Zimulacov 20/20

[Ziggy455]

ZIMULACOV 20/20

Written by

Ziggy455

Twenty short stories, centred around the city of Coventry, in the apocalyptic turn of the century: Zombies. What inspired me to write this? Nothing really--I didn't watch The Walking Dead or any other thing media-related. I simply thought of an idea that I wanted to set in my hometown, and that's pretty much what you'll see. Below will be twenty short vignettes centred at the beginning, middle, and somewhat of an end in a city which, to anybody else, is just a scummy, dirty city, but to me it's a great place. I'm open to all criticism, feel free to pick apart my work, and I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I did writing them.

 

1/20

He wasn't quick enough.

COVENTRY, TOWN CENTRE

 

He is on his knees. His hands caked with blood—his black and blue plaid shirt gives way to the bloody, once white, once clean shirt beneath. His eyes look down with the faded glance of a man who has lost everything, of which no pain can muster a punch as big as what his eyes are seeing; reflected in the dark brown of them, the remnants of a body, a pink top, a white-skirt, torn and bloody—each mark of teeth is deep, fresh blood dried to a darker, crisp colour. The man runs a crimson-caked hand through his scruffy hair and wipes away tears that fall and dab lightly at the dried, flaky blonde hair of the once breathing, living, smiling little girl.

 

It’s raining out now. The town centre is dead. The large fountain that once gave impressive water shows is now as dormant and still as the skeletal remnants of men and women around it; even the flies do not quarrel in the cold. The stores are frozen, boarded up, dead and empty inside. The pavement that once showed a simple mosaic pattern of red and blue is now filled with dirt, papers, ammo-casings, blood, bone, flesh, hands, eyes, and clothes.

 

The man sniffs loudly as tears slip down his face, dividing the dried blood on his cheeks. His torn jeans are a darker shade of blue, as blood has seeped into the seams, and his once-tan boots are now slicked with red.

 

“Melissa,” he says, if only to himself, weakly, with a tremble. Below him is the fragments of the little girl, eaten, dismembered—her stomach an empty crevice that once habituated organs. The brown handle of a Co-Op bought –or stolen—knife is in her head; her pale skin matches her milky white eyes, covered by drooping eyelids. Her teeth have gone yellow, as if no toothbrush has ever touched them.

 

The man looks down at her, trembling, he weakly touches her, but she’s as cold as ice, frozen in that dull embrace of second-life, and beyond. The man sniffs, takes in a gasp of air, “Oh God—“ he exclaims, and looks at the 38. Snub nose next to her.

 

The rain and thunder crashes in, dabbing the glass-roof of the pavilion above. The man looks up, fumbles for the 38 and finds it quickly with a shudder. He holds it, puts it to his head. “I made em pa—I wasn’t quick enough.”

 

He closes his eyes. Click. A burning line, breaking and shattering, cutting through light and flesh, organic matter, grey matter, dead matter—blood spurts and droops. The man’s face follows from his left side, his left arm tightens up –a muscular contraction, a brain spasm—and he falls down slowly, in stages as his own blood mixes with the fourteen dead bodies behind him. He slips backwards, each body of the Infected before him, reaching out, already extinguished by the man, a river of blood slides down past him from them, but like he said:

 

He wasn’t quick enough.

Edited December 18, 2014 by Ziggy455

[Abel.]

There's some beautiful description here (the visceral imagery of the suicide is particularly good).

 

 

I look forward to reading more, mate.

[Ziggy455]

Thanks for taking the time to read it, mate. I was messing around with different tenses, and somehow present is easy to convey a solid description to what I want. I remember watching a few videos of people committing suicide --I think my friend wanted me to watch it-- and seeing how one of them died stuck with me. Thus, a very visceral description comes out. There's more to come. Cheers.

[Mokrie Dela]

Present tense, nice.

 

I won't do a full teardown, simply because I don't feel able to atm (Have barely written for months, and I feel really out of practice. I need a new project, My last 3 have all failed in one way or another). Great to see you writing again

 

 

He is on his knees. His hands caked with blood—his black and blue plaid shirt gives way to the bloody, once white, once clean shirt beneath. His eyes look down with the faded glance of a man who has lost everything,

.

I like the "faded" but not the glance. Glance isn't a strong enough word here for me. It implies a quick look. Gaze might work better.

 

 

...of which no pain can muster a punch as big as what his eyes are seeing; reflected in the dark brown of them, the remnants of a body, a pink top, a white-skirt, torn and bloody—each mark of teeth is deep, fresh blood dried to a darker, crisp colour.

A but long winded, personally. I'd break it up a bit.

 

 

The man runs a crimson-caked hand through his scruffy hair and wipes away tears that fall and dab lightly at the dried, flaky blonde hair of the once breathing, living, smiling little girl.

 

It’s raining out now. The town centre is dead. The large fountain that once gave impressive water shows is now as dormant and still as the skeletal remnants of men and women around it; even the flies do not quarrel in the cold. The stores are frozen, boarded up, dead and empty inside. The pavement that once showed a simple mosaic pattern of red and blue is now filled with dirt, papers, ammo-casings, blood, bone, flesh, hands, eyes, and clothes.

Some good imagery here, though I think the delivery could be a little better. The last sentence is practically a list, but the scene's set solidly in my mind.

 

The man sniffs loudly as tears slip down his face, dividing the dried blood on his cheeks. His torn jeans are a darker shade of blue, as blood has seeped into the seams, and his once-tan boots are now slicked with red.

 

“Melissa,” he says, if only to himself, weakly, with a tremble. Below him is the fragments of the little girl, eaten, dismembered—her stomach an empty crevice that once habituated organs.

Forgive me if I'm wrong (why do i only seem to do this after a long day?) but should it not be "below him are the fragments..." - and interesting word to use, as well. It's hammering home just how badly she's been deformed.

 

 

The brown handle of a Co-Op bought –or stolen—knife is in her head; her pale skin matches her milky white eyes, covered by drooping eyelids. Her teeth have gone yellow, as if no toothbrush has ever touched them.

I don't feel the semi colon adds anything here. A full stop would be more effective imo. Break it up. Build the tension and help the pacing.

 

 

The man looks down at her, trembling, I'd use a full stop here. he weakly touches her, but she’s as cold as ice, frozen in that dull embrace of second-life, and beyond. The man sniffs, takes in a gasp of air, “Oh God—“ he exclaims, and looks at the 38. Snub nose next to her.

"as cold as ice" - running into cliche territory, here, which I'm not sure if it's intentional. I'd cut it, tbh. "He weakly touches her, but her skin's cold and hard, frozen in that dull embrace of second-life and beyond." - I quite liked the latter part. I mention the "cold and hard" of skin, because in the last few months, I did touch someone who had already died, and to me their skin felt quite hardened.

 

A secondary point here is the introduction of the pistol. Usually, I'd say (from em's lesson on my own story!) that you'd want to tell us the gun's there earlier, but I can see perspective coming into play. The guy's focus is on the girl, and perhaps he's oblivious to the gun until now. Thinking about that, I think that works quite well. How often do you notice something despite it being there for ages? Especially when you've got something more important in front of you.

 

 

The rain and thunder crashes in, dabbing the glass-roof of the pavilion above.

Here, however, I felt a but jolted. Unless i missed something, I didn't know about the pavilion. Now the danger of writing of your home town or something familiar is you almost expect everyone to see what's in your mind. I've not been to coventry, and don't know this area, but I have no problems picturing the fountain or the mosaic floor - it's when you mention these, i think, that you should have shown us the pavilion. I had to adjust my mental image of the scene, here. I'm not sure about the description either, personally. rain and thunder crashes in - very direct, almost violent description. Then, dabbing, which I associate with a more gentle, intermittent action. In my eyes this was a contradiction, and the impact of "crashes" is softened.

 

 

The man looks up, fumbles for the 38 and finds it quickly with a shudder. He holds it, puts it to his head. “I made em pa—I wasn’t quick enough.”

I'm also wondering if ellipses would be more effective there than the dash. It seems a bit awkward, like he's interrupting himself, especially mid-word. Perhaps you specifically want his voice to break mid-word - if so, I'd close the speech and have his voice break and go silent. A full stop, then the "i wasn't quick enough."

 

 

He closes his eyes. Click. A burning line, breaking and shattering, cutting through light and flesh, organic matter, grey matter, dead matter—blood spurts and droops. The man’s face follows from his left side, his left arm tightens up –a muscular contraction, a brain spasm—and he falls down slowly, in stages as his own blood mixes with the fourteen dead bodies behind him. He slips backwards, each body of the Infected before him, reaching out, already extinguished by the man, a river of blood slides down past him from them, but like he said:

 

He wasn’t quick enough.

Again, i felt that paragraph was too long-winded at times. I think breaking it up might help the impact and pacing, and the general flow, but I liked the description in there, and I like the end, a backward reference and a touch of character to the narrator.

 

In terms of what i said of the above, I think it might have benefited by a little more time - another edit for example - but it's mostly well written, some good description as failure said. I especially liked how the focus is very much not on the zombies themselves, but that the work is a more intimate piece. There's little action, but that helps shift the focus onto the single moment that you're showing us.

 

It also gave me a brief flash of inspiration - it made me think of fallout and consider picking it up again. Most of all, though, it made me think of how luck just goes against us sometimes and how valiant acts - those of a guardian or protector - can fall flat; that any battle, ultimately can and will fail. The suicide is a nice, rounded off closing. No cliffhanger or hint at a follow-up, which is good.

Look forward to seeing more - 20's quite aspirational. Good luck!

[Tyler]

Interesting introduction to what I'm assuming will be a larger collection of stories. Can't wait to see what else comes out of it, Zig. Your writing is enjoyable, even if the topic matter leaves me somewhat distanced if only for the amount of zombie related stories I've seen. That said I'm sure you're planning to approach it in a different degree than most, and I'm looking forward to that.

[Ziggy455]

2/20

Duality, do Alan, yeah? (Part One)

COVENTRY, WYKEN

 

She screams her throat out, unknowingly alerting more of them. She sprints through the back-streets of Wyken; dilapidated houses, with white walls, red-faded thick wooden walls, called fences by the people who made them. The girl slips through the ghettos, her sandals make slapping noises against the floor, and then she’s turned a corner right into the hornet’s nest.

 

Boxer Drive, seventeen of them, all pale and green, milky-coloured eyes turn to her and she’s already made her second mistake. She turns and stumbles through glass and grit, and there’s three more stumbling after her. Panic is setting in, hyperventilation galore as she stumbles worse than the Infected do. Then there’s a light at the end of the meat-eating tunnel. “Oi, gash—in ‘ere, yeah?”

 

A DOOR! A frame, a scrawny guy in a grey tracksuit beckons her from a white door a few feet away, the decrepit garden he has is filled with washing machines. She doesn’t question it. As the cold, dead remnants gnaw for her, she runs, sprints, jumps and slides through the hallway, crashing onto her front. The door shuts behind her. “Oh my God—thank you, I dunno what the fu—“ she rests for a moment, takes a deep breath, and quietly sobs as she remembers the fat one, one eye missing, blood down its fat chin, sinking its yellow teeth into Charmaine’s face.

 

Charmaine screams for her. “TIIIIFF—Urgh.“ Yellow teeth cut through pink flesh, red gushing, spraying and Charmaine sitting, screaming at her blood-soaked hands like a child with a cut waiting for its mother. As she beckoned to her, hands ripped and tore and then her screams gurgled away to silence as she was torn apart, limb by limb, bone by bone, pint by pint.

 

“So, sket, what you gonna do for me now I saved you?”

 

She slowly turns around onto her back and looks up with fresh tears. The man looks like a shaved bird, no hair on his head, a slit in his eyebrow. Nike Airs, a grey tracksuit, gloves on. He looks down at her with that ravenous look any guy gets when they want to get it damp. She climbs to her feet. “Look I ain’t lookin’ for much, y’know...I just—they got my friend.”

 

“Don’t care bout your friend, gash, don’t care about it. I saved you, you own me, seen?”

 

“But I...”

 

“Bet you finkin it woz safer outside, yeah?” he says as he slowly approaches her with his smile, a few teeth short of a beam. She stumbles backwards against the carpet and gets to her feet.

 

“You f*ckin’ nuts, mate?! Have you seen wot’s outside?”

 

“Don’t care—we doin’ this?” he adjusts his private region, grumbles, groans, and makes the invasion into her personal space. She steps back but there’s only a wall. A few tears trickle down her face.

 

“Come...come on, please...can we just go somewhere safe—I’m not complaini—“

 

“Sounds like you’re complainin’ gash. I could throw you back out there—“

 

“NO. Please, no...”

 

“Then you gonna do it, alright?”

 

She’s silent. She’s thinking it through—he’s not her type, he’s too thin, too tall, too gross, too stupid. But what if he throws her out, what if she’s dead by the end of the night? Her parents wouldn’t care! They didn’t even have the decency to pick her up before they shot off out of the city. She’s been left alone, and now this guy wants to do her and it’s either this or back out on the street.

 

“You gonna swallow me all.”

 

“No—Plea—just stop it!”

 

He holds her hands. He’s stronger, much stronger.

 

“Just roll with it.”

 

Just roll with it, he says as he yanks at her denim-shorts and rips them down. She doesn’t struggle. She closes her eyes as he feels her.

 

“Dis is the start of somefin’ wicked, babe.”

 

She keeps her eyes shut the whole time.

 

“Now—let’s fire up some H.”

[ainsz]

These are damn good man. When do you plan to continue?

[Ziggy455]

These are damn good man. When do you plan to continue?

 

I've sixteen of them written up. A few interconnect and there's a few recurring characters. Don't worry. They are all first draft though and six of them were recently scrapped as I didn't think they were that good. Once I've got at least three edited, I'll upload them and continue to edit. Thanks for reading them, I appreciate it.

[ainsz]

nice, look forward to it mate. I like the format your going for. Kind of like Charlie Bookers Black Mirror but on Zombies.

[Mokrie Dela]

Charlie Bookers Black Mirror but on Zombies.

Damn, I love that show!

[Ziggy455]

 

Charlie Bookers Black Mirror but on Zombies.

Damn, I love that show!

 

 

The first episode I watched was where the Prime Minister had to f*ck a pig. f*cking great!

 

I'm trying to go down a similar path with this, sort of.

[Mokrie Dela]

 

 

Charlie Bookers Black Mirror but on Zombies.

Damn, I love that show!

 

 

The first episode I watched was where the Prime Minister had to f*ck a pig. f*cking great!

 

I'm trying to go down a similar path with this, sort of.

 

Have you seen them all? "15 Million Credits" is one of my favorites, and the one with the memory chip and artificial person are brilliant.

 

2/20

Duality, do Alan, yeah? (Part One)

COVENTRY, WYKEN

 

She screams her throat out, unknowingly alerting more of them. She sprints through the back-streets of Wyken; dilapidated houses, with white walls, red-faded thick wooden walls, called fences by the people who made them. The girl slips through the ghettos, her sandals make slapping noises against the floor, and then she’s turned a corner right into the hornet’s nest.

 

Boxer Drive, seventeen of them, all pale and green, milky-coloured eyes turn to her and she’s already made her second mistake. She turns and stumbles through glass and grit, and there’s three more stumbling after her. Panic is setting in, hyperventilation galore as she stumbles worse than the Infected do. Then there’s a light at the end of the meat-eating tunnel. “Oi, gash—in ‘ere, yeah?”

 

A DOOR! A frame, a scrawny guy in a grey tracksuit beckons her from a white door a few feet away, the decrepit garden he has is filled with washing machines. She doesn’t question it. As the cold, dead remnants gnaw for her, she runs, sprints, jumps and slides through the hallway, crashing onto her front. The door shuts behind her. “Oh my God—thank you, I dunno what the fu—“ she rests for a moment, takes a deep breath, and quietly sobs as she remembers the fat one, one eye missing, blood down its fat chin, sinking its yellow teeth into Charmaine’s face.

 

Charmaine screams for her. “TIIIIFF—Urgh.“ Yellow teeth cut through pink flesh, red gushing, spraying and Charmaine sitting, screaming at her blood-soaked hands like a child with a cut waiting for its mother. As she beckoned to her, hands ripped and tore and then her screams gurgled away to silence as she was torn apart, limb by limb, bone by bone, pint by pint.

 

“So, sket, what you gonna do for me now I saved you?”

 

She slowly turns around onto her back and looks up with fresh tears. The man looks like a shaved bird, no hair on his head, a slit in his eyebrow. Nike Airs, a grey tracksuit, gloves on. He looks down at her with that ravenous look any guy gets when they want to get it damp. She climbs to her feet. “Look I ain’t lookin’ for much, y’know...I just—they got my friend.”

 

“Don’t care bout your friend, gash, don’t care about it. I saved you, you own me, seen?”

 

“But I...”

 

“Bet you finkin it woz safer outside, yeah?” he says as he slowly approaches her with his smile, a few teeth short of a beam. She stumbles backwards against the carpet and gets to her feet.

 

“You f*ckin’ nuts, mate?! Have you seen wot’s outside?”

 

“Don’t care—we doin’ this?” he adjusts his private region, grumbles, groans, and makes the invasion into her personal space. She steps back but there’s only a wall. A few tears trickle down her face.

 

“Come...come on, please...can we just go somewhere safe—I’m not complaini—“

 

“Sounds like you’re complainin’ gash. I could throw you back out there—“

 

“NO. Please, no...”

 

“Then you gonna do it, alright?”

 

She’s silent. She’s thinking it through—he’s not her type, he’s too thin, too tall, too gross, too stupid. But what if he throws her out, what if she’s dead by the end of the night? Her parents wouldn’t care! They didn’t even have the decency to pick her up before they shot off out of the city. She’s been left alone, and now this guy wants to do her and it’s either this or back out on the street.

 

“You gonna swallow me all.”

 

“No—Plea—just stop it!”

 

He holds her hands. He’s stronger, much stronger.

 

“Just roll with it.”

 

Just roll with it, he says as he yanks at her denim-shorts and rips them down. She doesn’t struggle. She closes her eyes as he feels her.

 

“Dis is the start of somefin’ wicked, babe.”

 

She keeps her eyes shut the whole time.

 

“Now—let’s fire up some H.”

Okay, now I'm aroused.

 

Joke

 

 

You never see that in zombie films and games, do you? Such an event would draw out the worst in people, as long as the best. That's rarely shown, though, at least in my experience, as little as that is.

 

I have slight issue with the spelling - words like "wot" for example, are not really that necessary; it ends up reading more like a teenager's text (which is probably the idea), and "wot" and "what" i struggle to hear any difference between them. A minor point, pedantic, even.

 

There's this tense build up to the act, but then we fast forward it. It felt anticlimactic to me. I was expecting a struggle and fight, physically, or as risky as it is, the act itself, but that's reduced to a short sentence. Keeping her eyes shut is a great gateway to heightened senses. I'm not saying go all erotica on us, but the sound of raspy breathing in her ear, the smell of sweat and bad breath, feeling the heat from him, etc. We're in the shoes of the girl, but then we jump ahead, and it just feels... lacking. Even afterward, it's just ended. There's not reflection, no thought or guilt or fear, just... ends. Maybe that's because there's (presumably) a part 2, i dunno.

 

 

Aside from that, not bad. A little weird the bit with the fences though (what am i missing?) and the suddenness of us being shown her friend's death was good.

[Ziggy455]

Zimulacov 3/20

Barbara

Locked in time, and the cupboard.

Barbara sat at the table, where she waited eagerly like most other Fridays, for that proverbial bang, click, knock, and for Dale to stumble in the door from The White Bear, each breath packed with ripe pungent intoxication, of Carling, Guinness, piss—whatever was mixing up and was free, Dale would take it. It was that similar Friday when Dale began to bang on the door, wailing and screaming that somebody had bitten him, and that others were chasing him down the street in Oliver Lane. Frozen with fear, pulling at her curly locks, the thing, gangly Barbara shot up from the table, already cold with the meal that Dale would spit in and berate her for, and ran to the door, opening it. Brown eyes looked at her with both anger and then fear for when she opened the door, she realised her husband was bleeding wildly from his arm and neck. He fell inwards, and from the garden path there came several deformed men, all stumbling, groaning, their skin as white as snow, and their eyes as black as coal. She slammed the door on them, and then returned to Dale, vomit and spit dry in his haggard scruff of 5 o’clock shadow.

With wide eyes, fervent fear and confusion she reached down to him, and he gripped her, bloodying her cardigan. “Who did this, Dale!?” she almost screamed to him—but he made no remark to respond to her. It was as if he was becoming paralyzed, and with hate-filled eyes and gritted teeth he spat out a glob of blood-addled saliva onto the floor. “Stuhpo…slo…c*nt bitch.”

In that brief moment, Barbara realised something. As she looked down at her husband, bleeding, as shapes banged on the door behind her, their dark shapes up against the glass, she saw that whatever they were, whatever they did, her alcoholic, abusive husband was suffering, couldn’t move, and couldn’t do anything towards her. She bent down as her husband’s fat body slid further down the wall, and then she clenched her fist, and launched it across his bulbous face. A muffled groan came out, but his eyes spoke more volumes than his tongue could now, and each bash and thrash against the glass door, only confirmed his lucid fear that whatever was out, was getting in. Barbara, empowered, slapped him again, lighter, and again—each hit releasing years of silent torment, and each hit angering Dale more but his t-shirt had become the habitual zone for four pints of blood, and Barbara could imagine that somewhere inside, if he could talk, he’d be screaming for a doctor, all the way to the medical ER while she slapped him some more.

“No doctors—no nothing for you on a plate.”

His death had come almost forty five minutes later, after she had dragged him into the living room. The palish, black-eyed beings had stumbled off. She remembered watching the news. John Sushe, speaking about the crisis which had come before. Dale was so f*cking smug back then. Sitting in, counting his wages, telling her that dinner better be ready when he got back from the pub. “No more f*cking hotpot—you hear me? You lyin’ again cause if not it’s gonna go right on the f*cking floor.”

She’d asked him not to go, she told him that everybody else was staying locked up inside…with loved ones.

“That news don’t mean sh*t! I’ve got to meet Ryan down The White Bear cuz he owes me at least a two-pinter.”

Maybe that’s why she let him go. She saw the reports and she knew what it was. She’d seen it when Jason lived here. He was always into those zombie things, movies, TV, games—right now, she wished he was here instead of Iraq, but Coventry was a world apart, and there was no way whatever was happening here was happening there. Lines were cut, transmissions were out—Facebook went down within a day, and as far as she knew their mobile reception, 3G and anything else was gone long before the power was. Only the TV remained, spurring on survivors to stay indoors, stay safe, don’t leave the house for anything at all.

Now.

She sits at the table, smoking, inhaling with a look that she wouldn’t have given her abusive husband in the light of day. From under the stairs there is a bash, a groan from beneath wood and it’s evident from the blood beneath that the thing has been in there a while. It moans louder, bashing against the door, but she won’t give it the satisfaction of accepting its angry behaviour now. She didn’t want to. It had been four weeks since the initial mess and three weeks since Dale had died—yet there he remained, under the stairs, bashing and screaming. In that time nobody came about, nobody made any notion to acknowledge them, and she had plenty of food and water. She would watch the street below sometimes, and she remembers seeing a poor kid get eaten a couple of weeks back. He just strolled out in a big duster with some sort of pistol and for heavens sake! He was wearing an iPod. She remembers watching as they tore him apart, leg by leg, head by spine and in the remnants of mush, blood, and bone was the visible wire of the thing. She didn’t feel disgust, only some sort of deep hatred, and that was when she ran downstairs and took off the latch under the stairs and let Dale out.

His big hulking frame shot out of the stairs yet fell back as the thick chain around his neck brought him back down. From there she already had the kitchen knife ready, and from a good distance she jammed it into his chest, once, twice, thrice—piercing him, yet only thin mutters of acknowledgement came and then when all the hatred had swelled and burst, she would kick him back under the stairs, put the knife on the side, and tell herself that she wouldn’t do it again.

She did it four more times before she realised that the defenceless man had stopped fighting. In death, he had lost some part of his fighting spirit and on that fifth time of opening the cupboard with the knife in hand, she saw that all effort to chase her, attack her, and feast on her had been quelled.

“D…Dale?” she asked. It made no notion of acknowledging. Its black eyes shot to her and he only stared, swaying, moving gently outwards.

It came closer, gently stretching out a thin, pale hand. She looked towards him, touched it; like touching rocks, cold and hard. She intertwined her fingers in his and slowly approached him closer. In this moment she remembered before his drinking, before he became a violent and angry person—their wedding song, Unchained Melody, popped into her head, and then she felt nothing but sorrow as she stared at her husband’s chest, full of thin slits from the kitchen-knife. Tears welled up in her eyes and she came closer, any thought of fear left her. Her hand slid down him, lower, and she looked into his dark, black-filled eyes and with an ancient seduction coming to the surface she said slowly to him. “I’ll make it better.”

Her hands slid further down to find his belt, and she unbuckled the belt gently. His black eyes followed her hands and then it flopped out, as pale as the rest of him. She looked up, down back at it, and then slowly approached it with her mouth open. She gripped it, closed her eyes, and then silently, something changed. She looked up, and saw her husband as he was before, smiling and sober. “I love you, Barbs,” he said, and then she stood up and kissed him.

For those not of adequate sanity, she rose to her feet and kissed him, and the beast slowly placed his mouth over hers, and began to quickly chew on her mouth, tearing at her lip, spewing blood and pulling and grinding teeth in the process. The beast lunged forward, pouncing on her, but as she came back to reality, she let out a scream, yet a violent tug of her throat cut it short and the beast dragged her and continued to chew on her throat, digging past the grizzle and bone, reaching her innards, and in those final moments, she cried and cried until finally, her own eyes went black too, and both of them remained in the hallway, together, until time had chosen them to end.