gently back to the floor and closed the vacant eyes. Keeping a vigilant stare upon Shelvin, he reached down and yanked the tablecloth from under the officer’s prone body and covered Richard Chase with it.
By the time he finished, sirens could be heard wailing over the storm. The noise grew louder as they approached.
“Remember when you manhandled me this morning?” Shelvin rubbed his hands together with relish. “Go ahead and try it again.”
Michael was breathing heavily as he wiped away tears with his sleeve. “You’ve got something to do with all this, don’t you?”
Shelvin snorted. “You’re even dumber than your old man.”
He took a threatening step forward. “Listen, you little ass; I don’t know how you’re mixed up in all of this, but my father just died.” His throat clenched up. He coughed angrily to bring his voice back. “If you know something, you better spill it!”
The sirens were now very loud, as what sounded like a fleet of squad cars pulled up outside the house.
Shelvin looked at the ceiling wistfully. “Well, I’ll tell you this much; your bitch mistress is too late. She’s many years too late.”
“This the San Francisco Police department! Exit the premises now and keep your hands in the air!”
In some peculiar way, Shelvin had a calming effect on Michael. The loathing he felt for the man was now so instinctual, so primordial, it actually seemed to give him a feeling of purpose. His jittering nerves and pounding heart began to smooth into a normal idle. However, he quickly discovered a drawback to his newfound calmness: more disconcerting thoughts.
It occurred to him that the only person left that he cared about was a woman who despised him. Worse, he had no idea if Rachel were dead or alive-----or changed.
Shelvin seemed to pick up on his angst. “You’ve got nowhere to go. You’re going to have to surrender to the cops, you know. If you do that, I might put in a good word for you.” He winked.
“I have a better idea: why don’t I plant my foot-----“ His threat trailed off as his newborn clarity sounded an alarm.
Shelvin was stalling him. Maybe long enough for more demented cops to arrive. Or maybe to keep him away from someplace else. Either way, he considered Michael a threat.
Silent understanding connected them. Michael knew.
And Shelvin knew that he knew.
The attack was as sudden as it was outrageous. Shelvin’s head seemed to rush at him, as though it had disconnected from his body. His mind took a snapshot of an impossible image; a mouth stretched to grotesque proportions, flashing fangs and a snaking tongue. He lurched backward just as something snapped around his shirt, ripping part of it from his body. He used the momentum and turned it into a sprint, seized by the frenzied need to escape. He leaped into the air and broke through a side window, much as Oilslick had done minutes earlier.
Considering his awkward landing, the two-story drop should have broken his leg. Instead, he felt his ankle go out as he hit the ground and rolled down a rain slick embankment. He tumbled onto one of the many residential streets that tangled around the house.
He cried out in pain as he scrambled to an upright position. He could tell that his ankle was at the very least fractured, probably even broken. He conducted a brief examination of the rest of his body to make sure the shards hadn’t opened one of his arteries. Jumping through windows looked great in the movies, but in real life, plowing through glass resulted in serious injuries. He supposed it was dumb luck that his cuts were only superficial.
Looking back up the embankment, he saw the orange and yellow glow of police lights from atop the ridge. The sheets of rain that were now drenching him, gave the lights a halo-like effect. They were shouts and the muffled bark of a megaphone. He couldn’t make out what was being said.
He wondered which version of the police force had arrived. Not that it mattered. Either way, it was prudent not to loiter.
He began to walk. He felt the rain slap him as though it were a giant wet hand. Lightning flashed almost every minute now, and thunder was so constant, he could almost march to its beat.
Any lingering hopes that this was all some kind of bizarre nightmare or schizophrenic episode had now been dispensed. His father’s bloodstains on his shirt and his own injuries were silent testimonials to the validity of his predicament. From here on out he vowed to accept the evidence of his senses, no matter how fantastic a message they were sending.
He shuffled to a stop, realizing he would need to leave the street if he wanted to avoid detection. He crawled behind a large bush that was set back from the road. Crouching down, he tore a piece of his sleeve off to wrap his wounded ankle.
As he bent to the task, he realized that he had picked the museum as his destination. He figured the compulsion must have been a residual impulse from earlier, for it certainly made no sense to go there now.
Or did it? Now that he thought about it, just where the hell was he going to go, anyway? It was likely the world was short of safe harbors just now.
Something slinked in the darkness, a stealthy shadow that peered at him with unearthly green eyes.
He threw up a hand to ward off the monster, for he had seen those eyes before…in his dreams…and back at the therapy ward…
Only at the beginning can the end be undone, Michael…
But it was only Oilslick-----a cat that he both recognized and didn’t. One thing was sure, though. He was probably looking at the only friend he had left in the world.
The cat stood erect, and then swung its head in a specific direction. It repeated the gesture twice, before trotting off the way it had been pointing.
It stopped and went through the same movements again, eyeing him expectantly.
The message was clear: Follow me.
He no longer questioned. His teeth chattering, Michael Chase limped through the rain and the darkness after Oilslick, as though the animal were a beacon leading him to sanctuary.
Update:
I’ve recently made the decision to stop posting this story at BBS due to lack of interest.
While the environment here is positive, I don’t think it’s the best possible venue for this type of material.
I will continue the story, just at a different site. I will post the link once I’ve settled on the new location for anyone who may still be following this.
This will in no way affect my fan fiction projects. I will continue to make regular contributions here for any ST related material.
Thanks!
I’ve recently made the decision to stop posting this story at BBS due to lack of interest.
While the environment here is positive, I don’t think it’s the best possible venue for this type of material.
I will continue the story, just at a different site. I will post the link once I’ve settled on the new location for anyone who may still be following this.
This will in no way affect my fan fiction projects. I will continue to make regular contributions here for any ST related material.
Thanks!
Lack of interest?
I only had time today to read the new chapters...
I only had time today to read the new chapters...
Sorry Count…I’m glad you’re still dropping in, of course.Lack of interest?
I only had time today to read the new chapters...
However, when feedback dries up, it usually equates to a loss of interest.
I’ll take another look around the time this drops off the board. If things are looking up at that time, I may keep it here.
The story will go ahead either way. And I’ll make sure everyone knows where to find it, if I decide to move sites. I never leave a story incomplete.
Your time and interest are always appreciated.
Getting feedback here is alway tough. Even more so if it's not Trek related. If you can find more time to comment on other people's work you might be able to invite more people commenting on yours.
It might also be difficult to get feedback if you post a lot in one go. I can speak only for myself but I will often be too tired to tackle that much reading and leave it for a later time.
That happen when I came across your new segments. But I can tell why you posted it all at once after reading it.
This is one real twisted world you are creating here (and presumably a dog lovers paradise. No cats allowed). You're doing a splendid job of showing us a word literally changing in front of your character's eyes. And apparently it is trying to change him as well which begs the question what it is exactly to make him so resistant. And what's up with this crazy, super-powered cat?
Great prose, great dialog, great story all around. I'll continue to follow this for sure.
It might also be difficult to get feedback if you post a lot in one go. I can speak only for myself but I will often be too tired to tackle that much reading and leave it for a later time.
That happen when I came across your new segments. But I can tell why you posted it all at once after reading it.
This is one real twisted world you are creating here (and presumably a dog lovers paradise. No cats allowed). You're doing a splendid job of showing us a word literally changing in front of your character's eyes. And apparently it is trying to change him as well which begs the question what it is exactly to make him so resistant. And what's up with this crazy, super-powered cat?
Great prose, great dialog, great story all around. I'll continue to follow this for sure.
The story has really taken up pace. It seems though that it only gets more mysterious as it progresses. I'm curious how it will develop so I hope you're not going to let us wait too long. 
I second CeJay, you write very well and use vivid imagery, Galen.
I second CeJay, you write very well and use vivid imagery, Galen.
Points well taken by both of you.
It was a large chunk to read at once. I think future segments will be more bite-sized.
You’re right; non-Trek projects are a harder sell on a board such as this.
I accepted that going in, so any interest at all is good.
Currently, this is the only place I’m running this story, so naturally I’m carefully gauging the interest level to make sure the effort is worthwhile. I’ll continue to evaluate that as I go. Even if interest dries up later, I wouldn’t take it personally. As a writer, you throw stuff out there and sometimes it sticks and sometimes it fizzles.
Thanks again for taking the time to share your thoughts.
It was a large chunk to read at once. I think future segments will be more bite-sized.
You’re right; non-Trek projects are a harder sell on a board such as this.
I accepted that going in, so any interest at all is good.
Currently, this is the only place I’m running this story, so naturally I’m carefully gauging the interest level to make sure the effort is worthwhile. I’ll continue to evaluate that as I go. Even if interest dries up later, I wouldn’t take it personally. As a writer, you throw stuff out there and sometimes it sticks and sometimes it fizzles.
Thanks again for taking the time to share your thoughts.
Similar threads
