Chapter 74 #2
Panicked by what might happen, by what he might do, I got out of the car.
I wanted them captured, charged, jailed, not dead.
I sprinted behind him. My feet hit the pavement and bounced off, each step shot a burning pain through my chest. My head pounded.
The damp night air rushed past my face and my eyes streamed and blurred.
I heard the screech of tyres, saw the headlights shudder and then become frozen.
A silhouette of gray figures emerged like shadow puppets against the car’s lights.
A fast-moving blur tore between them. They dropped like mosquitoes hit by a spatula.
One after the other. At the time I was running and it all happened so quickly I couldn’t make out the details.
It was later, when I replayed it in my head, that it all became clear.
Karson’s teeth gripped into the side of a neck and he bit down. The man’s eyes bolted out in a flash of panic and pain.
Karson twisted his head.
The sound of a dog ripping meat from a bone—but wetter and more slushy sounding—stung the night air.
The man released a shriek, a high-pitched and terrified sound, as a large chunk of flesh tore from the side of his neck.
Karson spat it to the ground. The inside of his neck revealed itself for a brief moment—flesh and meat and a pale, ribbed windpipe and arteries dangled loosely—before blood frothed wildly, gushing to the ground.
The man gaped, his mouth opened and closed soundlessly in shock and a failed attempt to draw breath.
He reached up, clasping his hand to a large, cavernous hole, trying to fill an impossibly large wound.
It was like trying to patch the Titanic.
His legs wobbled, his bloodied hand fell by his side and he dropped to his knees.
He rocked back and forth then plopped face down to the tarmac.
Karson moved to the two men behind him. One reached for something behind his back, I guessed maybe a gun, but before he could fumble it from its source, Karson threw a punch to his chest.
Crunch. The sound was like a butcher’s knife through a brisket.
I watched on in a bewildered daze. The man’s eyes became the size of billiard balls.
Karson reefed his hand back. He held something bright red clutched between his fingers.
Blood gushed from a large, gaping hole in the man’s chest before he collapsed back and stared up at the night sky, seeing nothing.
Karson tossed whatever it was aside like trash. Something red skidded across the road, leaving a scarlet wake behind it. It came to a stop, I gasped as I recognized what it was, a heart.
The next guy, the one who’d slammed his fist into my face, held a gun in trembling hands and managed to fire two shots.
Pop, pop.
There was a whistle sound. Then a blunt chunky noise.
The bullets had hit something—I guessed not Karson though, he made no reaction.
He stood like a wrestler waiting for the referee to start the fight, arms held stiff by his side, red bloody fists curled tight.
The man pulled the trigger again and again and again.
Click. Click. Click.
His bullets had run out. Panic crossed his face.
With no time to reload he tossed the gun aside.
It clanged and skidded across the ground.
Karson stood watching. I couldn’t see his face but somehow I knew he’d be smiling.
The hulk yanked a hunting knife from his belt, the same one I’d used against him.
He jabbed the knife forward with a sneer, but the sneer didn’t mask his terror.
Karson stepped forward with human speed as if he wanted to draw out the man’s fear. He shot out a hand, grabbed his arm and twisted it. He used his own weapon against him. He slid it in just beneath his rib cage, slowly, to its hilt.
The hulk grunted, a look of bewilderment and pain crossed his face, sweat beaded instantly on his forehead.
Karson’s voice was a low growl, so chilling my heart stopped, as he said, “I would make your death much, slower and much, much, more painful. I’d cut you apart in tiny pieces, and listen to your screams for the entire night.
I’d pluck every bone from your worthless, body, and leave them on the doorstep like a jigsaw puzzle for your wife.
Consider it a mercy that she’s watching.
Your hands will never touch a woman again. ”
The male’s face went bone white, he whimpered. “No, please…”
Karson twisted the blade and dragged the knife, slowly, down.
The male’s scream carved through the mountains, sending roosting birds into terrified flight. The wound opened up like an earthquake crack. A tsunami of blood and innards surged out.
He fell backward, with no attempt to stop the fall.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
I had stopped running about twenty yards away. My breath whining through my neck, a tornado slamming through my head. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Glued to the spot.
The driver of the van, a smaller, middle aged man, was standing with the rigor of a dismayed soldier. His arms were held stiffly by his sides. Face was as pale as milk. He had no weapons. He didn’t try and fight or run.
Karson turned agonizingly slowly to look at him.
The man held up his hands and took two staggered steps back.
“Please,” he begged, his voice, strangled by desperate terror, tore at my heart.
Jesus Christ.
“Karson, no.” I cried out.
He heard me, his eyes hit mine briefly, they seemed to bleed from the inside. As if they had been staked in the depths. The darkness seeped like a black fog from his shoulders. His brow flickered.
“Enough,” I whispered, “that’s enough.”
The red disappeared. Now his eyes were black. The predator was dissolving and man was emerging. I thought he’d let the driver go.
And then the man turned and began to run.
Karson launched into the air, almost as if he could fly. He came down silently, as devastating as a lightning bolt from the sky. I spun away as his teeth staked into the man’s neck. I didn’t see him hit the floor, but the sound of the slap filled the night.
In a haze of shock, devastated at the violence I’d witnessed, I finally understood what he’d warned me about.
Trauma dropped me to the ground. I tucked my head into my hands, trying to grasp onto some threads of normality and sanity in a world that was not normal nor sane.
Trying desperately to calm myself, to find strength, when all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and cry.
The wind ruffled my hair, clouds converged deepened the night.
Car beams stalked out like the mouth of a monster and froze the destruction like an image from a forensic photograph.
I don’t know how long I sat there for, reeling.
I lost all track of time. The distant mournful howl of Wolf raised my head up.
The wind tumbled against the trees, but the only noise I could hear was a strange ringing in my head.
All that filled my senses was a vision of red, the stench of death was everywhere.
Karson stood behind me. I was aware of his presence, but I had no words. Sometimes there were no words. Nothing that could be said could change anything.
Emotions scorched through me, terror, bewilderment, revulsion, and helplessness. Their deaths were not in self-defence. He’d brutally and callously hunted them. The hunter was the man I loved. Desperately.
I felt as if I was at that terrible moment in life where I’d reached the brink of a deep, black cavity.
Teetering at a crumbling edge. A choice had to be made.
I could let this ruin me, or I could turn and fight.
It was helplessness that would ultimately decide for me.
I would fight. Because fighting meant hope, and with all hope comes power.
And I needed to take back the power any way I could.
This was not some random attack. They’d waited until I came out.
It was nothing to do with the waters, whoever they were they had no idea I had any powers.
What other enemies did I have? Cole, maybe, I couldn’t rule him out. Who else would’ve come for me?
Devastation had swept me to my knees, but it was strength which brought me to my feet.
The numbness leeched through my veins. I looked at the blood-strewn bodies of the men.
The man whose fist had struck my face. I went to him first. He laid on his back, staring up to the stars.
The look of agony was gone, replaced by nothingness.
His intestines misted into the night air.
The smell of blood and acid surged against my nose.
Feeling as if I floated in a place outside myself, I pressed against the liquid-soaked pockets of his jeans, searching for the tell-tale lump of a wallet or phone.
Anything that might tell us who they were.
The blood was warm and slippery, coating my hands like a red glove.
I fought the urge to recoil. My need to know outweighed the horror.
I tapped along his pocket seam. Forensics would have a field day, the evidence would lock me away for life.
“Amelia, listen to me,” Karson said, and I realized he’d been speaking to me. “I said, let me do that.”
“I can do it,” I answered, my voice it came out hoarse and harsh. There was nothing in the first pocket, I leaned across his body and checked the other. I avoided looking at his face. I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, personalize him. I refused to think of him as a man with a family or people who loved him.
I will chop your fucking flaps off, bitch.