Chapter 6 #2
Dammit. As much as Carson didn’t want to admit it, there was a piece of him that was having fun.
A tiny piece, but still. It was there. Which annoyed him even more.
Not like he didn’t have fun in D.C. He did, but it was different.
A night out was more about being seen and making connections. It wasn’t this.
Why did he have to pick Matty’s half-birthday to come back to Cloverfield? Life would’ve been much simpler if he hadn’t run into Agnes this morning.
Or Liz.
The memory of seeing her earlier in the day smacked any lingering endorphins right out of his system. The way she looked at him like she wanted to tear him apart with her bare hands. And not in a good way.
The way her hazel-brown eyes sparked. Not in interest, but more like she was trying to set him on fire.
The way her sudden appearance punched him in the gut and sucked all the air out of his lungs.
Dammit. Carson shook his head, trying to shake the vestiges of their earlier meeting from his mind. Come on, man! Don’t let her mess with your head anymore!
Carson forced her from his mind, focusing instead on reality.
The small child beside him half skating, half running while clutching the hands of a man on one side and a woman on the other.
The group of giggling teenaged girls who traveled in a pack while a group of similar aged boys eyed them from a table near the snack stand.
The woman roller skating with a baby in a carrier strapped to her front.
What the hell? Who went roller skating with a baby strapped to their front?
Carson did a quick double take as he skated past the older woman. Because that kid either had an unfortunate excess of hair on his face, or that was no baby.
Wait. Furry face. Beady eyes. That wasn’t a kid. That was a raccoon.
Who the hell brought a raccoon to a skating rink?
Carson glanced back at the woman who seemed unconcerned with her surroundings. Then at the others nearby, who were equally unconcerned. He questioned if he was having a hallucination. Or possibly a stroke. Because he could not be the only one seeing this.
He knew his hometown was weird, but seriously?
Carson was still mulling over the logistics of skating with a raccoon when lightning struck.
Except it wasn’t the electrical kind. More like a small, furry missile.
On four legs. Wearing overalls. It darted right between Carson’s legs, jumped, climbed his torso like he was scaling a building, and clung to his shirt.
Stayed there. Sniffed the barbecue stains. Then began licking them.
“Dennis!”
Some part of Carson’s brain made out a woman yelling. Then a whole bunch of people yelling. He might’ve been one of them. He wasn’t entirely sure.
What he was sure about was the fact that he no longer seemed to have control over his limbs.
It was as if the furry creature’s presence shorted the connection between his brain and his legs.
His brain knew he needed to stop. Knew that if he didn’t, he was going to take down that toddler and his parents.
But his legs weren’t cooperating. Or maybe he hit a nick in the floor.
All he knew was that one minute both legs were underneath him, and the next minute they weren’t. One leg was sliding out to the side. Slowly. Steadily. And he couldn’t. Quite. Get it. Back.
Oh, God. There was no way this was ending well. Legs weren’t meant to move like that. Not without a lot of stretching beforehand. Carson didn’t remember the last time he stretched.
Nor did he remember the last time seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. Minutes into hours. Hours into eternity.
It seemed to take forever for him to hit the floor, but when he did, time finally snapped back into reality.
So did something else. He felt a pop somewhere in his groin, and while he was hopeful it was merely the sound of his pants ripping, the pain shooting up from his inner thigh told him it wasn’t.
Fuck!
He knew coming back home was a bad idea. Should’ve stayed far, far away. Damn his uncle for sending out the bat signal, and damn himself for answering it.
A cacophony of voices filtered through Carson’s pain-induced fog. Great. As if getting injured in a raccoon-triggered skating incident wasn’t bad enough, he did it in public. In Cloverfield. He didn’t think it could possibly get worse.
Hearing his name barked out while someone else yelled words like “Call 911!” told him that yes, they could.
He sincerely doubted his manhood would be able to withstand having to explain to the paramedics what the hell happened.
Partly because he still wasn’t quite sure himself.
All he knew was that he needed to get up and get the hell out of there.
He steeled himself, breathing through the fire that flared when he moved his leg, and peeled open his eyelids.
And that’s when he knew he was totally screwed.
Because there, kneeling in front of him, was Liz, concern etched across her face.
That in and of itself either meant he was hallucinating or that the apocalypse had begun. What the hell was she doing here?
“Car-man!” Matty pushed his way through the crowd and dropped down next to Liz. “Is he okay?”
“Hey, man.” Carson tried to infuse as much reassurance as possible into his smile. Poor guy looked like he was about to cry. “I’m good.” Or good-adjacent. Conscious, at least. As he took stock of his body, maybe better off than he initially thought.
Or not.
As soon as he tried to sit up, a hot poker jabbed him in the thigh.
Oh, shit. That was gonna leave a mark. Breathing through the pain, he worked his way into a sitting position and gave the small crowd gathered around him a little wave.
“Nothing to see here, folks.” Except a guy who got his ass handed to him by a furry, four-legged creature and a pair of roller skates.
He tried to move his leg to get up, but another flash of pain shot through his leg.
Well, great. How the hell am I supposed to get up? Getting up on skates was tough enough, but getting up with a hot poker jabbing at him every time he moved his leg was a whole other ballgame. One he wanted no part of.
Speaking of things he wanted no part of…
“You can go, too,” he said to Liz. “I’m fine.”