with huge eyes behind the thick lenses of her glasses, couldn’t take the pressure. She shook her head wildly, throwing her arms out as if she could block Goldie Locke’s words.
The technician hiccupped once, her whole body shaking. She threw her head back, her arms stiffening down at her sides as she opened her mouth. She let out a blood-chilling scream of terror. It sent goose bumps across Abe Baun’s skin.
Before anyone could do anything, the woman had bolted out into the shadows, racing in the direction of the exits. She was lost from sight in the darkness, but the group could still hear the pounding of her sneakers against the floor.
The running sounds ended abruptly. Sneakers squeaked against the floor as the runner slid to a stop.
The air rang with a piercing inhuman shriek of terror and pain, even worse than the first one.
The silence bound them. The group stood together, their backs braced against each other so they could stare into the menacing maw of darkness that surrounded them.
What had happened? Would they ever know?
They pretended that they didn’t know what had happened to their comrade.
A sneaker rolled out of the shadows and into the center of the group. They jumped, shrieking, away from it, staring at it as if it were some kind of poisonous serpent.
The sneaker slid to a stop and tipped over onto its side. It lay there, under horrified gazes. They could not tear their eyes away from it.
The shoe was splattered all over with red. The original white only showed through in a few spots. The rest was completely drowned in sticky redness. The hot, iron-rust scent of blood filled the air. The sneaker was tiny, just like the lighting technician had been. No one thought to question if it could be from anyone else. It was too obvious.
Her last, haunting scream hung in the air, hovering like the blade of a waiting guillotine. It raised the hair on the backs of necks and arms, and tightening scalps. More than one person lost control of their bladders.
The scream cut off and was gone.
Then it was silent.
That was almost worse.
“Together is our only chance,” Goldie Locke said, breaking the hold of the silence. Her voice and expression were sober and serious. “We must be united.”
Chapter Ten
As Goldie Locke’s voice broke the heavy-laden silence, the rest of the group drew deep breaths of relief. They had not realized that they had stopped breathing, until their lungs were filled again.
The breaths set the worst of the smoke damaged to coughing again.
With the death of their colleague still raw on their nerves, they were ready to listen to Goldie Locke. They wanted a leader. They craved a voice of reason. They would have begged her, if necessary. This time, the group was willing to give the small blond woman’s words the benefit of the doubt.
Most of them, that is. Some still had their reservations. Some were suspicious of this strangely helpful stranger.
“What is your connection with this monster,” Chef Aire-Craft demanded. His arms crossed disapprovingly across his chest. His head was raised high. His nostrils flared. It was obvious that he was trying to be a formidable figure, but there was a sickly sheen to his face. An angry-looking burn slashed across one of his round cheeks, all the way into the hairline on his forehead. The eye on that side was swollen nearly shut.
Chef Aire-Craft had the vaguely stunned look of a person in shock, who was trying to function as usual. Even as he spoke, he began to shiver violently with the effects of shock. He focused his energy on directing his feeble rage at Goldie Locke. “How do you know all of these things? Are you a cohort of him, it… whatever it is? Are you in cahoots with this… thing?” He wrinkled his nose as if even speaking the words ‘zombie chicken’ was beneath him. He could not accept such a foe. How tragic to be attacked by such an ignoble monster. If he was to die, he wanted an acceptable opponent.
Zombies, like
The technician hiccupped once, her whole body shaking. She threw her head back, her arms stiffening down at her sides as she opened her mouth. She let out a blood-chilling scream of terror. It sent goose bumps across Abe Baun’s skin.
Before anyone could do anything, the woman had bolted out into the shadows, racing in the direction of the exits. She was lost from sight in the darkness, but the group could still hear the pounding of her sneakers against the floor.
The running sounds ended abruptly. Sneakers squeaked against the floor as the runner slid to a stop.
The air rang with a piercing inhuman shriek of terror and pain, even worse than the first one.
The silence bound them. The group stood together, their backs braced against each other so they could stare into the menacing maw of darkness that surrounded them.
What had happened? Would they ever know?
They pretended that they didn’t know what had happened to their comrade.
A sneaker rolled out of the shadows and into the center of the group. They jumped, shrieking, away from it, staring at it as if it were some kind of poisonous serpent.
The sneaker slid to a stop and tipped over onto its side. It lay there, under horrified gazes. They could not tear their eyes away from it.
The shoe was splattered all over with red. The original white only showed through in a few spots. The rest was completely drowned in sticky redness. The hot, iron-rust scent of blood filled the air. The sneaker was tiny, just like the lighting technician had been. No one thought to question if it could be from anyone else. It was too obvious.
Her last, haunting scream hung in the air, hovering like the blade of a waiting guillotine. It raised the hair on the backs of necks and arms, and tightening scalps. More than one person lost control of their bladders.
The scream cut off and was gone.
Then it was silent.
That was almost worse.
“Together is our only chance,” Goldie Locke said, breaking the hold of the silence. Her voice and expression were sober and serious. “We must be united.”
Chapter Ten
As Goldie Locke’s voice broke the heavy-laden silence, the rest of the group drew deep breaths of relief. They had not realized that they had stopped breathing, until their lungs were filled again.
The breaths set the worst of the smoke damaged to coughing again.
With the death of their colleague still raw on their nerves, they were ready to listen to Goldie Locke. They wanted a leader. They craved a voice of reason. They would have begged her, if necessary. This time, the group was willing to give the small blond woman’s words the benefit of the doubt.
Most of them, that is. Some still had their reservations. Some were suspicious of this strangely helpful stranger.
“What is your connection with this monster,” Chef Aire-Craft demanded. His arms crossed disapprovingly across his chest. His head was raised high. His nostrils flared. It was obvious that he was trying to be a formidable figure, but there was a sickly sheen to his face. An angry-looking burn slashed across one of his round cheeks, all the way into the hairline on his forehead. The eye on that side was swollen nearly shut.
Chef Aire-Craft had the vaguely stunned look of a person in shock, who was trying to function as usual. Even as he spoke, he began to shiver violently with the effects of shock. He focused his energy on directing his feeble rage at Goldie Locke. “How do you know all of these things? Are you a cohort of him, it… whatever it is? Are you in cahoots with this… thing?” He wrinkled his nose as if even speaking the words ‘zombie chicken’ was beneath him. He could not accept such a foe. How tragic to be attacked by such an ignoble monster. If he was to die, he wanted an acceptable opponent.
Zombies, like
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