Part 7

As he stood trying to rinse the blood out of his sweatshirt, he mused over and over about Guido’s appetite. Two days ago, Guido would never have bothered with something so big. Rats and cats, a few squirrels and one raccoon were all it had managed to sink its teeth into. And usually Hector had enough time to lift his shirt before things got nasty.

He turned the faucet off and wrung out the sweatshirt before mopping over his chest and the gleeful teeth that smiled there. He figured it was stupid to assume Guido wasn’t growing somehow. Hector had kept it decently well-fed and they had managed to survive the monsters of the world. But Guido was an accident. Hector’s very survival was an accident. The rules were meaningless.

He shut his eyes tight against sudden brightness. Squinting through his eyelids he saw the side of the house, the sidestreet, and himself clearly illuminated. Quickly covering Guido with the sweatshirt, he looked into the light, half-blind, and barely managed to make out the shine of hubcaps. He looked down at himself, at the ruddy sweatshirt clutched in his hands, and at the spots of vivid crimson glistening on the pale skin of his shoulders and sides. There was no mistaking the blood.

The police car started pulling into the sidestreet. Hector ducked and ran, throwing his head into the sweatshirt, clumsily forcing his arms through (one of which into the hole in the chest made by Guido’s teeth), and darted around a garage.

His feet were heavy and stuttering, every pound of flesh clinging to his skeletal frame felt thick and sluggish. He cursed the placating chemicals in his system, cursed Guido for its quaint rewards for being fed, and tried to hop a fence. With one leg over, the other caught the fence pole in the thigh, and Hector tumbled to the grass, landing hard on his shoulder. He rolled and scrambled to his feet, imagining himself thrashing as wildly as the pit bull, and bolted across the manicured backyard. He jumped onto another fence and would have cleared it had the spotlight not distracted him. He fell again, onto the same shoulder, and shouted in pain. He practically rolled over another fence to get back to the alley. The cops would have to back up and make a nail-biting five-point turn to be heading in the right direction. He trucked as hard as his boots would carry him, the gravel shifting uncertainly under his steps. Hector weaved his way through the alley, clawing at the cotton in his skull, to clear his head, to get his body right, to get his blood rich with adrenaline. Only Guido didn’t see the cops as a threat.

Hector raced across a street and made it as far as the other alley before he heard the screech of tires. A fleeting glance back showed another patrol car quickly reversing. He then ran into a garage door, bounced off it, and dropped onto his rear. He scrambled on all fours until he had enough velocity to lift up and run, this time on solid concrete that bore him without complaint. Flashes of bright red and blue flickered across the tops of garages. He darted into another sidestreet and tripped over a bicycle, flipping head-over-heels until making his Olympic landing. He cursed under his breath and floundered again, continuing down the sidestreet until he stopped suddenly in his tracks. Pausing a moment to call himself a lot of vulgar names, he turned, ran back to the bicycle, and picked it up.

Hector prayed to the blind, idiot god that shat the universe that “like riding a bicycle” wasn’t just a patronizing quip people say to make themselves feel better. As it was, the otherworldly taint in his blood wasn’t doing his sense of balance any justice, and the coarse concrete threatened to reach up and scar him if he didn’t put all his focus on steering. He sped recklessly down the street and almost screamed when the cars he passed began to quickly shine red and blue.

Off to the left, he saw it: a large, complex building he had passed many times on the bus. He still had no idea what the place was, but its different-sized additions and wings promised plenty of dark corners and hairpin turns around its exterior. More importantly, he saw the large, yellow, concrete cylinders in its asphalt drive that prevented cars from going a certain distance.

Hector then bicycled into a parked car. The thin metal chassis gave way to both his weight and speed, cradling him awkwardly on the car’s trunk and rear window. Knowing full well the bike was now useless, he huffed across the street toward the large building, limping heavily, a patrol car almost flattening him in pursuit. He trundled between the concrete cylinders, hearing the screech of tires again, and ducked around a corner.

Darkness greeted him. Good. He ran as well as he could between two sections of the building, looking forward to seeing a quiet street as he turned the corner. And because he had – in his drug-induced rationale – forgotten that most buildings tend to be solid blocks of brick and frame, he was genuinely surprised when the little passage dead-ended at a double door. He tried the knob and found it locked. He spun quickly and found a flashlight in his eyes.

“Stop where you are! Turn around and get down on your knees!”

Hector squinted into the light. The options were quickly collapsing. He grabbed the bottom of his sweatshirt, lifted, and yelled “Run!” Guido hissed.

And because he forced an armed man to choose between fight or flight, the gunshot didn’t catch him completely off-guard. He spun, catching the bullet on the edge of his abused shoulder. He screamed. He crouched, jumped up, grabbed the roofing, and pulled himself up in mere moments. There were shouts from below. He leapt to his feet and saw gray trees and gray road signs and the alternating gray and gray flash of police lights. His eyes were clear. His head was clear. His hands were shaking.

Hiss. Click click click.

Hector turned and saw the Spider-Ass on the roof behind him. It was man-sized, if not a touch bigger. Its lower quarters bore the eight spindly legs of a spider, tipped in sharp points like Guido’s tongue. Its upper body was like that of a man: torso, arms, and a featureless head that sported eight shiny eyes on its otherwise empty face. He knew those eyes were ruby red. He knew its mouth was under its chin. He knew somewhere nearby was a nearly invisible spider web that could easily span between buildings. He knew this web sucked hope and confidence and this thing would feed on them later when it ate the strands.

It clicked along the rooftop toward him, hands slowly raising. From its wrists, long blades slid out from the underside of its forearms, clicking into place, gleaming violence in the light of the moon. Hector didn’t know about that.

He raised his sweatshirt and Guido’s barbed tongue slid between its vicious teeth. The knifelike point wavered in the air like a snake’s head, dancing in the moonlight but not striking. Hector didn’t half blame it as he looked over the Spider-Ass’ blades. But the creature dropped into a defensive position, lowering its torso on its eight legs and raising its arms up like a boxer, blades out. The distraction was enough, and Hector sped along the other side of the roof, no longer feeling the ache in his hip and thigh, or even the burning pain in his shoulder.
Guido needed him now.

He slid down the rooftop and caught the edging as Guido’s tongue fled back behind hard, sharp teeth. With his sweatshirt falling back into place – save his arm still through the wrong hole – he dropped down onto asphalt, landed deftly, and turned to race off.

“Freeze!” The flashlight hovered over him, shaking wildly.

Hector turned and sneered at the light and the policeman’s shadow. The cop was slowly advancing, gun leveled. Then Hector felt his eyes adjust, refocus, until they could see the tiny, sticky strands that stretched from the building’s rooftop to the side of the house next door. Hector smiled and took a step back.

“I said freeze! Turn around and kneel, dammit! And if I see that… that thing I—“

The officer stopped. The flashlight spun sickeningly. He was clawing around his face and head. Somewhere, eight eyes studied hungrily.

“Run!,” screamed Hector. “Run back to your safe car and your safe job and your safe home!”

The officer’s silhouette clawed more, turned, then ran, trailing tiny soul-sucking filaments in its wake. Hector turned and ran as well, only his right leg wouldn’t move. Off-balance, he dropped to his stomach on the asphalt, barely keeping his face from kissing the driveway. He rolled onto his side to see a milky strand trailing from his ankle to a dark shape on the rooftop. Without needing to be asked, a sharp tongue sliced through his sweatshirt, tearing a new hole, and slit the strand effortlessly before retreating back into its sneering mouth.
Hector left the Spider-Ass to try and web itself a police car.