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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1086948-Bad-Omen
Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Horror/Scary · #1086948
One of my alter egos most disturbing nightmares to date.
Bad Omen


As the scene opens, Steve and his family are barreling Eastward down Interstate 94 through St. Paul, Minnesota. The blue Ford Windstar minivan is cruising down the left-most lane at nearly 70 miles an hour, easily 15 miles over the posted speed limit. Steve's gloved right hand is at the 5 o'clock position on the steering wheel, the knuckles of his left fist against the left side of his chin. A pair of purple-framed shades with blue lenses cover his eyes. He's dressed in a white polo shirt, a pair of black denim Arizona baggy fit jeans, a braided black leather belt with brass belt buckle is around his waist, a pair of black suede, steel-toed Mack "Tim" boots are on his feet. A gold watch dangles off his left wrist as he adjusts his posture so that his back is straight in the gray cloth-covered Captain's chair that he's sitting in. Sean Paul's "We Be Burnin'" is playing on the radio.

His wife is sitting next to him, a faraway expression on her face, the visor moved to her right to keep the sun out of her eyes. Her hair is cut in a "bob" style, nearly caresses her shoulders. She's wearing a black Cardigan over a cream-colored shirt, a pair of blue denim jeans, a pair of brown loafers with white socks. Her big, brown eyes scan the highway ahead of them as they continue down the road. Their son is in the Captain's chair behind Steve, a set of headphones on his ears, his head bobbing to the beat of whatever song it is he's listening to on his Walkman. He's dressed in a red and black Spider-Man t-shirt, a pair of black denim jeans, a pair of red boots with gray trim are on his feet. Last, but certainly not least is his 4-and-a-half-month old daughter, who is in her seat in the Captain's chair behind his wife. We can't get a glimpse of her, given the canopy that covers the seat and the fact that the seat itself is facing toward the back of the Windstar.

Steve's eyes slide to the rear view mirror on the driver's side door, checking out any activity going on behind him, always aware of the concrete divider between his vehicle and the oncoming traffic on the other side of the highway. He quickly glances at his wife, sighs, his mind poring over recent events involving provocative pictures being sent to her that insinuated that he could very well be cheating on her. He looks past his wife to the rear view mirror on the passenger's side door, checks to see if anyone is in his sight. He looks beyond the mirror, checking out the other 3 lanes of traffic as well. He quickly checks his blind spot on the passenger's side, just to know what his surroundings look like before sliding his eyes directly to the rear view mirror plastered on the windshield. That's when it happens.

Out of nowhere, a black blur dashes out in front of his vehicle from the other side of the highway, collides with the windshield on his side. Steve immediately hits the breaks as hard as he can and turns his steering wheel counter-clockwise. The Windstar lurches, rolls over a few times, catching a few more vehicles in its wake and causing a multi-car accident. Fade to black.

*************************************************

Steve comes to, is upside down in the now-destroyed mini-van. He can smell smoke and gas as he tries to get his eyes to focus on what's ahead of him. Everything is relatively dark and his head feels as if someone detonated a nuke inside it. He looks to his right. His wife is nowhere to be found and the passenger's side door is shut. As he looks beyond where she should be, he notices that it's black as night outside. He looks to the seat where his daughter should be. The car seat is there, but his daughter is not. The sliding door is still shut. He tries to look behind himself but given his precarious position, he's unable to. He reaches back behind his seat to see if he can feel one of his son's feet. As far as he can tell, his son isn't in the van, either. He squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces.

I've gotta get the hell up outta here! Smells like this damn thing's gonna blow at any minute!

Steve braces himself by placing his right forearm against the mini-van's ceiling before grabbing the latch at his right hip and pressing the red button. Contrary to all of the other stories he's heard, the latch easily releases. The only door in the vehicle that was opened was the driver's side door. Using his upper body strength, he manages to wriggle free and get out of the van. He takes mental inventory of himself to check for injuries as he stands. Upon standing completely upright, he loses his sight.

*************************************************

A searing, hot pain across his abdomen shakes Steve out of his stupor. Before his mind can fully process it, there's another searing pain that goes down at an angle across the right side of his face toward the left side of his body. His head lurches to the left from the force of the blow. He can't see a thing, his other senses go from virtually nonexistent to full alert in a heartbeat. He can hear myriad voices cheering as a dull pain forces him down to his left knee. He blinks, his head snapping from side to side as he tries to get a bearing on his unseen attacker. He feels another searing pain go across his back, just beneath his shoulder blades.

He quickly places his right hand against the right side of his face, feels the moisture that is there and immediately knows that it's his own blood. That realization changes the blackness that he sees to red and instincts begin to kick in. He lowers his center of gravity, listens far more intently for movement in his vicinity. He hears what sounds like the crunching of glass to his left, resists the temptation to move right away. As he hears what sounds like someone's feet sliding across pavement as they prepare to take a swing, he lunges in the direction of the sound, keeping his head lowered. He feels his shoulder collide with a firm but fleshy area, hears air quickly escaping his would-be attacker. As they hit the ground, Steve kicks his legs outward so that he nearly impales his victim's midsection with his shoulder on the ground. A guttural growl is building in his throat as he quickly straddles his attacker and finds their eyes. He digs his thumbs into them, feels the eyelids separate, feels his thumbs begin to crush the orbs beneath them. The growl in his own throat becomes a primal roar, drowning out all other sounds around him as he feels the hands of his attacker clench around his wrists. He presses his thumbs as far as they will go into the sockets as his victim struggles beneath him.

Now, asshole...! We're on a level playin' field!!

The roar succumbs to the sounds of his blood and adrenaline rushing through his veins, a fast, rhythmic, primal beat being all that he can hear. He can feel the blood on his hands, feel the heat of his victim as he wraps his hands around their throat. He stands, pulls them up by the throat before going behind them and applying a waist lock. He lifts slightly, attempting to gauge how much weight he's dealing with. His victim is lifted with ease. Without a second thought, Steve pops his hips and lifts, arching his back and dropping his victim on their head for a Back Drop Driver. Without skipping a beat, he grabs his victim once more, finds their head and lifts them to their feet. He goes behind them, drapes their left arm around the back of his neck and hoists them up into an inverted Fireman's Carry position on his shoulders. He drops down to his left, his elbow extended toward the ground as he prepares to fall on his left hip and leg. Where normally, he'd just let them fall, he tightens his grip on their neck and shoves their lower body toward his left. As their head collides with the ground, he can hear a popping sound. That pop is from the neck snapping, thanks to the extra torque of the body as it falls unnaturally to the ground.

Suddenly, an excruciatingly sharp pain racks his head. That pain comes from his eyes as he clutches at them, gritting his teeth so hard that it's a wonder that some of them don't shatter from the force. He falls to his hands and knees, eyes shut as tightly as he can get them. For a few moments, there's nothing but silence and darkness. When he opens his eyes, he finds that he is able to see once more. He is in what appears some sort of coliseum. Dressed in a pair of black tights, a pair of matching black boots, a black neoprene elbow brace on his left elbow, a pair of black leather gloves on his hands and his wrists heavily taped with black electrical tape, he notices that he's covered in blood. Slashes across his midsection and arms ooze crimson. He looks down to the left, sees the victim at his feet. His eyes grow wide in horror as he drops to his knees and vomits profusely.

Lying there motionless on the ground, her eyes dug out, her neck broken is his wife. A shadowy figure approaches him.

Well done, my fine warrior!

The shadowy figure claps its hands as the crowd roars its approval. In the distance, a spotlight shines down on 2 individuals. His son and daughter are looking on in horror. Primal fury wells up within Steve as he leaps to his feet and grabs the figure by the throat. He realizes that this figure is wearing a hood that covers his or her features. He rips the hood off their head, revealing...

HIMSELF.
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