Arkham Horror: Feeders From Within by Peter J. Evans

Author:Peter J. Evans [Evans, Peter J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fantasy Flight Publishing
Published: 2013-05-02T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine: Razor Blade Smile

Harrigan screamed helplessly. The weapon was bone-deep in his left thigh.

The pain was unspeakable. He could feel the blades turning within him, working their way deeper, rooting through muscle and tendon and grinding into the wounded bone beneath. He twisted and jolted under it, every nerve spasming in agony, but the device was unceasing. Its icy probes felt like they were clawing his leg apart from the inside out.

Dimly, past his own howls, he could hear Nightingale’s voice. “Jeez, boss. Couldn’t we get him some chloroform or something?”

“Not like you to be squeamish, Sam.”

“Nah, it’s the noise. They’ll hear him bawling for miles.”

“Not my choice, I’m afraid. You know who calls the shots in matters like these.” Orton sighed. He seemed genuinely disturbed by the process. “It’ll be over soon, thank goodness.”

Harrigan clamped his teeth shut over another cry. The eyeless thing was still driving its weapon down into his leg, every twist of the handle sending white-hot shards of pain through his entire body. His vision had contracted to a dark, ruddy blur, his lungs were raw, his heart shuddering and misfiring in his chest.

He couldn’t draw a breath. The world was shrinking away from him, becoming smoke and distant shadow. In a few moments he would die. His heart would give way under the strain, leap free of its moorings, and that would be the end of him.

He was just beginning to like the idea when the torment ended.

Without warning the blades had begun to retract, snapping up out of his flesh. The creature gave its device a final twist and then wrenched it free.

Blood soaked up in its wake.

Harrigan sagged, gasping and choking, flopping on the slab like a landed fish. He felt as though he were on fire. He had been injured before, had endured everything from beatings to bullets, but nothing had felt like what Mr. Stone had put him through.

And yet he knew, horribly, that the act had been committed entirely without malice. The clawed nightmare scuttling back from him had no concept of pain. It had worked on him as a garage mechanic might work on an automobile. No matter how ferocious the discomfort, Harrigan knew he hadn’t been tortured. He had been harvested.

“Thank God that’s finished,” muttered Orton. “Mr. Stone?”

“Hold on.” That was Nightingale. Harrigan saw the man step close and stoop over him. A cool hand clamped hard over his mouth and nose, stifling his gasps.

He struggled weakly. They were done with him, and now they were going to kill him. Harrigan had seen it before, the air passages of a helpless man closed off with a single, well-placed grip. It took less effort than strangulation, as long as the victim had no chance of forcing the hand away.

It was not a pretty death. Harrigan could think of few that were, but he knew that he would rather take a bullet than have the breath stolen from his lungs.

Nightingale wasn’t even looking at him. The man’s narrow skull was tilted up, his strange, pale eyes half closed.

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