The Rift
The abandoned shop across the street from the Quel-Mart hadn't even been touched by the bullets -- not that it wasn't already a small heap of junk. The walls were two stories of crinkled gray brick with faded paint from years ago and graffiti looping the perimeter. Every window had been broken long since and shards of glass, thick with dust, were scattered upon the floorboards like a deck of old cards.
John led the way up the creaking staircase, his pistol held in both of his brown hands. A silencer capped on the end of the smooth barrel, and a small light clipped above.
"I am hoping the staircase does not fall beneath my feet." said Tom from the bottom. John didn't know what continent Tom was from, but it certainly wasn't this one -- the guy pronounced things with way too much exactness.
"It won't," said John, not really knowing whether it would or not. Tom was, after all, carrying a little more baggage than most people.
"I pray to God it does not."
"There is no God."
John waited a moment, while his partner took his first hesitant steps (the boards under him screaming in anguish), and then looked back up to the second floor, beaming his light low across the walls.
The room was empty, save for a musty sofa covered in rat shit. Chunks of the filament missing. The smell of dust and mildew was thick in the air.
Three wide windows faced the warehouse a street's length away. Rain poured in in, thumping on the floor where mold hadn't already eaten away the wood.
Tom made it up the stairs.
"Let's be quick about this," said John.
Tom produced a shoulder bag from under his cloak, the pale light from the neon signs outside revealing it's bulky shape. They unzipped it, and pulled out a long silver object that resembled a telescope stand with three long legs. It didn't come with a telescope, though. In the bottom of the bag was a slender machine gun. Tiny holes punched into the muzzle.
John shined the light from his own rifle, while Tom took the machine gun and clamped it to the rotating bar on the stand.
"Where am I to be pointing it?" asked Tom.
"At the warehouse," said John.
"But exactly?"
"Just aim either real high or low."
Tom kicked out the legs of the stand, so that it stood on its own, adjusted the gun, and then dug into the bag again. His hand came out with three screws, each about two inches long. A couple seconds later and the legs of the tripod were tight to the floor.
"Let's hope it doesn't tip," said Tom.
John nodded, and held the light.
Tom flicked the safety off the gun, and then went to the bag one last time. This time he had in his hand a carefully carved piece of wood. No bigger than a toy whistle.
"Here goes." he said.
He fixed the piece of wood into between the trigger and the metal cover, so that it held it down firmly. As soon as it was in place, the gun began to fire rounds in rapid sucession. The tripod shook, each second threatening to tear loose from the moldy floorboards.
"Let's go," said John, firmly. "Now."
They raced down the stairs, leaving the bag and the makeshift turret behind them. Halfway down, John's light went out.
Tom stumbled forward.
"Hey, what in the -- " his considerable gut bumped John's back and sent him tumbling down the rest of the way. Tom swung his arms, trying to regain balance, but a second later he came down too, ending in a heap on top of John.
The floorboards moaned, and they could almost feel them bending into a catenary beneath their weight.
"Get up," said John, his voice weak in the darkness. "Before you send us into the basement."
"Oh... I think I skinned my knee, very much." said Tom, rolling over.
"I think you broke some bones, too," said John, standing up. "Mine."
"Funny. Is the light working?"
"No."
The sound of John's hand flicking the switch. The theme of bullets firing from upstairs in the background.
"Here, I've got a pocket light. Let's just get out of here."
Suddenly the room was filled with a pale blue glow. John's face appeared above the small light in his hand. Wallpaper curled down from the walls behind him.
"Come on."
They turned and began to walk toward the doorway. Behind them, the wood began to creak and moan again. The sound of slow, heavy footsteps.
"What was that?" asked Tom.
John said nothing. He gripped his pistol with both hands, holding the tiny light up by the sights.
The creaking again. It came from the room behind them -- the one that might have once been a kitchen area where the shop owner could take a break when his antiques weren't selling. Someone was in there, and they were walking out.
"Come out now!" said John. "You'd better have your hands up!"
The slow pattern of thuding footsteps didn't change in the slightest. They continued their slow creaking rythm, until they reached the edge of the open entryway. John held his gun on the end of the corner.
"What in the fuck..." Tom whispered in a quavery voice.
"Now!" said John.
There was a hesistant space of silence, and then there was movement again. The thing behind the doorway, which most certainly wasn't a person, emerged.
John felt his heart beats triple in pace.
"Is this... fuck...?" asked Tom. He was unconciously backing away into a corner.
The thing looked like a burnt tree branch. On its feet was a pair of heavy clodhoppers. Two skinny brown legs that looked like they had been whittled by a man with a dull blade and no fingers rose up to form an arch. Something resembling a phallus stuck to the thigh.
On the face were long, lipstick red lips on a mouth of fangs. And there were eyes. They were the worst thing. They weren't glowing or bright; instead they looked dead. Like jumbo fish eggs dipped in coagulating blood.
The thing was stepping toward them, it's bone-like legs in the large boots somehow obscene. John pulled the trigger on his gun weakly. A loud bang filled the room and a small round hole appeared in the middle of the creature's chest. It didn't stop.
"Quit!" yelled John, finally moving back as the thing came to him. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his guts had nearly left him. He still had his brain, though.
"Just go away!" screamed Tom from the corner.
John fired three more bullets as the creature kept coming toward him. All three hit in the head and left small holes, but none of them seemed to phase it. He tried to run, but before he could turn, the thing lunged on him with wiry speed. Claws sank into his skin like surgical steel razors. And there were the teeth. Pain and agony beyond anything before. Everywhere the creature touched, his body lit with fire.
It bit off his nose, and then sucked it down without chewing. John struggled and fought as his body was cut up, but it was fruitless. He didn't scream as he died -- he was too horrified. Tom did, though. As the world faded into merciful black, that's what John heard. Tom's helpless screams. And before the creature's claws dug into his face, he saw those eyes.
Those dead eyes.
John led the way up the creaking staircase, his pistol held in both of his brown hands. A silencer capped on the end of the smooth barrel, and a small light clipped above.
"I am hoping the staircase does not fall beneath my feet." said Tom from the bottom. John didn't know what continent Tom was from, but it certainly wasn't this one -- the guy pronounced things with way too much exactness.
"It won't," said John, not really knowing whether it would or not. Tom was, after all, carrying a little more baggage than most people.
"I pray to God it does not."
"There is no God."
John waited a moment, while his partner took his first hesitant steps (the boards under him screaming in anguish), and then looked back up to the second floor, beaming his light low across the walls.
The room was empty, save for a musty sofa covered in rat shit. Chunks of the filament missing. The smell of dust and mildew was thick in the air.
Three wide windows faced the warehouse a street's length away. Rain poured in in, thumping on the floor where mold hadn't already eaten away the wood.
Tom made it up the stairs.
"Let's be quick about this," said John.
Tom produced a shoulder bag from under his cloak, the pale light from the neon signs outside revealing it's bulky shape. They unzipped it, and pulled out a long silver object that resembled a telescope stand with three long legs. It didn't come with a telescope, though. In the bottom of the bag was a slender machine gun. Tiny holes punched into the muzzle.
John shined the light from his own rifle, while Tom took the machine gun and clamped it to the rotating bar on the stand.
"Where am I to be pointing it?" asked Tom.
"At the warehouse," said John.
"But exactly?"
"Just aim either real high or low."
Tom kicked out the legs of the stand, so that it stood on its own, adjusted the gun, and then dug into the bag again. His hand came out with three screws, each about two inches long. A couple seconds later and the legs of the tripod were tight to the floor.
"Let's hope it doesn't tip," said Tom.
John nodded, and held the light.
Tom flicked the safety off the gun, and then went to the bag one last time. This time he had in his hand a carefully carved piece of wood. No bigger than a toy whistle.
"Here goes." he said.
He fixed the piece of wood into between the trigger and the metal cover, so that it held it down firmly. As soon as it was in place, the gun began to fire rounds in rapid sucession. The tripod shook, each second threatening to tear loose from the moldy floorboards.
"Let's go," said John, firmly. "Now."
They raced down the stairs, leaving the bag and the makeshift turret behind them. Halfway down, John's light went out.
Tom stumbled forward.
"Hey, what in the -- " his considerable gut bumped John's back and sent him tumbling down the rest of the way. Tom swung his arms, trying to regain balance, but a second later he came down too, ending in a heap on top of John.
The floorboards moaned, and they could almost feel them bending into a catenary beneath their weight.
"Get up," said John, his voice weak in the darkness. "Before you send us into the basement."
"Oh... I think I skinned my knee, very much." said Tom, rolling over.
"I think you broke some bones, too," said John, standing up. "Mine."
"Funny. Is the light working?"
"No."
The sound of John's hand flicking the switch. The theme of bullets firing from upstairs in the background.
"Here, I've got a pocket light. Let's just get out of here."
Suddenly the room was filled with a pale blue glow. John's face appeared above the small light in his hand. Wallpaper curled down from the walls behind him.
"Come on."
They turned and began to walk toward the doorway. Behind them, the wood began to creak and moan again. The sound of slow, heavy footsteps.
"What was that?" asked Tom.
John said nothing. He gripped his pistol with both hands, holding the tiny light up by the sights.
The creaking again. It came from the room behind them -- the one that might have once been a kitchen area where the shop owner could take a break when his antiques weren't selling. Someone was in there, and they were walking out.
"Come out now!" said John. "You'd better have your hands up!"
The slow pattern of thuding footsteps didn't change in the slightest. They continued their slow creaking rythm, until they reached the edge of the open entryway. John held his gun on the end of the corner.
"What in the fuck..." Tom whispered in a quavery voice.
"Now!" said John.
There was a hesistant space of silence, and then there was movement again. The thing behind the doorway, which most certainly wasn't a person, emerged.
John felt his heart beats triple in pace.
"Is this... fuck...?" asked Tom. He was unconciously backing away into a corner.
The thing looked like a burnt tree branch. On its feet was a pair of heavy clodhoppers. Two skinny brown legs that looked like they had been whittled by a man with a dull blade and no fingers rose up to form an arch. Something resembling a phallus stuck to the thigh.
On the face were long, lipstick red lips on a mouth of fangs. And there were eyes. They were the worst thing. They weren't glowing or bright; instead they looked dead. Like jumbo fish eggs dipped in coagulating blood.
The thing was stepping toward them, it's bone-like legs in the large boots somehow obscene. John pulled the trigger on his gun weakly. A loud bang filled the room and a small round hole appeared in the middle of the creature's chest. It didn't stop.
"Quit!" yelled John, finally moving back as the thing came to him. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his guts had nearly left him. He still had his brain, though.
"Just go away!" screamed Tom from the corner.
John fired three more bullets as the creature kept coming toward him. All three hit in the head and left small holes, but none of them seemed to phase it. He tried to run, but before he could turn, the thing lunged on him with wiry speed. Claws sank into his skin like surgical steel razors. And there were the teeth. Pain and agony beyond anything before. Everywhere the creature touched, his body lit with fire.
It bit off his nose, and then sucked it down without chewing. John struggled and fought as his body was cut up, but it was fruitless. He didn't scream as he died -- he was too horrified. Tom did, though. As the world faded into merciful black, that's what John heard. Tom's helpless screams. And before the creature's claws dug into his face, he saw those eyes.
Those dead eyes.