“They’re going to find out about you. It’s just a matter of time.” That soft voice whispered.
Time…hmm…he always thought he’d have all the time in the world, now it would seem his days were numbered.
He shook his head in disgust. For years, his dirty, little secret remained hidden, burrowed deep in the woods, rotting away like the corpse inside it. only to be accidently stumbled upon by hikers seeking truth to a hundred year old ghost story.
Michael snorted at the thought. He knew what they found, flayed pieces of flesh scattered across the dusty, wooden floor, like some macabre Picasso for all the world to see.
He closed his eyes, the nostalgia washing over him like a tidal wave. Those eyes, the softest blue eyes, begging, pleading…
A knock on the window interrupted his thoughts.
“Lieutenant? They’re waiting for you inside.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Michael replied.
He took a moment to replay the scene over and over again in his mind. They weren’t going to find anything, of that he was sure. After all, it’s been many years since his first kill. He’s had plenty of time to perfect his craft.
Glowing shades of amber pierced through the haze, revealing the remnants of what was once a thriving city, reduced to piles of metal and stone after the dust storms receded, billions had perished.
Those who survived were exposed to the poison, which flooded the earth’s water supply. Most had succumbed to a slow and suffocating death, but there were those who showed immunity.
Some said the government knew what was coming and they had implemented precautions, preparing a series of underground missile silos, housing a handful of scientists working day and night, trying to find a cure. Daniel couldn’t be sure if it was true, they hadn’t seen or heard another soul for eighteen months.
He watched as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. He would have to make his way back. They learned to stay underground when twilight started to spread as black as ink across the sky. That’s when they came out to feed.
Secrets are never lost. They become twisted and distorted over time, but never lost.
Mr. Horace Bradford’s secrets were now buried with his corpse, weighed down by fifty pounds of granite, chiseled to form the shape of an anchor. It was bigger than it needed to be in Savanna’s opinion, but she imagined it would have to be to house a man with such a big ego.
It was, of course, his third wife’s idea, something to epitomize his role as “her anchor”. She thought he was the perfect father and husband. She was wrong.
Savanna imagined she could almost feel the earth blistering under her feet as she stood over his grave, visions of him flailing helplessly in a fiery lake burning beneath the surface. If it was hell, she couldn’t imagine anyone on earth more deserving of spending an eternity in it.
She looked up, the clouds were starting to swell and darken. There was a storm coming.
‘Would this town survive once the floods recede?’ she wondered.