On the beach
He woke up to blurry vision, a splitting headache, and a body that ached like he'd run miles in freezing rain.
He woke up with his skin clammy, his muscles shaking, and his throat feeling like he'd screamed himself hoarse only a few minutes ago.
He woke up with his trousers stuck to him, wet, and his shirt more like a bit of slime than anything else.
He woke up hungry and thirsty, feeling hollow and unreal.
He woke up on a beach, on a rock. The sky was a dark greengray, the color of--
He didn't like to think like that, didn't like to even think of that, but it was the color of necrotic flesh. Zombieskin green, he'd call it if you asked. He'd prefer you didn't ask.
Zombieskin green and black and deeper colors, the colors of rot and mold and the sort of things you end up calling ichor. The whole beach, the whole world it seemed had been painted Edward Gorey on a nautical binge.
Then he saw the sheep.
They were littered about, as if someone had just sprinkled them onto the beach. Sheep, battered and graying and dead, their carcasses were either fresh or otherwise the briney stink of the beach drowned out their scent.
There was no meadows, no fields here. Nothing but rock and sand and dead sheep. A trail, there was that. A trail up from the beach to...
To the house.
To Bren's house.
Or something like it anyway.
Cooper woke up, and then he started walking.
He woke up with his skin clammy, his muscles shaking, and his throat feeling like he'd screamed himself hoarse only a few minutes ago.
He woke up with his trousers stuck to him, wet, and his shirt more like a bit of slime than anything else.
He woke up hungry and thirsty, feeling hollow and unreal.
He woke up on a beach, on a rock. The sky was a dark greengray, the color of--
He didn't like to think like that, didn't like to even think of that, but it was the color of necrotic flesh. Zombieskin green, he'd call it if you asked. He'd prefer you didn't ask.
Zombieskin green and black and deeper colors, the colors of rot and mold and the sort of things you end up calling ichor. The whole beach, the whole world it seemed had been painted Edward Gorey on a nautical binge.
Then he saw the sheep.
They were littered about, as if someone had just sprinkled them onto the beach. Sheep, battered and graying and dead, their carcasses were either fresh or otherwise the briney stink of the beach drowned out their scent.
There was no meadows, no fields here. Nothing but rock and sand and dead sheep. A trail, there was that. A trail up from the beach to...
To the house.
To Bren's house.
Or something like it anyway.
Cooper woke up, and then he started walking.