Sentry 'papes drilling on what's what in the Lowcrown. Sayings on the kid-devils' grounded in Midcrown's sewer stream, their stink lost to shit. Oh, and the sweet twist jutting sexual every other 'pape this end from Wednesday.
Racehorse down, sugar down, Sweet Cally May Cigarettes up a dozen and spurring numbers round the black hats' heads. Love a digit or two myself but Black Hattin' ain't my score. Or a score of any other Harrison for that matter: alive or grounded.
Rabbits didn’t roam the sodden hills of Marshbridge or dodge birds which didn’t fly overhead. The few cracked roads catered to no trundling hedgehogs and the lake was frozen still. There were, however, dogs.
The ever-present howl rolled across the damp hills. The search for food was always on; the flashes of rain and snow over the past week an ineffective deterrent. They nosed warrens dotted over the land, picked at rabbits, birds, rats, whatever dead things yet undiscovered by other hungry beasts.
Alasdair could feel their excitement as they came across the two bloated corpses out by the lake. He didn’t know them, but lowering his eyes seemed like the respectful thing to do when he found them a couple of days earlier.
The dogs trotted about with renewed vigour seemingly happy their young could see another day. A falcon screeched nearby. The hungry following the hungry following the hungry.
Off to the east he saw the old farm-houses, each one a block of powdered Turkish Delight on the horizon. This hinterland, flanked by white mountains, blinding to the eye. Dazzling, they belie their true nature.
He wiped his brow rough with dirt and snow, irritating the skin.
The ground compacted beneath Alasdair’s frame and the clouds rolled above his head preparing for another onslaught. He felt small. He was small, but hard, and the dogs wouldn’t bother him: not the living, they weren’t quite hungry enough for that.
He hoped he had buried his parents deep enough.
Alasdair picked up his .22 and sighed. He slung it over his back along with his rations and forced himself to make the trek back to the house. Having taken the trip three times that day, two of those with a body in tow, the prospect of another numbed him.
A silver line taps right from his vein. It forces through the arm, down the fingertips and grows out into the floor. Defying natural law. The skin expands where the vein congests and bursts, marbling his grey skin.
Never will he hold solace, here, again. Not in this life or the next. A devil's embroidery in fur-lined silk. The vines run and coil about his mantis fingers. His body warps and gives beneath the pressure, crushing bone and tile alike, puckering the skin.
Fuck-stained yet bare he lies there.
And he was done.