This post has the following content warnings:
He wakes up suspended in the dark, on his side, ringing in his ears and the pain of a sudden stop in his chest, smelling blood and dust and gasoline.
Light filters in above his head.
His cheek is pressed against glass, which is flush with the ground.
Oh.
Of course he gets the gun.
He grabs Z's fingertips, just a little, when their hands brush together -- not trying to hold onto him, really, just extending the contact for a moment.
Then he runs.
Z shivers at the incidental contact, almost grabs Camillo’s hand —
—then turns and walks slowly towards the tree line, whistling two notes back.
There's a canoe trailer ditched on the shoulder nearby. Someone must have decided it wasn't likely to be useful where they were going, and cut it loose in the nearest convenient place. It's the best hiding place short of the treeline, and Camillo's not heading for the treeline.
He gets down low in the raggedy grass and the little yellow wildflowers, braces the shotgun on a hot pink kayak.
Z has disappeared into the brush.
The next whistle stops abruptly halfway through.
There’s a crack — a scream — a moan, in a pinched, feminine voice.
It’s quiet enough, even with the wind, that it’s just about possible to hear some indistinct wet noises from somewhere in the trees.
Oh. Good. Wet. That's certainly a kind of noise.
The grass sways in the wind, brushes his face itchily. A little black ant crawls over the kayak, struggles to cross a particularly deep scratch on its surface.
Camillo has about two minutes' worth of resolution to stay put. Or until Z screams. Whichever comes first.
Patience has never been among Camillo's chief vices.
He and his shotgun are going to go see if they can get a bit of a closer look.
The first thing he'll see is Z's back — a row of spines down his back flaring up, tenting the fabric of his tank top, bright red tips barely peeking through.
The thing squirming under him has a pair of exaggerated breasts leaking fluid onto the dirt, paper-white skin dusted with blue veins, long pale hair that writhes like worms and grips the grass under its head and winds around Z's throat. There's a chunk of flesh torn from its shoulder, blood splattered over its bare body.
Z's fingers are hooked into a row of holes along its rib cage, which are twitching, trying to expel them.
This is not what Camillo expected to see.
He didn't expect to see Z on top. He didn't expect to see Z monstrous -- should've, probably, if he'd thought about it, but didn't. He didn't expect the whole scene to be so -- alive, organic, fluid. Wet.
He's shivering a little. He's not sure what emotion it reflects.
The hair tightens around Z’s neck — he digs his fingers further into the holes in its sides, curls them sharply, and it moans as the locks fall loose around his shoulders.
He shoves its face into the dirt, pants in a way that sounds half like a snarl.
When he comes, he lowers his head and sinks his teeth again into the bloody mess of its shoulder. The thing under him spasms and wails.
Camillo is trying to identify his emotions by process of elimination.
He's not upset; this is much better than Z being hurt. He's not afraid; Z's not going to hurt him, and evidently neither is the other thing. He's not disgusted -- okay, he's a little disgusted, when he looks at the mass of white squirming things or at the way the little holes twitch, but he can tell by contrast that the rest of the emotions aren't disgust.
He's not angry. He's not bored. He's not smug.
He's running out of possible names for the unresolved tension that's making the hairs on the back of his arms stand on end.
A twig snaps.
Z’s head snaps to the side to look straight at him.
His eyes are dark and shining, pupils blown out too wide, ragged at the edges. His whole face from the mouth down is bright red and wet with blood.
For a second, there’s no sign of recognition on his face at all.
Lucidity returns.
He coughs, swallows again, falls back and scrambles away a little from the creature on the ground.
“—Uh—we’re good. I’m good. Handled.”
He flushes, and his hair stands on end like he’s been charged with static.
He buttons himself back up and stands, wiping the blood from his mouth with the front of his shirt.
“You, uh. Probably shouldn’t follow me to the place where the monsters are.”
The thing on the ground gives a wheezy little whistle from the stretched holes in its side.
"I was worried. And I had a gun."
He pauses, considers the spines on Z's back and the pathetic little whistle.
"...is it ... okay?"
“—oh. Yeah, she’ll be fine in a couple days. We don’t have to tap her, pretty sure she’s not gonna murder anybody.”
View Flat HTML
View Metadata
Search Post
