by J. Thorn
Tilla’s instincts screamed at her, demanding she see the true nature of the young cretin. She dropped into a crouch and sprinted after her prey, tossing her bow to the ground, ripping her knife from its ties, and slashing at the branches in her path. The girl’s dirty blonde hair bounced as Tilla chased her. The child dropped over a crest and further into the valley of dark foliage, but Tilla gained on her with every step. She bared her teeth and flared her nostrils. The girl stopped, turned to face her, and spoke.
“C’mon and play.”
Tilla froze. She shook her head and stared into the girl’s feral eyes. Cold sweat covered her face, and sounds washed through her ears like the unforgiving tide. Tilla licked her lips, trying to coat her dry tongue with some moisture.
“What?”
“C’mon and play with me. Please?” the girl pleaded.
“Who taught you to speak?”
The girl did not reply. She stood, unfurled a bony arm, and beckoned Tilla closer.
Tilla flashed her red eyes and roared into the lonely sky. She launched herself at the girl, fangs bared and ready to puncture flesh. Her fingers reached for the girl’s neck but fell short, and Tilla felt the ground give way beneath her feet as the child disappeared into a halo of light.
***
“Is she one of them?”
“Look at her, Samson. What do you think?”
The burly man leaned into Tilla’s face. He stood with one foot behind the other, prepared to flee at the slightest indication. His braided beard swung low and rested on Tilla’s chin.
“Did she kill the others?” Samson asked.
“Have you seen a clan member dressed in black leather, shooting arrows into people’s chests?” Thebault raised his eyebrows while pointing to Tilla.
Samson backed away, brushing off the sarcasm. He reached for Tilla’s wrists and yanked on the rope to ensure the knots held.
“When will she wake?” Samson asked.
“Hard to say. It’s a long way down to the bottom of the pit. I heard bones breaking. It could take weeks for her to regenerate.”
Samson moved his hand from Tilla’s bound wrists to her left breast. He caressed the black leather holding back an ample chest.
“What is your problem?” Thebault slapped at Samson’s hand, bruising his fingers and his ego. “She isn’t a woman.”
“What difference does it make? There can’t be many clans left. When we scavenge the last of the canned food, we die. And when we die, they die too. Nothing matters anymore.”
Samson finished their conversation by shaking his head, leaving Thebault to guard Tilla. He lit the coffee-can torch and collapsed into the stained, ripped front seat of a rusted truck. Samson’s heavy frame sunk to the springs, casting out the remains of mites and a mist of mold. He closed his eyes before the flames of the torch died.
***
“They always come back.”
Thebault tossed the milky plastic water bottle to the ground. It crinkled as it rolled in lopsided waves to rest on a rock. Thebault frowned and dropped to one knee to reach for the cloudy water.
“So do rats. That don’t mean we let them live.”
Samson nodded. A vague memory of his wife’s face passed through his head, chased away by the regenerating body of the woman in black. Since the Fall, his memories of the old ways had been dissipating like tendrils of smoke.
“Have we ever caught one alive?”
“‘Alive’ is an interesting word. I can’t remember ever catching one in a trap. They usually sniff those out and avoid them.”
The child stood ten paces behind the men as they spoke, staring into Tilla’s face. She wrinkled her nose and swatted a cloud of smoke that had followed her from the fire.
“When she gets better, she’ll get me,” the child said.
Samson looked back at the orphan and laughed. “We’ll take care of her long before that happens. Now get the hell out of here and leave us alone.”
The girl furrowed her brow and vanished into the trees at the edge of the clearing. Samson shook his head and turned back to Thebault.
“I hate kids,” he said.
Thebault stared at Tilla. Her lips had twitched during the past two nights, and he had witnessed the dark bruises retreating into smooth, white flesh.
“When?” he asked.
“The way you’re gawking at her, sooner rather than later. You imagine her nails scraping down your back, her legs wrapped around you. Then you wake up to find your throat ripped open. Would you step away from her, please?”
Thebault ran a hand through his hair. “I’m going on legend, here. We got no other resources.”
“You mean the head, the stake, the burning, which one?” asked Samson.
“More than one couldn’t hurt. I don’t want to take any chances on this bitch coming back with a vengeance,” Thebault replied.
Samson rose and shuffled to Thebault, landing a burly hand on the man’s shoulder. “Can’t we just leave her out here and wait for sunrise?”
Thebault shook from Samson’s touch and glared at him. “Even Stoker wasn’t sure about that. I’d feel better if we did it ourselves instead of leaving it to the forces of nature.”
“Then let’s do it now. I’m having a hard time looking away from that fine body of hers. I swear I can hear her whispering dirty words in my head, things she wants.”
Thebault spat on the ground and reached into the rusted remnants of a shopping cart. It stood motionless, the wheels lost to oblivion. He pulled out a machete.
“Head first?”
Samson did not reply, shrugging. Thebault placed the machete on the stone slab holding Tilla and returned to the ancient cart.
“That machete is as dull as your brain. I’m going to stake her through the heart first. Let’s get her on the ground,” Samson said.
Thebault waved at him, reaching under Tilla’s shoulders, and Samson lifted her by the ankles. A shock of desire, power, and adrenaline raced through them. Flashes of skin and glistening bodies filled their minds. Thebault dropped her first, walked to Samson, and slapped him across the face. Samson dropped Tilla’s ankles and raised a fist to retaliate.
“She’s coming around. Hurry up!” Thebault yelled.
The blood drained from Samson’s face. He stepped on Tilla’s shoulders, his worn boots pressed down on the bare, white flesh, pinning her back to the ground.
“Stand there until it’s done. No skin-to-skin contact,” Thebault said as he raised the wooden stake and positioned the ragged edge over Tilla’s heart. In his right hand, he held a primitive tomahawk, complete with a stone head. Samson looked at the North Star and gestured in circles, urging Thebault to get on with the deed. Thebault brought the tomahawk down on the wooden stake with as much force as he could muster.
Tilla’s eyes burst open. Her bright red lips parted with a piercing howl. Thebault could not look away. Her sharpened teeth glistened in the weak moonlight, and her body thrashed against the bindings. Tilla’s convulsions threw Samson off her shoulders and against a tree. Her head snapped back and forth, sending locks of silken hair into Thebault’s face. She smelled like lust, danger, and death.
Thebault lunged for the machete and hacked at Tilla’s throat, trying not to hit the wooden stake bobbing in her chest. Tears streaked his face as he struck multiple times, slashing across her neck until the machete buried itself in the profane soil beneath her. Samson watched, unable to will himself back into position, even with the protective layer of his boots between him and the creature.
Her screams died away, and her eyelids closed, and Thebault grabbed Tilla’s hair, tossing her head into the fire. The blood popped and crackled in the heat, sending green smoke into the air.
The little girl crawled from her hiding place, whimpering as a shiver racked her thin body. From the edge of the clearing, she watched in horrid fascination as the two men collapsed after the killing, neither saying a word. The child stared with wide eyes, brushing the blonde hair from her face as she ste
pped back into the darkness, her bloody mouth twisted into a grin that could no longer conceal her lengthening incisors.
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