writing_shadows

”I’ll put my knapsack on my back, my rifle on my shoulder…”

Air sick with thunder, sticking to the skin, then rain and clouds clearing like scudding away from a puff of breath to show a million stars. Pinholes in that blue-black. Air feels clean, first plunge into cool water. Lifts his head, muzzle to the wind, ears up.

Distant traffic. Quiet voices. Doors open and close. Scent: dogs. Their voices, bored, nervous. He smiles a little. Good luck tonight, fellas. Crouches, presses his palms against the soft, damp earth. This country isn’t right – everything too small, everything hemmed in. But this is good ground.

Brothers there: rough stone, heat that makes a few hairs curl and singe. Quiet, not talking much, watching. One off into the night. Then: pop pop pop poppoppop and black. Wait, ten breaths in, out, then hummmmm bright and then poppoppop hummm dark again. Strong stone hand, almost-burning heat.

“Die free.”

“Die free.”

And then go, charging ahead of the van, black shape lightless on the narrow road. Metal cool against his hands. Don’t mess this up. Feet sink into the gravel, skitter of claws on metal – strength of stone now, good, and now strength of summer and pull. Left side is going faster -- showoff! -- but steel grates on steel, wheels turn, shoulders burning good, a little smile and then the motor growl, oil-scent, pull that last little bit and go.

Draw running, warping and changing: smooth bone, some kind of vine, curves above and below like two great claws, heavy but easy and natural. One out and to the string, wide metal triangle glinting in the starlight. Ready and then the others are lifting their heads, pointing, metal man’s gun moving like the line of his eye but he’s stood there, bile in the back of his mouth and hair standing up because something is wrong here, very wrong. Clean night air carries the scent of foulness to him before any of the others even notice the screams.