Edward Lorn - Crawl

(I suggest you crawl)

—you better dip out with your prow out. Make like a virgin on prom night, and split. Because its coming, Julie. And it’s still hungry.

Juliet shot both arms out, sank her fingers, knuckle-deep, into the soft clay, and dragged herself toward the tunnel made of branches. Toward that beautiful light. Toward salvation. Toward not being fucking eaten .

She pulled, ripping a clot of red earth from the ground. It crumbled away at the sides, but what was left in her palm turned into a compressed putty of sorts. She tossed it over her shoulder then grabbed for another. If the thing in the woods moved slower than a crippled snail, Juliet might get away. But at this rate, a determined sloth could have caught her.

Snap, crackle, pop went—

(the monster)

—the fire, and Juliet threw another arm out, intent on escaping. Not wanting to know whether or not what she heard was truly the blaze or something else.

But that sneaker… You saw that boy’s sneaker being pulled into the bush. You saw it disappear. You saw it… devoured.

Her every movement was excruciating. Her remaining toes would dip down to touch the clay and snaps of heat lightning would shoot from her shattered feet up through her hips and into her back. She’d writhe until the wave subsided then start anew. The shackles around her wrist were cumbersome but didn’t affect her progress.

The thing in the woods seemed preoccupied with its meal. It might not even know Juliet was crawling away. Could it see her beyond the fire? She hoped not.

Right hand. Fistful of clay. Pull.

Left. Dig. Tug.

Even when her feet didn’t scrape the ground, a steady inferno sizzled her soles, as if she were walking on coals. The pain was like nothing else she’d ever experienced. She kept trying to tell herself that her body was built for pain, had been constructed to birth a child, that this pain was nothing.

Imagine trying to push something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon. Now get a move on, wimp!

This inner-cheerleader’s voice reminded Juliet of Colton, but not entirely. There was a bit of her in there, too. A stronger, bassier version of Juliet Harryhousen, formerly Juliet Langenthrope, daughter of Bethany and Martin Langenthrope, Christian missionaries. Martin had died in Zimbabwe after eating spoiled yams. The can had been swollen—a sure sign of botulism. But they’d been in the bush for three days without food, after being abandoned by their guides because of militia activities. Martin hadn’t been able to take it any longer. By the time Bethany found Martin, the can lay empty between his legs. “I knew he was dead then,” Bethany had told Juliet. “It was nine hours later they found us, but his stomach was already beginning to swell. Stupid man. Stupid, selfish, stupid man…” Bethany had collapsed into sobs at that point, and twenty-year-old Juliet could only sit next to her and rub her back.

Daddy didn’t make it. But you will. You’ll crawl to the end of that tunnel made of trees, and you’ll reach that light. Then, you’ll find help. In fact, do you hear that? Do you hear what I hear?

Juliet propped herself up on her elbows and went completely silent. Far off, she could hear the ebbing growl of an engine.

The light ahead could very well be a streetlight , Juliet thought. A streetlight that’s just out of sight, shining down on the exit/entrance to this road. It seems so bright because it’s so dark in here, under this canopy of trees.

Her mind made a hard U-turn, veering away from the motor sounds coming from beyond the light at the end of the tunnel.

What time is it?

She recalled the time on the Subaru’s display, just before the accident—2:53 in the morning. Though she had no idea how long she had been unconscious, she assumed it had been some time, more than an hour at least. And how long had she been crawling? Half an hour? An hour?

More like an eternity.

Truth was she’d only been yanking herself across this clearing for a little more than ten minutes. She hadn’t even reached the corridor of trees. That fact lurked in the back of her mind, but she pushed it further down, labeling it a fallacy.

Ten minutes? Surely, you jest.

Only ten, my dear Julie. And stop calling me Shirley.

She barked laughter, a throaty sound full of spit. She regretted losing even that much saliva; a thirst was growing in her that she tried her best to ignore.

It’s all that blood you’re losing. Better focus on that car engine, and forget about a Dasani break.

What Juliet had first assumed was the sound of a car moving away couldn’t have been that at all. She still heard it; the low, steady hum of a car engine. It dissipated every few seconds then grew loud once again. She found this sound familiar, but couldn’t put her finger on it. She closed her eyes and pictured the Subaru. She saw Colton, smiling behind the wheel, he waved at her. Juliet waved back. Vicky the dog sitter pulled her head out of Colton’s lap and into view, wiping at the corners of her lips. The home-wrecker waved. Juliet responded with a middle finger as the Subaru clicked and hummed. Idling.

Idling!

The car at the end of the road was sitting there, running. That was what she heard, the rise and fall of engine sounds as the motor idled. Maybe if she screamed, and screamed loud enough…

“Help me…” she croaked. Her dry throat clicked painfully. Juliet sucked on her tongue, whishing it around, collecting as much spit as she could muster, and then swallowed.

“ HELP ME !”

Much better. She repeated those two words a total of six times before her throat would have no more of it. Her voice retreated like a scared animal. No matter how hard she tried, the most she could produce was a mouse-like squeak. Could someone break their voice? She thought she had.

Her only choice—

(I suggest you crawl)

—was to carry on dragging her ass across the ground.

Her fingernails, caked with clay and throbbing, refused to dig anymore. Juliet pressed up on her elbows and army-crawled some more. Her legs seemed to have gained weight, especially from the knees down, and holding her feet up became an impossible chore. Her lower legs flopped down, striking the clay with such ferocity that her entire body convulsed. Juliet spat and shrieked, like a cat with its tail in a mousetrap, flopping from side to side. Her hands made to reach for her legs, but she willed against them. She wouldn’t even allow herself to look upon her ripped and crippled feet, didn’t want to know the extent of the damage. Though her mind conjured a rather nasty image, she refused to give credence to her thoughts by verifying the atrocity below.

When the pain became bearable again, Juliet used her elbows like climbing hooks. She laid her cheek against the cold clay, jabbed her elbows into the ground, and shoved up and forward. The resulting froggish leap landed her over a foot farther along than she had been. She judged this to be true because her left breast now rested in one of the last holes she’d dug with her tired hands.

When her subconscious registered the fact that she could no longer hear the thing in the woods gnaw-gnaw-gnawing on the teenager, her conscious mind told Mr. Subconscious to go fuck himself. She didn’t want to think about that right now. Being devoured by some corpse-ravaging monstrosity was last on her to-do list, which she treated like Colton’s Honey-Do Sheet—meaning, if it ever crossed her mind at all, it’d be a cold day in Hades.

Now if she could ignore the sensation of her feet being continuously dipped in concentrated acid she might make it out of this nightmare.