He shouldn’t be out here. Deep, deep down beneath the all-consuming thirst, where there are still the remnants of a rational mind, Tony knows that he shouldn’t be here. He should be far removed from the town, buried in the woods until the smell of leaves and dirt and animal fur blocks out the scent of the people sleeping inside the flimsy protection of wooden houses. But he has no more hope of staying away than he does of willing his heart to beat again.
What he wants is there, flowing in tiny, secret channels hidden with the flesh of others. He wants it so badly that his teeth, razor-sharp for piercing the flesh and ferreting out its buried treasure, ache with it, and the remembered taste sits heavy and tantalizing on his tongue: thick and electric, with the coppery tang of the tiny bits of metal.
Metal. Always metal. Like the metal he wore and the cold, useless thing in his chest that he still hasn’t pried out. It’s like an heirloom, like a reminder, and the tiny, infinitesimal part of him that hasn’t given up on hope knows that he can’t take it out. There’s no telling if or when they’ll regain their true forms, and without it, he’ll be dead.
Dead like he is now. Dead like his prey will be when he reaches them. And soon he shall, for he’s circled ever closer to the unsuspecting town, each wide, sweeping arc of his thoughts drawing him in until he’s close enough that he can leave the trees for the town proper. He shouldn’t be here. He knows he needs to go back. Go away. Before he loses control. Before he kills.
But Tony isn’t listening to that quiet, fading voice of reason. He’s listening to the hunger racing through his body and turning his veins to fire. He’s listening to the grating of his teeth and the predatory thoughts slowly overwriting his mind.
He’s hungry. So very hungry. And dinner is about to be served.
Late evening, day 60, I think
What he wants is there, flowing in tiny, secret channels hidden with the flesh of others. He wants it so badly that his teeth, razor-sharp for piercing the flesh and ferreting out its buried treasure, ache with it, and the remembered taste sits heavy and tantalizing on his tongue: thick and electric, with the coppery tang of the tiny bits of metal.
Metal. Always metal. Like the metal he wore and the cold, useless thing in his chest that he still hasn’t pried out. It’s like an heirloom, like a reminder, and the tiny, infinitesimal part of him that hasn’t given up on hope knows that he can’t take it out. There’s no telling if or when they’ll regain their true forms, and without it, he’ll be dead.
Dead like he is now. Dead like his prey will be when he reaches them. And soon he shall, for he’s circled ever closer to the unsuspecting town, each wide, sweeping arc of his thoughts drawing him in until he’s close enough that he can leave the trees for the town proper. He shouldn’t be here. He knows he needs to go back. Go away. Before he loses control. Before he kills.
But Tony isn’t listening to that quiet, fading voice of reason. He’s listening to the hunger racing through his body and turning his veins to fire. He’s listening to the grating of his teeth and the predatory thoughts slowly overwriting his mind.
He’s hungry. So very hungry. And dinner is about to be served.