Sick #2
Eddie pauses a moment, then makes two swift movements. He pulls the woman upward with nothing but the incredible grip of his palm, lifting her head about two feet off the ground and then slamming her back down against the hard pavement.
The crack is so loud that I can hear it all the way over here, a hollow pop without a shred of resistance. Eddie’s hand pushes all the way through her, hitting the pavement below as the women’s face erupts through his fingers in a crimson sludge.
I still don’t care about the woman, just as Eddie instructed, but the sheer power of this violent display is nothing short of terrifying. His strength is uncanny, fueled by something well beyond the limits of the human form.
Eddie stands up, wobbling a bit as he struggles to get his bearings.
I can see now that he’s covered in dark, coagulated blood—mostly from the bullet wounds and the dog bite—along with a fine mist of security guard–skull fragments and gray matter.
The fabric around his forearm is shredded to pieces, dangling in tassels and mixed with strips of his own torn flesh, all leading down to his gnarled red hand.
Eddie lurches awkwardly as he moves, a distinct flop to every swing of his leg that suggests a well-placed bullet has shattered the bone.
His gait is slightly more complex, though, unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
Anyone else with this kind of breakage should be writhing in pain, or at least keeping their weight focused on the opposite side of their body.
Eddie does nothing of the sort, barely seeming to notice that his new leg length has given his stride a distinct pitch.
Then again, he also doesn’t seem to notice the hole in his head.
Eddie takes a few uncanny steps, then pauses in the middle of the road, glancing around in a way that immediately floods me with the slightest hint of relief.
He’s lost the trail. When he opens his mouth to call out, I plug my ears and turn away.
I’m not quite sure what will happen if I accidently read his lips, but I’m not willing to find out.
“You need to get out of here,” I warn the young clerk behind the counter.
I search the lobby for an exit that doesn’t involve backtracking through the front door, and it’s in this moment that I spot a small television tucked away behind the desk. It’s barely visible, angled to keep late-night workers entertained.
Someone’s been watching the news. Even from this awkward sight line, I recognize the breaking story banner that stretches across the bottom of the TV in brilliant red.
A reporter is talking directly to the camera, and although I can’t hear her voice, a stream of subtitles translate the words for me.
“This is the latest in a series of bizarre homicides being carried out across Palm Springs,” the reporter says. I can see now that she’s standing outside Club Flamingo, positioned on the corner where Eddie and I stood just moments earlier.
“The trio of suspicious deaths joins one earlier victim who was also discovered entirely flayed, as well as a handful of ongoing disappearances,” the reporter continues, clearly struggling to remain professional.
“Authorities are urging anyone with information about this unfolding situation to call the number below.”
It takes a moment for me to fully comprehend what she’s saying. Flayed means skinned, but I haven’t seen anyone get skinned tonight.
Is that what Eddie’s been doing when he leaves me in the car? If so, why? He’s just fine with me witnessing every other ghastly mutilation he comes up with.
This reminder of Eddie prompts me to glance back over the windowsill, horrified to find him lumbering across the road with his awkward new lurch. He’s headed for the motel.
Eddie’s command once again surges through my mind—get the fuck out of here—and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for my interpretation.
A frantic instruction to escape could mean a lot of things, like running at a full clip in some random direction until I pass out or Eddie catches up with me, but I’m too methodical for that.
At some basic level, the core of my being knows that “get away” also implies “don’t be stupid about it.”
I slip out the front door with the few seconds I have left. This particular angle keeps me tucked away from Eddie’s sight line, at least for now, but my options of where to go from here are limited.
Palm Springs is full of these hipster retreats, boutique hotel chains revamping every scrappy old motel and turning them into something both luxurious and selfreferential. The campy desert aesthetic remains, in a way, but it’s been transformed into a haven for pool parties and social media posts.
I fucking love places like this, but the vibe is certainly different when you’re being chased down by the crazed superhuman corpse of a fabulous gay icon. A zombie who is, apparently, out there skinning people.
This property features a lobby and a diner out front, the two structures disconnected from each other.
Located behind the diner is a large central pool area, and the guest rooms surround this oasis in a giant, two-story horseshoe.
Because this is a high-end motel, there are no internal hallways, just door after door lined up along the pool and parking lot. There’s also no easy way out.
I hurry down the left side of this cement loop, wondering if I can hustle to the cover of some nearby cars, and then realize there’s absolutely no way I’ll make it without Eddie spotting me. There are just too many empty spaces.
Instead, I clock a nearby vending machine, scurry over, and duck behind the large rectangular device. This contraption is just far enough from the wall for me to wedge myself behind it, slipping into the crack so that I’m fully obscured save for from one very specific angle.
Old vending machines might seem like an odd thing to find at these updated boutique resorts, but that’s exactly the vibe they’re going for.
This machine has been retrofitted with a paint job to match the casual beige-and-brown color scheme that surrounds it.
The usual rows of sugary, caffeine-charged beverages and ranch-flavored potato chips have been replaced by a selection of quaint, Instafeed-worthy goods like postcards from local artists, a tarot deck, crystals, a tiny bottle of hot sauce, CBD gummies, and condoms.
Bells loudly jangle as Eddie yanks open the lobby door and heads inside, a reminder for me to cover my ears.
I tuck my chin as I cower in the shadows, like tilting my head down might somehow make me even smaller, and it’s because of this angle that I notice a trail of ants.
The creatures are hustling along in a thin, single-file line, charting a path between my feet.
They are organized and efficient, perfectly in sync with one another.
My eyes linger on the chain of insects, until suddenly their presence triggers a memory so profoundly important that, despite my steadfast dedication to staying quiet, a faint gasp slips through my lips.
My daughter’s poolside words dance through my mind. It’s called para-moans.
The mental filing cabinet springs open, folders leaping out and reorganizing themselves as new information pours in.
I consider the bizarre scent that seems to permeate Eddie’s skin, but I also remember the lilting specks of neon pink dust that surrounded him like a cloud under the ultraviolet light.
I recall Eddie’s decision to leave a door open in the back room of Club Flamingo, a seemingly insignificant choice that suddenly means a lot more when you consider one thing: airflow.
While most of my social media connections involve fashion and lifestyle, there are a few Instafeed suggestions that take me off the beaten path.
Thanks to Marlo borrowing my phone from time to time, for every nine “get ready with me” videos, there will usually be one nature documentary.
Typically, these clips come in the form of a rescued puppy or an unlikely animal friendship between a goat and a cheetah, but right now a different kind of nature clip sticks in my brain.
The video was about pheromones, tiny airborne particles used across the animal kingdom to create a variety of responses in those that receive them. It featured thousands of ants overwhelming a much larger insect, the pulsing throng of creatures working together with otherworldly efficiency.
But the explanation wasn’t supernatural, it was biological.
They were using pheromones to communicate, the ant queen compelling an army into complex formations through the power of her scent.
Across the animal kingdom, pheromones are known to cultivate attraction between various partners, but it’s not just sexual attraction.
These airborne chemicals produce familial love, friendship, and in some cases, a blinding compulsion to trust.
I can still hear the voiceover: “In humans, pheromones are registered through our olfactory gland, a round mass of tissue located deep within our nasal passageways.”
I remove my cupped hands from my ears and, instead, use one of them to pinch my nose tight.
The only question is, will this be enough? It hasn’t been long since I inhaled a whiff of Eddie’s odd popcorn scent, and as far as I know his commands last around twenty minutes even after leaving the area.
If I were a surgeon, I’d have no problem removing my olfactory glands in the name of survival. Fuck it, who needs them? I’m not a surgeon, though, so whatever I come up with is bound to be a little sloppier.
I unplug my nose and carefully lean out from my hiding spot, peering through the lobby windows.
Eddie is inside, but his focus is elsewhere, talking sternly to the front desk clerk.
Directly to my right is the flat glass of the vending machine.
I’m too close to get a clear look at every potential selection, but I don’t need every selection. I only need one.