Run
“Devorough?" he started. Devorough seemed to animate a bit. His mouth closed for a moment, then in a dreamy voice he said, "She forgot her doll. I came back for it. The place has to be clean."John didn’t know what was going on; was too confused and frightened by half to make any sense out of Devorough's strange words. He pressed on, though, wanting more than ever to pierce the shroud of mystery that had suddenly wrapped around his life.***Malachi held up a hand. They could hear the conversa...tion in the next room. They might find something out. One of the men had mentioned a girl, and he wanted to hear what he could before going in and blowing both of them back to Hell.The first voice came through the door. "Mr. Devorough, I’m Kaylie’s teacher, and...."Teacher? Malachi frowned. No matter what false name the Controllers had given her, why would Fran have a teacher? This wasn’t sounding right."...well, this is gonna sound crazy," the first voice continued, "but were you ever in Iraq?" There was a long pause. And then a sudden, violent crash.***John expected several things. A laugh, perhaps, with an accompanying "What are you talking about?" If not that, then a mere "I’m calling the police" was also something he would have been ready for. He even felt fairly prepared for Devorough to rip off his face and reveal an insect-like alien beneath the skin that would grab him and take him aboard some mothership hovering a few miles above the earth, undetected by NASA’s best scientists, there to be anally probed and made to mate with the bug women.But he did not expect Devorough to attack him.The man screamed, a crazy, ravaged cry that seemed to tear out of him, and John instinctively threw up his hands as Devorough rushed him, the other man's hands curled into vicious claws that would rend and tear. John suddenly found himself in the fight of his life. Devorough’s hands were like flesh-sheathed pincers that felt more as though they were powered by pistons and steam than by muscle and tendon. John pushed the man away, kicking him in the groin and forking at his eyes automatically, old training surging up to take control of his reactions.Devorough defended against the eye-gouge. John’s foot, however, connected. It was a solid hit, slamming Devorough’s genitals straight on. It should have dropped him, but the guy kept coming. He didn't even slow down, in fact. He pushed into John, punching him back into the wall hard enough that he felt his ribs bend and the air whoosh out of him. In the movies, such a hit was always a chance to hear the good guy scream in rage and then come on with renewed vigor. Reality was different. John couldn’t breathe; for an agonizing moment he couldn’t even think about breathing. Then his body recovered enough to suck in a huge gasp of air. Too late for further action, though. Devorough had the upper hand, and he kept it, pressing John into and up the wall, keeping John’s feet off the floor, keeping him from getting his balance. Both Devorough’s hands were occupied, though, so this time when John’s two fingers stabbed out, it was a success.One slammed into Devorough’s cheek, bruising John’s knuckle. The other slammed home, plunging into the gooey mass of Devorough’s eye, ruining it forever. John felt no immediate qualms about the action: he knew instinctively this was a fight to the death, with no second place award. But still, in a place in the back of his mind, he knew that he would later agonize about the move; would replay it over and over in his mind to see if there might have been some other way of dealing with the situation.If he survived, that was. If he was dead he wouldn’t have the luxury of feeling guilty.Devorough stepped back - without a sound, though he should have been screaming!MoreLess
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