by Thomas Emson
Perry had green eyes. Everyone called them beautiful – “Oh, you got beautiful eyes, Perry, man.” But now they were tinged with red; they looked dirty. Like there was blood in them.
“Nothing, man,” said Perry, on all fours, “I’m cool. Been asleep all night and all day. And now I’ve just woken up – and I’m hungry.”
“Hungry?” said Chuck. “We got beans.”
“Yeah,” said Dixie, his throat dry. He was shaking, and nausea washed over him. Something was really wrong, and he wanted Perry to leave.
“Beans?” said Perry, looking at Chuck. His skin was pale, and pale was one thing Perry had never been – they called him “ruddy-faced” when he was a kid.
But he’s still a kid, thought Dixie – he’ll always be a kid.
And Perry said, “I don’t want beans.”
“Okay – what – ” but before Chuck could finish, Perry lunged at him and bit into neck, and Chuck grunted and he gawped.
And Dixie, fear gripping him, watched as Perry drank blood from Chuck’s throat.
END.
