(no subject)
The day had started out ordinary enough. In retrospect, Sam would realize that this was because he lived in a secluded area and had given all the toys he'd won from the amusement park to Cori and Natalya. But at the time, out at the river that weaves itself in a wide curve around his hut, Sam doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary.
And then he sees them.
Ducks. Little plastic yellow duckies, the kind kids play with in bathtubs or that you throw little plastic rings around in carnival games. There's a whole mass of them, thick enough to be blinding in the bright island sunshine, moving like a flotilla over the steady moving stretch of river. It's weird enough to make Sam stop in what he's doing and stare, but at no time does a smile crack onto his face.
It's Halloween and this is the island. Why should this be funny?
And in seconds, he realizes it's really, really not. They're not just duckies, they're duckies with teeth, razor sharp rows of metallic pins flashing in the light as they quack merrily along in a bloodthirsty chorus. It's definitely a bloodthirsty song; Sam can see it in their eyes.
He backs away slowly as they float towards him, picking up the pace only when they land and he sees, with dismay, that they have feet, too.
There's only a dozen or so yard to sprint between the river's edge and his hut, with its meager supply of weapons, but that's enough time for Sam to wonder once again at who the fuck is running this place.
And then he sees them.
Ducks. Little plastic yellow duckies, the kind kids play with in bathtubs or that you throw little plastic rings around in carnival games. There's a whole mass of them, thick enough to be blinding in the bright island sunshine, moving like a flotilla over the steady moving stretch of river. It's weird enough to make Sam stop in what he's doing and stare, but at no time does a smile crack onto his face.
It's Halloween and this is the island. Why should this be funny?
And in seconds, he realizes it's really, really not. They're not just duckies, they're duckies with teeth, razor sharp rows of metallic pins flashing in the light as they quack merrily along in a bloodthirsty chorus. It's definitely a bloodthirsty song; Sam can see it in their eyes.
He backs away slowly as they float towards him, picking up the pace only when they land and he sees, with dismay, that they have feet, too.
There's only a dozen or so yard to sprint between the river's edge and his hut, with its meager supply of weapons, but that's enough time for Sam to wonder once again at who the fuck is running this place.