Scratching

The two brothers ran as fast as their legs would take them. They quickly made their way across the bus station terminal, stomping on luggage and stumbling over benches. They were heading for a door on the side of the ticket booth. The raspy breath of the chasing hoard echoed around the station. The boys feared that they had not made it back to the station in time.

The door was still propped open by a brick and the broom they had leaned against the door was still in place. No one was inside.

The younger brother pulled the door open and kicked the brick aside. The older one grabbed it. Turning as he crossed the doorway, he threw the brick into the crowd with all his strength. He slammed the heavy metal door shut.

They looked at each other and laughed as they held the stitches in their sides and gasped for air. They sat on the floor below the bulletproof glass of the ticket window and dumped the contents of their backpacks  in a pile between them.  It was dinner time, the most anticipated part of the day. They eagerly tore into the plastic packaging of their convenience store loot.  Dinner was nothing but fat, salt and sugar now.  The exact things they wanted to eat but were never allowed to have for dinner before.

They slipped off to sleep on the floor where they had eaten, too tired to move from their spots. They were immune to the sounds of the hoard outside. As the boys slept the station was filled with the sounds of the hungry.  Filled with the sounds of their teeth biting at the metal door like fingernails scratching down a chalkboard.

A Cold Day

We stopped at an opening in the woods. I knelt down and cleared a circle in the thin layer of snow.  The others went to work collecting and piling branches high on the exposed earth. With a few scrapes of the steel striker, we had a growing fire. We gathered around silently, holding our chapped hands towards the flames.

I closed my eyes and breathed in as the fire slowly warmed feeling back into my face. This was the first feeling of comfort we had shared in nearly two weeks.  The sweet smell of hickory swirled around us as we stood motionless washed out in the snow covered landscape. I wanted nothing but to stand there for eternity, shutting out the world.

Without a word we turned and walked back to the edge of the woods. We each grabbed at legs and arms of the horrid bodies and dragged them to the fire. Heaving the frozen figures onto the flames, wisps of white smoke turned to plumes of black. The smell was atrocious and familiar.

Crowded Hallway

He quickly fired with both eyes open. There was no time to aim, no time to even think. The shot lit the shadows for a brief second and gave him a better count. There were three of them. The closest was only ten feet away.

He pumped the action and pulled the trigger again. With his ears ringing from the first shot, the metallic click of the firing pin striking a dead round echoed. Suddenly time slowed.  His insides tightened as his mind raced. He yanked the foregrip back and the misfired shell was thrown against the wall. Slamming the next round into the chamber, the gun fired and there was silence. Buckshot was always very effective in these conditions.

There was only enough light in the narrow hallway to make out the outline of a single tangled shape on the floor. The walls and floor now glistened with flecks of light. The stinging smell of smoke surrounded him and he knew this close call was over.

He knelt down to examine the misfired shell.

"Time to do some shopping. These surplus antiques are not cutting it." he thought.