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Authors: Angel Lawson
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begging for her life, no longer speaking to him, simply rambling during her final moments.
I ran, cutting across green space and rocky paths. I leapt over a small stream, feet sinking in thick, dark mud. Her voice bounced off the trees, leading me to her. They couldn't be more than a mile or two away.
“It will all be over soon, once my friends and I are satisfied.”
That was when I heard the others. They too spoke in low voices, punctuated with the occasional growl. These weren’t civilized beings. Not like myself and my family. Not even like the Predator.
I focused on him, noting that his voice was deep and rough. His accent was indistinct but the tone of his voice spoke with authority. I broke through the tree line as two of the killers pulled the jogger from her kneeling position to her feet. They held her before the Predator, her arms stretched wide, like a sacrifice. She shivered, eyes wide and terrified, visibly shuddering as he touched her face gently. She never felt the snap of her neck or the cuts as the others tore at the flesh on her exposed arms and wrists.
I was fast but incredibly, they were faster—feeding and discarding her body before I could stop them. The woman was dead. The killers gone, slipped away in a half-dozen possible directions, trailing not only in their scent but that of the dead.
“I’ll catch you,” I said, in a raised voice, while standing over the body. I pulled out my cell and dialed 911 before retreating back to the safety of the woods, but not before I heard the faintest of words deep in the back of my mind.
“Game on.”
Chapter 13
Amelia
He was in the kitchen when I arrived the following morning. Uncharacteristically disheveled with mud-caked shoes and weary, pale eyes. He glanced in my direction as he washed his hands. The water in the bottom of the sink was brown and filthy.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked.
“No thank you, Ms. Chase. I’ll send your list down immediately.”
He dried his hands on the towel by the sink, arranged it carefully back in place and left the room.
An hour later he brought down the list, clean and refreshed. His unruly hair was damp from the shower and he smelled delicious.
“Is that uh,” I started to ask something about shampoo or body gel, but nothing logical came out.
“What?” He looked for something amiss on his list.
“You’re uh, um, never mind. I’ll get right to this.” I snatched the list from his hands and he promptly disappeared upstairs so quickly I didn’t see him go, again.
With the day half over, I sat for a quiet moment in my chair. The clock said I had three more hours of work. I wanted nothing more than to go home. I’d spent the morning running the errands for Mr. Palmer and dreaded the tedious, ridiculous job he had for me that afternoon.
I came each day prepared, once again, to move past our bumps and enjoy my job. I watched E! . I understood that rich, attractive people were eccentric and spoiled. Was Mr. Palmer basically a Kardashian? At least I didn’t have to sanitize the house from a series of female visitors. Genevieve never implied he had a girlfriend and on face value I couldn’t imagine why not. Women should be crawling all over this place. But realistically? A girlfriend seemed unlikely. A one night stand? Possible, but with all the OCD stuff going on….no wonder he was such a jerk. Maybe he just needed to get laid.
Lack of orgies aside, Mr. Palmer was frustratingly difficult. With each passing day I learned his obsessive compulsive habits passed eccentric and lingered toward mentally unstable. On Tuesday he left me directions to reorganize his enormous record collection out of alphabetical order and into subgroups by artist, genre and date of release. He also wanted the covers photographed and entered into a data base. This project alone would probably take me the entire week and my brain was a puddle of mush by the time I'd gotten through the Ds.
On
I ran, cutting across green space and rocky paths. I leapt over a small stream, feet sinking in thick, dark mud. Her voice bounced off the trees, leading me to her. They couldn't be more than a mile or two away.
“It will all be over soon, once my friends and I are satisfied.”
That was when I heard the others. They too spoke in low voices, punctuated with the occasional growl. These weren’t civilized beings. Not like myself and my family. Not even like the Predator.
I focused on him, noting that his voice was deep and rough. His accent was indistinct but the tone of his voice spoke with authority. I broke through the tree line as two of the killers pulled the jogger from her kneeling position to her feet. They held her before the Predator, her arms stretched wide, like a sacrifice. She shivered, eyes wide and terrified, visibly shuddering as he touched her face gently. She never felt the snap of her neck or the cuts as the others tore at the flesh on her exposed arms and wrists.
I was fast but incredibly, they were faster—feeding and discarding her body before I could stop them. The woman was dead. The killers gone, slipped away in a half-dozen possible directions, trailing not only in their scent but that of the dead.
“I’ll catch you,” I said, in a raised voice, while standing over the body. I pulled out my cell and dialed 911 before retreating back to the safety of the woods, but not before I heard the faintest of words deep in the back of my mind.
“Game on.”
Chapter 13
Amelia
He was in the kitchen when I arrived the following morning. Uncharacteristically disheveled with mud-caked shoes and weary, pale eyes. He glanced in my direction as he washed his hands. The water in the bottom of the sink was brown and filthy.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked.
“No thank you, Ms. Chase. I’ll send your list down immediately.”
He dried his hands on the towel by the sink, arranged it carefully back in place and left the room.
An hour later he brought down the list, clean and refreshed. His unruly hair was damp from the shower and he smelled delicious.
“Is that uh,” I started to ask something about shampoo or body gel, but nothing logical came out.
“What?” He looked for something amiss on his list.
“You’re uh, um, never mind. I’ll get right to this.” I snatched the list from his hands and he promptly disappeared upstairs so quickly I didn’t see him go, again.
With the day half over, I sat for a quiet moment in my chair. The clock said I had three more hours of work. I wanted nothing more than to go home. I’d spent the morning running the errands for Mr. Palmer and dreaded the tedious, ridiculous job he had for me that afternoon.
I came each day prepared, once again, to move past our bumps and enjoy my job. I watched E! . I understood that rich, attractive people were eccentric and spoiled. Was Mr. Palmer basically a Kardashian? At least I didn’t have to sanitize the house from a series of female visitors. Genevieve never implied he had a girlfriend and on face value I couldn’t imagine why not. Women should be crawling all over this place. But realistically? A girlfriend seemed unlikely. A one night stand? Possible, but with all the OCD stuff going on….no wonder he was such a jerk. Maybe he just needed to get laid.
Lack of orgies aside, Mr. Palmer was frustratingly difficult. With each passing day I learned his obsessive compulsive habits passed eccentric and lingered toward mentally unstable. On Tuesday he left me directions to reorganize his enormous record collection out of alphabetical order and into subgroups by artist, genre and date of release. He also wanted the covers photographed and entered into a data base. This project alone would probably take me the entire week and my brain was a puddle of mush by the time I'd gotten through the Ds.
On
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