of pain bloomed on his arm as a twisting thread broke the surface of his skin. Blood welled up around the tip. Then another, and another. In seconds his arm began to resemble a white candle dripping red wax and spiked with black thorns.
More threads emerged from his legs, his chest, his back. He scratched madly, cringing at the coarse, thorny feel of the growths. His fingers spasmed as the threads inside him tugged and pulled and wove their way through the meat of his arm. He felt them twisting around his tendons, pulling them tight, and the grotesque feeling of them worming their way into the fat blue veins of his arms and legs.
Then they were gone. Not disappeared, like some drug-induced hallucination, but sucked into his body with a chorus of tiny slurping sounds.
Blood streamed from his body. Inroads of pain burned in his muscles like hot wires. He staggered and fell, splashing back into the water, his mind whirling. He snuffled up water and began to cry.
"Hey man, you OK?" A jogger, clad in expensive-looking spandex shorts and tank-top, leaned down. His face showed equal parts compassion and prurient interest. His dog, a lean black hound with triangular upraised ears, growled deep in its throat. "Shh Basie. Do you need me to call an ambulance, dude?"
Christian tried to focus on the man, but his eyes ran with water and his thoughts caromed around his skull like a buzzing insect. "Help. Help me," he choked out. His throat was clogged, like he had tried to swallow a handful of weeds.
The jogger ventured a step closer, peering at him over the blade-like lenses of his sunglasses. His eyes widened as he saw something he didn't like, and he almost tripped and fell in his hurry to move away. "Actually, nevermind. Sorry, but I'm actually running a bit late." He gestured up the trail, as if to illustrate the fact. "And I have to be at work in a couple hours, so—" The dog strained at the leash, hackles standing straight up, foam flecking its jaws.
Christian wheezed and gasped. "I killed someone. I have killed people. Help me."
The dog lunged, yanking the jogger along behind it. He tripped and lost hold of the leash. The dog landed on Christian, snarling and biting and clawing. "Basie, get down! Stop it!" The dog ignored him and powered into Christian, muzzle snapping inches from his face.
Christian struggled against the dog's wiry muscle, forcing his arm up between his face and the dog's jaws. The dog's long white teeth clamped into the muscle of his forearm, digging and tearing at the meat, scraping against bone. Splatters of blood flecked its whiskers and the white patch on its muzzle.
Christian's vision turned red, and he snarled and whipped the dog from side to side, trying to shake it loose. The dog hung on, like something that had grown from Christian's own flesh. He felt movement under the skin of his arm, and the dog let out a started yip. It tried to disengage, but tendrils of fibrous material had extruded from Christian's arm and planted themselves in the dog's face. More had found its throat and plunged themselves into the fur there. A series of muffled barks emerged from the dog, and its teeth let go. Christian grabbed the dog by the ears and pulled it back to his own face. He puked out a long, veined tentacle straight into the dog's mouth.
"Basie!" The jogger lunged forward to grip the dog around the middle. He pulled, but Christian—or whatever was growing in Christian—was far stronger. It pulsed and flexed like a long muscular worm. The dog fought to dislodge it, shaking its head, biting at the tentacle stuck down its throat. Then the dog exploded. Gobbets of black-furred flesh blasted in every direction. Warm blood splattered Christian's bare flesh and steamed in the morning air.
The jogger fled, screaming, and Christian's consciousness swirled down the darkness as he crumpled to the ground.
That night, after dark, Christian stumbled through the doors of the emergency room at Hollywood Presbyterian.
More threads emerged from his legs, his chest, his back. He scratched madly, cringing at the coarse, thorny feel of the growths. His fingers spasmed as the threads inside him tugged and pulled and wove their way through the meat of his arm. He felt them twisting around his tendons, pulling them tight, and the grotesque feeling of them worming their way into the fat blue veins of his arms and legs.
Then they were gone. Not disappeared, like some drug-induced hallucination, but sucked into his body with a chorus of tiny slurping sounds.
Blood streamed from his body. Inroads of pain burned in his muscles like hot wires. He staggered and fell, splashing back into the water, his mind whirling. He snuffled up water and began to cry.
"Hey man, you OK?" A jogger, clad in expensive-looking spandex shorts and tank-top, leaned down. His face showed equal parts compassion and prurient interest. His dog, a lean black hound with triangular upraised ears, growled deep in its throat. "Shh Basie. Do you need me to call an ambulance, dude?"
Christian tried to focus on the man, but his eyes ran with water and his thoughts caromed around his skull like a buzzing insect. "Help. Help me," he choked out. His throat was clogged, like he had tried to swallow a handful of weeds.
The jogger ventured a step closer, peering at him over the blade-like lenses of his sunglasses. His eyes widened as he saw something he didn't like, and he almost tripped and fell in his hurry to move away. "Actually, nevermind. Sorry, but I'm actually running a bit late." He gestured up the trail, as if to illustrate the fact. "And I have to be at work in a couple hours, so—" The dog strained at the leash, hackles standing straight up, foam flecking its jaws.
Christian wheezed and gasped. "I killed someone. I have killed people. Help me."
The dog lunged, yanking the jogger along behind it. He tripped and lost hold of the leash. The dog landed on Christian, snarling and biting and clawing. "Basie, get down! Stop it!" The dog ignored him and powered into Christian, muzzle snapping inches from his face.
Christian struggled against the dog's wiry muscle, forcing his arm up between his face and the dog's jaws. The dog's long white teeth clamped into the muscle of his forearm, digging and tearing at the meat, scraping against bone. Splatters of blood flecked its whiskers and the white patch on its muzzle.
Christian's vision turned red, and he snarled and whipped the dog from side to side, trying to shake it loose. The dog hung on, like something that had grown from Christian's own flesh. He felt movement under the skin of his arm, and the dog let out a started yip. It tried to disengage, but tendrils of fibrous material had extruded from Christian's arm and planted themselves in the dog's face. More had found its throat and plunged themselves into the fur there. A series of muffled barks emerged from the dog, and its teeth let go. Christian grabbed the dog by the ears and pulled it back to his own face. He puked out a long, veined tentacle straight into the dog's mouth.
"Basie!" The jogger lunged forward to grip the dog around the middle. He pulled, but Christian—or whatever was growing in Christian—was far stronger. It pulsed and flexed like a long muscular worm. The dog fought to dislodge it, shaking its head, biting at the tentacle stuck down its throat. Then the dog exploded. Gobbets of black-furred flesh blasted in every direction. Warm blood splattered Christian's bare flesh and steamed in the morning air.
The jogger fled, screaming, and Christian's consciousness swirled down the darkness as he crumpled to the ground.
That night, after dark, Christian stumbled through the doors of the emergency room at Hollywood Presbyterian.
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