Block Party #4
The second he says this, Eddie lashes out with one of his enormous tentacles, wrapping it around Noah’s leg and giving a sudden powerful tug.
Noah flips back, slamming against the wooden floor with a hearty thud as his bat clatters away.
His startled yelp is cut short as the air puffs from his lungs.
Eddie yanks Noah across the floor with terrifying strength, dragging his prey until Noah is positioned directly under him.
“Wait!” I scream, stepping forward and then retreating when another barbed tentacle strikes my hand like a cracking whip, sending my knife flying.
Eddie lets out a startling hiss, his throat rattling hard and his whole body arching like a scorpion ready to strike. “If you move, I’ll have the neighbors make your daughter into soup while you watch. Don’t forget, I can still take your body instead.”
I don’t believe him. The soup part, maybe, but Eddie’s too vain to climb inside me now. Regardless, it’s a theory I’d rather not test.
Eddie uses his slinking tendrils to hold Noah down, two on each wrist and one on the right ankle, while his third lashing appendage keeps me at bay.
Most of the insect’s sharp legs dig into the wooden floor, but one presses threateningly into Noah’s side, piercing the flesh just enough to create a small blossom of red across his shirt.
Eddie lowers his mandibles to Noah’s neck. The giant bug lets out a soft, strange tone as his throat bag sucks inward, then he slowly moves across Noah’s shoulders and chest, repeating the process.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Eddie hisses.
When he arrives at Noah’s side he stops. The insect reaches down, slipping a tentacle under the shirt and pulling it up to reveal a small half-inch scar: the place where Noah’s melanoma spot was removed.
“You waited too long, buddy. I can smell it,” Eddie rattles. “Good news for me.” He snaps his head forward, thrusting his razor-sharp mandibles into Noah. Blood spills forth as Eddie leisurely tears away the skin.
Noah lets out a horrible cry, his body writhing against the floor as the insect digs deeper and deeper with his massive jaws, rending flesh in a sloppy, excited feast.
I watch in horror, restrained by circumstance yet unable to turn away. My hand stays firm on the back of Marlo’s head, keeping her buried against my legs.
Suddenly, however, Eddie pulls back.
The insect seizes up for a moment, struggling to process something and then letting out a gurgling shriek.
Eddie shakes hard, a fuzzing, bubbling mess of red and black erupting from his throat like a child’s volcanic science project.
His tentacles loosen around Noah’s wrist, suddenly curling up as though reckoning with some vicious wave of internal pain.
I’m so taken aback by this abrupt shift that I’m not entirely sure how to react, but Noah isn’t so timid.
My friend claws his way out from beneath the stumbling insect, hurrying over and scooping up his aluminum bat.
He cocks it back and rushes toward Eddie, swinging as hard as he can and striking the insect’s large black head.
Plink!
The reaction—or lack of reaction—from Eddie is astonishing. He’s still navigating some brutal internal battle, but it appears his external protection is second to none. There’s absolutely no indication that he even notices the baseball bat as it glances off his hard shell.
In fact, the bat reflects so awkwardly, and with such force, that Noah actually stumbles a bit. Not one to surrender easily, he lifts his bat again. Noah puts everything he’s got into another strike, but this one goes even worse.
Plink!
Once again, all the inertia of Noah’s swing courses back through the bat handle, shocking him with the same painful feeling you might get if you walloped a cement wall. Noah cries out, lurching sideways and holding his aching wrist.
Eddie’s mouth opens and closes as he struggles to get a command through the cascade of bubbling slop. He manages to form a single rattling syllable, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by another heave of liquid.
“We gotta go!” I shout, charting a new course.
I’d rather not be here when my frozen neighbors are reanimated.
I scoop Marlo up in my arms and carry her along, weaving through the crowd as we make our escape. Noah is following right behind, and soon enough we’re all bursting out through the front door.
“Here!” I shout, hustling to the convertible that rests at an angle in my driveway. I drop Marlo in back and leap into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with a loud roar. Noah hurries around and climbs in on the other side.
Before I get the chance to throw the vehicle into reverse, a hulking sprinting figure blasts out of the house with such ferocity that he nearly shatters the wood.
The man with the axe is racing toward us, his presence causing my hand to instinctively tug on the shifter and my foot to slam against the gas pedal.
Our vehicle rockets backward, tearing through a row of large green succulents and tossing up a flurry of desert pebbles in its wake.
I yank the wheel hard, narrowly avoiding a boulder that decorates our drought-resistant front yard, then careening over a ditch that nearly throws Marlo into the front seat.
The man with the axe is right behind us—or before us, since we’re driving in reverse—pumping his muscular arms and legs with the feverish intensity of a track star at the starting gun.
Behind him, more neighbors pour out of the house, giving chase with equal intensity.
There are dozens of them racing through the suburban night, machetes and knives and shovels glinting under the streetlights as they frantically stumble over one another.
The ones with bare feet don’t even flinch as their soles hammer against the sharp desert rocks, eyes unwaveringly locked on their target—on us.
We reach the pavement and I tug the wheel again, evening things out as we hurtle down the street backward. Axe man is still keeping the pace, just a few feet away from the car’s hood and looking me right in the eye as he froths at the mouth.
Fortunately, it’s not long before the might of our sports car wins out over the speed of the mob.
They’re still running when we reach the end of the block, but if I maneuver just right there’s enough space for me to flip the car around without them catching up.
I turn hard, cranking the shifter and then slamming the gas once we’re facing the correct direction.
In my rearview mirror, I can see a plume of bubblegum fog billowing across the neighborhood.