which came packaged alongside a handful of wet smacks.
The deputy turned to the sheriff, his eyes were wide, and his stare unwavering.
Baker bit his lip, drawing a bead of blood as the moist smacks shifted around them like a thickened fog.
“Fuck this,” Cohen said.
Acting as quietly as possible, Baker racked the pump and chambered a round. Sweat streamed from his brow, down his nose and into his eyes. Cohen was no different and followed suit by loading his firearm. Both men stood along the side of the barn, hugging it close and mere yards from the door.
The scope of it all came into focus and neither of them could look the other in the eyes. Whatever was to happen, it was as clear as the sun was high—nothing good would come from this.
“Should we double back and try for backup, again?” Cohen’s question sounded more like a plea.
Baker thought it over and knew it would’ve been the wiser road. At the same time, he had to step back and look at it from a pessimistic standpoint. What would happen if they weren’t able to reach Janet—how would they get their precious backup then? They couldn’t, and would find themselves back at square one. It was a scary thought, but the truth.
What happened to Janet, anyways?
Overhead, the sun had risen directly above. Baker looked skyward, squinting against the sun’s rays and reckoned it was already somewhere in the mid-nineties. He turned toward the surrounding farmland, studying the terrain and considered an ambush. For a moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes and thought he saw a blackened shape staggering through the tall grass. Blinking once, it was gone.
The sounds from the barn pulled him back to the task at hand.
He sidestepped his way toward the entrance, aiming the shotgun nervously. He took a few more steps and stopped, listened, and turned to Cohen. Cohen’s expression was dire. His face was ashen and void of color, appearing translucent in the shadowy light. The deputy turned away and fidgeted awkwardly with his gun.
“Stay here,” he said, quietly.
Cohen nodded.
Baker fell into a crouch and took off running. It felt like an eternity had passed before he reached the opposite side of the door. Once there, he was quick to throw his back against the wall and caught his breath. His lungs burned with every intake of air.
The breeze shifted to the south, rustling his hair in the opposite direction. It was in this time, the two men were assaulted by a horrid, stomach churning stench—the soured aroma of carrion and death. Baker peered through the rancid haze and realized it was nothing more than a swarm of flies. Bile rolled through his throat, and flooded his tongue.
In a similar manner, Cohen joined the Sheriff on the opposite side of the door. Neither of them mentioned the smells, or the squelching sound coming from within the barn. Their heightened pulse and rugged breaths echoed loudly in their ears. Baker turned, glancing to the farmland. With a sigh, he swallowed more of that death-filled stench.
Where did the birds go and what happened to the chatter of insects? It felt as if the whole world was gone, ushered into a silent oblivion.
Baker turned back to the deputy, Cohen had yet to look away. The silence left the two of them sick. He shook it off, and with his hand, counted down the seconds.
Five—four—three—two—one.
“Sheriff’s department!” Baker yelled, his thunderous voice boomed across the countryside.
They tensed, gripping their guns. From within the barn, the sounds remained steady. Those inside, remained seemingly unconcerned—possessing little fear for those in control, let alone, the weight of Baker’s words.
Baker waited a moment before repeating his command. This time around, his voice lacked authority, as he knew full well the uselessness of it all.
Undeterred, Cohen huffed. He cocked his head toward the open door and yelled, “Come out with your hands up!”
Again, they waited, and produced the same
The deputy turned to the sheriff, his eyes were wide, and his stare unwavering.
Baker bit his lip, drawing a bead of blood as the moist smacks shifted around them like a thickened fog.
“Fuck this,” Cohen said.
Acting as quietly as possible, Baker racked the pump and chambered a round. Sweat streamed from his brow, down his nose and into his eyes. Cohen was no different and followed suit by loading his firearm. Both men stood along the side of the barn, hugging it close and mere yards from the door.
The scope of it all came into focus and neither of them could look the other in the eyes. Whatever was to happen, it was as clear as the sun was high—nothing good would come from this.
“Should we double back and try for backup, again?” Cohen’s question sounded more like a plea.
Baker thought it over and knew it would’ve been the wiser road. At the same time, he had to step back and look at it from a pessimistic standpoint. What would happen if they weren’t able to reach Janet—how would they get their precious backup then? They couldn’t, and would find themselves back at square one. It was a scary thought, but the truth.
What happened to Janet, anyways?
Overhead, the sun had risen directly above. Baker looked skyward, squinting against the sun’s rays and reckoned it was already somewhere in the mid-nineties. He turned toward the surrounding farmland, studying the terrain and considered an ambush. For a moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes and thought he saw a blackened shape staggering through the tall grass. Blinking once, it was gone.
The sounds from the barn pulled him back to the task at hand.
He sidestepped his way toward the entrance, aiming the shotgun nervously. He took a few more steps and stopped, listened, and turned to Cohen. Cohen’s expression was dire. His face was ashen and void of color, appearing translucent in the shadowy light. The deputy turned away and fidgeted awkwardly with his gun.
“Stay here,” he said, quietly.
Cohen nodded.
Baker fell into a crouch and took off running. It felt like an eternity had passed before he reached the opposite side of the door. Once there, he was quick to throw his back against the wall and caught his breath. His lungs burned with every intake of air.
The breeze shifted to the south, rustling his hair in the opposite direction. It was in this time, the two men were assaulted by a horrid, stomach churning stench—the soured aroma of carrion and death. Baker peered through the rancid haze and realized it was nothing more than a swarm of flies. Bile rolled through his throat, and flooded his tongue.
In a similar manner, Cohen joined the Sheriff on the opposite side of the door. Neither of them mentioned the smells, or the squelching sound coming from within the barn. Their heightened pulse and rugged breaths echoed loudly in their ears. Baker turned, glancing to the farmland. With a sigh, he swallowed more of that death-filled stench.
Where did the birds go and what happened to the chatter of insects? It felt as if the whole world was gone, ushered into a silent oblivion.
Baker turned back to the deputy, Cohen had yet to look away. The silence left the two of them sick. He shook it off, and with his hand, counted down the seconds.
Five—four—three—two—one.
“Sheriff’s department!” Baker yelled, his thunderous voice boomed across the countryside.
They tensed, gripping their guns. From within the barn, the sounds remained steady. Those inside, remained seemingly unconcerned—possessing little fear for those in control, let alone, the weight of Baker’s words.
Baker waited a moment before repeating his command. This time around, his voice lacked authority, as he knew full well the uselessness of it all.
Undeterred, Cohen huffed. He cocked his head toward the open door and yelled, “Come out with your hands up!”
Again, they waited, and produced the same
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