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To The Winner Goes The Spoils
Harvest formations graced the field abutting the meadow, cornucopia designs of taciturn assemblage freestanding midst chaff and stalks prepared for upcoming festivities. The chill of the late autumn evening bred crystals of ice where earlier in the day, a light shower kissed the soil… a mist, really, but enough to announce to anyone within earshot, that footsteps crunched across the pasture and foul breath expelled rapidly cooling vapor from nostrils already flaring with anticipation. Warily, two blazing eyes peered out of the darkness towards the light of the house. Why hasn’t the dog howled? Surely there would be at least one… no farmer would leave his yard and property untended.
But there were no sounds of any living thing. Quickly, the distance between barn and house was covered, the graceful lope of nearly silent feet effortlessly bounded in the darkness. Through the diaphanous curtains, the ten-o’clock news provided the only light, the faint glow illuminating only the dancing shadows of movement on the wall as the WIBW weatherman pointed at the cold front currently stalled over eastern Kansas. Too easy… No dogs or livestock of any sort… not even any chickens.
Silently, the entity removed the screen and raised the window. Once inside, it took quick, deep breaths through the nose in an attempt to pick up any available human scent, and slowly scanned the dark bedroom for signs of life. A bleak hint of light peaked through a crack in the bedroom door, nearly indistinguishable; but to eyes accustomed to the dark, it became a lighthouse beacon. If they’re home at all, they’ll be down the hall… in the kitchen.
A huge hand noiselessly moved the door open enough for entry into the vestibule. Ten stealthy steps later, the smell of flesh emanated from a larger room… Hearing no other movement, the creature lowered itself into a crawling position and followed its nose to a pile of bodies stacked against the large, upright white box. There was no movement, but a quick nudge with his foot showed no rigor… fresh kill.
No longer sensing danger, the young creature of the night dug its sharp teeth into the bare midriff of one victim, savoring the warm, sweet blood as it filled his mouth. Greedily, it ripped again and again into the bounty, the nutrition suddenly intoxicating it with the raw excitement of excess unknown except with human flesh; like fine wine, once tasted, it was never to be forgotten and ever to be desired. After total evisceration, the creature lifted its head high into the darkness and bloody fangs bared, emitted a shrill, prolonged moan.
Enthralled in ecstasy, the creature didn’t have time to react to the impact of the attack as a massive punch dislocated its jaw. So immediate and overwhelming came the assault, it probably didn’t even feel the teeth that pierced its flesh and ripped out its throat.
Standing over his suddenly increased pile of cadavers, the larger werewolf looked down at his now-deceased protégé. “I told you, Harold… no snacking on the Halloween goodies until you get home; your mother and I need to check it first. You’re such a disappointment.”
Bob Church © 10/13/02
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