No Strings Attached

Chapter 7

(A/N: I often have to remind myself I'm writing children. This is difficult when you're over a decade older than them. I hope I can maintain at least a bit of childlike thought and action despite the bizarreness of the situation. If I ever fall out of this or make them too "adult," feel free to tell me. Thanks for reading.)

No Strings Attached

VII

Isaiah didn't even see the last nod Pudge gave. His attention was already turned back to the beast that had magically appeared before them. Yellow teeth were snarling through the mouth of the large dog as it snipped and growled repeatedly toward Isaiah. Eyes equally as yellow displayed the hunger the beast had. It was close enough to his face that he could see even these small details, meaning there wasn't much space between him and a nasty, violent end.

What the hell am I doing? Isaiah asked himself. Playing hero wasn't on his bucket list. Aside from Carrie, there was no child he felt particularly close to. Yet he had done this without thought. Perhaps he was trying to prove something. Prove what? His body was on a different track than his mind and he needed to mentally remind his legs to stay put; don't turn around and run, don't give up, don't let your face show how terribly, horribly frightened you are.

The animal lunged at him. Before he could bring his arms to move the sharp teeth latched onto his forearm and sunk deep into his skin. A pitiful howl of pain and a scream was all Isaiah could do. Shaking Isaiah's limb, the dog tried to rip it off. Somehow, Isaiah got his legs to work. One swift kick at the animal and it backed away.

The intense pain of the deep bite never reached Isaiah's brain. Adrenaline and survival instincts had sent his body into shock. All signals being sent to his head were muted. His fingers were locked around the bat's handle, unable to clench any tighter yet unable to release the object, either. Shoulders stiff from dread, it felt as though he had to use his entire body to swing the bat. The first swipe missed as the animal backed away. The second hit its mark.

It was a strange feeling. The soft hide of the dog was similar to the leather of a baseball; the bone underneath nothing more than thin shield protecting the brain. It felt satisfying, in the way crushing a homerun during little league felt. The knowledge of power above another living creature; the idea that in this desperate moment, Isaiah was a god to this creature, given the option to decide whether it lived or died at his hands… that was all he could think about as he gave the dog another hardy whack.

A "crunch" emitted from the animal's skull followed by a small whimper. Dazed, it couldn't react to the next hit, or the dozen or more smacks that followed. Repeatedly, Isaiah raised the weapon and swung it down as hard as his damaged body would allow. Each hit added more and more to the fire that had built within him.

His body gave up. Grip lost, the bat slipped from his hands and clanked against the floor. Slowly he backed away from the dead animal, its head sunken in, blood staining the floor, the white of bone and pink of brain visible from the wound. Transfixed on the death before him, Isaiah failed to notice how far back he had stepped until the glass of the broken window cut the back of his neck. The sharp slice brought his mind back to his situation.

Now the pain from his arm registered. He clenched at. Warm blood went through his fingertips and he could feel the flapping flesh that remained. Curiosity got the better of him and he took a look at the wound. Perfect puncture marks were outlined with immediate blue bruising. The arm was swollen and several pieces of flesh had been ripped out when the dog let out. Each second that ticked by the pain grew substantially, eventually turning into a consistent throb. He had to tear his eyes away and place his hand back on the wound.

A fresh sense of calmness washed over him even though his heart continued to race. Aware that he needed to relax, he tried a breathing exercise to get his body under control. Clearing his mind, he tried to assess what was the first thing he needed to do. Bleeding to death didn't sound like a good idea, so he browsed the room for anything he could use as a bandage.

Finding the room surprisingly sparse of anything usable, he opted to remove his shirt and attempted to wrap it around his arm. Chlorine from the pool water stung as it touched his skin and he winced from the sensation, yet he continued to wrap it. Satisfied with its tightness he made sure it was secure before daring to move from his spot. Just one hop out the window was all that separated him from getting the heck out of there.

He turned to leave but was stopped when something latched onto his foot. Gazing downward he spotted a hand sprouted from the floor and holding his ankle. Panicked, he jumped back. The mysterious hand apparently let go with his violent twitch and Isaiah found himself falling backwards. After landing on his butt he looked to where the hand and just been to find it gone. Maybe he was going nuts.

"Are you hurt?"

That damned voice again! When Isaiah whipped his head up toward the sound he found a marionette within arm's reach. The controlling wires that sprouted from its knees and hands led to nowhere, cut off just inches from their fastening point. The rotted wood was falling apart, the painted eyes were crooked, the clothes were tattered, and the left knee joint was spun almost completely around.

A possessed puppet wasn't exactly what Isaiah had planned on facing. Regardless, it was clear this strange contraption had something to do with the terrors that they had been forced to confront. The need to fight hit him hard and despite the injuries on his body, he was quick to his feet. Hurriedly he looked for the bat he had just used. Lying a good eight feet away, Isaiah had to rush to nab it.

On his way he stumbled on something and twisted his ankle. Annoyed at his luck, he glared at the object that had tripped him. At his feet he found a small toy box, its contents scattered across the bright colored carpet. Unsure how he missed it but happy to have something to at least throw, he reached for the mess and grabbed the first thing his hands landed on.

A slinky, wrapped around itself and total worthless, was the object he had picked. Frustrated, he tossed it at the puppet and missed completely. Within a blink his hands were back at the pile. Blindly he took the next thing. This one was heavy – really heavy – and felt cold against his clammy palms.

His eyes were wide in disbelief as he found what he now held was a gun. A pistol, its gunmetal paint glistening under the lights, weighted as though it was loaded and ready to shoot. He'd shot one only a few times, his father teaching him the basics of gun safety when he was just a young kid. The power of a weapon like it was deadly. Misusing it could prove fatal for the user or a friend of the user. Yet it also provided a great defense. Never before had he needed to use one in a life or death moment.

Shaking, he nearly dropped the weapon when he went to raise it. Only one hand gripped the handle when he finally fired it, the bullet missing the puppet but snagging the toy the puppet held. Ears ringing from the loud pop, Isaiah couldn't hear whatever the puppet said next. His hands were quivering so bad from the jolt he dropped the weapon. Vibrations shot up his entire arm before clashing with the whine in his ears. This lasted for a brief time, during which the puppet made its grand exit, fading away from that curiously deadly play room.

For a moment Isaiah remained on the floor, once more needing to get his mind and body back under control. Each intake of air reminded him that was fortunate to still be alive, that each wound could be healed, that another day was still to be had. Fed up from being there alone and finally ready to move on, Isaiah snatched the weapon off the floor and rushed to the window. Now properly armed, he felt more confident that he could protect the others. They needed him. With that thought he jumped out the window and into the darkness.