Short Story: Six

A step upon the crumbled concrete. The only echoes through the darkened building were those of destruction and dejection. Overhead blackened water oozed out of a broken pipe. Twisted metal rebar sprouted from the earth like the skeletons of mechanical plants.

As the sun set, the shadows on the ground grew longer and deeper, slowly engulfing more of the horizon until it became a silhouette of black shapes.

He walked slowly through the halls eyes not yet adjusted to the approaching light. Batteries had become a luxury he could no longer afford, so the only light he had was the dim light peaking through cracks in the walls and the broken windows.

The clothes on his back had their holes and their mends, but they still held together against the chilly outside. His face was dirty and motley, bags visibly underneath his eyes. He clutched the only weapon he had, a rusted .44 Magnum, tightly. Sweat threatened to loosen his grip. When found the weapon, it belonged to the dead. Tinges of rust on the barrel, the wooden handle worn, unused.

He never really fired a gun before that, but he knew he’d need it. What separated those who could protect themselves and those who couldn’t was a pulse.

He flipped open the revolver: three bullets left.

Number one was used on a bear near the highway eighteen miles outside Memphis. He accidentally stumbled upon it as it was rummaging through an abandoned car on the side of the road, one of many. When he realized it was there it was too late, it already felt threatened.

When it charged him he waited till he could see the blood seeping from its eyes and ears. He was terrified, but somehow when he pulled the trigger and opened his eyes, the bear was slain, a larger wound in its skull.

Number two was left in a carcass near a dead timber. He had ran out of food, and starvation was setting in. Hunger finally made him desperate enough to hunt some of the fauna. Waiting silently for hours a deer finally walked by his hiding place. It was dying, a sickly diseased smell followed it. Patches of yellowed skin lay bare, exposed as clumps of fur fell of its body. He was sick for days after eating it, but alive enough to reach a city.

Number three was used in Atlanta on 12th and Division over four cans of peaches. It was an accident, he didn’t mean to kill him, but he had no choice. The crazed man attacked him with a bent pipe, nearly breaking his arm. When the dust settled, the attacker laid on the ground, a bullet to the throat. He left in a hurry after that, not wanting to wait around for anyone investigating the noise.

Two days ago he heard it. He was moving through the city when he heard the loud report of two gunshots, then a scream filled with agony and fear. There was silence for the longest time...then he heard it, a noise that sent a chill down his spine. A shriek both unnatural and disturbing. It sounded like something pretending to be alive, but misunderstanding the concept.

For two days he was on edge. For two days he looked over his shoulder at every noise. For two days everytime he started feeling safe he heard that horrible shrieking, following him.

For two days he was being hunted.

A crack of thunder... The storms had arrived.

Desperation had driven him to this decrepit building. Now there would be no escape. He was trapped in this tomb of the past for the night.

He walked into a large open room, pieces of foundation and concrete littered the loose, uneven floor. The paint had long since worn off. The rotted remains of a few desks patiently decomposed in peace. A collapsed section of the ceiling had rain drifting in. He did well to avoid that part of the room.

A noise echoed through the building, the last noise he wanted to hear. A mind-numbing screech, sounding both near and far. Another shriek, this one higher pitched. Then another one, and another, becoming higher and higher and more and more frenzied.

His back was against the wall. He could hear the sound of claws on concrete. Something was approaching.

He gripped the gun even tighter, pulling back the hammer. Hugging the wall, he moving slowly towards the other side of the room-

A mass of twisted limbs and eyeballs burst into the dim light. The maddening sound of screeching nearly rendering him deaf.

Acting quickly he fired bullet number four at what he thought was the creature’s head, but it didn’t waver in his pursuit. The brief flare of the muzzle fire did little to illuminate the shape and detail of the thing, only carve a horrifying silhouette in his eyes.

He ran for an open door that led to a long hallway. Rubble and collapsed walls blocking his way as he sprinted down the hall. He followed it as the hall turned left. He passed rotted and broken doors, but he didn’t dare try to take the time to hide, there was no hiding.

He stopped.

Waiting...listening…

Nothing, even the rain held its breath.

He didn’t let his guard down but he slowed to a walk, keeping light on his toes. The hall led to the right and he continued to follow. This area was in an even greater state of ruin. The walls were reduced to skeletons and the floor felt soft, waterlogged.

The floor.

That was only thought that ran through his mind as he watched himself fall through the ground. Landing on his leg, it shot back in the wrong direction, he could hear the bone snap.

The floor had collapsed on him. For a brief few moments he hadn’t realized what had happened. Even now as he stared at his broken limb he couldn’t feel the pain. He tried to get up but his legs wouldn’t respond, he flailed helplessly on the ground. Looking around he saw nothing, it was totally black save for the light shining down from the hole in the ceiling. He was sitting in a shallow pool of water, his skin itched where the water touched. A bloated finger floated on the surface near him.

Something caught his attention, the sound of something dragging against the water. He could hear it come closer. He pointed his gun at the source of the sound, aiming into the darkness.

Then he saw it.

When it was only a few feet from his face, he could finally see it in its full image. Its front arms were twisted and backwards, moving with too many joints. Its head had a misshapen and extended jaw, and was covered in unblinking eyeballs. Its flesh was scarred and burned, but still it moved on, mocking life with its every step.

He pointed the gun right at its face, pulled back the hammer and fired the gun at point blank range. He watched as number five passed through its head and into darkness. The beast did not even flinch. It pulled closer to him, he could smell the scent of rotting corpses emanating from it. It was no more than a few inches from his face, its shriek a hiss in his ear.

He looked into its face. Looked into the face of fear.

The man put the gun to his temple and fired number six.