Chapter 12- The Man Hits A Mighty Fine Home Run

Author's Note: This is officially the first chapter that I've worked on since moving into my dorm room. That's right- I'm in college now! Okay, that's besides the point- I never want to turn into one of those douches who tell their life stories and who all but suck off whoever it was who happened to leave nonsensical reviews amounting to "omG u R so aweshum!1!11!!" in the author's notes.

Okay, so despite this chapter's title, no, you are not reading something I mistaked for my baseball story. All will be made clear as crystal soon enough.

(As an end note to all kids out there- when you get into a college dorm room, make sure you're certain that you will get along with your roommate. You CAN move out, or he/she can if you can't get along at all. And that is all for now.)

It was too late for Layla to have been able to see Ben Givins' big rig when it passed by her. By the time she could have been in any shape to realize that she could have been in distance of being rescued, she was left to sit in the car.

She was so frightened that she barely noticed the nearly baking heat in the car, or the soreness that encompassed every part of her body. She worried about where Gerald was.

As she had been sitting in the car, it had clicked, somewhere in Layla's frightened mind, that while the outside of the car more resembled a large, empty tin can that been crushed until it was nearly unrecognizable, the inside looked very nearly in the same condition that it had been while she and Gerald had been riding in it the past few hours. Along with what had happened to her already, the contrast of the car- the almost ordered, normal inside- and the crushed, wrecked look on the outside- lent an almost fun house, unreal feel to the moment.

When she turned her head up to look at the sky, she felt uneasy as she realized what it was that was her only real choice in the situation was. Unease, yes, because she did not want to walk down the highway in the heat, but also because she had already noted the loss of the last bottle of water. How long could she wander around the highway, looking for any sign of life without any water?

There was also something else in the back of her mind that whispered, but how long can I afford to sit here? The longer she sat there, the larger the distance between Gerald and the water he held was going to grow wider and wider.

She barely hesitated as she stood up and began her walk down the highway in the direction that the car was facing. As she walked, not only was the walk painful to her body, still tenderized from the crash, but she felt uncomfortable. She could not at first pinpoint the cause, but when a minuscule bite of wind picked up around her, picking up much of the hair off of her hot and sweaty face and neck, she saw a strange shape off in the distance. Her gaze flew in the direction of the strange shape.

It was atop the great wall of red rock to the right of the road. She knew it wasn't literally a wall; it was such a large rock that it was massive in size from the direction she was looking at it.

When she looked up at the strange formation of rocks atop the large red wall of rock, she came to the decision that there was nothing except for the rocks that could have possibly gained her attention. She blinked a few times, but continued to stare up at the rocks, half hoping that what she believed she had seen- a shape that stood out from the rocks- would appear. She eventually gave up to continue to wander down the highway.

But as she continued walking down the road, she couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that was tied to the phantom shape she had seen off in the distance. But while she had seen the shape for a matter of moments, something had its continued gaze on her.

--

The walking hurt, feeling most like how a door with rusted or near broken hinges must feel with every step Layla took.

It had hurt most when she had been taking the first few steps. Eventually, though, even the soreness had given into the metronomic, dull feel of the heat. The world became a haze of heat and walking along the long road. She didn't know how long she had walked, but as she had walked, she had been trying to focus on anything but her thirst,and the beat of the sun. Then finally, there came a point where it became impossible to ignore her thirst. She could not move her tongue in her mouth without it being stuck to a dry spot in her mouth.

Since she was a child, she had been brought to a Catholic church every Sunday that her father didn't have to work. When she had grown up and had lived with Dave, she had quit going to church. Since her father's funeral, she could truthfully say that she had not prayed in earnest since that day. But, while she stumbled along the road in a near panic for fear of dying from thirst or heatstroke, she felt herself praying that something would happen so that she would not die there, on the road.

Her wish was to come true.

It appeared first as a dot on the long, long strip of highway in front of her. Layla believed, at first, that she was imagining something. She rubbed at her eyes, something that she had become accustomed to doing since she had begun walking down the road, on account of all of the sand that had been blowing into her face. When she opened them, she expected the image on the hot patch of highway to disappear.

It didn't.

She felt her heart, already pumping overtime, beat a fast tattoo on her rib cage. She barely stopped herself from running down the road as she saw more of the shape forming as time passed quickly by. Even when she tried to stop herself from running at the approaching vehicle, her pace had quickened into a jog.

As the vehicle came closer, she became aware that the vehicle was an aging pickup truck. She could see nothing of the person, or the persons, in the truck's cab. If she had to, her best guess would be that the pickup was an old Ford.

When the truck came even closer, Layla, who was walking on the left side of the road, began jumping up and down, yelling out to the truck. It slowed in front of her, then stopped. Layla didn't stop to look into the truck's cab. When the truck came to a full stop, she only registered, mentally, that there were two in the cab. She ran to the driver's side and peered into the opened window of the driver's side door.

At first, the face that she saw through the window looked, to her, as though it belonged to an old man. He had turned to look at her, and as she looked at him, he looked at her with a frightening combination of shock and burning anger.

The reason he looked so old to her at first was because of the disfigurement he had in his face. What looked like lines resulting from age was really long lines of scarring. And his mouth-

Where his face was horrible, his mouth- his jaw- was worse. The way his jaw and mouth looked, it seemed that something bad had happened to him to have wrecked his face up. His jaw seemed to jut out at a bizarre angle, and his upper lip was split to the bottom edge of his nose. It took Layla a moment to place what it was called when a lip was missing the flesh in the upper lip. Hare lip, she remembered after a moment, It's a hare lip that he has.

His hair was a steel gray that seemed to sprout up everywhere on the top of his head. His hands were still tight on the wheel. It seemed that the shock in his eyes was a genuine one.

Both of them stared at each other for awhile, with Layla waiting for him to roll his window down. He didn't.

She saw his arm shoot down to the door, and her first thought was that he was going to make a move for the door lock. Fear gripped at her.

Grabbing the door's opening mechanism, she yanked the door open, and, throwing herself at the driver, she yelled out, "Please, for the love of god, just take me with you!"

She was leaning over, her hands had a solid grip on the man's shoulders. It was because she was staring pleadingly at the driver that she had not seen the horror that was the passenger immediately after she threw the door open. As soon as her eyes darted over to the man in the passenger's side seat, she was quickly made aware of the passenger's appearance.

He was a horrible creature- he looked no more human than the lizard that she had seen earlier that day and had imagined conversing with. His face was very pale- which seemed to only aid in contrasting against the splotch on the right side of his face that was the color of rotten strawberries. The splotch covered his eye- but it did not hide how it seemed to be stuck together, whether by the nauseating path of pus-like liquid that came from his shut eye, or from another, unknown sort of disfigurement. His mouth and nose was equally as disfigured- his nose, the bottom, more specifically, seemed tilted, so that one part was higher than the other. And his teeth-! Many were missing, but what few he had were enormous, and jutted out from reddened, greatly swollen gums. And she could see the misshapen mass that was his head, his skull, because of his lack of hair. Or, at least, much of it- what little he had was a blond-white cloud that, like the driver's, seemed to sprout out in haphazard, strange directions atop his great head.

Layla was immediately disgusted and frightened. She tried to jerk backwards and out of the truck. When she did, though, she realized that she was being held in place- by the driver.

He was gripping her upper arms in an anything but gentle grip. As she was held in place by his bruising grip, Layla wailed in pain and stopped moving immediately- despite the fact that the driver was a short man, and he looked as though he did not have near as much muscle tone as his, she then realized, passenger did, he had some unknown source of great strength that made her strength, in comparison, seem near infantile. It was an almost animalistic in the amount that she felt.

"Please, please- agh!" He gripped her even harder. ""Just let... let me go. Were you sent by... by Gerald? He was gone by the time I, I woke up, and-" she stopped as she saw the menacing gleam of silver that glinted with a beam of sunlight that hit it. It was a gun with a very long barrel. And, to Layla's shock, the driver's hand was tight on the gun's handle- and his finger was poised on the trigger.

The man, seeing her gaze stuck on the gun he had a tight grip on, scowled at her. Layla's eyes rose back up to his, begging silently where she felt unable to speak. As she looked into his eye, she felt that, for just a moment, she could see into his pale blue eyes as though they were truly a window of his soul. For just a moment, she believed that she could see something soft in his eyes that was of great contrast to the hardness that she had seen before. And then, it was gone- replaced with a merciless cold.

Layla felt as though her life was literally slipping away as he rose the gun up to point it at her head. It would have taken a miracle to save her life. --

As both stared each other down- the murdered and her murderer- both were very much aware of the audible click of the gun's hammer being laid down. Layla's lips trembled, but she felt too shocked to cry- but strangely enough, someone did cry out.

The passenger, who neither the driver or Layla had been paying much attention to, had begun to squeal. It did not sound normal, or in any way human, as a matter of fact, and Layla, at first, could not believe that the giant sitting in the passenger's seat could not have been making the noise. Yet he was.

The driver never looked away from Layla, nor did he lower the gun from where it was aimed at her forehead. His malformed lips twitched angrily as he took in two deep breaths, then snarled out words that Layla could barely believe that could be capable of forming in his throat.

"What's the fuck's the matter wit' you?!"

The passenger did not seem at all jolted by the angry, animalistic voice that the driver had spoken in. And, Layla saw, the passenger was pointing at her. For a long moment, he seemed to struggle with words. His lips moved, at times he jutted his front, buck tooth out to graze his bottom lip as he spoke. "Sh... sh... she drifter... sh... she d'ifter!"

Layla took it for meaningless babble at first, then she saw the frozen look of shock on the driver's face. His eyes, which had seemed to burn with their blues, looked as though they had been quickly stifled of their intensity. When he turned to look back at her, he was looking at her as though she was an object of great confusion.

His eyes were stuck on her face at first. She felt as though a blush was building up fast in her face, making her face, already warm from the heat, feel as though they were burning. When he lowered his gaze from her face, down her neck, however, she felt the familiar burning sensation on her neck. His gaze felt as though it was burning her skin- even through her clothes.

Down her neck, pausing on her chest- Layla was sure that she was blushing for real as he did- then moving across each arm, then her hands. Her left, first, then her right...

He was obviously surprised at the sight of Layla's malformed hand. And his own hand, which had been tight as any prisoner;s shackle on her wrist, loosened slightly. The feel on his heavily calloused fingertips on her wrist was, in a way that was disturbing, given the situation, almost tender.

As he stared at her hand- a feeling of burning building up in her right hand- Layla was suddenly ever most aware of the pressure that had been on her left wrist, as it was on her right. Or, more appropriately, the lack of the bruising grip on her left hand wrist.

Yes, the driver's right hand... the gun... it's holding the gun...

And, he had to let go of her left hand to hold the gun. And the gun...

The driver's eyes were still transfixed on her right hand, so he did not see the way she had locked her eyes on his other hand, the one holding the gun. He still had the gun, but it was a limp grip at best that he had on the handle. He had laid it and his hand next to him. If it had been a normal life she had lived for the past few years- or even for the past few hours- she might have been shocked by her coldly calculated decision.

Grabbing the gun first was a risky move- he was still in a state of either disbelief of shock, and he could have been easy to get the better of for the time being, but he still had a hold on her right wrist. How easy would it be for him to exert his grip once more on her wrist, and twist until she had a compound fracture that would ruin her wrist?

She kept her gaze on the gun, keeping her eyes on the prize, as it were, because she believed that if she concentrated on the driver, she'd lose her shit, then and there. Because whatever had surprised the driver and his passenger about her- her hand- would not stop these people from killing her, when the time came for the driver to return his deadly attention back to her. In one quick movement, all of the planning she had played out in her head was realized.

Her hand shot out from the driver's weak grip, and her left hand made a grab for the gun. Somewhere in the back of her mind, behind all of the adrenalin and panic, she was surprised at the ease in which she could have just as easily reached over and casually grabbed the gun up from the driver's hand. It felt far too easy for her as she pulled herself out of the truck's cab and drew the gun, pointing it at the driver.

"Get... get out of the truck!" She shouted to him.

The driver seemed to be in a state of shock as he stared at Layla, his eyes very large. It took him a few seconds before his eyes squeezed themselves into tight, angry slits. He bent down, his hands seeking something under or near his feet. Layla didn't register what he was doing until she saw the object that he carried up to his lap. It was a bat.

Layla had to force herself to not panic at the sight of the ugly, utterly violent object that the driver held. She had no reason to be afraid of this man- or any weapons he had- anymore. She had his gun. She had to force herself to talk through the painful, sand-papery feel of her throat. "Put the bat down and get out of the truck."

If it wasn't for the fact that he was physically abnormal, Layla would have nonetheless known that he wasn't normal because of his reaction to her. And to the gun. He slid out of the truck- almost calmly so- but he kept the handle of the bat tight in his right fist. Layla had to back away, keep out of range of him being able to swing the bat at her.

But he kept coming at her. Slow, purposeful steps. She kept the gun pointed at him and matched each step he made towards her with one of her own. It was a sick, dark dance that lead Layla, eventually, into stepping off of the road and into the sand. Her mind continued to scream at her to shoot him. He couldn't stop a bullet, no matter how powerful he seemed. But there was another, much less defined voice in her that whispered quickly to her in warning like an unconfident advisor who was intent to nevertheless make its point known to his Liege.

To her, the man looked so much like some mighty and fearless God- or some ancient, unbeaten warrior. Could he really be affected by something like a bullet? Or would it just make him angrier?

She was never so off-put by a man in her entire life with fear. Even Dave never made her feel so frightened. But then again, Dave was completely human- a jackass, a bastard, sure- but he seemed to be a human.

But when the man began to bring the bat up, and her hands began to shake erratically, something in her clicked, along with the click of the gun's hammer, which she pulled back. The trigger under her finger felt like something weightless as she jerked it backwards. A sound, most like the jolting crack of a nearby strike of lightening, tore at her ears.

Layla cried out, shutting her eyes at the sound of the gun going off. When she opened them, the sight she had expected to see, the man curled up o the ground, clutching something on his body as though in pain, was not to be found. What she did see, however, was the man, even closer that time. Not a part of him looked so much as grazed by the killing bullet.

Her hands had let her down in their erratic trembling and she had missed.

She stepped backwards at a faster pace than before, trying to put some distance between her and the man. The man walked faster too, seeming as though he was humoring her, playing with her. It panicked her further.

Her shaking was completely uncontrollable. The only thing she could hope for in shooting the man was to try to aim her gun at him as best as she could- hope that it struck a vital- and shoot. And she had better hope that she had struck something that would take him down immediately, because she had the feeling that he would try to kill her with him dying strength. How many bullets were there, exactly, in the gun?

She attempted to line a shot up as best she could, then shot the gun again with no amount of calm left in her. She winced and shut her eyes again as the gun let out a loud crack and jerked her arms back. It nearly hit her in the face.

She opened her eyes again. The driver had stopped walking, but he was not clutching at anything on his body, nor did he look shocked or frightened. In fact, he was not even looking at her, but past her-

She felt herself pitch forward, her head aiming for the ground below her, then her face bouncing off of the hot ground before she felt the intense shock wave of pain pulse from the back of her head. She took in a deep breath to cry out, but she felt as though consciousness was slipping through her fingers. It was a familiar sensation when she lost control of her ability to control her body, but she was, for a moment, very much aware of the sounds around her.

Footsteps nearing her, then stopping very close to her body on the ground. There were voices, but she could not understand what they were saying. The only thing she could recognize were the tones of both of the people from the truck's cab- then the feeling of being jabbed with something blunt on her back. It was the only warning she got as she dully registered the feeling of something striking her back, hard. She felt no pain, but she wanted to wince at how sore she would no doubt feel once she regained consciousness. It took her a moment before she realized that the odds were that she would never be allowed to do such a thing as to regain consciousness. It was not a settling thought, but in her state, it was also neither anything particularily un-settling.

It wasn't like her to want to want to wallow in her own predicaments, and even unconscious, she trivialized it with a sarcastic, humorless thought. I get killed by a man, and wouldn't you just know it, it's not my husband. --