Read Online After the Bite by David Lovato, Seth Thomas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Lovato, Seth Thomas
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loved ones know that you love them as often as you can.
Life is more fragile than the thinnest glass. It can end as quickly as it begins, especially in these times.
Farewell,
Steven Fletcher
June 2013
****
The writer stacked all of his pages in the order in which they belonged, and set them on the podium at the altar. That seemed as fitting a spot as any. After that he went outside to his car and drove down the street. It felt like hours to get to the hill and the police barricade. The same cop was sitting in his car. When he saw the writer, he got out and yelled at him to go back. The writer got out of his car and looked at the cop with sullen eyes. Tears began to form in the corners and flow down his cheeks. He didn’t even hear the officer’s gruff voice.
The writer ’s head bowed, and he said a small prayer. When he looked up, the officer looked at him, baffled. He took a step forward, and the officer cocked his gun, the barrel pointed directly at his face. He barely made a sound when the loud gunshot rattled off the mountains. The bullet hit the writer right between the eyes, and his hair rustled upward as he collapsed to the hot concrete, dead. Blood dripped down the pavement, and ran toward the pretty little town of Belford.
Sanctuary
It dawned on Garrett that something was very, very wrong.
He sat in his car in his driveway, jaw agape, watching the scene play out in his rearview mirror. His neighbor from across the street lay dead on the front lawn, the man ’s wife above him. She had torn open the man’s stomach, then reached inside and began pulling things out and tossing them into the air. Blood rained upon the lawn, the man’s entrails came down like streamers at a party. Garrett was trying his hardest not to throw up.
The woman noticed Garrett in his car. She started to walk toward him, blood staining her face, hands, and bath robe. Garrett realized she was coming for him, put the car into reverse, and stomped on the pedal.
The car hit the woman and she rolled over the top, down the windshield, and onto the ground. Garrett stopped the car just short of his neighbor’s shredded remains.
The woman twitched. Garrett shifted gears then hit the gas again. He ran over her crumpled body, this time both sets of wheels went over her. Garrett stopped again in his own driveway. The woman did not move.
He thought of his wife, Marice. She had stayed home as Garrett went grocery shopping. Listening to the radio Garrett had heard reports of people acting strange, even violent, for no apparent reason. He had no idea what it was talking about until he had reached his own driveway and seen his neighbor rush out of his house, trip, and be jumped upon and torn apart by his wife.
Garrett prayed Marice was okay. He got out of the car, not worried about the groceries. He walked up his steps and to his door.
Marice had never been violent. She literally would never harm a fly. So this thought that maybe she had suffered a similar fate, had become a victim of whatever it was that was going on apparently all over the country , was far back in Garrett’s mind.
But it was there.
Garrett heard nothing from inside the house. He opened the door. It was unlocked, as usual. He looked inside and saw nothing but darkness. By now, Marice was normally upstairs, bathing and getting into her pajamas, ready to spend the night with Garrett watching TV or playing a game or just sitting and talking. Just like they’d always done.
“Marice?” Garrett said. He heard nothing. Or perhaps he heard the floor upstairs creak. He wasn’t sure.
The stairs were forward, through the entryway, and to the left. Garrett cautiously stepped forward.
“Marice, are you home? Are you all right?”
As he passed the stairs, Marice jumped , or more like she just fell onto him. She let out a strange groan, and plunged her face downward.
“Marice, what the hell are you doing?” Garret said. Then he saw her eyes.
The
Life is more fragile than the thinnest glass. It can end as quickly as it begins, especially in these times.
Farewell,
Steven Fletcher
June 2013
****
The writer stacked all of his pages in the order in which they belonged, and set them on the podium at the altar. That seemed as fitting a spot as any. After that he went outside to his car and drove down the street. It felt like hours to get to the hill and the police barricade. The same cop was sitting in his car. When he saw the writer, he got out and yelled at him to go back. The writer got out of his car and looked at the cop with sullen eyes. Tears began to form in the corners and flow down his cheeks. He didn’t even hear the officer’s gruff voice.
The writer ’s head bowed, and he said a small prayer. When he looked up, the officer looked at him, baffled. He took a step forward, and the officer cocked his gun, the barrel pointed directly at his face. He barely made a sound when the loud gunshot rattled off the mountains. The bullet hit the writer right between the eyes, and his hair rustled upward as he collapsed to the hot concrete, dead. Blood dripped down the pavement, and ran toward the pretty little town of Belford.
Sanctuary
It dawned on Garrett that something was very, very wrong.
He sat in his car in his driveway, jaw agape, watching the scene play out in his rearview mirror. His neighbor from across the street lay dead on the front lawn, the man ’s wife above him. She had torn open the man’s stomach, then reached inside and began pulling things out and tossing them into the air. Blood rained upon the lawn, the man’s entrails came down like streamers at a party. Garrett was trying his hardest not to throw up.
The woman noticed Garrett in his car. She started to walk toward him, blood staining her face, hands, and bath robe. Garrett realized she was coming for him, put the car into reverse, and stomped on the pedal.
The car hit the woman and she rolled over the top, down the windshield, and onto the ground. Garrett stopped the car just short of his neighbor’s shredded remains.
The woman twitched. Garrett shifted gears then hit the gas again. He ran over her crumpled body, this time both sets of wheels went over her. Garrett stopped again in his own driveway. The woman did not move.
He thought of his wife, Marice. She had stayed home as Garrett went grocery shopping. Listening to the radio Garrett had heard reports of people acting strange, even violent, for no apparent reason. He had no idea what it was talking about until he had reached his own driveway and seen his neighbor rush out of his house, trip, and be jumped upon and torn apart by his wife.
Garrett prayed Marice was okay. He got out of the car, not worried about the groceries. He walked up his steps and to his door.
Marice had never been violent. She literally would never harm a fly. So this thought that maybe she had suffered a similar fate, had become a victim of whatever it was that was going on apparently all over the country , was far back in Garrett’s mind.
But it was there.
Garrett heard nothing from inside the house. He opened the door. It was unlocked, as usual. He looked inside and saw nothing but darkness. By now, Marice was normally upstairs, bathing and getting into her pajamas, ready to spend the night with Garrett watching TV or playing a game or just sitting and talking. Just like they’d always done.
“Marice?” Garrett said. He heard nothing. Or perhaps he heard the floor upstairs creak. He wasn’t sure.
The stairs were forward, through the entryway, and to the left. Garrett cautiously stepped forward.
“Marice, are you home? Are you all right?”
As he passed the stairs, Marice jumped , or more like she just fell onto him. She let out a strange groan, and plunged her face downward.
“Marice, what the hell are you doing?” Garret said. Then he saw her eyes.
The
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