Good day thus far. Woke up early, 8am, and played tennis for an hour and a half. Lost both sets, but hey, I looked good doing so. Got in some aces, got in some good volleys, lost with grace and humor. If I could hit back tennis balls as well as I can shoot off repartees, I’d be playing the frickin’ Sony Ericsson tournament.
But, but. I don’t. So then coffee with a friend, then some business, now to the writing. Knocked out some 2,500 words thus far, knee deep in the midst of Chapter 13. Total word count thus far, for those of you that ain’t been keeping track: 54,500. And if I were to add the 12,000 I cut out from before? Man. Man. Another 4,000 to go. It’s a busy day today, thought. Not much time in which to do it. Wine at 5.30, and then Flight of the Conchords live at 7.30. Guess I’ll try to hammer out what I can now, and finish it off when I get home tonight, whatever hour that might be.
Everything seemed to slow down, stop. The club lifted back up, raising Tommy momentarily as he stuck to it, to its spikes. Then gravity claimed its own, and pulled the dead man down, sucking him free so that he fell bonelessly to the pavement.
“Run,” whispered Guillaume.
Something stepped out of the alley, shoulders so broad they brushed both walls on the second floor. A man, a giant, his ponderous form draped in chains, each link as large as Sita’s hand. Four times taller than Kevin, so that his head but barely cleared the giant’s knees. Its great feet were wrapped in oiled rags, a great torn shirt belted at the waist served as an overlarge tunic, reaching in tatters down his thighs. A belt of chains, from which severed heads hung, the severed heads of men, men whose faces were yet animated, their mouths moving, screaming silently, their eyes pleading with Sita.
That was when she realized this was no rescue. That this was no figure come to save them from Rawhead. That it was possible for things to get much, much worse. Lumbering out into the street, ignored by traffic and the people striding by, the giant loomed over them. Its head, so high above, was a halo of thick, unkempt hair, its beard falling down to is belt, growing high up its cheeks, its brows over large, hiding the dark eyes in shadow. Hideous, mute, it raised the club to its shoulder, one handed.
“Jack in Irons,” whispered Guillaume, “Run.”
And back. And did some more writing. Another… what. 3,500 words? Dammit, let me go Word Count. Yeah. So some 5,500 in totum. Which ain’t 6,500, but I’ve hit the end of the chapter and don’t feel like moving a mere 1,000 words into the next one. So I’ll pick it up tomorrow.
With each step, fear fell from her like leaves from a tree. It no longer mattered to her, not truly, if she succeeded or failed. What was there to strive for? The only true goal was now beyond her. The shadows that filled the alleys held no secrets, harbored no potential horrors. Whatever might lie within them would be dealt with if it emerged, or not. She thought of the things she had seen, felt. Thought of blood, and pain, and things beyond her ken. None of it touched her now. She walked as if in a cloud, an enervating mist of detachment and inviolate indifference.