Ch. 01 – Dark Refugee
July 1999
“You can't escape!”
A puddle splashed under a dress shoe, water scattering about. The reflection of a street light hanging overhead warping with the ripples. The shoe's owner rushed out of the curtain of light, desperately seeking the cover of shadows once more.
He cast a fervid look over his shoulder. He could not see the figures approaching beyond the glare of the lamp. But he heard them.
“Rrragh!”
“He's over here!”
“Don't let the lick get away!”
“Woof! Rrrrragh Woof!”
“Rape his eyes! Gouge them out and fill their sockets with flowers!”
The figure pressed on, scanning the environment. The streets were filthy. Trash lay scattered on the ground or brushed against walls, or else clogging drains. The figure gave the drains a wide berth; no clue what could be lurking there. A used needle crunched beneath his shoe, mashing bits of glass and metal against oil-stained concrete. He looked to the buildings, four stories tall on average. Windows were either shattered, or boarded up with uneven, rotting wood. What glass could be seen was jagged, or so fogged with dust as to be translucent. The brick walls dripped with slime, peppered hither and thither with bullet holes or scraps of paper.
He almost stumbled to avoid kicking an aluminum can in his path. He thanked heaven he didn't need to breathe.
The undead fugitive rounded a corner, hugging the wall as dear as he could. The alley was stuffed with refuse, of both the inanimate and human variety. A filthy vagrant lay huddled against a wall, bloated and weathered sacks of garbage held close as if they were the finest gold.
The bum sputtered awake, looking bleary eyed at the figure approaching. “S-spare change, mister?”
Saying nothing, the figure rushed past, sparing only a single frightened glance down. Slowing not even a little, he gripped a plastic garbage bag from a pile and threw it down behind him.
He passed the lip of the alley onto another street when he heard the crashing of refuse and the pattering of feet.
“I ain't lookin' for no trou- AAGH! NO, STOP!”
“Keep on 'im! I'll catch up!” came an excited voice. It snarled.
“AAAAAAHHH!” The screams were accompanied – and then snuffed out – by the sound of wet smacking.
I'm so sorry, the fugitive thought, crossing himself reflexively. Eyes shut, he redoubled his pace.
Onto another street, the fugitive tried to duck around another curtain of lamp light, this one flickering in fits and starts. His eyes flitted around, looking for an avenue to evade. His brow glistened scarlet. The sounds of stomping feet and the taps of claws on concrete grew louder. As did the hoots and hollers.
“Come on! Come on!”
“Quit running! All we want to do is kill you! Ha ha ha!”
“Woof woof!”
“I want his blood! It's mine, I can smell it! I'll drink every drop!”
“But I wanted his blood!”
“It'll be mine, you prick! I've waited so long for blood that rich!”
“Enough! You know all know the rules. You make the kill, you drink the spill!”
“Send him to whatever hell his other side resides! Blanket the world in his ashes!”
“For the Sabbat!”
Reflexively, the running figure gulped. His throat was dry. Ached to be drowned in that delicious, salty brine.
He ran on. Muscles, long proofed against the passage of time, ached for the effort. Looking over his shoulder, his eyes could make out his tormenters through the smothering darkness.
A half dozen strong at the head, with perhaps a few more trailing behind in the distance. They snarled and scowled like animals, clad in cast-off clothes, fished from charity boxes or peeled off bodies. A patchwork of soiled trousers, fraying jeans, faded leather jackets, and shirts stained every conceivable hue. The first and foremost of those hues, of course, was dingy scarlet-brown, focused predominantly down their shirts where it had dripped and splashed messily.
Some went without shirts, especially one female, doubtless either an attempt at being provocative, or to attest to her complete abandonment of human values. Exemplified were these effects by her mohawk, a style also shared by her fellows. Others' heads were topped with disheveled locks, or else shaven completely. Many wore chains and chokers, or wrapped bandages haphazardly over clothes or flesh. The one true outlier was an extremely messy individual, with the most unkempt hair of all, clad in an unbound strait jacket. Colorful scarves – a dozen of them – hung from his neck. Some scarves trailed away, threads coming undone, while all reflected the stained, filthy nature of the pack's collective wardrobe.
Most carried baseball bats, or tire irons, or boards with nails in, or other similar cudgels. Some merely displayed prominently their elongated claws, and all bore their teeth.
Beside the humanoids – none could even come close to being human – loped a great, mangy dog, yipping and barking incessantly. It brought back memories to the fleeing undead's mind. Of jutting fur and slavering jaws; of blood shot eyes and foot-long claws. Of a foul, suffocating odor, and a broad, oppressive height. An aura as bright as the sun, and presence equally as frightening.
How fortunate it was merely a leech chasing him. How unfortunate it had so many friends.
The figure ran on. He kept his eyes on the street. Spotting another alley, he pushed ahead. Rounding a corner, he considered his options.
He wasn't fast. There was no way of knowing, but likely the pack contained more than a few fast ones. It was likely only for their desire to remain together with their bondmates – and perhaps the thrill of the chase – that prevented him from being run down thus far. He had to keep moving then, and evade where he could. He hugged another turn, sliding on gravel and pushing off against the far wall.
If he could continue evading, he might be able to shake them off. Might put distance between himself and them. Then he could hole up somewhere for the day.
His greatest hope was the power of day. As it shone, it hung oppressively upon all children of Caine. Drew them into sleep. But those closer to the Beast – like that Sabbat pack – suffered all the more for it. Harder by far to rise in the evening. If he had any chance to fleeing the city – which naturally would present its own difficulties – it would be during those precious hours before the packs awoke, and set out searching for him again.
If he was really lucky, the approaching sun would force them to back off early, giving him precious minutes to find a good hiding place. All he had to do was keep running. Just keep running.
He rounded a corner and saw he was approaching a dead end.
Not quite slowing enough, he slammed into the back wall hands first. Body shaking all over, face slick with scarlet sweat, he grit his teeth, flashing fangs instinctively extended towards the rain-splattered bricks.
“He's right there! I can sense him just ahead! He's trapped!”
Casting a momentary glance behind him, the weary bloodsucker cursed under his breath. He looked around, seeing no door or window to get through. He looked straight up towards the sky. A blood-red hunters moon smiled hungrily down upon him. No, scratch that. It wasn't a taunt, but a clue. The walls ran up maybe four stories, with the building wall dotted with jutting ledges and loose bricks. He prepared to scale the wall.
And saw the silhouette of two more shabbily dressed figures pop out from the edge of the roof.
The man's cold, unbeating heart sank. He wiped his face, fingers coming away slick with blood. Absentmindedly, he licked his digits for their precious fluid. That exquisite, metallic taste was almost calming. Almost.
“There you are!”
He turned around, fangs barred in a grimace. He saw them all there, the writhing and tensed mass of undead. They stared at him, paused all of them, standing by the only escape. Their lips smacked. A baser Cainite than the fugitive would make some colorful, euphemistic comment about their fangs being fully erect or some such nonsense.
“Nowhere to run now, cocksucker,” said the one who could only be the pack's Ductus. “Time to pay the piper.”
The Freak in the straightjacket snickered, long sleeves billowing out beneath him. “The last shall be first, and the first shall be worst. The gods make a plaything of you. Hihihi ha ha!”
“So what will you do, scum?” asked the Ductus, eyebrow cocked. “Will you perish like a dog? Beg, like the worthless kine? Or fight...like a real monster?”
The man frowned deeply. The fear in him was palpable, but he pushed it down. Swallowed it. He sensed the other cainites looming far above, waiting for the moment when the lot would charge. He swallowed again, shut his eyes. He inhaled audibly, then exhaled, more for comfort than any need.
I'm sorry, Lord. I suppose this was my inevitable end, after all.
Hands rose to his head, and he slicked his jet black hair back. He opened his eyes. The Beast rumbled inside him. He barred his teeth. “Well come on then! What are you waiting for?” He raised his fists, assuming more stable footing. “Let's go! Come at me, you cowards!”
With such prompting, the pack charged with glee, roaring wildly. The two parasites on the roof jumped down, falling expectantly.
“RRRRRRAAAGH!” yelled the lone vampire, letting the dark battlefield envelop him.
…
…
…
“Oh, we can't have that, now can we? You're my toy, Mister Dougal. Mine and mine alone.”
Present
“I think I found it!”
A heavily clothed figure stood up from where it stooped. Goggled eyes swept over the discomfiting, bleak landscape. Too...bright. “Where?”
“Over here!” said another figure, waving from some distance away. “I found another one!”
The first figure trudged over, knee deep in arctic snow. It ambled to its compatriot.
Said other figure brushed snow away from the ground, and picked up the object. “See? It is just so.”
“Yes, it most certainly is. That's another one.” The figure whipped out a bag. “Quickly, hide it from the light, lest it lose its potency.” When the object was safely pocketed, the figure shot a wary glance to the sky. “I think we've done enough for one day. Place a marker down, then let's you and I go.
“All this brightness gives me a headache.”
Dougal Dempsey woke to utter darkness. He couldn't move.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
He tried to move his arm, but it remained stationary. He tried to tilt his head – lift it up – and found no results. By great effort, he could shift his eyes, a bit at a time. But that was it. Dougal attempted to call upon the power of his blood, and instead of sensing it happen, all he felt was a sharp twinge in his chest, at his left breast.
It was true. Dougal was staked in the heart.
Damnation, he thought, unmoving face failing to betray the whirlwind of emotions inside him.
Did the Sabbat leave him so? It was certainly possible, but why? Their intentions were quite clear – the dread Diablerie. Why, then, would they simply stake him and leave him...where was he anyway?
It was too dark to see normally. That was alright, though. Well no, it was the farthest from alright short of having been diablerized outright...or being at the mercy of an inquisitive Tzimisce. But while his mobility and most of his vampiric powers were locked, his perceptions were open.
He focused, and his sight expanded.
Directly above him, he could see two things: a rocky ceiling – must be a cave – and...string.
String? String. Black string...no, white string, crossing over him. With effort, he panned his eyes around, tracing the string suspended above him. Slowly...slowly...there!
The string attached to a pulley, itself suspended from a strip of leather or cord or something, and bolted to the stone ceiling. Passing over the pulley, he followed the length of string around to another pulley, and then another. He soon became aware of a complex, redundant system of pulleys and counter-pulleys, all played out above him. Finally, his eyes found a final pulley, with the string leading down...to a quite large stone. The stone hung impossibly from such a little cord...no, a wire.
The wire itself would need to be very strong to not snap under the stone's weight. But where did the other end lead to? Dougal backtracked along the wire, going around and around. And when it reached the end, he found it led off downward again. He racked his brain, judging the angle of descent. The wire dipped down beyond his sight, but it led...around to his side.
He looked back to the rock. It occurred to Dougal that, with how long it took to move his eyes in fits and starts, that much time was already passed. Ignoring this, he found the stone again. On further examination, it had not one, but two wires attached to it. He saw the primary one, while another wire ran off at an angle.
This one was considerably less complex. Only two pulleys, the wire traveling between them and then dipping down...towards his chest.
He looked to the rock. To the pulleys. To the wire leading to his chest. To the one leading to his side.
Going on a hunch – or perhaps a wild, desperate hope – Dougal tested his fingers. It was like sending a call out through mud. His fingers were stiff. With enormous will, he commanded his fingers move. Ordered them.
A twitch. His pinkie finger twitched. Then curled...ever so slightly.
Since his Embrace, Dougal Dempsey had heard many, many stories pertaining to the monstrous night he died into. Of forest witches that made the trees come alive. Of fey beings that abducted youths. Of knights wearing no armor, for weapons broke against their flesh. Of zombies that could wither someone's limbs at a touch. Of foul warlock curses that reduce vampires to eating ash to sustain themselves. Of beings who could stop time.
The wildest of these stories told of patently impossible things, even by the standards of immortal vampires. Those immune to the Blood Bond. Accurate, infallible predictions of the future. Bloodsuckers who could walk around during the day, as if the sun meant nothing. Vampires bearing live children.
And the stories of some – mostly Gangrel – who so master their undead forms as be capable of yet moving, even while staked. Not fully, but enough to crawl away, or to rip the stake from their hearts.
Dougal did not have that ability. But he supposed, with enough effort, prodding, and willpower, anything was theoretically possible.
He wiggled his ring finger. It moved without incident. He moved his middle finger. It budged as easily as the others (so, not very). He tried the index...
It snagged. Like a distant niggling, he felt his finger catch. A pressure around the digit. A loop, tying it.
That was the ticket.
Why build machines? So many take it for granted, as they take for granted just how fundamental machine use is. Simple machines. The wedge. The ramp. The screw. The lever. And the pulley.
Dougal commanded his index finger to move. To pull against the wire he knew was wrapped around it. It flexed weakly, but was stopped.
He commanded it again. Harder, he thought. Harder.
Why make simple machines? To make easy that which is hard. To move the work around, so that less effort must be put into a task. Whether it be by concentrating force into a point, with a wedge...
Move.
Or by using leverage to shift a heavy object, with a lever...
Move!
Or by increasing the amount of distance something must go in another direction, so the distance in the required direction is more easily bridged. Like with a ramp...or with a pulley...
I DEMAND. YOU. MOVE!
The finger curled down, pulling on the string. His whole hand felt as if stung with pins and needles. But finally, the weight working against his finger gave way. Dougal's finger pulled at the wire, and it gave.
If you have a long enough lever, and room to stand, you can move the world, he thought. His eyes drifted to the stone.
Instead of rising, the stone remained stationary. But a sound issued from the top. A slipping sound. Like a knot coming undone.
And if you have enough pulleys, he thought, straining all his willpower, his jaws tightened unexpectedly. You can...support a mountain...with...your...finger!
One wire attached to the stone slipped off with a pop. Dougal felt the upward force acting against his finger disappear. His hand flopped to the ground. The stone, free of one wire, swung over Dougal like a pendulum, the pulleys still acting upon it spinning rapidly. As the stone swung away, the line went taught.
With a sickening squelch, the stake in Dougal's heart popped out of his chest and flew about wildly.
“GAAAAAH!” Dougal gasped, doubling over and clutching his chest. Under those sensations, he barely heard the stone thud to the ground beside him. “Haaaah...ack...”
The vampire turned over, slumping to his stomach. His joints were stiff, popping and cracking loudly with the sudden movement. He grimaced, hand clasped over his heart as it slowly, methodically knit itself whole. After torturous seconds, he felt his capacity to move and use blood return.
He also noticed he possessed almost none.
Pushing himself to his knees, he looked down at his breast. His purple shirt was stained a dingy brown around a sizable hole on his chest. Despite his better judgment, he took a finger and probed the opening, wincing as he studied the extent of the damage. His heart was whole again, but the wound would persist unless he healed it. And he couldn't spare a drop of blood for the task. He pulled the fingers out, then hugged his jacket over the wound protectively.
Rising to his feet, he swayed in place, lightheaded. His vision swam. He clutched his head, steadying himself against the cave wall. “...ugh...fuck...” Dougal examined his surroundings. To his surprise, the spot where he was laid in state had a long blanket, woven in pastel colors of pink and white and yellow.
“Is...ack...is this some kind of...of joke?” he muttered, coughing for his dry throat.
A niggling in the back of his head. He hungered.
Dougal shook his head. Thinking was what was needed now...at least until he found a warm creature somewhere. Then he would feed his ass off.
Where was he? Oh, right, the Sabbat. Did they really lay him on a nursery blanket? Point of fact, did they really stake him, haul him to a cave, and set up an elaborate contraption that would allow him to free himself, no matter how remote the possibility? Why wouldn't they just suck all his blood, steal his power, and be done with it?
For that matter, where even was he? Dougal looked around his new prison. Walking along a winding hall of rock, he found an indentation, and light billowing from a crack. Stepping over, he examined the spot closely, and found there to be a large boulder rolled in front of an opening. The light that filtered through was faint, but a cursory wave of the hand proved it wasn't sunlight.
Stooping low, for the opening was short, Dougal pressed his hand to the boulder and pushed. It was only a little effort before the rock gave way and toppled over, bathing the cave in moonlight. The vampire had to blink a few times in response to the sudden illumination. With nary a glance behind, he ducked under and through the mouth.
Dougal Dempsey craned his stiff neck to the sky. The sky was...unusually bright that night. Stars did not merely twinkle, but gleamed like planets, all. And the moon shone like a great lamp, too close to be real. It felt...weird...
The undead looked left and right. He was in the middle of a forest, thick with trees. Over his shoulder he could see a mountain sloping away from him. His cave was nestled in a crack in the wall. Smaller rocks littered the ground all about his feet.
“...the hell...?” Dougal muttered, confused. Then his mind began working, and anxiety kicked in. “...oh hell.” He looked around rapidly, straining his ears to pick up something – anything – that would betray movement.
If there were trees and a mountain, which meant wilderness. As any kindred, Cainite, or whatever knew full well, wilderness meant shapeshifters. And shapeshifters had no love for the undead.
“Fuck...fuck!” Dougal started walking, trying to put as much distance behind him as possible. Truly, he had no solid idea where he could be, but he wasn't in a city, which meant he was in the wrong part of the world. And anywhere besides there was preferable.
Moreover, there was another pressing concern.
Blood.
Dougal swallowed dry, trekking through the trees. His hands shook, his stomach ached. Ached for that metallic, red liquid.
He trained his ears. Could he hear any animals running around?
That he did. Dougal heard the squeak of a critter to his right. Looking over, he spotted a squirrel, climbing on the trunk of a tree. The scent of blood wafted over his nostrils, the sound of a beating heart playing through his ears. It would hardly do more that wet his tongue – let alone quench his thirst – but every little drop counted.
When Dougal took a step towards it – not having even consciously done so – the squirrel spotted him. It's ears fell back, and it jumped off the tree.
Dougal lunged after it, but the animal had a head start, and quickly outpaced the starving corpse in a ruined suit. In an instant, it disappeared in the undergrowth.
Stopping, Dougal clenched his fist and punched a tree. It crunched a little on impact. He looked around. The noise he produced brought a number of forest critters out of their nests. They looked curiously at the biped.
Then they fled, scattering in all directions. Dougal hadn't even moved that time. A raccoon ran right past him, and hissed as it went. To his chagrin, Dougal wasn't fast enough to swipe at the thing and seize it. He could only watch as it, and every other walking blood pack scampered away.
While in most instances he would paint himself lucky for it not being so, Dougal at that moment wished he could be a Gangrel. Or even a Nosferatu, if only to have their...way with animals. As it was, they could readily sense the unnatural predator in their midst. Dougal scowled, then grunted. Sucking in air, he exhaled. A hand went to his head, slicking back his disheveled hair. He walked on.
As he hiked through the forest, Dougal took note of the temperature. It was quite cool.
“Odd...shouldn't it be warm and muggy?” he muttered to himself. It had been July, last he checked. Had he fallen into Torpor for lack of blood? How much time had he lost? Or was this just unusually cool weather? Summers were not always predictable, after all.
He looked to the foliage around him. Dougal didn't make it out to the woods often because...well...but did the city he was in always have these kinds of trees native?
Wait, was that an elm? “The hell?” Dougal said, looking over his shoulder. “...haven't seen an elm in years*...not since I was a kid.”
Dougal thought of his family home. Swing set. White picket fence...
He shook his head. “What am I thinking about that for?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I'm not fully dead yet. No time to have my life flash before my eyes. Hmm?”
The ground sloped upward in the direction he was walking. As the ground rose to a hill, the trees thinned out. When he reached the crest, the trees gave way fully, showing a view of an open plain.
Perhaps a mile away, a cluster of lights shown bright in the sea of darkness.
“Civilization! At last!” Dougal smiled. He clapped his hands together and looked up. “Thank you, God, for having mercy on your cursed child!” He crossed himself, then set off towards the town.
It was a small town, from the looks of it, but it would suit his purposes well.
“First thing, a phone,” he muttered.
The Beast growled inside him.
“No, blood comes first,” he corrected himself, lips smacking. Dougal had to stop himself from running all the way there and jumping the first person he saw. Sure, he'd totally grab the first available person he could corner alone and drink, but that's beside the point.
He'd dominate them first. Command the first person to follow him, and drink. He'd probably need to be careful of killing them, thirsty as he was, but Dougal was generally confident in his self-control.
Dougal wouldn't have gotten as far as he had if he'd given in to every whim.
Then, after perhaps running around and taking a little off the top of...a half dozen people would do, he'd find a phone. “Hmm...” He patted his trouser pocket. His wallet was still there. Fishing it out, he counted the contents. “Heh. Idiot Sabbat,” he chuckled, putting his full wallet back. “Get a hotel...and duct tape for the bathroom door. Get a taxi from the nearest city, get out of this backwater...” ...and away from any lupines that hadn't found him yet.
Or he could dominate some schmuck to drive him to a city, in his trunk in need be, and be done with the countryside forthwith. Whichever.
Approaching the city limits, Dougal was struck first by the sound of merriment.
Party? Festival?
At least finding a willing “donor” would be a simple matter. There were bound to be many able bodied, heavily inebriated persons lying around.
Connecting to a dirt road, Dougal found a few houses...and was truck by the very spooky decorations. Pumpkins, bats, the whole nine yards.
“The hell?” Dougal sputtered, eying the buildings with wide eyes. He scratched his head. “Halloween? But that...” He shut his eyes, frustrated at having to do math. “...three months! Damnit!” He lost three months of his unlife. Granted, he was potentially immortal, so three months was a drop in the bucket. But it was three months that he needed! Three months his affairs were left fallow!
Plus, it's just the principle of the thing.
“This way!”
A chill ran up his spine.
Dougal slunk to the shadows, trying to place where the voice came from. It was a child's voice, coming from a street over. Instinctively, the vampire crouched low, stalking slowly.
“Hahahahaha!”
“Hehe hehe ha!”
“Okay, wait up! I'm coming,” said a deeper, adult voice. The calls drifted as they moved away.
It's a start at least, Dougal thought, slipping into the mode of predator. He could feel the Beast nudging against him, urging him forward.
It would be so easy...and the reward...so delicious...
He frowned, pushing the urge down. Dougal was prepared to feed the Beast, but his way and on his terms. Turning on the spot, he circled around a house. Hopping over a wooden fence, he stalked through one backyard, then two. When he hopped another fence, he was able to creep across a well-kept lawn towards the front. Dougal grew ever closer to those voices.
When the thought of who his targets were came to him, though, he froze in his tracks. Dougal clapped a hand over his mouth.
He was stalking children. Children whose only desire this night was to dress up and play pretend as monsters. Not to meet a monster. They never asked to have a barely animated corpse slake its thirst on their vital fluids.
Dougal clutched his mouth harder. A few trickles of blood sweat rolled down his cheek.
They are not but prey. To be consumed.
He gulped, then dashed across an expanse of lawn to a tree. Hiding behind it, Dougal had his back against the trunk. From where he was positioned, just around the tree was a view of the house's front door. He looked around his side, seeing no one watching. No one was in sight.
“Go on, Summer. You too, Winter.” The adult's voice urged the children on. The kids giggled, their steps clacking loudly on the concrete as they rushed to the door. A doorbell rang.
Dougal, struggling between his feelings and his hunger, resolved to at least check before he committed to either leaving or feeding. As he heard the door swing open, Dougal peeked around the tree.
“Nightmare Night! What a Fright! Give us something sweet to bite!”
Two pony fillies held up pumpkin-shaped buckets expectantly. One of them was warm-colored, and dressed as a cowgirl. The other, shorter one was cool-colored, and wore a fish bowl and tin foil like a primitive astronaut. Both had eyes that glistened and vibrated excitedly. They wore broad, innocent smiles.
“Oh, aren't you both so precious!” said the cream-colored mare in the door. From the candy bowl in her hooves, she poured pieces of brightly wrapped sugary confections into the waiting pumpkins.
“Thank you very much!” the two fillies chimed in unison, their smiles opened even broader. They jumped in place, then turned around. They bounded towards their waiting guardian, who sported a cool-colored mane and a warm-colored coat.
“Alright, girls, save the enthusiasm. We have a bunch more houses to hit.”
“YAAAAAAY!” the fillies cheered, running off ahead, the stallion in tow, grinning all the way.
Behind the tree, Dougal Dempsey slid to the ground, both hands clasped over his mouth. His eyes were bugged out. A single strand of jet-black hair hung over his face. He couldn't move.
For precious moments, not even the Beast made a comment.
“Ha ha...ha ha...ha...”
The first glow of morning illuminated an absolute massacre.
Once merely littered with trash, the filthy alley was now covered in inhuman garbage. Bodies were strewn about, decaying steadily to dust. Some were already unrecognizable. Severed limbs and heads were left where they fell, to be picked from the piles of broken bricks and splintered wood. Precious Vitae – that mystic vampire blood – was splattered everywhere, though that too would eventually decay to nothing.
What would remain were the holes in the walls. At least one hole still had in it a dissolving body, punched through head first. Another body hung from the wall, impaled by a wooden bat. If this one was still alive, it would burn soon. A crack in one wall ran from ground to roof.
Atop the building, rocking gently in the wind, was the Freak in the straightjacket. The sleeves on his jacket were torn off, as were his arms and legs. He was hung with his own scarves from a TV antenna.
Despite grimacing in pain, he was giggling. “Gods...ha ha...gods...found their play thing...ha ha ha...”
He stared off into the distance, giggling like a ninny as the first rays of dawn peaked over the horizon.