Edward Lee - Creekers

And through shags of coal-black hair, their crimson eyes burned at Eagle.

“Hey-uh, blondie,” one mouthed. “Where yer buddy?”

“We gonna’s fucks you whens yer dead,” the other enlightened. “Fucks ya sumpin’ fierce, white-trash boy.”

“An’ eat-cha’s then.”

The Creeker with the shotgun was lowering his weapon to Eagle’s head when Phil sprang out from behind the other side of the bed. Amid a terrifying sound like a lawnmower, Phil squeezed the MACs trigger.

The sub-gun vibrated in a way that was almost eloquent. The burst of .45 bullets caught the Creeker in the belly, then literally picked him up off his feet and pushed him back out into the hall, lines of blood swirling in the air.

Phil jerked his wrist, then squeezed off another short burst at the other Creeker. He danced jerking as big, meaty holes restiched his chest.

“Phil!” Eagle shouted. “Behind you!”

Glass shattered; two shots whizzed by Phil’s head. A third Creeker was climbing in through the window.

The MAC buzzed again, and blew the Creeker right back out. “Grab that piece!” Phil ordered, pointing to the revolver on the floor. “Follow me!”

Eagle foundered for the dead Creeker’s pistol, then he and Phil tumbled out the window into waist-high grass. “Quiet, quiet,” Phil whispered, holding the MAC at the ready. He quick-peeked around the side of the cottage. “It looks clear. I think maybe we got them all. Come on, fuckin’ run like fuckin’ hell to the truck and get the fuck out of here.”

The front yard was wide open, which was good—less concealment—but the moon shined bright, which was bad—it highlighted them as targets. Their feet beat down the tall grass as they tramped forward, each step dispersing swarms of gnats and other insects.

When they arrived winded at Eagle’s truck, Phil checked the perimeter. Nothing. But—

“Awwww, shit—”

“What’s wrong?” Phil snapped. “Get in and start this thing so we can get out of here.”

“Awwwwwww, shit,” Eagle moaned. He stood stockstill, staring. The hood of the truck stood partly open. Wires hung out like entrails.

“They trashed the truck, man…”

We’re fucked, Phil came to the delightful conclusion. “All right, so we gotta run out on foot. Let’s g—”

Suddenly a sound like metallic rain began to circle them—plink-plink-plink-plink!—and small holes began to appear in the truck’s fenders like strange magic. “Someone’s popping caps at us!” Phil shouted. “Get down!”

He dragged Eagle to the dirt. Christ, how many of them are there? His peripheral vision caught the white dots of muzzleflash on the far side of the house.

A fifth Creeker was running toward them, firing a pistol.

Phil ripped another burst of .45 off the MAC…

The Creeker went down with a garbled howl.

“Got him!” Eagle shouted with glee.

Then a sixth Creeker, much taller and less coordinated, turned the corner and advanced on them, too.

He was firing a pump shotgun.

“Jesus Christ!” Phil complained. “What, did they charter a fucking bus!” And when he aimed the MAC and squeezed—

“Shit, man!” Eagle shrieked.

—nothing happened. The bolt locked open. The clip was empty. Phil swore under his breath. A mere few seconds had expended the MACs magazine. I wish to hell these things would shoot for as long as they do in the movies! He snatched Eagle’s revolver and, using the truck as cover, drew a bead on the advancing Creeker. Steady, steady. This would be tough. Just when he’d acquired a decent target, the next shotgun round blew out the windshield. Another shot socked into the side of the truck, spraying pellets across the hood, then another tore through the passenger and driver’s windows.

Phil sprang back up, aimed, fired.

The .38 caught the Creeker in the groin and dropped him, screaming, in the grass.

God, I hope that’s all of them.

Getting out of here on foot would be hell, but at least Eagle knew where they were. Phil turned. “All right, man, now we run our asses off—”

But when Phil turned, Eagle wasn’t standing there. Instead, he was lying there—

“Eagle! No!”

—gargling his own blood.

Frantic, Phil dropped to his knees. Eagle convulsed in the grass. That last shotgun round, Phil realized. It had blown through the passenger and driver’s windows and caught Eagle high in the chest. Eagle reached up feebly, shivering. Bubbles of blood percolated at the holes in his chest as he tried to breathe.

Phil didn’t know what to do. This was about the hardest type of wound to treat in the field. And moving him would be fatal. “Hang on, man,” was all Phil could say.

“Aw, shit, they really fucked me over,” Eagle’s voice gurgled. He hacked up some blood, which looked like black syrup in the moonlight. “Can’t move, can’t hardly breathe…”

“Just sit tight,” Phil implored. “If I try to carry you out of here, you’ll never make it. I’ll be back as soon as I can with an ambulance.”

Eagle’s hand shakily grabbed Phil’s shirtsleeve. His eyes were glassing over. “Pop me, man. I’m fuckin’ dyin’.”

Phil knew he was right. Eagle would be dead in minutes, drowned in his own blood.

“You’ll be all right, man. Just hang in there.”

Blood bubbled out of Eagle’s mouth with the words. “Kill me, Phil, I’m beggin’ya. Don’t leave me alive…for them.”

Phil stared down. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said, knowing it was a lie. “I got all the Creekers, so you just wait it out. I’ll be back as fast as I can… But, look, Eagle, you gotta tell me something first. You gotta tell me where Natter’s lab is.”

The dying eyes gazed back up. “Natter? Lab?”

“Natter’s dust lab. It’s got to be out here somewhere. Tell me where it is, Eagle. Then I can pay them back for this shit.”

“The…lab…” was all Eagle could reply with any coherence. A high, wet whistling sound ensued as his chest heaved. He mumbled some words unintelligibly, then twitched. The hand gripping Phil’s sleeve fell away…

Then Eagle died.

Phil sighed. Poor fucker. An array of feelings collided: rage, sadness, confusion. Things like this shouldn’t happen. Why did the world have to be so insane? Sure, Eagle was a penny-ante dust runner, a two-bit criminal who Phil was playing for a dupe, but he didn’t deserve this. In spite of Phil’s undercover role, and in spite of his unrestrained hatred of PCP, Eagle was still, in a way, Phil’s friend…

“Goddamn it,” he muttered.

click.

Phil’s heart seemed to stop mid-beat. The click had sounded at his head. Someone cocking a pistol hammer…

Phil, still on his knees, dropped his own gun. Very slowly, his eyes turned up.

Yet another Creeker stood before him, with odd, knuckly double-jointed hands that seemed to wrap around the revolver he gripped. The right side of his skull possessed a swell large as a cantaloupe, and his entire head seemed to hang off a thin, extended neck. His nose sported but one nostril.

The hard steel tip of the pistol barrel nudged mockingly at Phil’s temple…

I’m dead, Phil was able to contemplate. It was not an easy surmise to make, but Phil managed to do so with a surprising sense of calm.

But the Creeker kid paused. The scarlet eyes, which seemed twice the size of normal eyes, peered down at Eagle’s corpse and the massive, bleeding chest wound.

“Skeet-inner-to,” the kid said. “Ona-prey-bee.”

Creeker jibberish, Phil realized. The words oozed thick in their defect. But why doesn’t he just kill me now?

Then the weird red eyes moved back to Phil’s face. The gun, a Smith .38, wavered.

Mannona, the word suddenly drifted from the kid. And then another word: Onnamann.