The van’s windows reflected the starless sky. Logan staggered toward the vehicle, wondering if someone inside could help. Blood streamed down his right leg and there was a gash on his temple. He clutched his lower abdomen, where a bullet had struck, to slow the bleeding.
As he got closer, he saw feet pressed against the side window. He knocked, expecting to find lovers. When he put his fist to the glass, several more feet appeared. Bewildered, he flung the door open. A face, with a bulbous nose, seemed to float near the roof. There were ten writhing legs where the neck should have been. Logan looked from the legs to the face’s lazy right eye staring back at him and bolted across the parking lot into a thick forest.
Before long, he arrived at a clearing where he caught his breath and turned around. The unified sound of thousands of crickets’ chirps inundated the woods. The thing did not follow.
*****
His earlier confrontation at an intersection flashed through his mind. A car had nearly hit his after not halting at a ‘Stop’ sign. Logan gave the finger. A large man with a handlebar mustache got out and began arguing with him. After a minute, things got heated and fists were thrown. The man took out a gun and shot him in the abdomen, jumped back into his pickup and took off.
Logan stood at the intersection hoping that someone would pass. But then he saw the shooter’s Dodge pickup heading back down the road and he darted for the woods.
*****
In the distance, lights moved through the trees. Logan knew that he was probably close to his car. If he could only reach it, he would drive himself to a hospital.
Suddenly, he saw the whites of eyeballs move through the ferns and disappear. He paused and heard footsteps coming closer. It was not a pair of footsteps but multiple. Then he saw the face smiling in a clearing less than ten feet away. The lazy eye’s gaze shifted in every direction before locking in on him. The thing walked slowly towards him.
*****
“It’s ok! Calm down!” said the nurse while rebandaging his stomach wound. “Nightmares happen during trauma. You were sleeping!” Logan opened his eyes and he looked up at her. “You had a close call there. An inch or two over and it would’ve hit a celiac artery.”
She left the room and Logan listened to the chatter from nearby rooms and on-and-off beeping. The conversations dissipated and the beeping noises died down.
*****
Logan closed his eyes and heard footsteps coming towards him. He opened them and saw the man with the handlebar mustache standing over him. The man stole glances in either direction before clenching Logan’s neck. Logan grabbed the man’s forearms and tried to pull them off, but it was no use in his weakened state.
In minutes, Logan’s breathing stopped. The face with ten legs whisked out of him, slipping away into the ceiling vent and then out into the dark oily night.
Peter F. Crowley is a prolific writer from the Boston area whose work spans short fiction, op-eds, poetry, and academic essays. His writing has appeared in publications such as Pif Magazine, New Verse News, Flash Fiction Magazine, Common Dreams, The Galway Review, Digging Through the Fat, and The Opiate.
