near the mouth of the passage. The bundle is moving. Not a bundle—a brown sleeping bag, worn and tattered. A familiar head pops out and my breath hitches.
The homeless guy from the woods. The one who “borrowed” a bag of beef jerky and a bottle of water. The speechless man with the severed tongue. Like before, his face is contorted in pain. From me accidentally kicking him? Or is he always in pain from some unseen ailment?
Hex barks, but I’m frozen, watching the man. How is it possible that this man travelled from the woods of West Virginia to Morgantown? Why would he? Is he following me?
There’s a shout somewhere nearby. The Necros, getting closer.
The guy’s head snaps back and then returns to me, wide-eyed. He pushes the sleeping bag away from his feet and starts to run toward me, but stops when pain flashes across his face, opening his mouth in a silent groan. Is something wrong with his legs? If so, it would be a small miracle that he followed me for so many miles. And it’s not like he forced me to run down his alley and trip over him. The whole thing has me confused and speechless. The knock on the head didn’t help things either.
He takes another step, but he doesn’t limp. And yet…the pain is clearly there, stopping him once more. Biting down hard, he gestures to the side of the alley. I follow the path of his finger to a black, iron door, the back entrance to a restaurant kitchen, most likely. He wants me to go in the door? Why should I trust him? Just because I shared a bit of my provisions with him doesn’t mean he won’t screw me over.
It’s not me, but Hex who chooses to believe the man. My dog pads over to the door and paws at it, his claws scraping on the metal.
The shouts are getting louder, the footsteps on the asphalt full of urgency. The Necros want to kill me.
I’m out of time. And if the homeless guy’s door is good enough for Hex, it’s good enough for me. “Thank you,” I say, forcing my legs toward the door. I open it and Hex bolts through. When I look back to gesture the man inside, he’s gone, his sleeping bag left crookedly on the rubbish-strewn ground. Evidently he found another place to hide.
I close the door just as I see a dark form round the corner.
~~~
The Necros thunder past, their cries fading into the distance. Are we safe?
Without any magical lights, it’s pitch black inside. I twitch when Hex’s eyes brighten, lighting the room like flashlights. He’s never done that before. “Good boy,” I say, scratching behind his ears with one hand while using my other to shield my eyes against the light.
I was right. We’re in a commercial kitchen, all metal counters and shelves and cooktops. Hex’s eye-lights pass over an old chef’s hat, discarded haphazardly in a dusty corner next to a dead cockroach. Hex forgets about me to sniff at the rumpled hat and insect.
“Hex,” I say, but he ignores me. I wait patiently until my dog’s curiosity is sated. When he turns back to me, I say, “Over here.” Hex passes the light beams over the far wall, where the dark rectangular outline of where shelving used to be is imprinted in the white plasterboard. The shelves have fallen over—or more likely were knocked over—a mess of various cooking supplies smashed and broken on the floor. Snapped uncooked spaghetti noodles, a shattered jar of pasta sauce, now brown and congealed, a busted-open bag of flour…and one dead chef.
I recoil sharply, backing into the corner with the chef’s hat and the dead cockroach, nearly stepping on Hex, who lithely dances out of the way. “Ugh,” I say, holding my nose, but unable to tear my gaze from the dead person, who is nothing more than a collection of bones.
My stomach convulses when a rat crawls out of a gaping hole in the skeleton’s skull. What kind of witch could do damage like that?
“We need to go—now,” I say. Hex looks at me with what appears to be disagreement, as if to say, But there are SO MANY
The homeless guy from the woods. The one who “borrowed” a bag of beef jerky and a bottle of water. The speechless man with the severed tongue. Like before, his face is contorted in pain. From me accidentally kicking him? Or is he always in pain from some unseen ailment?
Hex barks, but I’m frozen, watching the man. How is it possible that this man travelled from the woods of West Virginia to Morgantown? Why would he? Is he following me?
There’s a shout somewhere nearby. The Necros, getting closer.
The guy’s head snaps back and then returns to me, wide-eyed. He pushes the sleeping bag away from his feet and starts to run toward me, but stops when pain flashes across his face, opening his mouth in a silent groan. Is something wrong with his legs? If so, it would be a small miracle that he followed me for so many miles. And it’s not like he forced me to run down his alley and trip over him. The whole thing has me confused and speechless. The knock on the head didn’t help things either.
He takes another step, but he doesn’t limp. And yet…the pain is clearly there, stopping him once more. Biting down hard, he gestures to the side of the alley. I follow the path of his finger to a black, iron door, the back entrance to a restaurant kitchen, most likely. He wants me to go in the door? Why should I trust him? Just because I shared a bit of my provisions with him doesn’t mean he won’t screw me over.
It’s not me, but Hex who chooses to believe the man. My dog pads over to the door and paws at it, his claws scraping on the metal.
The shouts are getting louder, the footsteps on the asphalt full of urgency. The Necros want to kill me.
I’m out of time. And if the homeless guy’s door is good enough for Hex, it’s good enough for me. “Thank you,” I say, forcing my legs toward the door. I open it and Hex bolts through. When I look back to gesture the man inside, he’s gone, his sleeping bag left crookedly on the rubbish-strewn ground. Evidently he found another place to hide.
I close the door just as I see a dark form round the corner.
~~~
The Necros thunder past, their cries fading into the distance. Are we safe?
Without any magical lights, it’s pitch black inside. I twitch when Hex’s eyes brighten, lighting the room like flashlights. He’s never done that before. “Good boy,” I say, scratching behind his ears with one hand while using my other to shield my eyes against the light.
I was right. We’re in a commercial kitchen, all metal counters and shelves and cooktops. Hex’s eye-lights pass over an old chef’s hat, discarded haphazardly in a dusty corner next to a dead cockroach. Hex forgets about me to sniff at the rumpled hat and insect.
“Hex,” I say, but he ignores me. I wait patiently until my dog’s curiosity is sated. When he turns back to me, I say, “Over here.” Hex passes the light beams over the far wall, where the dark rectangular outline of where shelving used to be is imprinted in the white plasterboard. The shelves have fallen over—or more likely were knocked over—a mess of various cooking supplies smashed and broken on the floor. Snapped uncooked spaghetti noodles, a shattered jar of pasta sauce, now brown and congealed, a busted-open bag of flour…and one dead chef.
I recoil sharply, backing into the corner with the chef’s hat and the dead cockroach, nearly stepping on Hex, who lithely dances out of the way. “Ugh,” I say, holding my nose, but unable to tear my gaze from the dead person, who is nothing more than a collection of bones.
My stomach convulses when a rat crawls out of a gaping hole in the skeleton’s skull. What kind of witch could do damage like that?
“We need to go—now,” I say. Hex looks at me with what appears to be disagreement, as if to say, But there are SO MANY
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