(A sample from Crawlspace.)
© 2009 asotir.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License.
Thursday – May 12
11:36 AM
Crossroads
‘TUH, TOMMY.’
He was being shaken. He woke up from a dream, a wild dream he instantly forgot and wanted back. What had he been doing in the dream?
‘Tommy, wa, wake up. We’re here.’
He opened his eyes. Papers was leaning over him. He pushed Papers back. ‘Off!’ – and the nervous little man fell back half out of the van. Tommy sat up and looked out the window.
Outside was nothing but flat prairie and cornfields. The Dodge was pulled up at a crossroads. Across the road a beat-up old Ford station wagon waited. The man in suit and sunglasses leaned against it.
Tommy never knew what to call him. He was the same and different every time – that is, it was never the same man, but they all dressed the same and Tommy could never tell them apart. Who knew, maybe it was the same guy all the time. The Professor just called him the Man from Central.
The Team got out of the Dodge and stretched their legs. Tommy did, too, but what he really wanted was to go back to sleep and get the dream back. Only he still couldn’t remember what it was.
The Professor walked to the Ford. A grin stretched the thin lips of the Man from Central.
‘Afternoon, Professor. Got anything for me?’
The Professor handed him the bag with the egg.
The Man from Central glanced inside. ‘Nice one.’
‘There were hundreds of them in this one.’
‘That time of year again, huh?’
The Man from Central tossed the Professor a bunch of car keys.
‘She’s tanked up. I’ll take the Dodge.’
‘Where do we go next? Any reports?’
The Man from Central opened the Dodge. Flashed a smile like a used-car salesman.
‘Isn’t that what you got the kid for? Try up North. Exit 702. A little place name of Briggsville. Seems like they got enough going on there to keep you boys busy for a year. Happy hunting.’
THE FORD rambled up the lanes. Styles was driving and he had his Italian leather driving gloves on. Trickman was telling Styles to slow down, but Styles seemed intent on pushing the Ford as fast as he could make it go.
‘I thought you were the ace gadget-man, don’t you know Central mods all these wrecks? Get out of my way, I’m going to etch rubber all down the road!’
Trickman turned back. ‘Professor, can’t you do anything with this damn dude?’
‘Just don’t get us pulled over, Styles.’
‘Professor, they won’t even see us, I’ll be going so fast. Just a blur, kids, just a blur.’
Tommy pulled his ball cap down over his eyes and curled over against the door. He just wanted to sleep and forget all the bickering. But he couldn’t sleep.
In the back of his mind he smelled the Crawler stink again, and felt the prickling. Sometimes he wondered how it was that the other guys on the Team couldn’t smell the stink or even feel the prickly sensation when a Thing was near. It was almost unbearable to Tommy. With him it was like a toothache; he had to rub it and make it hurt every now and then. Like scratching an itch. He had to close his eyes and smell deep, feel his skin, check if a Crawler was anywhere around.
But he couldn’t sense any of the Things in the open empty farmland they drove through.
A LONG TIME LATER, Tommy sat up and stretched. The sun was lower in the sky. He must’ve slept again. No dreams though.
The Professor jotted notes in a small leather journal. Papers pecked a laptop computer perched on his bony knees.
Trickman slurped the end of a chocolate shake. He hunted through the discarded wrappers on the seat, retrieved a french fry bag and salvaged the last fry. ‘Ah, the gold of the gods.’
Styles groaned. ‘You’re disgusting, you know that?’
Trickman leaned over close to Styles. ‘Come here. Listen.’ He put his face up to Styles’ ear and belched. ‘Ah, good one!’
Styles pushed him back. ‘You pig.’
Trickman laughed. ‘Hey Tommy. You catch that one, pal?’
Tommy didn’t answer. He leaned his head back. He looked out the window. The miles blurred past.
All of a sudden, there it was:
EXIT 702
BRIGGSVILLE
‘Slow down, you’re gonna miss it, dude!’
‘Miss this, slobbo.’
Styles jerked the wheel and the Ford squealed across the lanes onto the off-ramp.
The off-ramp curled to the bad end of a small town. Up atop a steep rise sat the Bright Dayz Motel.
The Ford pulled into the motor-port.
