"Ah, motherfucker," Kayson said.
They'd reached the break in the wall where the chain-link gate hung mostly off its hinges. One of the hooded figures blocked their path. It stood there, fingers gnarled, hooded head lowered like a bull about to charge. At this distance, Vanessa could smell it, a scent like peanuts roasted for too long, burnt toxicity, a living carcinogen.
"What the fuck do we do now?" Kayson asked as he glanced around for something to use as a weapon. There were some sticks and stones but nothing too large, and they couldn't get too close. "Fuck!"
Vanessa fumbled with the media player in her pocket, trying not to press any buttons as she did. She only wanted to press the right buttons. Had these hooded figures been simply playing possum earlier? Would the music stop them at all this time, or would it just bring back the rats?
The hooded figure grabbed hold of the loosened gate and yanked it from its hinges. There was a steel groan followed by the plink of falling bolts. The figure hoisted the gate over its head and flung it. Kayson ducked in the nick of time. The gate struck the force field with a bang and sputter of electricity. Orange tendrils snaked around the gate's metal frame. When the gate fell, it spat sparks into the surrounding dead leaves.
Oh, no, Vanessa thought.
They could not have a fire in here with that invisible barrier sealing them inside.
Before Kayson could stand, the hooded figure was upon him, reaching for his throat. Kayson fell back, thrusting out with his right foot. The blow caught his assailant in the lower abdomen. The hooded figure fell on top of Kayson and pinned his legs. Not slowed by the blow, it climbed up Kayson's body, reaching again for his throat.
Vanessa stopped fiddling with her pocket and looked for the biggest rock she could find. She grabbed one with a good jagged edge. Using both hands, she lifted it overhead and flung it at the figure.
The rock struck it between the shoulder blades. It bounced off, and the figure flattened against Kayson. Before the attacker could recover, Kayson shrimped out from under it, kicking up a cloud of dead leaves and dirt. Vanessa snatched his wrist and helped him to his feet. They stumbled back as the hooded figure rose.
"His fucking face …" Kayson said. "His fucking face was …"
Vanessa wanted to ask him to elaborate, but they had no time. The figure was coming for them, seemingly unfazed by the thrown rock, sharp edge and all. What the hell was this fucker?
As if reading her mind, the figure stopped and removed one glove.
The sight made Vanessa's breath hitch. The hand was not a human hand. Though shaped like one, it was made of branches twisted and bound. Now freed from the glove, the fingers and palm split apart, growing into too many new fingers with too many knuckles and bending too many unnatural ways.
"Yo, what the fuck is that?" Kayson said.
The stink of smoke pulled Vanessa's attention from the creature. Some of the sparks had caught on the dead leaves. A small fire had ignited around the bent chain-link gate.
It wouldn't stay small for long.
_________________________________
Werth lay on the pavement with the boot of the hooded fuck pressing on his chest. The figure was peering down at him as if it relished watching the life drain from his eyes. It was impossible to tell, though, because its face had no eyes of its own. It wasn't even a face, just a black void partially dotted with green glyphs like lines of code. If a message lay somewhere within those scattered icons, it couldn't be good.
The boot on his sternum and the force behind it could've crushed him easily, but the hooded figure wasn't interested in giving him a quick death. It applied pressure slowly, little by little adding more weight. Werth tried getting his hands under the foot, but his hands were too thick to fit. He instead grabbed the figure's ankle to try throwing it off balance. The leg under the cloak felt ropey and dry. It reminded him of branches or thick bundled vines. It offered no give.
Worst of all, he'd been in a situation like this before.
He was losing air. It was harder to gasp for more. It felt like a stone rested on his chest, a stone that got heavier by the second. The pavement's texture dug into his back and shoulder blades. His handcuffs bit into his right buttock, unlike that night when he wore no handcuffs and no uniform.
He spat curses and futile commands through gritted teeth as he tried to force himself free.
Where the fuck was Hannah?
Probably knocked the fuck out. Or maybe dead.
That thing had caught her pole, then grabbed her by the collar and hurled her into one of the Tilt-A-Whirl mugs. Before Werth could hit the figure with his pole, it snatched him by the throat and slammed him to the pavement, some WWE shit like something The Undertaker used to do.
This was such bullshit. Frightening, familiar bullshit.
No matter what, he wouldn't stop fighting, but he expected to hear the crunch of his breastbone any second.
___________________________
As the cobwebs cleared, the aches and pains came alive. Hannah could hardly believe she was alive after that hooded asshole tossed her like a dead fish. Yet, she breathed. Yet, she hurt. Yet, she raged. She grabbed for the nearest Tilt-A-Whirl cup and used it to pull herself into a wobbly stance. Shaky feet or not, she was still standing. That was a victory in and of itself.
Hannah wasn't Wonder Woman. She wasn't Rey from Star Wars. She wasn't even Bryce Dallas Howard in those awful Jurassic Park sequels. She was an HR specialist at one of Austin's many corporate start-ups, no one special. But ordinary girl or not, she wasn't going to just let some dick throw her into an amusement park ride. And she wasn't going to let that same dick murder one of her fellow captives in front of her because she and Werth (and Vanessa and Kayson, if they were still alive) were in this shit together, and she had a better chance of making it out of here with as many of the others standing beside her as possible.
She softly kicked off her impractical shoes. The surging adrenalin kept her from feeling the burn on her feet too badly. She focused everything on finding the pole she'd lost, picking it up, charging forward with the longest strides her dress would allow, this time keeping the weapon low like a battering ram. This time, the hooded asshole didn't see or hear her coming. It was too busy trying to crush Werth's heart.
The tip of the pole collided with the hooded figure's lower back. The impact made a dull, unsatisfying sound, but the sight of the figure stumbling off Werth was more than enough to boost her confidence.
She raised the pole again, this time like a bat, and swung it low, taking out the hooded figure's legs. The figure fell on its back. A cloud of dust and gravel billowed around its cloaked body. The figure lay prone, and she approached, raising the weapon a fourth time, aiming to brain the bastard.
The sight of its face when the dust cleared, a black screen lit with smattering lines of green code, made her hesitate. The need to comprehend what she saw prevented her from taking decisive action. By the time she swung the pole, the figure had recovered, and it grabbed hold of her weapon yet again.
Oh, shit.
She tried to pull it free, but the figure's gloved grip was just too strong.
The code ran up and down the screen-face at an accelerated rate. It wasn't all zeroes and ones either, but also strange symbols Hannah didn't recognize.
The figure was saying something too. It was unintelligible, a series of blips and chirps, distorted and sharp.
She tried again to pull the pole free. The figure wouldn't let go, and she couldn't overpower it. It started to regain its feet, still holding the pole. Though it had no eyes, she imagined it staring at her as it rose. She wanted to let go, but more than that, she wanted her weapon back. She tried kicking as she pulled, tried changing direction. Nothing could loosen the weapon.
Another figure came up beside her. Her heart clenched, imagining another of these hooded assholes. She could hardly hold her own against one. Against two she was doomed.
The second figure reached …
… and clamped one steel bracelet onto the first figure's wrist.
It was Werth. Werth and his handcuffs.
"Help," he said.
She let the pole go and joined Werth in prying the cuffed wrist away from the weapon, over to the railing on the Tilt-A-Whirl.
The figure stumbled with them. Werth clamped the other bracelet onto the rail.
He and Hannah jumped back as the figure wildly swung the pole with its free hand. As if in frustration, if such entities could be frustrated, the figure threw the pole at them. They ducked in tandem before it could strike them, and the projectile clanged to the pavement, harmless as the husk of a long-dead snake.
The figure writhed against its restraints, chirping, bleeping, and squealing, part failing machine, part wounded animal. She watched it, not sure if she was terrified or fascinated or some third feeling for which a word had yet to be invented.
"Should we find the others?" she asked, nearly breathless and doubting her lucidity.
Can this be anything other than a nightmare?
Werth didn't answer with words. He glanced around and found his discarded pole.
"What are you …"
He ignored her and approached the flailing fiend.
He swung the metal pole for the first of many times.