He could smell the blood in the air. It was fragrant, tempting; it tainted the rain with its salty-sweet taste. He tapped his baseball bat on the ground twice, listening to the satisfying echo.
The corpse at his feet was mangled and broken. Blood had spurted onto the concrete and his sneakers; he would have to trash this pair. He slipped them off, being careful not to step on any of the scattered teeth.
He was never too careful around his work. Even if he got his own blood and hair on the corpse, what did it matter? They police would have fun tracking down someone without a pulse. He was remarkably good at laying low, despite his habits.
He threw the shoes at the corpse, relishing the satisfying thumps they made upon contact. The fucker deserved it.
Now to find his friend.
Wearing only his holey socks, he limped away from the alley, away from that lovely, tantalizing scent. It was far too early for many people to be out, but he knew the sun would but up soon--could practically smell it--and soon this area would be bustling with humans and their scents. He couldn't risk it.
He hotwired a car--someone's Ford Pinto, it was practically doing them a favor--and drove toward the approaching daylight.
-x-
The next night approached far more slowly than he would have liked, but eventually the sun began to set. He slicked back his long, dark hair and groaned. Damn, he needed a haircut.
The tall grasses clung to him as he finally saw a building; it was a an old fashioned white-washed church, like something out of a child's picture book. He quickened his pace, though he could feel the strength practically evaporating from his limbs.
It started to rain, and then to pour shortly before he reached the church; he hammered on the door, but his long army-green trench coat was already dripping.
"Anyone there?!" he called hoarsely, slamming his fist against the door with enough force to make the wood creak.
The corpse at his feet was mangled and broken. Blood had spurted onto the concrete and his sneakers; he would have to trash this pair. He slipped them off, being careful not to step on any of the scattered teeth.
He was never too careful around his work. Even if he got his own blood and hair on the corpse, what did it matter? They police would have fun tracking down someone without a pulse. He was remarkably good at laying low, despite his habits.
He threw the shoes at the corpse, relishing the satisfying thumps they made upon contact. The fucker deserved it.
Now to find his friend.
Wearing only his holey socks, he limped away from the alley, away from that lovely, tantalizing scent. It was far too early for many people to be out, but he knew the sun would but up soon--could practically smell it--and soon this area would be bustling with humans and their scents. He couldn't risk it.
He hotwired a car--someone's Ford Pinto, it was practically doing them a favor--and drove toward the approaching daylight.
-x-
The next night approached far more slowly than he would have liked, but eventually the sun began to set. He slicked back his long, dark hair and groaned. Damn, he needed a haircut.
The tall grasses clung to him as he finally saw a building; it was a an old fashioned white-washed church, like something out of a child's picture book. He quickened his pace, though he could feel the strength practically evaporating from his limbs.
It started to rain, and then to pour shortly before he reached the church; he hammered on the door, but his long army-green trench coat was already dripping.
"Anyone there?!" he called hoarsely, slamming his fist against the door with enough force to make the wood creak.