Wes pulled in under the cone of light cast by the street lamp. The snow was sweeping in heavily now. He left the engine idling, mostly for the heat it gave.
Marty, still shaken from threatening harm to a woman, pulled the small burlap bag from his overcoat pocket. It clinked as he lifted it into the light. Inside there were four full vials of the weird blackish liquid and a wad of cash. He grinned, “Looks like Christmas has come early, lads!”, and stuffed the money into an inside pocket. He rotated the small vials around his meaty hand, “Still no clue wat dis stuff is, but betcha it killed dem kids.” Wes and Kieran, seated in the back seat, leaned in to have a closer look.
BANG! Something crashed into the roof. “No, no, no…”, Kieran groaned. Wes slipped the car into gear and slammed down on the accelerator. The car lurched across the road, sliding into the opposite kerb. Marty placed his sawn-off against the roof and unloaded both barrels. The sound was deafening. Wes regained control. Air and snow whooshed through the tattered hole in the roof. A black ichor dribbled down on them too as something slid from the top of the car and fell in its wake.
Marty wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket and proceeded to reload the gun, “Sent dat one back te Hell!”. His mammy spoke of Hell often when he was a lad and he wondered, if just for a fleeting moment, if that wasn’t to be his final destination too.
Wes found his right hand inside his jacket pocket again. The smooth and rough textures of the object within had become very familiar. He ran his thumb up to the glass lip and relished the change in surface as he touched the cork stoppering the vial. He popped it slightly and then almost instantly resealed it. His conscious mind caught himself and, as if to conceal what was already concealed, he withdrew a comb from his pocket and smoothed back his hair.
The vial was the only physical evidence of that horrible night in early November. Frank Comely had done expert work in repairing the car. He could be trusted not to ask questions when the price was right. Wes was also dressed in a new suit, the stains wouldn’t shift from the last one. Marty had given him money for the suit before splitting the money they’d found. Yeah, the vial was the only thing left from that night.
Wes placed the comb back, but his hand was slow to withdraw from his pocket.
Kieran woke slowly. It was much like most other mornings recently. His hand found the whiskey bottle and then he lay staring forlornly at the four objects standing on his bedside locker.
Sleep had come only fitfully over the past few weeks. Kieran’s dreams had invaded his ‘day job’… he was more unsettled, angrier, and it was beginning to show in almost every interaction he had. He’d nearly punched Hogan yesterday when he’d gotten a sandwich order wrong… or had he ordered the wrong thing? Tiredness was clouding everything.
From his dreams recurring motifs were becoming seared into his mind. The reports of his .38 as he put two slugs through that foul chanting druid were the sound track of his dreamscape. Over and over that cacophony played as he slept. He woke with terrible headaches… only a long gulp of something strong helped temper them.
That was bad, but it was the imagery that he couldn’t shake: the black winged creatures swooping and diving from impossible blackness and, foulest of all, the creature that appeared to suckle them. It was a grotesque form that never quite came into focus, a miasma of swirling black fluid drifting all around it obscured the detail. He was thankful for that, but a part of his mind craved to know more.
He wiped the sleep from his eyes and stirred from bed, reaching out to run a finger across the vials as he did.
Until next timne,
Owen