Golden Hour (Part 5)
The cold hit me like a wave, crashing against my chest; the change in pressure popped my ears. On I stumbled, barely able to lift my feet to put one in front of the other, my shoes scraping against the uneven pavement. Joe was hanging off my shoulder, eyes tight shut, arm holding his stomach like he’d been gutted. His head rolled on his shoulders, blindly moving. He let out a low keening sound, pained, increasing to that of a dying animal. I risked a glance at my arm, the holes burning agonies. A clear liquid leaked out, bubbling above the exposed muscle. My head swam, unable to connect what I was seeing, with the fire that possessed the entire limb. I focused on the ground ahead, blundering through obstacles when it was too much effort to steer around. My legs picking up scrapes and scratches as I went. My car was up ahead; single street light gleaming off the bodywork.
So far away. I turned to see if that thing was following, only to be hit by a spluttering hot exhalation from Joe, full of spittle and flecks of blood. I squinted, feeling the droplets sting my cheeks. Knees wobbling, I hit Joe with my shoulder, forehead grazing the tip of his chin, knocking free a hanging dark clot. This close, I could feel the fever radiating like the stench of bitter metal so strong it encrusted my tongue. I hung on, and felt myself being dragged a couple of paces along the road before I could fall instep once more.
A little further.
Looking up, we were no closer. Barrelling on, head down against the night, forcing the air to part before me. The noise in my ears deafening, from my own pounding blood and Joe’s unearthly wail.
Then we were at the car, hitting it hard enough to dent the passenger side door. Shaking, I removed the keys from my pockets, only now looking back towards the Hotel. The streets behind were deserted. Joe’s voice dropped down with the wind and he was breathing through gritted teeth, pink spittle frothing between his lips. “You okay?” stupid question. How could I encapsulate what I’d just witnessed with such a mundane question? I doubted that neither he, nor I would be okay for a very long time.
He collapsed against the side of the car, after spinning on his heels, peeling off streaks of paint with the buckles and buttons of his coat. I unlocked the door, ready to throw him in the passenger side. Hope A&E wasn’t far away. I could get there in ten.
I watched his writhing form on the ground; watched his movement slow. He shook with sobs, body fully wracked. I expected him to twitch and lay still.
He was laughing. Obviously in pain, but something had struck him as funny.
Face white as bleached paper, with a thick stripe of blood painting his lips to chin, he looked like an apparition. “Jesus! Fuck it hurts!” His hand was over his abdomen again and I sensed rather than saw movement beneath his fingers. “What the fuck do we do now?! It nearly fucking killed us!” “Yeah,” Joe managed, taking a moment to compose himself. His eyes bloodshot and teary. “But he didn’t lie. He gave us the means to find her.” “What!? How?” “The phrase, follow your guts. Literally, perfect.” I looked down at his clenched hand currently pushing into his side below his ribs. As I watched something pushed back from the inside.
Joe snarled.
I chauffeured Joe, then jumped in the driver's seat. He motioned with the blade of his hand. I floored it, tearing down the street in the direction. I glanced across, seeing him chewing his lip, fighting whatever was inside him.
The streets were quiet, the directions that were stabbed into the air didn’t follow roads, rather rough directions, so I had to make turns here and there. Joe had braced himself against the frame of the car, finger nails biting into the dashboard, pushing up against the roof to keep him anchored in place. “It feels like my ribs are going to break,” he hissed.
It didn’t take long to be able to judge which way I should be driving, taking cues from his twitches and the way he slumped with relief when we were heading in the right direction.
Fifteen minutes later the height of the buildings had dropped. Street lights were interspersed with trees and vast swathes of darkness shrouded the area. This was the edge of town, a cluster of industrial units next to a train lines, brown field land too polluted to turn into a residential area. Joe was becoming more and more agitated, thumping the roof, pointing ahead. Tires crashed through pock-marked tarmac. “There.” Joe snapped. I was turning the car, the road abruptly turning sharply left. “There!” “I can’t go there!” At the last moment, the headlights picked up a break in the curbstone, and what looked like a small bridge over the railway tracks. I wheeled the car over it. “Stop!” Joe yelled. The tail end of the word was already a wet torrent. Vomit cascaded from his open mouth. He flung the door open, and the interior light came on. In the black stream of sick, red perfect spheres gleamed, a couple rolled down his coat landing in the foot well of the car. I watched him fall out and heard a thump.
By the time I’d moved around the car, Joe was coughing, more of those spheres were popping and rolling down the camber of the road to the side. Pushing his fingers down his throat, he heaved again, this time catching hold of something in his hand. It squirmed violently. He yanked it out, throwing it to the floor. Where it splattered like wet spaghetti, splitting at one end. He spat another of those round balls form his mouth, and wiped a shaky hand across his face.
It was a foot long, purple pulsating worm; the latter segments of its body swollen and distended. I watched as it bunched, concertinaed its body, then launched itself forwards. Eggs. From the light of the door I could see a black suspended thread twitch within a ball. I trod on, it feeling it pop beneath my feet. Joe made himself sick again. The worm was leaving a slick trail in its wake. I watched it extend to almost a metre, dragging itself purposefully away. I took a step forward meaning to stamp on it, drive my heel through its body, but I couldn’t bare to be close to it. Behind me, I could hear Joe struggle out of his coat, throwing it to the floor. “Fuck!” He was taking this better than I was. I watched the creature upend, sliding into a drain by the gutter.
Joe was on his feet, not as deathly as before, but still pale. He stamped the eggs flat, backtracking to where they had rolled, then returned to the car and was peering underneath the wheels. “Did you see where it went?” he asked, shaking with anger. I pointed to an open grill, a drainage hole in the centre of the bridge. “It went down there,” I said. “Shit. We’ll have to get it later.” “What now?” I asked. “Charlotte.” he said.
He moved to the edge of the bridge and peered over the side. I could make out a van, parked beside the rail track, partially concealed by foliage from the nearby trees. “Come on.” Joe said. “Every second counts.”
