First, I am excited to announce the release of The Exoterrestrials. This is something different from me...i.e., no zombies. I hope some of you will take the plunge. Even more important, I hope that you enjoy it.
When I sat down to write the DEAD series, I was surprised by the arrival of what would become the most disturbing character I've ever written: Garrett McCormick. Just the mention of his name has some of you giving an involuntary shiver. To celebrate my favorite month and the Brown household's equivalent of Christmas--October and Halloween--I have for you, over the course of this week, The Gruesome Tale of Garrett and Kirsten. This is their story pulled from the vignettes of Dead: The Ugly Beginning, Dead: Revelations, and Dead: Fortunes & Failures. It also includes the "bonus" material that appears in the special edition.
For those of you unfamiliar with the DEAD series, it is told in three rotating chapters. There is Steve's story--a first person narrative, The Geeks--a group of young men who thought the zombie apocalypse would be cool...and quickly discovered that they were wrong, and the Vignettes--when I set out to to the vignettes, what I wanted was a series of snapshots. They were meant to be like an intermission between the two main story lines. However, some of the vignettes took on a life of their own--Juan Hoya being the most notable. When Garrett arrived on the scene, I thought he would be my villian...I did not realize that he would become my ultimate bad guy.
Be warned, this story is disturbing. It will leave you feeling the need to shower. I have given fair warning. Proceed at your own risk. And now...The Gruesome Tale of Garrett and Kirsten (part 1):
Charleston, SC—“Garrett!” the raspy voice barked, followed by a series of shredding coughs. “Git yer ass in here and stop gawkin’ at that whore!”
Looking over his shoulder into the dark, smoky house, Garrett McCormick tipped the half-empty bottle of beer, draining the contents in three huge gulps. Not for the first time today, he allowed the private reel in his mind to spool. Several possible death scenarios played in his imagination; each one ending with Patty Garrett meeting her end at his hands. Nothing as quick and impersonal as a gun would do. He wanted to feel her physically leave her body; breathe her final, tobacco-fouled breath into his face. He wanted to see the light fade and finally extinguish from her eyes.
“You hear me, boy!”
“Yes, mother.” Garrett walked back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind him.
“Dammit! How many times do I have to tell you ‘bout lettin’ that door slam?” Patty Garrett scolded.
“Sorry, Mama.” Garrett opened the fridge and grabbed another beer. He closed the door, twisted the cap off, tossed it on the counter and lumbered into the living room.
Patty McCormick’s obscenely obese form took up well over half of the sofa. A tray table sat within reach, scattered with full and half-full ashtrays, an old one gallon plastic milk container of sweet tea, and an empty box of Little Debbie Nutty Bars. In one hand, the woman clutched the television remote, in the other, the ever-present cigarette.
“Warm me up that macaroni and cheese from last night and check my jar of sun tea on the front porch.” Another series of painful sounding coughs tore from the woman. After a few wet, hawking convulsions, she swapped the remote for an old faded Double Gulp cup and spit a dark wad that seemed reluctant to completely free itself from her pursed lips.
“Yes’m.” Garrett trudged back to the kitchen and pulled the casserole dish out of the refrigerator. He shoved it in the microwave and pushed a few buttons.
Shrill laughter drifted in on the warm spring air. Garrett glanced out the grimy window as Kimmy Vanderwall and April Williams emerged from the Vanderwall’s in-ground swimming pool, each girl tilting her head to the side, wringing out their long, wet hair.
He stared at their bikini-clad bodies, unconsciously wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt a stirring, and then the awkward strain of the growing bulge in the crotch of his jeans. He reached down, adjusting slightly to ease the discomfort. It took him a moment to realize he’d been holding his breath. It was startled back to a regular rhythm when the microwave screeched to announce that the macaroni and cheese was ready.
The two girls both shot glances over their shoulder. They’d heard. They knew. Kimmy whispered something to April who responded by making a face. The two girls burst out laughing, then vanished through an open sliding glass door into the Vanderwall house.
“What’s keepin’ you, boy?” Patty Garrett croaked from the living room, the metallic ratchet of the wheel of her lighter signaling the start of another cigarette.
Spooning the gummy, orange-yellow mixture onto a plate, Garrett grabbed the bottle of ketchup from the counter and brought lunch to his mother. He set the plate down on the tray table and grabbed the fuller of the two ashtrays. He emptied it and replaced it on his way past as he headed out to the front porch to check the sun tea.
The street was quiet for a Saturday. Usually, on a sunny spring day like this, kids were riding bikes, playing basketball in the Gibson’s driveway, or mowing lawns. The annoying tone of the Emergency Broadcasting System snapped Garrett out of his stupor.
“We interrupt this program to bring you the following bulletin,” a baritone voice blared from the television. Garrett turned, still standing on the porch, his hulking frame keeping out all but the smallest slivers of light. “Center for Disease Control spokeswoman Doctor Linda Singh has released the following statement.” The photo of a conservative looking woman with pinched features appeared on the left of an all blue field. White letters appeared and the voice announced them verbatim.
“Continued claims of the dead reanimating are being investigated. While it is doubtful that this is true, citizens are advised to remain indoors while response teams in your local area can coordinate with national officials in order to contain this—what is now being officially labeled a pandemic.”
Garrett listened to the words, but they just didn’t make much sense. It sounded bad, that was certain. Also, he became aware that he was hearing an echo of sorts. He turned, looking up and down the street. The same broadcast was pouring from every other open door and window on the block, creating an eerie reverberation.
“These statements seem to counter, at least somewhat, the complete denial made by Doctor Singh yesterday. While still not validating the claims of the dead rising, becoming what millions are now referring to as zombies, she has conceded that the CDC is investigating the possibility that these rumors are true.”
“Quit standin’ there lettin’ all the flies in!” Patty growled through a mouthful of macaroni and cheese.
“Yes’m.” Garrett took the step inside, letting the screen shut against his back.
Meanwhile, Patty McCormick was busy flipping through channels. Each one carried the same story in one form or another, she paused on one and a flood of gibberish blared from the tiny speaker. “Even the damned spics are babblin’ about this nonsense.”
“Don’t seem likely,” Garrett scoffed and headed up the stairs to his room, leaving his mother to her macaroni and cheese, television, and chain-smoking.
He walked down the gloomy hallway to the last door on the right, his bedroom. Closing the door behind himself, he mashed a button on his CD player. The intro to Blue Oyster Cult’s, Burning for you began. Garrett climbed across his bed and sat on the edge, peering through his partially open curtains. He could spy perfectly down onto the deck and swimming pool in the back yard of the Vanderwall residence.
Just as he hoped, a moment later Kimmy and April came back out. They were looking back over the fence. Don’t worry, whores, Garrett thought, I’m not in the kitchen anymore. Apparently satisfied, April unclasped her bikini top and stretched out on her stomach on a towel; Kimmy was a time-delayed mirror image. The two girls lay head to head, resting their chins on their hands. Most likely engaged in useless chatter about which boy they’d be letting finger bang them after school.
Garrett chased that unwelcoming voice out from his head as he unzipped his pants and pulled out his already stiff member. His eyes locked on the deep crease in the girls’ bikini bottoms. It’d been a while and the act took less than a minute. Unsatisfied, he sat there for several minutes staring down at the two unsuspecting objects of his dark fantasies.
“No, daddy!” a voice begged, waking Garrett from a restless sleep full of unpleasant images of leering faces.
Garrett sat up, smacking his lips. He reached underneath his mattress and pulled out a pint bottle of cheap, knock-off bourbon. A scream pierced the air causing dogs up and down the street to begin barking. It was coming from the Vanderwall house.
Pulling the curtains open, he leaned forward enough so that he could get a better look. The scream changed register, and then faded into something that reminded Garrett of gargling…only different.
He craned his neck to try and get a clearer look. Kimmy Vanderwall’s bedroom window was on the second floor just like his. Her curtains were partially open, and he could see some movement. It looked like Kimmy’s dad had his daughter down on the bed. He saw hands drumming on Greg Vanderwall’s back, but they seemed to be losing steam. Hmmm, Garrett thought, maybe the little whore likes it.
As he continued to watch, aware of his own growing arousal, he realized something wasn’t quite right. Something dark coated Kimmy’s hands—which at this point had stopped moving. Then Greg Vanderwall stood up. The man was still wearing his postal-carrier uniform, but it was all torn up and stained with huge dark patches. His face was dripping with what looked to Garrett like blood.
“Y’all get on offa my porch!” Patty McCormick bellowed, causing Garrett to jump. It also caused Greg Vanderwall’s head to twitch and turn towards the sound. He seemed to have trouble turning, but in a few jerky steps, he was staggering out of Kimmy’s room, presumably on his way over.
“Go on now! I said gitcher asses off my property or I’ll call the law!”
Garrett heard his mother shouting. He also heard what sounded like somebody banging on the screen door.
And…moaning; like whoever was out there might be hurt.
Something brought his attention back to Kimmy’s window. The girl was standing there staring at nothing. She hadn’t changed out of her bikini, but only the bottoms were still on. That was because her upper body looked as if it’d been mauled by a bear. There were rips, gashes, and what looked like actual chunks torn out. The worst injury was just below the bottom of her pronounced rib cage. There was a huge hole torn into the no-longer-tan skin with what looked to Garrett like bloody sausages dipped in shit hanging out.
The screen door slamming brought him back to what sounded like trouble brewing downstairs. That also made Kimmy’s head snap around much like her father’s had a moment before. In the same jerky motions, the girl disappeared out her bedroom door.
“What the hell you think you’s doin’ just comin’ in my house?” Patty McCormick’s voice held something Garrett had never heard in his twenty-seven years from his mother.
Somebody was in the house. No matter what else, that was something he could understand. Picking up the axe handle that he referred to as his “nigger beater”, Garrett headed for the stairs. He could puzzle out whatever the hell he’d seen at the Vanderwall house later. Right now, he had business to attend.
What he expected to see were a couple of coons from east of the river come around lookin’ to steal something to fence for a little drug money. That was not the scene that greeted him. Judy Vanderwall, Kimmy’s snobbish bitch of a mother was in the living room with Gordon Grace, the neighbor from across the way. Both looked like they’d had a fight with a meat grinder and lost. They were smeared and spattered with blood. Some of it looked dry like it’d been there a while. Both had faces dripping with slick, red wetness.
At over six-and-a-half feet tall and nearly three hundred pounds, Garrett McCormick wasn’t scared of much…other than his mother. Still, what he saw made him pause. Judy and Gordon were both pawing at his mama from the backside of the sofa. Both were snapping their teeth like they wanted to take a big bite out of the woman who was busy squirming and pushing the two away.
With one big, meaty paw of a hand, Patty smacked the toothpick with tits that was Judy Vanderwall in the head hard enough to knock her down. The scrawny woman landed on her back at Garrett’s feet. The skirt—too short for any fifty-year-old woman to be wearing—hiked up. Garrett’s eyes went to the peach-colored panties. He was transfixed on the dark triangle that shown beneath the sheer silk.
Judy’s eyes, hideously filmed over in a pus-colored whiteness shot with dark traces, rolled up and fixed on him. Her mouth opened and a ghost-like moan wheezed out. She began to sit up, her hands reaching for him. Out of reflex, Garrett swung the axe handle. It came down hard against the temple of the woman, snapping her head violently.
Judy fell back, but only for a second before attempting to struggle back up, once again reaching for him. Garrett’s head tilted in confusion. At the least, that blow should’ve knocked her out. In reality, it should’ve killed her. The bitch hadn’t even cried out. He swung again, and twice more until the head broke open, spilling its contents on the cigarette-burn marred floor and splattering in an arc on the dirty, faded, peeling-in-places wallpaper.
He glanced over where his mother was wrestling with Gordon Grace. The diminutive man’s back was to Garrett, his bald spot looking strangely gray. The man’s long braid swung back and forth in the struggle like an angry cat’s tail.
“Quit standin’ there gawkin’, boy!” Patty yelped, doing her best to keep Gordon’s snapping teeth at bay.
Garrett stepped over Judy’s body, coming up behind Gordon. He snatched the man by the collar, tossing him across the living room. The body slammed into the wall and fell in a heap. Squirming and struggling, he knocked over a lamp.
Garrett set his feet and cocked back his arm, ready to wield the axe handle if Gordon Grace came at him. Then he saw the man’s eyes. They looked like Judy Vanderwall’s, but that wasn’t nearly as unsettling as the chunk of the man’s throat that was missing. Blood had poured down the front of his tie-dyed tee-shirt, adding another color to the pattern.
“That man tried to bite me,” Patty wheezed, hawking up more thick mucus from her lungs.
“How come you watchin’ that Jesus channel?” Garrett glanced at the screen. A sweaty looking man in a white suit was pacing a stage telling all the folks in the auditorium how wrong they were living their lives. Most likely all their wrongs could be fixed if they put money in the baskets being passed around.
“All the other channels were talkin’ ‘bout that Blue Plague nonsense.”
“Might want to see what they’re sayin’,” Garrett studied Gordon as he slowly climbed to his feet. His face had a blue-gray tint which only made the eyes stand out all the more.
Patty reached her feet only a little more gracefully than Gordon. Her bloated hand fumbled with a new pack of cigarettes. She froze when a strangled sounding cry came from the man’s open mouth. Garrett moved in, wielding the axe handle without emotion, bringing it down again and again until the man’s head broke open just like Judy Vanderwall’s.
“Why don’t they cry out?” Patty’s voice suddenly seemed small.
“Don’t know,” Garrett shrugged, snatching up one of his work shirts from the unfolded laundry sitting in a heap next to the overturned basket, “but they didn’t seem to notice a thing until their head busted open.”
A scream from outside carried on the night air. Garrett walked over to the screen door and peered into the darkness. A lone figure was staggering along the sidewalk. It was Greg Vanderwall, but there was something wrong. Garrett already knew what it was now that he’d seen Judy and Gordon up close. Another series of screams and what sounded like gunshots pierced the night, drawing Greg Vanderwall down the sidewalk past the McCormick house. Garrett stepped back and closed the front door.
“Change the channel, Mama,” Garrett said, moving over to the curtains to continue peering outside. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he’d told his mama to do something; what’s more, she did it.
“…president and his staff were being moved to a secure location. Martial law is in effect, and all non-active military personnel have been recalled.
“FEMA centers have been designated, and should be displayed on the crawler at the bottom of your screen. Military transport vehicles will be sweeping neighborhoods as National Guard units muster. If you are able, get to a center in your area, please do so after 7 a.m.”
“Robert E. Lee High School is on the list.” Garrett went back to looking out the curtain.
“I ain’t leavin’ my house.” Patty McCormick waddled around the end of the couch to stand over Gordon Grace’s body. “Damned niggers and spics’ll be in here stealin’ the television before we’ve backed out the driveway.”
“Might want to think that over,” Garrett said, letting the curtain fall back in place. He turned, hearing the floor protest every step his mother took. A meaty hand slapped him hard across the face.
“Don’t you sass me, boy.”
“Sorry, Mama,” Garrett looked down into the gray-blue eyes that glared up at him through folds of sagging skin. Without another word, he walked up the stairs.
“Where you goin’, boy?”
Garrett didn’t answer. He felt a tremor in his hands, a combination of anger, adrenaline, and anticipation. Without hesitation he went to his closet and shoved shoes and dirty clothes aside. Opening a cardboard box, he pulled out three bottles of Yukon Jack. A small, lime-green suitcase was on the shelf and he pulled it down, setting it on his bed. Flipping it open, he shoved the dozen Hustler magazines to one side in a neat pile and wrapped each precious bottle in the first shirt he pulled from the beat up chest of drawers.
Reaching under the bed, Garrett found his leather jacket. As he stood, he heard the first thuds of hands on the front door. Dead hands, he thought. Closing the suitcase, he picked it up as his mother made a noise that was part scream and part cough.
The sound of breaking glass made him pause at the top of the stairs. He walked down a few steps to see more than one pair of arms straining through the curtains. Glass from the living room window continued to break and fall with a crash on the floor.
“Garrett!” Patty McCormick bellowed.
He’d seen them outside. There were several on the street, and they were coming to the McCormick house, led by Kimmy Vanderwall. A body—a man in a policeman’s uniform—tumbled through the opening, pulling the curtains down in a heap. Patty McCormick screamed in a way Garrett had never heard before…and he’d heard his mama scream a lot.
“Better run, Mama,” Garrett whispered as he watched more of those things tumble through. Then Kimmy Vanderwall’s mostly naked body appeared. Garrett’s breathing changed as his eyes took her in. What a shame, he thought as she landed awkwardly on the living room floor.
He could hear his mama cursing and shrieking. None of the bodies seemed to notice him up on the stairs as they continued deeper into the house. A loud crash signaled what had to be his mama fighting off the dozen or so dead folks now in the McCormick living room. Kimmy was trying to get to her feet. No others were coming through the window…for now.
Patty McCormick screamed in pain. Garrett crept down a few more stairs as his mother swung the leg of the coffee table at the closest of those things. Her left arm was bleeding bad, and she held it close to her body as she swung wildly with the right.
“Git these things offa me, boy!” She made the mistake of taking her eyes off what she was doing to look at Garrett. Three of those things stumbled in, hands reaching, clawing. Garrett took one more step down the stairs…but no more.
One of the creatures that had his mama by the arm bit into the sagging flesh. Blood welled around its mouth as the huge woman howled in agony. It pulled back, tearing away a chunk of meat. Patty McCormick slung her arm out to the side, tossing the individual into the television. It was quickly replaced by two more. All of these things had terrible injuries; just like the ones they were inflicting on the enormous woman.
“Help me, baby!” Patty’s eyes met Garrett’s full of tears, but there was more. There was anger…the kind that ended in brutal punishment.
He continued to watch, almost fascinated. It reminded him of a documentary he’d seen once when all these female lions were trying to bring down an old elephant. There were too many, and the blood loss weakened the behemoth…in this case…Patty McCormick. The jumble of arms and legs collapsed with a house jarring thud. There was a muffled cry, and then a scream pierced the night that was so chilling that it made the hair on Garrett’s arms stand up.
One of the ghoulish figures, it resembled Mister Whitaker from down the street, but was missing most of its face, squirmed free from the pile with a strand of something in its hands. The stench of shit and blood hit Garrett full-force, making his knees buckle just a bit. Still, he watched as the creature bit into the strand, a brownish slurry oozed from the rips in the sausage-like links and down its chin. The bile rose in Garrett’s throat as he backed slowly and quietly up the stairs.
The wood squeaked and Kimmy Vanderwall, who had finally fought free of the tangled curtains and clothing on the floor, turned Garrett’s direction. Her hands came up and her mouth began opening and closing. Fluids dripped from the tear in her stomach, and a strand of dark, mucous-like drool swung lazily from her chin.
Garrett retreated slowly, trying not to make any more noise. He could still hear the wet ripping and smacking sounds coming from the direction of his mama. None of them seemed inclined to follow after him, only Kimmy.
He backed halfway down the hallway towards his room and waited. Sure enough, eventually, she made it up the stairs. He’d heard her fall a couple of times. Each time he’d crept out to see if Kimmy would give up; each time she’d seen him and made some sort of gurgling moan before continuing awkwardly up the stairs.
A voice in Garrett’s head told him to run, and he didn’t really know why he wasn’t listening to it. The thought of the fate that had claimed his mama terrified him, and Garrett McCormick wasn’t a man easily terrified, but when Kimmy Vanderwall stumbled onto the floor of the hallway, her bikini bottoms down to her thighs from all the scooting and scrambling…he knew.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of the smooth folds of her girlish flesh. He licked his lips unconsciously, the little whore kept it shaved. Backing into his room, he looked around, eyes finally lighting on what he wanted.
Between the lack of coordination these things displayed and outweighing it by more than double, it was almost no effort to take Kimmy Vanderwall down. The most difficult part was avoiding the snapping jaws and grasping hands. When he was done, a rolled up pair of his underwear—a dirty pair from the floor—were stuffed in Kimmy’s mouth. Her hands were bound above her head with a shirt sleeve and secured to a slit in the headboard. The struggle was really much less than expected. He’d pulled off and tossed aside the bikini bottoms before using two more shirts to tie her legs spread-eagle, one to each of the useless wheels that supported the metal frame which held his box spring.
Occasionally, he could hear a bang or crash from downstairs, along with the moans and other strange noises of the walking dead. Twice he thought he’d heard them on the stairs, but so far nothing had come to his bedroom door.
He returned his attention to the creature squirming on his bed. “You don’t look nearly as pretty as ya used to,” Garrett whispered, climbing up on his bed, planting one foot on either side of the discolored, bloody, writhing thing laid out before him.
“Never did give you a present for your Sweet Sixteen last week,” Garrett scoffed. “Course, after your parents called the cops on me…sayin’ I was peekin’ at you in your bedroom…” He unzipped his pants.
His eyes drifted from the dead eyes of the girl to down between her legs. It didn’t take him long, standing above the helpless zombie, to finish. When he was done, he hopped off the bed and stuffed himself back in his pants.
Walking over to his window, he looked outside. The neighborhood echoed a nightmarish symphony of screams and gunshots. North Charleston was no stranger to police patrols, but this was well above the norm. Most times it was a domestic dispute, and on rare occasions, somebody would try to deal a little meth. Problem with that, too many folks liked to sit on their porches. That sort of activity would instigate a flurry of phone calls. Well, Garrett thought, the police were in for a helluva night, if what he was seein’ was any indication.
Picking up his suitcase, he glanced back at the writhing figure of Kimmy Vanderwall. “Enjoy Hell, you filthy little whore,” he said. Garrett was certain that Hell was exactly where she would be…just like any whore; and that’s what she was. All women were whores. Mama said so. A lot.
Climbing out the window and onto the eave, he walked down the gentle slope and peered over. The side yard was clear, so he dropped the suitcase flat. It landed in the grass with a whummp, next he dropped the axe handle and swung his legs over, hung, then let go. At his height, it wasn’t a very long drop. Gathering his stuff, Garrett stayed in the shadows and moved towards the street.
A sound came from the house causing him to pause and look back. Mama was standing in the living room window. Her clothing had been torn away from her upper body, and there were huge chunks of her were missing. Her enormous, sagging gut was the worst. A huge portion had been ripped open and a slab of brownish-gray fat swung back and forth with her movements. For a moment, he considered going up there and bashing her head in. Then, leastways, she wouldn’t spend forever like that.
As he stood there thinking, a car skidded around the corner at the head of the block. With a dismissive shrug he stepped out into the street. The car slowed and came to a stop. A petite brunette flung open the passenger door and waved at him to get in. Her eyes were wide with terror.
“Thank God!” The woman’s voice was shaky with hysterics. “Do you live near here? We need to get off the streets.”
With a twitch of his head indicating the house behind him, and holding up the suitcase, Garrett climbed into the car, “My house is full of those things. Maybe we could try your house?”
“It’s the Low Country Overlook.” The woman shook her head. “That’s downtown, and those things are even worse there…they’re everywhere. I’ve driven past two checkpoints with no soldiers…not living anyway. It’s insane.”
An idea came to Garrett. He’d gone down two weeks ago and applied for a job on the cleaning crew at the baseball stadium. It had heavy gates and was out in the middle of a big open area away from town. He looked at the woman to explain. She was wearing a blouse that was open well past what was proper; he could see two mounds of flesh pushed up and together by a silky looking bra.
“I know where we can go,” Garrett struggled to keep his voice even. All he’d heard in the woman’s statement was that the soldiers were gone; could it really be that easy? Is this all it took to wipe away all those who’d made fun of him, looked down on him, and treated him unfairly?
As they drove, he saw more and more of those horrible monsters. Some of them were clustered around a body sprawled on the ground; others walked in that slow, broken way he’d seen up close in his living room. They passed abandoned police cars with their lights flashing, doors open. Empty.
Doing his best to remain calm, he continued to give directions. So few cars were out…everybody locked inside, obeying martial law without knowing that those in charge were gone…or now part of the problem.
They rolled into the vast, empty parking lot of Rainbow Stadium. Garrett felt a thrill surge through him. Somewhere in the distance a huge fireball lit up the sky. A mushroom of flame rolled a hundred feet into the night, creating a momentary but false dawn.
Yes, Garrett smiled as he thought, the world was about to change. A new rule: survival of the strongest. The weak would serve at the pleasure of their masters. Whores…like the one sitting beside him talking to the air—he certainly wasn’t listening—were mere playthings. Toys. Things to be used and discarded when they broke…or were outgrown.
Turning in the seat, he stared at the pitifully small and helpless whore. Still talking, Garrett scowled. The orange glow of the dashboard lighting made the whore look like a wax figure. She never saw the fist that slammed into her temple.
The body slumped over, head resting awkwardly against the driver side window. At first he thought he might’ve broken its neck. Leaning closer, he saw the light fog spread across the glass from the nose and mouth.
Garrett got out of the car and walked around. He opened the door and the body spilled gracelessly to the ground, half in and half out of the car. Unbuckling the seatbelt, he scooped up the unconscious figure and tossed it over his shoulder. He walked until he found a door which he made short work of with a few fierce kicks. Once inside, he looked around. It was a long hallway that led to storage areas and locker rooms. Blocking the door he’d entered was no problem.
Gunfire, explosions, and screams filled the night. Chaos grew to fill the void of order. Nobody noticed nor had the time to investigate just one more sound of a human being experiencing excruciating pain and unbridled terror.
Return this evening (5PM PST, 8PM EST) for a second installment...