Re: Jack and Louis: Hunting - No. 14
Louis did not recoil. He did not blanch with fear of death. There had been too much death already - he had come too close to killing, and gone beyond that line. The thought of murdering a psychopath with a farming implement was almost comforting, reassuring him that they could make it out of this, if they were willing to be brutal. But the supernatural quality to all this kept it from quite making sense. What if the thing following them was not alive? What then?
Jack was right that the fence seemed real until it fell away. That meant the man, the thing, the follower, it had substance, and even ephemeral substance could hurt them. He felt very connected to his old friend in that moment, despite not seeing him in years. How strange to be in such dire circumstances with a face from the past.
The pumphouse loomed up in front of them. It was built very much like a barn, and the doors were locked, but they could make quick work of those.
As they came near the doors, Louis looked behind them and saw no sign of the thing with the sack. It was lost in the trees they had whipped through, ponderously following after them, or it had gone in search of better prey. No reason to take chances. He put his hand on the door handle, and in a moment of primal hope, he prayed that it would open.
It flared bright as a bulb, and then it did. Small miracles.
He tried not to think about it, wondered if Jack would notice, wondered if he would care if it saved their lives. His fingers tingled, warm and pink from heat, and that sensation at the base of his spine was more powerful, more intense now.
"Inside," he whispered, looking over Jack's shoulder. Still, no hunter. "Come on, come on."