Chapter 3 - Off the rails

With a sound like a handful of darts being chucked at a corkboard, the tentacles shot into the ceiling, then contracted and tossed Paul like a ragdoll. His feet caught the console which sent him cartwheeling through the air and into the three guards, knocking them flat.

Weee! said the tentacles.

With another sound like a handful of darts, but this time chucked at ziplock bags full of jello, the needle-thin tentacles pierced into the three men, who proceeded to shriek like horrified kids in a haunted house.

Mmmm… hummed the tentacles in satisfaction, bulging and pulsing as they filled with blood and liquified flesh.

Paul groaned and tried to wrap his head (so to speak) around what was happening. He’d felt his neck violently crack and tear when he’d been pulled out of the chair, but he could still feel his body, even though he wasn’t feeling much pain.

Also, he knew his face was enveloped in - something? Or someone? But he could still see, with more than just his eyes.

And most unsettling of all was the swelling he felt coming down from his scalp, flowing from his hair right into his body. He dimly lifted his hand and peered at his drooping fingers. They were shifting back into place, the skin stitching itself back together filament by filament.

Paul’s reverie ended with the hot jolt of lead burrowing into his back, then again and again. He only registered the gunshot sounds after a delay, as though they’d had to fight their way through the terrified screams of the guards to get to his ears.

The tentacles popped out of the guards and recoiled back onto Paul’s head, hissing in anger and surprise.

DO SOMETHING! cried the voice, but Paul was overwhelmed and only managed to flail his hands around feebly.

Fine, I’ll do it, growled the tentacles.

For the next while, Paul was vaguely aware that things were happening. Many things. And very fast.

Some things were happening around him:

A door wooshed open. The sirens blared. Red and yellow lights strobed. The ambience briefly reminded Paul of a nightclub he’d once had to leave because it had given him sensory overload.

Other things were happening to other people:

More guards arrived on the scene, only to get their legs stabbed by countless needle-like tentacles as Paul careened through them like a toboggan possessed by a toupet.

And yet more things were happening directly to him:

He was dragged along like a mop, knocked around corners, and even swung from the ceiling, the whole time pulled by his head as the tentacles skittered onwards through hallways.

After sliding down a second set of stairs, Paul started thinking he should maybe do something. He spoke up.

“Wait - wait! Hold on!” He spat, unable to unclench his teeth.

He speaks! What a surprise, said the voice, reproachfully.

“I can help,” said Paul, hoisting himself up on the railing, “I can help, just give me a minute. Just, stop dragging me around by my hair, alright?”

You have no hair. I ate it. I am your hair now, said Paul's hair, proudly.

“Ok, yeah, fine, you're my hair,” said Paul. It was surprisingly easy to accept that this thing was his hair now. He'd never had a very good relationship with his hair before. Maybe this was karma for all the knots he'd pulled ruthlessly, for the lack of care he'd given to his once light brown, wavy curls.

We must move. Shall I proceed? Said his hair, tugging him down the stairs.

“No! No, hold on. Uh, let me - just let me think.” Paul had spent most of his short years infiltrating places and making getaways. He tried to convince himself that this wasn't really any different. He just had to get out. And then he could figure things out, give it a good think, mull all this over.

But for now, it was time for the present.

They were on the platform between two floors. The staircase didn't have a well, it was solid all the way through. And, high on the wall above them, was a window with thick, double panes. It was small, barely enough to allow for his waist. And there was no way he could break through that. He didn’t even know what was on the other side.

That window is small, said Paul's hair.

“Yeah,” agreed Paul.

We can fit.

BANG! went the doors above and below them, giving way to a throng of heavily armed guards with ballistic shields and firearms already hoisted in their direction.

Time slowed. Once again, a wave poured down Paul's spine from his scalp, like the thickest, hottest coffee ever. His body hummed. He felt all of his blood vessels swell to bursting point.

Ready? Intoned his hair.

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Yeah, thought Paul, already ripping the handrail from the wall in a burst of plaster dust and screws. His feet found themselves on the wall and he crouched as naturally as if he were on the floor. The wall collapsed slightly as he pushed off, the railing held full length against his body like a jousting lance. They soared towards the tiny window.

If anyone happened to be looking at the one hundred twentieth floor of the Gorp R&D building, situated on the east side of Dwayne Emmerfield Commercial Sector, they would have had a hard time understanding what they were seeing.

There was a pop like a submarine imploding, followed by a spray of broken glass and bullets. And from this emerged what at first glance had to be some kind of witch.

A black, pointy, conical hat paved the way forward, perfectly shaped for increased aerodynamics. A brushless broomstick, or perhaps a staff, carried the witch out into the air with excessive speed. And a maniacal cackle, or perhaps a stuttering cry of terror and pain, streamed after the figure.

Upon closer inspection, an onlooker might have noticed that the witch was also markedly male for it was entirely naked, save for a few baby blue strips of cloth wafting from the cuffs at its ankles and wrists.

An even closer inspection would have shown a face that was a mask of demented horror, its eyes fixed on the two thousand foot drop filled with flying cars and drones swarming between hovering billboards.

Unfortunately, nobody saw any of this. Any onlookers were too focused on the top fifty floors of the three-hundred-storey Gorp building, which were currently exploding into a colossal ball of flame and debris.

This is nice. We're out… sighed Paul's hair, its voice full of awe and lightness.

“Hurk,” said Paul.

Paul held the piece of railing in a death drip, his legs uselessly flailing behind. They had been riddled with bullets and he whimpered as he looked back at his mangled feet.

Luckily, the thing on his head… the hair - His hair - had mostly protected his face and upper body. For a short moment, Paul felt some gratitude for the tentacles.

Then, he ricocheted off the roof of a flying car, was struck by another going the other way, and beelined through a window a hundred feet down and across from where they'd escaped.

Paul slid on his face across the floor of a lavishly decorated studio condo, making an extended version of the sound a knee makes on a well-waxed gym floor.

He bumped to a stop at the foot of an emperor sized bed. The bed bumped back, repetitively. It was also moaning with two distinct, shamelessly loud voices.

We have to get up. This is not a good place to sleep.

Paul pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and dry heaved.

We keep everything inside, reminded his hair.

“Yeah, I know,” grunted Paul, but his voice was strange. His jaw wasn't moving the way it usually did.

“Kaynard, darling,” said half the bed, demurely, “did you say something?”

“You must’ve tasted my thoughts, my love, for I hold them on the edge of my tongue. Words wouldn't do justice to your beauty, sweet Berthaline,” answered the other half, rugged and virile.

“Oh, Kaynard!”

“Oh, Berthaline!”

“Hurk,” heaved Paul, again. He felt like he was going into some kind of shock, or possibly all the kinds of shock at once.

We need nourishment. We are weak.

The voice was dimmer than it had been before, sounding slurred and tired. Paul's hair tugged upwards insistingly.

Get up, it said.

Paul was amazed to find himself on his feet, especially since they were both contorted and twisted in strange angles. One of his knees was bent backwards, and something white was protruding from his thigh. Bone?

Even more amazing was the lack of pain. In fact, Paul felt very little at the moment, except a single, growing, powerful urge.

He needed to eat.

Yes, said his hair, urgently, we need food. Now.

The bed was massive. A tumbling pile of sheets and pillows moved about lasciviously. Legs and arms surfaced and sunk away again, and some quick math suggested that there were two people.

Go closer.

“No. Not gonna. Won't let you eat them,” answered Paul, but his tongue wasn't really working anymore, and so he just mumbled defensively.

We have to eat. NOW! shouted his hair, filling his mind and tugging his scalp forwards.

“No!” shouted back Paul, with such a twisted voice that the as-of-yet imperturbable romantic bout came to a sudden stop.

“Kaynard, Kaynard! Someone's standing at the foot of our bed!”

A pair of hands clapped twice, and mood-setting lights waxed to life.

“Oh, oh my god! Shut your eyes, Berthaline!” wailed Kaynard.

“Kaynard, nooo! What is that thing? It's horrible!” squealed Berthaline

Before them stood Paul, a once relatively handsome young man, or so he'd been told. But it would’ve been difficult for anyone he’d known to recognize him.

His skin had been friction-burned off his entire front, and no part of his body looked structurally intact. Fragments of bone popped out in various places. Strips of flesh hung loosely to reveal bits of glass and debris that had been lodged deeply.

And, once all these things had been acknowledged, there was also the confusing aspect of his black, writhing hair, reaching greedily for the lovers.

Kaynard and Berthaline clutched at each other, recoiled into the headboard, and tossed pillows at the monster.

None of this bothered Paul. Even the distant noises of rubble tumbling down from the Gorp building, accompanied by a flickering, orange light of dripping flames, did not distract him.

His attention was entirely captivated by a rising smell. Pasta, cheese, tomato sauce, meat. From elsewhere in the condo, an oven timer dinged. Paul's stomach growled like a lion announcing the beginning of a great movie.

What is that smell? We have to eat it.

Paul locked eyes with the lovers, his gratefulness twisted by his broken features into something horrifying.

Berthaline threw her arm over her forehead and dramatically fainted, while Kaynard swept a shag blanket over them in a semblance of protection.

“Time for supper,” Paul mumbled, to the clink of teeth falling out of his mouth.

-End of Chapter 3-