Secret Places

Filed in Gather Writing Essential by on July 22, 2012 0 Comments

Outside, a folly of sirens continued under umbrella skies, adding to the confused spectacle before him, adding to the delirium of blight ahead of him, and steeped in the festering corridors under spit polished shoes.

            “I’ll shoot you dead!” hollered Wilbur. “Better come on out of there!” He maneuvered from one side of the passageway—and to the other; his 38 at the ready, and the secret places, the sacred places lost between the obscured failing light, and visible objects.

            Then, another silhouette beckoned, at the end of the hall, grinning, big, and much too big to be the frame of an inmate, sinister, threatening; much too big to be anything but a killer.

            “Put your hands in the air, buddy, and nobody gets hurt?”

            But the grinning, the hulking fiend, the silhouette, wasn’t listening, he wasn’t saying a word, and just kept standing there at the end of the hall, spattered with gruel, covered in indistinguishable blobs of glistening flesh.     

             Wilbur’s eyes focused to the suffocating light, while the mountainous grinning imbecile revealed himself, stepping into the faltering glare, stepping into the horror, the hateful errand boy, immediately apparent. The polluted goon was coming for him, coming for flesh, coming for eyeballs, coming for his soul.

            “Freeze mother fucker!” officer Wilbur shouted. “Freeze!—or I’ll blow your fucking brains out. So help me god!”

            The fiend’s bloodied garb, shameless grinning, the horror continued somewhere in the denial. Ahead, within the suffocating doom, the bulk of a crazed psychopath, the tantrum of an idiot descended upon Wilbur, careening wildly, flailing upon him.

             Exhausted, the dizzied officer squeezed off several rounds into the maniac’s chest, shooting the son of bitch where it counted. But it had no effect; the brute kept coming, fighting through the blood and gore, fighting through the hail of bullets, and Wilbur’s desperate draconian commandments. And still the beastly figure careened ahead and falling dead at the officer’s trembling feet.

            “Jesus!” he exhaled. “Am I alive?” And loaded more bullets into the spent chambers.


Lordaugust Danube Paul [ME]

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