dual narratives: man on the run
The man had abandoned his car at the edge of town. Miles from the scene of the crime, miles spent looking over his shoulder along the highway, one hand pressed to the deep, raking gashes in his shoulder, sweat pouring into his eyes, blood pouring though his hands, slicking his skin black in the low orange light reflecting from the lamps across the freeway, then invisible in the forests around Repose, hurting down pitch black country roads with the headlights dimmed, fearing, careening through row after row of flashing black tree trunks. The world had reduced to a world of shadow and light, and speed.
Even when he stumbled out of the darkness toward Claire, he didn't slow down. Something dogged him that would not permit him to slow, not for anything. "Help," he said, as soon as he was within range of hearing. His voice was barely above speaking volume. "Help," he said, a little more loudly. His hand still clutched his ravaged shoulder, and there was blood staining his denim jacket.
The man was more a boy than a man, perhaps old enough to drink, but only just. There was a shadow of a mustache on his top lip, or the attempt to grow one. His jacket was worn at the seams, but his black tennis shoes new, the treads leaving crisp footprints in the mud at the side of the road. He was pale with fear and blood loss, but adrenaline propelled him on like a windup toy. He would not, could not stop, and when he did, it was to drop at her feet like a loose marionette, his feet slipping on the ground. He landed almost at her feet, and apparently without the strength to get up. In face, he appeared to be unconscious.
In the distance, outside town, there was a sense of something rolling in. There were clouds coming to block out the stars, and they slowly, smoothly tracked across the sliver of a moon that lit the town and the forest beyond. Behind the clouds, behind the moon, there was a cold wind coming in, carrying the scent of carrion with it. The young man had something on his heels. Not every resident of Repose would have felt it, but they might roll over in their sleep, as a wave of stultified rage, of something searching, swept in low through the town.