Perry grabbed the Chicken Scissors.
He cut his underwear twice, one snip on either hip, and the wet cloth fell to the floor.
He pulled his body away from the sink, just a little, so that there was a s.p.a.ce between his hips and the counter, just enough of a s.p.a.ce for the Chicken Scissors to slide, one impossibly thick blade resting atop his s.c.r.o.t.u.m, one impossibly thick blade below.
hatCH ing Her’we We
CoME Heert Wer Comesfg
If Perry Dawsey had any sc.r.a.ps of sanity left, they slipped away, snapping like a bungee cord pulled past its limit, both ends recoiling back from the break at wind-whistling speeds.
“At least the voices will stop.”
The first sound was the metallic sc.r.a.ping of the Chicken Scissors. The second sound was a scream.
APARTMENT
No one had answered at Apartment 202, and Dew was halfway through picking the lock when he heard the horrible scream. It was a man’s scream, and one that sent a wave of fear dancing at the base of Dew’s spine. There was something in that scream, something beyond pain or fear.
Dew jumped up, his knees popping loudly in the still hallway. The back staircase was closest. He sprinted up the steps, pulling out the cellular as he ran.
“Otto, get them in here!”
YA GONNA BURN . . .
Perry stumbled out of the bathroom, bleeding, coughing, crying, dripping snot and spit and blood everywhere. He was so far gone he didn’t see the hatchlings scatter about the room, hopping out of his way as fast as their uncoordinated little bodies would carry them. They filled his head with nonsense words and abstract phrases.
Juggling an armful of stuff, Perry whipped the first bottle against the wall just inside the door; it shattered, spreading Bacardi 151 all over the wall and floor.
He saw one of the hatchlings dash toward him. He grabbed the b.l.o.o.d.y Chicken Scissors. The hatchling leaped for his leg, wrapped its tentacles around his calf. He felt a stabbing, cutting pain, but it was distant, like the sound of a shout from a mile away. He arced down with the Chicken Scissors and punctured the hatchling’s body.
A five-part scream ripped through his head, a woman’s scream that poured from each of the hatchlings.
“Why can I still hear them?” Perry mumbled, his voice bordering on suffused hysteria. “I got them all . . . why can I still hear them, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!”
He lifted the scissors, taking a moment to stare at the jittering, wriggling hatchling impaled on the b.l.o.o.d.y blades. He flicked his wrist, flinging the hatchling across the room. It fell on the floor, broken, twitching, staining the carpet with purple goo.
Perry looked up and growled a primitive challenge, but the rest of the hatchlings stayed away. He moved to the door, stepping over Fatty Patty’s body. He noticed that her lower legs and hands were gone, gnawed to b.l.o.o.d.y stumps. The hatchlings popped up and down in a sickening dance, chirping, clicking, filling his head with disjointed threats.
Yo u’re going to pay Yo u b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You ’l l get your s. An d v e ry soon.
Perry ignored them and hopped to the entryway. He juggled his armload
of goodies as he unlocked the three locks, then opened the door. He smashed his last bottle on the door frame. Rum soaked the carpet.
Yo u’re a b a d man. We’l l b e coming for yo u, w e’re going to get you.
He looked back at the hatchlings, who stared at him with utter spite, black eyes gleaming with absolute hatred.
Perry said nothing, his mind incapable of articulating words. A thin string of drool hung from his lip, swinging in time with his uncoordinated movements. He dropped the Chicken Scissors to the floor.
In his arms he held two more things. One of the things was the lighter. He flicked his Bic.
Perry Dawsey stared at the room with eyes much older than his twentysix years. He bent and touched the flame to the rum-soaked floor.
Flames shot up instantly, a warm blue at first, but quickly turning yellowish-orange as the carpet caught fire. He dropped the lighter. Now he held only one thing. The flames grew, crawling up the door frame, reaching for the ceiling.
Perry looked back at the hatchlings one last time. They ran around the apartment like some satanic version of the Keystone Kops, bouncing off walls, furniture and one another in a blind terror — the fire quickly spread back from the door frame into the apartment proper, and there was no place for them to avoid the flames.
“Yes you gonna burn,” Perry said quietly.
He turned to leave, but the map caught his eye. Fire tickled the paper’s bottom corner.
Perry reached out and tore the map from the door. He left the apartment, went to his right and started hopping as the flames spread out into the hallway behind him.
APARTMENT
Dew came up the stairs just as the flames lashed out into the hallway, five feet high and growing fast. The place was going up like a dry Christmas tree. He stopped, looking for a target. On the other side of the hungry flames, he saw a huge naked man clutching something in each hand.
Through the distorted, waving heat haze, Dew saw that the man stood on one leg. The other hung limply, the foot a few inches off the floor. The man turned and hopped away, his bulk already obscured by the raging flames.
Dew started firing, emptying the seven-round magazine in less than three seconds. The lethal .45-caliber bullets disappeared into the fire — Dew didn’t know if he’d hit Dawsey or not.
And there was only one way to find out.
He popped a fresh mag into the Colt .45, hesitated for only a moment, then sprinted toward the raging fire.
HIPPITY HOPPITY
With a coordination born from complete lack of regard for safety, Perry leaped to the next landing, clearing six steps in one hop. When he landed, blood splattered from his crotch. Momentum slammed him into the wall, but he didn’t fall; instead he turned and cleared the next six steps with one powerful thrust. When he hit the second-floor landing, the towel fell off his arm, leaving him completely naked save for his socks.