Welcome to Part 21 of “Woman of His Dreams”! If you’re new to my dark little erotic tale, you can find the start here!
Enjoy, and remember, dreams often have a life of their own…
by Angela Caperton
The cop who reached Anthony first was a woman, a broad-shouldered, short-haired redhead, who took one look at his shriveled wiener and waved the EMS guys closer.
Anthony felt as though he stood at the center of a play where everyone knew the lines except him.
“What happened?” she asked, taking out a notebook from her pocket. She had a voice like Bruce Willis. Her professional gaze took in the bloody bandage on his side, his nakedness, and presumably the unfocused haze of his eyes, but no compassion touched her expression.
“Robbed,” he stammered and pointed at the open door of Carcassia’s bookstore, half a block away in the dim space between streetlights. “Took my clothes.” Thank god, he thought. I’m still sane enough to lie.
The redhead’s partner, a big guy who looked like he might be Samoan, spoke into the microphone mounted on his shoulder, then drew his pistol and started toward the shop. The lady cop handed Anthony over to the ambulance crew and followed her partner. They moved purposefully toward the open door, the Samoan out in front a few steps. The thin gathering that had collected had grown a little, shadowy men and women crowding the sidewalk, spilling into the street. People shifted aside to let the cops pass.
“Can you put these on?” One of the EMS guys handed Anthony a pair of scrub pants while the other one stood back.
Anthony stepped into them, his attention still on the receding backs of the two officers as they approached the black hole of the doorway. He started to head that direction himself, but one of the paramedics stopped him.
“They don’t need your help,” he said. “And we need to take a look at that.” He pointed to the leaking bandage.
Anthony looked down at the mess and nodded, but the idea of anyone lifting that wrapping made his heart race with sick shock. Whatever was going on under there, he knew a trained medical guy would be likely to take a strong interest in the condition and that thought gave him a jolt like a cannibal eel rising from a barrel of brine. Still, there wasn’t much he could do to stop the two guys from taking his arms and leading him toward the ambulance.
When he turned to look back at the cops, he saw they had just reached the steps leading up to the shop but he already knew what they would find inside.
Nothing, no trace of the Goth girl or the monstrous worm, just books and dust and a pile of clothes. He saw his future clearly, hauled off to some public hospital, locked away for observation. Did they still put people in padded cells?
He stood by the open hatch of the meat wagon while one of the men slipped on surgical gloves and took a pair of snips from his kit. The tech approached his task with calm professionalism and removed the fabric adeptly.
Anthony glanced at the wound, obscured by gore. The paramedic washed at it with a moistened cloth.
“The fuck?” he said suddenly, all traces of professionalism gone in a breath. His buddy moved closer to take a look and Anthony looked down too.
The wound in his side, the bite, had changed terribly. It looked like a wet line, like thin lips, a mouth or a cunt.
The tech prodded carefully with his rubberized finger and the wound opened.
Anthony could not see what happened, but he felt the wound pulse and the technician screamed in shock and pain. The man’s finger bloomed bright with his own blood where the tip had been removed as though by a razor.
Then, from the direction of Carcassia’s Books, gunshots blasted a hole in the murmur of the milling sidewalk crowd and Anthony heard screams, cries building on each other, layering like an avalanche of panic.
He pulled away from the uninjured paramedic, and he shuddered as he began to run, no one even trying to stop him. The crowd had begun to run too, in scattered clusters, people stumbling and falling, some of them yelling. The gunshots had stopped but someone — probably the lady cop — was uttering the most awful, endless scream that Anthony had ever heard.
He regretted the loss of his wallet and his clothes, but no way was he going to wait and see what the police brought out.
If they came out at all.
As he ran away from the echoing cacophony, he remembered something like this happening before, that same sense of fragmented déjà vu that he had felt in the shop, as though every running step he took had been described to him in a story or that he had watched them unfold in Technicolor on a screen.
He had a vision of the cops in the store because he had seen them before too, dressed in the uniforms of another place in another time. Roman guards maybe, or something even more ancient and exotic. The redhead had been a man that time, some barbarian soldier with a broken nose and a scar down one cheek.
Instead of Carcassia’s, he remembered a rough-hewed lintel and smelled the burning animal oil from guttering lamps. The screams didn’t echo off thin walls and flat clear glass, but off thick, cold stone turned black by greasy smoke, and red from countless reluctant offerings.
He remembered the worm threading itself through two figures, penetrating them and stretching their bones as it eased into their bodies, tendrils invading their asses, their eyes, their mouths, like squirming vines taking root. He felt the writhing, thick lampreys swimming in his bowels, devouring his intestines, chewing his cock, his scrotum. Gritty sickness roiled through him as he lurched away from the nightmare.
As he ran, he covered the wound on his side with his hand, feeling something like a tongue lick his slippery palm, reassuring him that he would be safe now, that he was wanted, needed even.
And that only wondrous pleasures lay ahead of him.
Copyright 2010 Angela Caperton. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.