Lucilla
by David A. Riley
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Table of Contents, parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 |
Clouds hung over the rooftops like soiled linen stretched endlessly across the sky.
In sheer desperation, she flew fast beneath them, her body ragged from all its wounds but feeling triumphant. The crows that had attacked her had long since tumbled to the ground, dead, some of them dismembered by her claws. She knew she wouldn’t be able to last much longer, either. Her falcon body and its inadequately tiny avian brain couldn’t cope with her presence. She would need something larger or she would die completely this time.
Downwards in a long, parabolic swoop, she soared towards the rooftops. Somewhere down there she needed to find a refuge. Something with a brain large enough to accommodate her but not so mature that its host would resist her invasion.
Then she saw her. That girl would do.
conclusion
Miranda felt that rushing from one side of the motorway to the other had helped her when she finally returned to the car. Her flushed face must have convinced Lucilla she was genuinely ill, because the girl’s smile barely changed when she saw her.
Miranda slumped behind the steering wheel, her heart still pounding. Beneath her coat she could feel her purchases pressing hard against her stomach. In one hand she held a half-full bottle of Coke. She looked at Lucilla. “Would you like some?”
It was hot inside the car, and she knew the girl would be thirsty. Whatever else she might be, the body she was in one was human, with all its frailties.
Miranda upended the bottle to her mouth to show that its contents were safe. She took a long drink then offered it to the girl. She saw Lucilla lick her lips, then reach for the bottle.
“Thanks,” the girl said, before drinking from it. The Coke was still icy, and Miranda knew what its impact would be on her thirst. Within a few moments the bottle had been drained.
Miranda turned the ignition, reversed out of their parking slot and drove towards the motorway slip road. She had drunk less of the Coke than the girl probably thought. A mouthful at most. Lucilla had drunk the rest, in which Miranda had dissolved some of her Nytol tablets. They wouldn’t automatically make the girl sleep, but they would make her drowsy. After being awake all night, Miranda hoped they would relax her enough she would fall asleep soon, especially if she raised the heating inside the car.
Several miles later, Miranda glanced at the girl. Already her eyes were starting to shut, and she could tell that Lucilla was having difficulty staying awake. Feeling tired as well, Miranda knew that if it hadn’t been for the amount of attention she had to focus on driving, she might well be nodding off too. That and tension at what she had planned. She felt afraid and nauseous. But she knew there was no choice. Not if she was going to make amends to her sister for what had happened.
A few minutes later she saw what she had been looking for: a police slip road used by patrol cars to park off the motorway.
Dropping into third gear, she drove towards it along the hard shoulder. Despite the tyres’ noise as they ground across the rougher surface, Lucilla slept on. Miranda drove up the short incline that swung off the motorway towards the short, flattened summit. She was surprised at the depth of view this gave. She felt exposed up here till she reminded herself those driving by would have to crane their necks to see her. It was ideally positioned for the police to have an unobstructed view of the motorway. It was also ideal for concealing them from sight.
Miranda put the car into neutral, pulled the handbrake, then quietly pushed her door open and slid outside. From under her coat she unwound the length of rubber hose she had bought at the service station. Kneeling down, she forced one end onto the exhaust. The hot metal softened the rubber, making it easier to move. When Miranda was satisfied that she had pushed enough on so it wouldn’t slip free, she took the other end of the pipe and passed it though the gap she had left in the rear door window. She wound up the window till it gripped the pipe, then slammed the door shut.
Lucilla awoke with a jolt. She looked around, instantly taking in what Miranda had done and reached for her door handle, but Miranda had expected this and had already run around the car, using her weight to keep the door closed.
Lucilla struggled against her, but the eight-year old’s muscles were far too weak against the weight of Miranda’s body leaning against the door panel. Even outside, Miranda could smell the exhaust fumes that were choking up the car’s interior. Anger and fear filled Lucilla’s face. She slammed her fists against the window.
“Let me out!” she shouted.
Miranda shook her head. “This ends here.”
Lucilla scrambled over the seats in a desperate attempt to reach the driver’s door, but Miranda got there first. She stared through the window as the girl leaned against the door.
“You’ll kill your niece,” Lucilla shouted at her.
“You’re killing her already.”
Lucilla stared at her and Miranda could tell the girl realised how determined she was. Which was when she felt it: a nasty, brutal scratching sensation inside her skull.
Miranda gasped as the sensation grew stronger. Lucilla was slipping into her head more blatantly this time. There was no pretence at hiding inside her, of waiting till a weaker victim was available. There was no finesse in what Lucilla was doing. It was rough, almost mental rape, as she grappled deep inside Miranda’s mind. Miranda could feel Lucilla gouging through her consciousness like something old, reptilian, foul and decrepit.
She could taste decay inside her throat. It filled her lungs with its stench. But Miranda was no immature child, easy to manipulate. She was as prepared as anyone could ever be for what was happening to her. Whatever abilities Lucilla had, Miranda was determined not to be an easy victim.
Even so, despite her confidence, Miranda knew she was passing out — which was when Lucilla would finish what she was doing to her. She knew she had only seconds left in which to act.
Miranda looked inside the car. Daisy was free of Lucilla, but the exhaust fumes would kill her unless Miranda got her out.
As what felt like rough, apelike fingers tore through her head, Miranda pulled the door open, reached inside the car and dragged Daisy out, watching her tumble to the ground. At the same time, Lucilla’s grasp on her weakened. She was about to return to the child, Miranda knew. She turned and ran towards the motorway, Lucilla still inside her skull. The pain grew worse and she screamed at the agony as if her head were about to explode.
Miranda clenched her teeth against it, aware that Lucilla was terrified now. Lucilla hated open spaces. She was petrified of them. In between the bursts of pain, Miranda could hear what the girl heard, too. Huge wings flapped somewhere overhead.
Even though she could see nothing there, she knew Lucilla could. Images, like strands of broken film, flashed through her mind — of something dark and angular with claws like ice-picks, impossibly long. She seemed momentarily to be in another place, a nightmarish world of crimson flames and clouds of ragged, dark grey smoke, all boiling up into a purple sky. Winged creatures flittered across it, battling each other ferociously. Some were killed and torn apart. Others swooped or soared, looking for fresh enemies.
One looked down and saw her. Its face, like a horned devil’s, was filled with rage as it flapped its wings and dived towards her. And in that instant Miranda knew she had looked into Hell, that somehow Lucilla was part of that place and had escaped from it.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the vision faded, and Miranda saw she had stepped out onto the motorway and an articulated lorry was heading her way. Without hesitation, she ran towards it, determined to let the onrushing vehicle put an end to her and to Lucilla, when the air pushed ahead of it buffeted her towards the hard shoulder, out of its way.
In that instant, something hard and sharp gripped her shoulders. For a terrifying second, she saw the creature from her vision, its face only inches from her own, dribbling as it clamped its teeth in a seething grin. Then it flung her hard...
* * *
Travelling with his wife and ten-year old daughter to Luton Airport, Harry Kenyon slammed the brakes of his Toyota. Tyres squealed as the lorry ahead of him jack-knifed across the motorway.
Behind him, his daughter screamed. At the same time, his wife gave a cry of alarm.
Harry grimaced. Bile burned at the back of his throat as what looked like blood sprayed from the front of the lorry. He somehow, miraculously, managed to swerve past, heading towards the hard shoulder, too shocked to drive any farther. His hands shook as he unfastened his seat belt, fumbling inside his jacket for his mobile phone while cars shot past, skidding to avoid the lorry. A pile-up was only seconds away.
“I’ll call for an ambulance.”
His daughter sobbed. “It’s all right, darling,” his wife said to her, though Harry knew it was a lie. A white lie. The kind you told your children when bad things happened.
The girl sobbed again and then stretched her body in a spasmodic manner and heaved a sigh so deep it made the hair at the back of her father’s neck prickle. Twisting around, he looked at his daughter as she stared stiffly back at him and, for a moment, he was sure she didn’t even know who he was until her eyes shut tight then opened once more and she peered through the window.
“It’s all right,” the girl said in a voice her father barely recognised. “Everything’s all right now.”
He looked back and saw his daughter squeeze herself deep into the gap behind his seat as if she were trying to hide. There was a look of fear on her face.
Copyright © 2022 by David A. Riley
