Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [154]
I became furious and I smashed my hand into the dog’s face as it kept blindly snapping at me. Fresh blood burst from its snout. I smashed my hand again into its face.
The face kept spouting blood, and the dog continued shrieking.
I started screaming back at the dog.
I was sliding in place as I looked up to see how far I had to go before reaching the landing.
It was about eight steps.
I started pulling myself upward, dragging my mangled leg behind me.
And then I felt the thing leap on my back when it realized where I was going.
I whirled over, knocking the thing off me.
I thrashed around in all the blood, trying to kick it away.
I vomited helplessly onto my chest, and then whispered, “I hear you I hear you I hear you.”
But this promise did not work any longer.
The dog gathered strength and reared up like a horse on its hind legs, looming over me, its wings obscenely outstretched, flapping them, spraying us with more blood.
At that moment I lifted my left leg up and, without thinking, kicked it hard in the chest.
It toppled back, trying to beat its wings to keep in place, but they were still too heavy with blood and flesh and it fell backwards, sliding to the bottom of the staircase and landing on the floor, shrieking, while trying to scramble upright with insectile urgency.
On the landing, I began crawling madly toward Robby’s room at the top of the stairs.
Below me, the thing righted itself and started scrambling up the staircase after me, snapping the horribly uneven rows of fangs that now made up its mouth as it neared.
I lunged forward and slid into Robby’s room, slamming the door shut and locking it with a hand soaked in blood.
The thing threw itself against the door.
It had moved up the staircase that quickly.
I lifted myself up and clumsily hopped on one foot toward the window.
I collapsed in front of it and fumbled with the latch.
I looked behind me because it was suddenly so quiet.
Beyond my trail of blood the door was bulging forward.
And then the thing started shrieking again.
I opened the window, balancing on my left leg, and crawled onto the ledge, blood splattering everywhere.
I remember not caring as I let myself fall.
It wouldn’t be a long drop. It would be escape. It would be peace.
I landed on the lawn. I didn’t feel anything. All the pain was concentrated in my right leg.
I lifted myself up and I began limping toward the Range Rover.
I slid into the driver’s seat and I started the ignition.
(When asked, I answered that I did not know—nor can I supply a reason now—why I hadn’t gone to a neighbor after the attack.)
Moaning to myself, I put the car in reverse and pressed on the accelerator with my left foot.
Once I had backed out of the driveway and was stationary in the middle of Elsinore Lane, I saw the cream-colored 450 SL.
It had turned the corner of Bedford and was now a block away.
Watching it glide closer I saw someone in the driver’s seat: grim-faced, determined, recognizable.
As if he had been sequenced into my dreams, it was Clayton who was driving the car.
When I saw Clayton’s face I let go of the steering wheel and the Range Rover, still in reverse, spun backward and then halfway around so that it was blocking Elsinore.
I tried to regain control of the car as the 450 SL kept moving forward.
It was speeding up.
I braced myself as it slammed into the passenger side of the Range Rover.
The collision pushed the SUV over a curb and into the oak tree that stood in the middle of the Bishops’ front yard, with such force that the windshield exploded.
Everything started falling away from me.
The 450 SL extracted itself from the wreckage and backed away into the middle of Elsinore Lane. The Mercedes was not damaged.
It was daylight, I noticed as I began losing consciousness.
Clayton stepped out of the car and started walking toward me.
His face was a red and indistinct moon.
He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn when I saw him that Halloween day in my office at the college, including the sweater with the eagle on it. The sweater