Saturday, January 10, 2009


His legs were weighed down by a ton of bricks. For what seems like miles, he ran. He ran until his feet were blistered, spurting blood and dirt, sliced by rocks, jabbed by twigs. He ran until his muscles were burning, until they started to feel like white-hot embers, until they felt as if they would fall out of his skin.

He ran for his life.

The tireless beast shambling towards him felt no pain. It felt no remorse, or anger. No hatred, no sorrow. It only felt one thing; hunger. It was decayed, smelling of rotten death. Eyes shrinking in their sockets, and bone showing through burnt and broken skin.

The autumn morning chill settled into the runners bones as the mist of jack frost drew out what little breath he struggled to exhale. As leaves and frost rose from his footsteps, the forest began to open into a clearing.

Sighting a dirt road leading to a run-down shack, hope begins to grow inside his heart. *A light in the window! Someone is there. Maybe they can help me. All I have to do is run a few more seconds. I can make it!*

Sure steps turn into stumbles, as the bite on his leg began to tingle, and his body started to betray him. Vision began to blur. Thoughts began to decay. *What is wrong with me?*

He was almost there.

There was a man on a rocking chair, his withered face looking like tough leather, smoking cup of coffee and an old dog at his side. He looked the runner over as he stumbled towards him, screaming for help through shrieking breaths and heaving breast.

"Help me! Oh my god... please help me!"

"What's the problem, boy?"The old man grumbles as he gets up from his seat.
"Something. . . Running after me. I don't know what. . . it is. It bit me.You gotta help. . . me. Jesus Christ."

The old man reached for his rifle. "Well sit down and catch your breath for a second. We'll talk about it in a. . . "

A loud groan pierced the thick chill of the clearing, as the beast hobbled fiercly towards both men, a few hundred feet of field separating his gnashing teeth from their throats.
A loaded clip slides into the rifle, as the old man twirls towards the beast. A loud crack follows.

Flesh bursts from the shoulder of the beast.

Not a whimper is heard. Not a single missed footstep.

"You... have to shoot him... in the head! It's... the only... way."The runner can barely speak, as his mind slowly disintegtrates.

BOOM. Another loud crack, as the old man takes a shot at the head. As the bullet rends his face in two, the beast finally hits the ground, twitching and writhing.

"Now what in the hell was that, boy? Are you alright?" The old man says as he turns back towards his porch.

"Uugh. . . that thing ate my friends. I. . . can't. . . feel my legs. Help me. . . I need. . . need. . . " the runners voice trails off as he slumps onto the steps of the porch, exhausted.

"Alright son, just rest up while I get you some water. I'll get some bandages, too."

The runner groans in approval as the old man shuffles into his shack.

A few seconds later, the old man opens up his door to see that the runner is missing. He looks around for a few moments until turning the corner of his shack to find something horrible.
His poor ol' dog leaves out a tiny whimper as the runner takes a last bite out of it's throat.

"What the ffff..." The old man turns to run to his gun. . .

He never makes it.

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