Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

George looked back at Nick. He pushed against the table edge until it tipped back the other way. “Cheap-ass hardware,” muttered Nick. He looked at the base of the table. “The bolts snapped right off.”

“You okay?” asked George.

“Are you okay? You jumped up like something bit you.”

“What? Yeah, sorry, I just thought I saw—”

“Damn it,” said Nick. His sunglasses were focused at the far end of the bar. “We should go.”

“Why?”

“Remember I said I thought the owner didn’t like me?”

“Yeah.”

Nick angled his sunglasses toward the bar. “Well, it looks like we just broke a table in his club.”

Across the room a buzz-cut man in a glossy suit glowered at them. Two oversized men in black polo shirts lumbered toward them.

“We didn’t do anything,” said George.

“Great,” said Nick. “We can feel really superior when they drag us out by our necks. Come on.” He gestured toward the dance floor.

“Why?”

“Because there are a lot of people here and my boss’ll be pissed if he hears I got thrown out of a club. We’re going to dodge them and leave on our own.” Nick started walking.

George took a few steps and someone grabbed his arm. He looked over at the fluorescent-haired woman. She was almost as tall as him. “About time,” she said with a grin. “I was going to come over there and climb into your lap.”

He tried to think of a good answer and his shirt got tight. It twisted into a knot between his shoulder blades. Right above the spot where he …

What was important about his shoulder blades? He tried to focus on the thought. It slipped away.

The knot in his shirt pushed him past the red-haired woman. Her hand slipped away from his arm. Another hand—a larger, heavier one—grabbed his wrist and pulled it back.

George slapped his foot down and looked over his shoulder. The man behind him was bald and his black polo shirt said SECURITY over his heart. His face was set in a flat expression that leaned close to a scowl. He was one of those guys treading a line between beefy and fat. Over the man’s shoulder, the fluorescent-haired woman stared at George with a confused look.

The big man shoved again and George resisted, more out of instinct than any planned action. He pushed down on the floor and levered himself against the man’s arms.

Just for a moment the heavy man’s scowl cracked. His brow furrowed as George refused to move. The man pushed again, but it felt like he wasn’t putting any real force into it. It was more of a nudge, a gentle guide in the direction he wanted George to go.

Then the moment passed. The next shove sent George sprawling, and only the fist twisted into his shirt stopped him from falling face-first on the dance floor. The club rushed past him, a side door loomed in front of him, and he was out on the sidewalk next to Nick.

Nick muttered something and pushed his sunglasses tight over his eyes. He dusted himself off and brushed the lapels of his coat back. For some reason it made George think of the sheriff in an old Western.

“Okay,” said Nick, “want to hit somewhere else?”

I’M FALLING AGAIN.

This time, I’m falling sideways. The ground rushes by below me. I’ve been thrown or launched. I’m not sure which. That isn’t part of the dream.

The ground rushes by. I see pavement, a quick glimpse of people, a white truck, a wall topped with spikes. And then I see them.

The crowd of monsters tilts their papery faces up at me. They all look thin and gaunt, and they stare at me with undeniable hunger. Some bend their heads so far back I see them fall over. As always, their jaws move but don’t make any sound.

I lose momentum and crash down through the crowd. I get my arms up as I plow into some of the monsters. They fall under me as I drop to the street. The impact doesn’t hurt. Dream physics saves me again. Or maybe the dead people broke my fall.

They swarm over me. They grab at my clothes and tangle their fingers in my hair and wrap themselves around my arms and legs. A woman with ivory skin falls on top of me and bares her gory teeth.

A prickling sensation sweeps over me. It reminds me of pins and needles, a sleepy leg or arm waking up, but it’s localized in patches across my body. I tug away from the hair-pullers and look down at myself.

They’re biting me. All of them are. The dead creatures are gnawing on me with yellowed teeth. They chew on my arms and fingers and calves and …

They’re trying to eat me!

I panic even as I realize they’re harmless. They’ve been dead so long their teeth fall out when they try to bite me. Some just crumble. How long does someone have to be dead for their teeth to crumble against skin?

I push myself up and I’m back on my feet. Most of the creatures fall off me. A few have wrapped themselves on tight enough that I drag them to their feet as well. They must be very light. They’re still biting me, even the ones with no teeth left in their mouths.

Parrots, I think. These are parrots. While dream-me understands the term, on a deeper level—the level where I know I’m in a dream—I know it’s a nonsense phrase. More garbled memories.

Something pulls at my back. It’s itchy. Whatever it is, it lifts me up and out of the horde of monsters. I soar into the air and a few of the creatures come with me. They’re tangled in my limbs or snagged on my leather jacket. One’s hooked its arm over my boot. The wirework spins me in a circle and the dead things tumble away. They fall on top of others in the mob and knock them to the ground.

Someone punches me. Hard. Twice. I twist in the