Edward Lee - Creekers

“Christ, man.” Eagle backed out of the kitchen, dizzied by the sight. “This ain’t my ballpark. I’m just a small-time dust runner; I ain’t into this shit. I mean, look what they did to Blackjack. They fuckin’ skinned him.”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed. “And we’re next. We’re in a stew pot of shit, and it’s just about to start boiling. What are we gonna do?”

“Boogie,” Eagle offered. “That’s what we’re gonna do. Look, I was just trying to make a living, but this… Fuck it. It ain’t worth it.”

“Why don’t we hit back?” Phil tried to egg him on.

Eagle looked at him as though he’d just been told that the Pope was Jewish. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, man? Hit back? These people mean big-time business, Phil, or can’t you see that? We try to hit back on them, we die.”

Don’t chicken out on me now, Phil thought. He needed Eagle to be pissed, to want to strike back. That was the only way Phil would ever find out the location of Natter’s lab.

“And I guarantee they did the same thing to Paul,” Phil lied. “You want to take this shit? We gotta fight back. We gotta hit your competitor harder than he just hit you.”

“Hey, they didn’t hit me, they hit Blackjack, and that’s hard enough. I’m out of this business, as of right now.”

“Come on, man. Who’s the other supplier?” Phil dared to ask. “Let’s show them who they’re fucking with.”

Eagle laughed incredulously. “Fuck you, man. Like I said, I’m just in this for the bread. I’d rather pump gas than have to deal with guys who’d do something like this. Come on. We’re out of here.”

God-DAMN! Phil thought. Each time he got close, it shot out of reach. If he didn’t push Eagle, he’d never find the location of Natter’s lab, but if he pushed too hard, Eagle would smell cop in two seconds.

Guess I’ll just have to work on him some more, Phil concluded. Give it more time. Plus, there was always Sullivan. Perhaps by now the county detention center was loosening up his mouth.

“All right. Let’s book.”

The hideous buzzing of the flies faded behind them as they tracked back through the house. It sounded unreal. Phil tried to shake off the after-image of the corpse. It was hard to fathom that the thing in there had once been a man.

Phil’s mind wandered, over the sheer grotesquerie.

No man deserved to die like that, not even a dust dealer, not even the world’s worst scum. Phil tried to technically contemplate the task. One of Natter’s Creekers, perhaps even Natter himself, had actually sat down with a blade to flense away all of Blackjack’s skin. How long had the job taken? Had the skin made a sound while being cut away? How long had the man been dead?

How could someone do such a thing?

The empty bungalow echoed their footsteps. Eagle opened the front door to leave, then—

“SHIT!”

—ducked just in time to miss the swoosh! of a small sickle. “Look out!” Phil yelled, then came another swoosh!

A big Creeker kid, late-teens and probably six-five, had been waiting for them just outside the front door. “Holy fucking shit, man!” Eagle screamed and ducked yet again. A third swipe of the sickle missed Eagle’s scalp by a fraction of an inch, whereupon the sharpened tool’s point—

crack!

—sunk into the wall.

Phil was already down on one knee, shucking the Beretta from his wallet holster. “Get out of the way!” he shouted at Eagle, who was bungling backward in total shock. “I got him!”

The kid, trying to tug the sickle from the wall, gaped back dumbly. Then—

pop!

His cleft head whipped back. Red eyes crossed as blood squirted from the shiny new hole in his bulbous brow. Then he collapsed.

Phil rose, lowering his pistol.

“Man, where’d you get that?” Eagle asked, astonished.

“It’s my good luck charm. Now quit jabbering and let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Out of here,” Eagle frantically repeated, and scrambled for the front door.

“Not that way!” Phil shouted and suddenly lunged. “The back!”

Eagle turned. “Whuh—”

From outside, a muzzleflash erupted like a split-second of daylight, then a great shotgun blast exploded through the room. A ragged hole the size of a dinner plate tore into the back wall.

Phil had pulled Eagle out of the doorway just in time. “Come on, come on!” They pounded toward the bedroom, while rounds from a pump shotgun tore up chunks of the floor behind them.

“Man, you said they weren’t here!” Eagle screamed. “You said they were miles away!”

“Well, I guess I was fucking wrong!”

They dove into the bedroom, slamming the door behind them. More shots rang out, punching through the door panels.

“Holy shit, man!” Eagle was babbling hysterically. “Holy ever-lovin’ motherfuckin’ shit!”

Phil slapped him in the face. “Shut up! Get a hold of yourself!”

“What the hell are we doin’ holing ourselves up back here?”

Phil slapped him again. “You said Blackjack had guns—help me find them!”

They turned the little room upside down. Rapid footfalls could be heard entering the house. “Hurry!” Phil kept his gun trained on the door while he yanked drawers out of the dresser with his free hand. His heart felt like it was skipping beats.

Eagle tipped the bed mattress off the box spring, then slid off a sheet of plywood. “Here, man!”

The motherlode! Phil thought.

The box spring had been cut out, like a hollowed book. Inside lay a cache of guns—pistols, shotguns, rifles, and even a couple of sub-guns—plus ammunition.

“Dig in!” Phil commanded. “Just grab something and start shooting!”

Eagle picked up a 9mm Browning. “It don’t work!” he screamed when he pointed it at the door and squeezed the trigger. Phil took it from him, cocked it, and threw it back.

“Now it works!”

Eagle, with grit teeth and closed eyes, discharged the weapon at the closed bedroom door. The gun coughed out fourteen rounds, to the extent that Phil’s ears were ringing.

“How do like that, ya fuckers!” Eagle celebrated.

Then a single massive shotgun blast blew the door out of its frame.

“How you like-uh dat, white trash boys?” an unearthly voice queried in response.

Then three more shotgun blasts ripped into the room, pulverizing the plasterboard behind them.

We’re definitely in some shit, Phil thought. He tossed his Beretta .25 to Eagle, who squeezed off its remaining four shots at the hole in the door. The shots sounded miniscule compared to the shotgun, and Creeker laughter rose from the outer room. When they laugh at your gun, you know you’re in big trouble, Phil realized. “Come on, man, come on!” Eagle prompted, his hands shaking. “They’re coming down the hall, I can see ’em!”

Meanwhile Phil was busying himself with a MAC-10 machine-pistol. The 30-round clip felt loaded; he snapped it in the mag well, then fumbled for the charging handle.

“Come on, man! Don’t you know what you’re doin’?”

“Can I help it I ain’t Gun Digest!” Phil cracked back. He wasn’t very familiar with the weapon, but finally he was able to snap the charging handle back. Then—

“Shit, I can’t find the fuckin’ safety!”

“Oh, man, hurry!”

Eagle ducked. Two more shotgun blasts vollied into the room, backed by what sounded like pistol fire. The room vibrated.

Then two Creekers barged in.

“Oh, man, oh, man!” Eagle whimpered.

Both had great bulbed heads, enlarged jaws, canted teeth. The one with the shotgun held the weapon with hands that were but thumb and index finger. The other one, who quickly reloaded a Smith revolver, had what appeared to be two knees on his left leg and a right shoulder which dipped down nearly to his waist.