pick it up.
A woman’s scream broke the silence.
Howard froze.
Another scream, high-pitched and ragged.
The city was empty. He’d made sure of
that. He reached out with his mind, so used to dealing with the Creepers that
it didn’t even dawn on him the voice might belong to someone very much alive.
The Creepers didn’t scream. Howard went to the window, but the streets were
black voids. From this height, he could see nothing but pure darkness. The moon
lay hidden behind thick clouds. She screamed again.
He tried to pinpoint its origin, but the
buildings made it impossible. He almost started yelling. Then he got a hold of
himself. He went to the gun-cabinet. He took the hunting rifle and some
ammunition. With shaking hands, he grabbed his pack and slipped the device into
one of the zippered pockets.
The woman screamed again.
He entered the stairwell. Descending the
steps with trepidation, he found his way without stumbling, even in the thick
darkness, by memory alone. He’d traveled up and down these steps since he could
walk. Almost twenty-two years. He avoided the cracks and gaps on the tenth
floor, edged himself along the wall. The air was thick with mold down here.
Water plopped and sloshed below. He nudged several lumbering rats out of his
way with his boot as he reached the landing.
The door was rusted and jammed. He used
all of his weight to open it. The hinges held then groaned, screaming a protest
of their own, as if he’d cracked open the tomb of a fallen king. A strong
breeze swept over him, moaning through the stairwell. Howard waited for what
seemed like an eternity. The woman’s scream came again, as did the howling of
the coyotes. He wasn’t the only one interested in this new intruder.
Even in the darkness, Howard took no
chances. He stayed low and listened. It sounded like the screams were coming
from the east. They seemed to carry on the wind. He kept the rifle close, but
it felt strange in his hands. The only thing he’d ever shot with it was the
occasional coyote. He didn’t even like target practice. But even his father
would agree that the implement of death was necessary to a degree.
His father. He looked back at the
rounded building, a tomb in the dark. A tomb in the light. A thing of the past.
There was nothing there for him. He turned away. He sensed something off before
he reached the next intersection. Howard hunkered down behind what was left of
an old food truck. Weeds rustled in the breeze, poking through its broken
windows.
The woman wasn’t alone. There were gruff
male voices saying something in a language he could not understand. A dryness
crept into the back of his throat.
Slowly, Howard moved to the building on
his right. He worked his way up the sidewalk, avoiding debris and scrub brush,
hoping he didn’t fall into one of the many chasms that now called greater Los
Angeles home. Up ahead, a flickering orange light pushed the darkness back.
Howard could see her now, bloodied and bruised, tears cutting the dirt on her
face.
The scene was not what he expected.
The woman was dressed in dark clothing
with leaves and branches woven into it. Her hair was black as night, and the
blade in her hand nearly as long as her slender but toned arms. She held one of
the men by the collar, screaming in his face.
“Where?” she screamed. “Where?” She held
the machete against the man’s face, allowing him to glimpse his eyes in the
reflection.
“Que?” the man asked, stumbling over the
word. He shook with terror.
The woman gave him every reason to as
she severed his arm. She kicked his bloodied body aside, letting him writhe in
pain. She stalked over to the other man, holding her machete high she asked
again, “Where?”
The man looked out of place in blue
jeans and a red and white plaid shirt. His sharp-pointed boots scuffed along
the crumbling asphalt as he tried in vain to get away.
“Where
A woman’s scream broke the silence.
Howard froze.
Another scream, high-pitched and ragged.
The city was empty. He’d made sure of
that. He reached out with his mind, so used to dealing with the Creepers that
it didn’t even dawn on him the voice might belong to someone very much alive.
The Creepers didn’t scream. Howard went to the window, but the streets were
black voids. From this height, he could see nothing but pure darkness. The moon
lay hidden behind thick clouds. She screamed again.
He tried to pinpoint its origin, but the
buildings made it impossible. He almost started yelling. Then he got a hold of
himself. He went to the gun-cabinet. He took the hunting rifle and some
ammunition. With shaking hands, he grabbed his pack and slipped the device into
one of the zippered pockets.
The woman screamed again.
He entered the stairwell. Descending the
steps with trepidation, he found his way without stumbling, even in the thick
darkness, by memory alone. He’d traveled up and down these steps since he could
walk. Almost twenty-two years. He avoided the cracks and gaps on the tenth
floor, edged himself along the wall. The air was thick with mold down here.
Water plopped and sloshed below. He nudged several lumbering rats out of his
way with his boot as he reached the landing.
The door was rusted and jammed. He used
all of his weight to open it. The hinges held then groaned, screaming a protest
of their own, as if he’d cracked open the tomb of a fallen king. A strong
breeze swept over him, moaning through the stairwell. Howard waited for what
seemed like an eternity. The woman’s scream came again, as did the howling of
the coyotes. He wasn’t the only one interested in this new intruder.
Even in the darkness, Howard took no
chances. He stayed low and listened. It sounded like the screams were coming
from the east. They seemed to carry on the wind. He kept the rifle close, but
it felt strange in his hands. The only thing he’d ever shot with it was the
occasional coyote. He didn’t even like target practice. But even his father
would agree that the implement of death was necessary to a degree.
His father. He looked back at the
rounded building, a tomb in the dark. A tomb in the light. A thing of the past.
There was nothing there for him. He turned away. He sensed something off before
he reached the next intersection. Howard hunkered down behind what was left of
an old food truck. Weeds rustled in the breeze, poking through its broken
windows.
The woman wasn’t alone. There were gruff
male voices saying something in a language he could not understand. A dryness
crept into the back of his throat.
Slowly, Howard moved to the building on
his right. He worked his way up the sidewalk, avoiding debris and scrub brush,
hoping he didn’t fall into one of the many chasms that now called greater Los
Angeles home. Up ahead, a flickering orange light pushed the darkness back.
Howard could see her now, bloodied and bruised, tears cutting the dirt on her
face.
The scene was not what he expected.
The woman was dressed in dark clothing
with leaves and branches woven into it. Her hair was black as night, and the
blade in her hand nearly as long as her slender but toned arms. She held one of
the men by the collar, screaming in his face.
“Where?” she screamed. “Where?” She held
the machete against the man’s face, allowing him to glimpse his eyes in the
reflection.
“Que?” the man asked, stumbling over the
word. He shook with terror.
The woman gave him every reason to as
she severed his arm. She kicked his bloodied body aside, letting him writhe in
pain. She stalked over to the other man, holding her machete high she asked
again, “Where?”
The man looked out of place in blue
jeans and a red and white plaid shirt. His sharp-pointed boots scuffed along
the crumbling asphalt as he tried in vain to get away.
“Where
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