Chapter 6: Anti-Climactic Climax

As the thing slid down the side of a 64 Chevy hood, I lunged forward and trapped it with the net.

I must have gotten too close, because I lost a minute or so, but also, lucky, because I fell backward as it twisted, or something. The thing had tried to retreat to the top of the pile of metal, but the net had caught on a jagged piece of metal and held it firm halfway up.

The thing screamed, or at least emitted a high continuous screech, as it twisted and tried to free itself. Sulfur and rotten meat filled my sinuses, while I could taste ozone and ash. The bones in my body vibrated.

Stiff, from the hardness of my skin, I stood and watched it. Pathetic. Like a child caught in a sheet. The more it thrashed, the more the net tangled on the jagged metal pieces around it, the more it trapped itself.

My gaze never left it as I shuffled backward to grab my pole arm from the oil-soaked ground. So stupid, I had put it down in a patch of black oil, which made the handle hard to hold and felt totally gross as it mixed with my sweat.

The sun burned the back of my neck while I hefted the pole up. I held it at the end, which made it hard to control, but I didn’t want, nor could I allow myself to get too close. A black blob, with streaks of dark brown and scars of white jagged bumps that almost looked like mouths, and tentacle-like legs, with stubby arms, but no fingers. No face. No front or back. It had a strange red cap on the top of its head, or where a head might exist.