Night of Survival

A Story by None

Two men sat silently, playing cards in the half-darkness. The storms outside made electricity a sparse resource. Every now and again, the lights would flicker, or lightning sparked outside, causing bursts of light, then more shadow. The only lasting light source was the single, small lantern on the centre of the card table.

They had closed the shop for the night; only a mad man would be out in that kind of weather. They spoke little; it was difficult to shout over the deafening rainfall battering the roof. Throwing cards down, and taking his winnings, Bill Jacobs stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. The air was thick with smoke; making what little light they had hazy, like a fog had descended upon them.

Darren Grahams was Bill’s poker friend and partner in the ownership of their small home-run hardware business. They had known each other for years, but Bill had never known, nor expected Darren to return home with a small gun tied into his belt. They were pacifists, and although they did run a small drug business out of their back room, they were mostly legal. Guns, guns meant business. Bad business.

“It’s not going anywhere” Darren sniggered, seeing his friend glance yet again at the small, yet deadly, weapon sitting on the chair across the room.

“I know, it’s just… wrong y’know?” Bill shrugged “Like a bad omen. I don’t like it.” The short, slightly overweight man flicked another cigarette between his lips and lit it, the small flame creating new shadows on his face, hiding the fear in his eyes. The gun reflected the flame off the barrel. It looked alive to Bill. Too much like it had a mind of its own. A reason. A story.

He ran his hand through his oily, diminishing hair. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he dealt the cards. An awkward silence ensued between the two men; the only sound was the continuous rain, punctuated only by the rumble of thunder. Darren shifted nervously. Bad omen indeed. Didn’t know what he was talking about. His hair was in a rough ponytail, reaching down to the small of his back. His beady eyes glittered as lightning struck again.
The scream echoed through the air. No, not a scream, a screech. Like an animal caught in a trap. Darren looked at Bill, and quickly stood up, grabbing his thick, leather, sheepskin-lined coat. Bill grabbed his coat too, and watched Darren run out the door. Bill hesitated, then skirted back into the room, and grabbed the small gun. Shoving it into his belt, he braced himself against the weather, and shut the door behind him.

“It’s a kid!” Darren shouted to him, his voice only just audible over the roaring of the wind. “Looks bad!” Darren cupped his hands round his mouth, attempting to make his voice carry to his friend. “Very bad.” He whispered into the rain.

The boy lay on the ground. The blood seeped out of the various gashes in his body, mixing with the rain and mud, creating a paste. Bill stopped still at the sight. The boy’s face was bruised and cut, his bottom lip torn, he had bitten through the skin, and it was bleeding horribly. His eyes were bruised, contrasting with the white skin, making him look like a mutilated panda. Darren gagged as he picked the small boy up. His head lolled, exposing the large bite mark on his neck. Blood pumped out, like a small fountain, covering Darren’s arms and hands. His left arm was obviously broken, and Darren could feel bone through the cloth. Darren ran inside the house, his charge in his arms. Bill looked around nervously, his hand slowly reaching for the gun. He stood there for a minute, and turned to go in and help. Lightning flashed, and five pairs of lifeless eyes were suddenly lit up behind him.

“Put pressure here.” Darren instructed Bill, pointing to the hole in the boys neck. He had lay the boy on his bed. Bill looked at him, eyes like saucers. He tried to protest, but words didn’t come.

“NOW!” Darren shouted. Bill jumped into action, putting his palms onto the horrific fountain, plugging it like children do to water jets in Jacuzzis. As the warm, salty liquid flowed through his fingers, Bill took a little comfort in the small weapon holstered in his belt. Whatever had done this must be hunted and killed. Or at least be defended against.

Darren ran over to the bed, unwrapping bandages as he skirted around the table, the cards still laid on it, an unfinished game. Grabbing the lantern, he rushed to the bedside. The lantern swung, and shadows bounced along the walls excitedly, as if relishing the death that seemed inevitable.

“Demons.” Bill muttered under his breath. “Omens.” He gulped back his fear, and felt the sting of tears behind his eyes as he looked down at the dying boy.

“There isn’t much I can do.” Darren growled. “Try the phone.” Bill removed his hands, and ran over to the landline. His hands left bloody prints on the buttons and receiver, but he knew that it was futile. A storm like this, phone lines were undoubtedly down. He tried again, and again. Weeping silently, he turned to the window to pray for the life of that small child.

“It’s no good.” He sobbed the words out, eyes closed against the vision of the blood soaked corpse that lay on his bed.

He raised his head, and looked out the window, cursing the storm, and the metal of the gun he felt through the material of his trousers. Cold. He thought he saw movement at the window. He scowled. A child scowled back. Bill took a step back. The glass of the window shattered as the child rammed his hand through it. It grinned, a toothless grin, blood staining its face, bruises shadowing its eyes. It turned, and garbled some nonsensical guttural growling.

“Darren” Bill stuttered “They…they…” He glanced over at his friend. Darren lay on the floor, neck broken. The previously dead child looked over at him, sat up, and rolled off the bed. Walking towards him, hands outstretched, its mouth moved, and it growled.

He was surrounded. These children, dead children, walked. Surrounding him with their panda eyes and bleeding wounds. Their blood pooled around them, mixing together in strange patterns on the floor. Bill walked backwards, slowly cornering himself, not ready to die. He wept for the loss of his friend, and for the inevitable loss of his own life.

“Stop, please” me muttered

“Demons!” he screamed, and pulled the gun, pointing it at the nearest child. His arm jerked as he pulled the trigger, and he shot the lantern. It shattered.

Darkness.