Add it up: Pt.1: Jack O'Shadows
Aug. 8th, 2006 12:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonAdam's running for his life with the law close behind, but it ain't no badge that's got him scared. Half a block ahead and a squad car screeches up and pops the curb, behind him he can hear the footsteps of the square jawed rookie closing in. Just his luck, he's got himself a Marine drop out thinking this is his chance to roll TJ Hooker style while the two pigs getting out of the squad car training their 9's on him don't look like much of a better option.
One of them's screaming: "Stop-right-fuckin'-now-asshole!"
The older one just barks "Freeze" like in the movies.
They're drawing a bead. But if he stops now he's a dead man... and so's the cops for that matter.
Adam's got a pack a day smokers lungs. There's a sharp burn in the chest and the sweat stings his eyes. His breath is a constant barrage of heat and phlegm. He's slowing down...
"I mean it asshole! Stop where you are or i'll..." One of badges up ahead is shouting now and he can almost feel the rookies fingers inches from the back of his neck ... reaching... reaching... nervous hand on the trigger... a gun shot shatters the still air...
...and it's too late...
...Adam dodges left with a side step suddenly, down under the grasp of the rookie like a rabbit down the hole. To the two pigs coming out of the squad car it looks like he's just disappeared into the wall somehow, but the rookie knows better having seen Adam pop down an opening between the abandoned Department stores that make up Alabama Avenue, but he's got too much momentum to stop and ends up almost running into the bullet that glides right by his ear and richochetts harmlessly off the wall.
The older officer slaps the panic off his partner even as the Rookie turns around and races back down after Adam.
Sneakers & boots splash across the dark puddles.
There is a labyrinth of narrow alleyways, darkened sidestreets and half forgotten driveways that run like rivers throughout the city of Terminus. The exoskeletons of artifical dreams - green plastic baggies, spent lighters, discarded needles, dried out condoms slapped against the brick wall - floating on the carpet of yellowed newspapers and roach infested fast food containers. This is where a bad man can rent himself a good time: The Narcotic Bazaar, The Carnival of Whores, The Dumpster Jungles filled with broken savages and most importantly for Adam, the Secret Gallery!
Adam rattles up a chain link fence. His eyes have adjusted to the dark. Rookie closing in, yelling for back up into his shoulder mounted squawk box.
The Secret Gallery, where many a fine young artist learns the basics of tagging, mural art, graffiti, before s/he's ready to move on the big time and steady bombing the trains and more visible walls.
Adam catches his leg on the top of the fence. Loud tear of denim and a long drop that knocks the wind out of Adam. The Rookie hits the fence. Orders Adam to stay put and begins scrambling up the fence. Adam picks himself up and looks around him. Three walls equaling up a dead end. Covered in muted primary colors, amateur anime tags, scribble words looking like melted heiroglyphics, gang sigils spit up on the bricks weaving in and out of each other. Adam limps over, turns around and presses his back to the wall.
Soft thud. Rookie lands on his feet in a crouch and straightens up. Quick draws his piece out on Adam John Wayne style and starts shout talking in cop cliches through clenched teeth and heavy breathing. Pulls out a Mag light thick as a club and trains a minature spotlight on Adam.
The cop recoils and drops the light.
Behind Adam the graffiti is melting off the wall and impossibly dripping forward, forming tendrils that wiggle in the air in front of Adam and then begin wrapping around his arms, his legs, quicker and quicker, thousands of multi-colored tentacles peeling off the graffiti and mummifying themselves around him in layered strips. The tags are forming a cocoon and when only Adam's face is left to be seen, he whispers to the Rookie: "RUN! Please... just run for your fucking life man..."
Having 180ed from super pissed to scared shitless, the Rookie doesn't run. Instead he opens fire. 15 in the clip and one in the chamber. All a direct hit.
If Adam was still standing there.
Incredulous the Rookie steps up. Trembling fingers touch the wall, caresses the bullet holes still hot to the touch. There, where he thought (no not 'thought'... knew) he saw his collar stop and get... but no... it's just a painting.
The Mag Light on the ground spills a black outline of the Rookie out off of and behind him. Inside of it a hundred little red eyes light up open and the Jack O'Shadows steps out.
Hungry. Angry. Cold.
There is a hiss like a radiator leak and the two cops in the squad car hear the scream echo out of the alleyway, reverbetate off the walls and fire down the surronding streets like a freight train whistle.
The Jack O'Shadows pulls the Rookie back into his own Silhouette. A little flesh to satiate the ice hunger that drives it. A little taste of fear to hold it over until it finds Adam's scent again.
One of them's screaming: "Stop-right-fuckin'-now-asshole!"
The older one just barks "Freeze" like in the movies.
They're drawing a bead. But if he stops now he's a dead man... and so's the cops for that matter.
Adam's got a pack a day smokers lungs. There's a sharp burn in the chest and the sweat stings his eyes. His breath is a constant barrage of heat and phlegm. He's slowing down...
"I mean it asshole! Stop where you are or i'll..." One of badges up ahead is shouting now and he can almost feel the rookies fingers inches from the back of his neck ... reaching... reaching... nervous hand on the trigger... a gun shot shatters the still air...
...and it's too late...
...Adam dodges left with a side step suddenly, down under the grasp of the rookie like a rabbit down the hole. To the two pigs coming out of the squad car it looks like he's just disappeared into the wall somehow, but the rookie knows better having seen Adam pop down an opening between the abandoned Department stores that make up Alabama Avenue, but he's got too much momentum to stop and ends up almost running into the bullet that glides right by his ear and richochetts harmlessly off the wall.
The older officer slaps the panic off his partner even as the Rookie turns around and races back down after Adam.
Sneakers & boots splash across the dark puddles.
There is a labyrinth of narrow alleyways, darkened sidestreets and half forgotten driveways that run like rivers throughout the city of Terminus. The exoskeletons of artifical dreams - green plastic baggies, spent lighters, discarded needles, dried out condoms slapped against the brick wall - floating on the carpet of yellowed newspapers and roach infested fast food containers. This is where a bad man can rent himself a good time: The Narcotic Bazaar, The Carnival of Whores, The Dumpster Jungles filled with broken savages and most importantly for Adam, the Secret Gallery!
Adam rattles up a chain link fence. His eyes have adjusted to the dark. Rookie closing in, yelling for back up into his shoulder mounted squawk box.
The Secret Gallery, where many a fine young artist learns the basics of tagging, mural art, graffiti, before s/he's ready to move on the big time and steady bombing the trains and more visible walls.
Adam catches his leg on the top of the fence. Loud tear of denim and a long drop that knocks the wind out of Adam. The Rookie hits the fence. Orders Adam to stay put and begins scrambling up the fence. Adam picks himself up and looks around him. Three walls equaling up a dead end. Covered in muted primary colors, amateur anime tags, scribble words looking like melted heiroglyphics, gang sigils spit up on the bricks weaving in and out of each other. Adam limps over, turns around and presses his back to the wall.
Soft thud. Rookie lands on his feet in a crouch and straightens up. Quick draws his piece out on Adam John Wayne style and starts shout talking in cop cliches through clenched teeth and heavy breathing. Pulls out a Mag light thick as a club and trains a minature spotlight on Adam.
The cop recoils and drops the light.
Behind Adam the graffiti is melting off the wall and impossibly dripping forward, forming tendrils that wiggle in the air in front of Adam and then begin wrapping around his arms, his legs, quicker and quicker, thousands of multi-colored tentacles peeling off the graffiti and mummifying themselves around him in layered strips. The tags are forming a cocoon and when only Adam's face is left to be seen, he whispers to the Rookie: "RUN! Please... just run for your fucking life man..."
Having 180ed from super pissed to scared shitless, the Rookie doesn't run. Instead he opens fire. 15 in the clip and one in the chamber. All a direct hit.
If Adam was still standing there.
Incredulous the Rookie steps up. Trembling fingers touch the wall, caresses the bullet holes still hot to the touch. There, where he thought (no not 'thought'... knew) he saw his collar stop and get... but no... it's just a painting.
The Mag Light on the ground spills a black outline of the Rookie out off of and behind him. Inside of it a hundred little red eyes light up open and the Jack O'Shadows steps out.
Hungry. Angry. Cold.
There is a hiss like a radiator leak and the two cops in the squad car hear the scream echo out of the alleyway, reverbetate off the walls and fire down the surronding streets like a freight train whistle.
The Jack O'Shadows pulls the Rookie back into his own Silhouette. A little flesh to satiate the ice hunger that drives it. A little taste of fear to hold it over until it finds Adam's scent again.
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no subject
on 2006-08-08 08:07 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2006-08-08 10:03 pm (UTC)