Hungry Like The Wolf.
The nights are finally getting cooler, but it hasn't quite deterred him from his nighttime attire of T-shirts and boxers just yet. Tonight it's taken him hours just to fall asleep, but he's finally there now, nestled in the grips of REM and half-twisted in the bed sheets so that they're barely covering him any longer.
He's running.
The ankle deep snow is like fire around his bare-feet, jagged ice-crystals scratching and cutting, numbing with their freezing temperatures. He can't hear the crashing of something large chasing him anymore but he doesn't dare slow down. Knows better than to. There's a village up ahead. Just up ahead, still out of sight in the network of dead and bare trees that seem so never-ending.
They'll have guns. Slay the beast. They'll have guns.
It's then when the trees are finally thinning enough to see out into the clearing, when there's finally hope that he'll make it to that edge, make it to the safety of the village, that something drops from a tree beside him in a flurry of fangs as white as the snow and curved, wicked claws.
His shout is near lost under the beast's triumphant snarl as it knocks him to the ice-laden snow, and now he's face to face with it, fierce amber eyes brilliant against black fur. The fingers of his left hand reach quickly, metallic digits sinking deep into it's shoulder as the creature's own fangs sink like red hot daggers into his.
He sluggishly sits up before he's fully awake, eyes still dull with unconsciousness as they open, just staring blankly. It isn't until the last grips of sleep leave him that he notices the pain, hot and throbbing and there.
His left hand moves to his shoulder, lips pulling back in a grimace before he's pulled the limb away again, eyeing the dark substance now painted across it.
The click of a bedside lamp turns that dark substance crimson, white T-shirt contrasting it like the snow.
He's running.
The ankle deep snow is like fire around his bare-feet, jagged ice-crystals scratching and cutting, numbing with their freezing temperatures. He can't hear the crashing of something large chasing him anymore but he doesn't dare slow down. Knows better than to. There's a village up ahead. Just up ahead, still out of sight in the network of dead and bare trees that seem so never-ending.
They'll have guns. Slay the beast. They'll have guns.
It's then when the trees are finally thinning enough to see out into the clearing, when there's finally hope that he'll make it to that edge, make it to the safety of the village, that something drops from a tree beside him in a flurry of fangs as white as the snow and curved, wicked claws.
His shout is near lost under the beast's triumphant snarl as it knocks him to the ice-laden snow, and now he's face to face with it, fierce amber eyes brilliant against black fur. The fingers of his left hand reach quickly, metallic digits sinking deep into it's shoulder as the creature's own fangs sink like red hot daggers into his.
He sluggishly sits up before he's fully awake, eyes still dull with unconsciousness as they open, just staring blankly. It isn't until the last grips of sleep leave him that he notices the pain, hot and throbbing and there.
His left hand moves to his shoulder, lips pulling back in a grimace before he's pulled the limb away again, eyeing the dark substance now painted across it.
The click of a bedside lamp turns that dark substance crimson, white T-shirt contrasting it like the snow.