David lowered his gun slightly, bringing his fist to his abdomen. He spat blood and propped a hand against the white painted brick wall. He panted, fueled by fear. He turned again to the far end of the hall. The creature met his gaze with its now yellow eyes, turned and left. Several others called to it in the distance.
There were eleven, including David. Detective Ford, McDowell, and eight of their men. One lay upstairs on a cot, grasping a battered arm to his chest and muttering through his fever. Two men with guns stood watch, just in case.
The animal with a chain now around it’s neck began to call. It’s cry echoing around the room, bouncing from locker to locker. The two in the cage began to echo their brother’s cry, static fur clinging to the metal bars of their now emptier cage.
It was a smell, a feeling, that alerted Frank. Something was off. The smell of blood and decay, a tinge of saliva and feces. The fog shifted forward, revealing bones. Most were gnawed clean, some broken for the marrow. There were piles, Frank guessed just under a hundred, mostly animals. Most, but not all.
Jason breathed. He panted. Saliva dripped from his tongue and onto a square, black tile. Something cracked, making David jump and Jason whimper. Some more pops filled the empty room. David looked around, they sounded close.
David turned, processing the sentence sitting in the front seat with them. He stared at the open window of the Gibbson’s house. “Lovely.”
Try and convince me you couldn’t go for a cookie right this second.
She took his order, dragging it with labored steps back into the kitchen to be born.
His six minute nap felt like a pitiful paperclip in a battle against the dragon of his sleep. What good does that do, really?
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Posted 29 December 2009
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fiction
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