throughout the ages.
Victor, if he was who he said he was, must have somehow survived by some scant miracle. The bullet must have got lodged in his skull, preventing him from dying as he was supposed to. Under that steel mask was no rotting corpse, it was the scarred face of a man who could bleed like all the rest.
The apprehensive thug regained his cool composure, a cunning plot formed behind his smooth eyes, he was going to take care of the boyfriend, eliminating him this time, killing him properly, he would make sure he had killed the vengeful lover.
There would be no nasty surprises of ghosts from his past coming back to haunt him after he got a good shot at him, right between his eyes.
Alyosha calmly slipped his hand under his sleeve, he had something much more practical than an ace lying up there.
At the precise second the mutilator from the grave thrust the instrument of revenge down to split his skull in half, the cool customer with a sharp edge whipped out a small concealed handgun and went to fire at him in the head.
If for some crazy reason, he was a zombie, a bullet straight in his head would do the trick and put him down either way.
Victor retaliated, he struck the gun, the fired bullet missed his head. Alyosha backed away from the oncoming undead titan, he unloaded the gun into the mutilator's body, hitting anywhere he could as he tried to evade the swiping blade.
The bullets connected to the body, the suit burst with a mist of dust from the decomposed flesh penetrated.
The coolness faltered back into a flustered panic. Alyosha dropped the empty gun, he looked on in horror, his entire body went colder than the harsh winter. It was true, Victor had returned from the grave, hell bent on taking his inhuman revenge.
The guilty were going to face the dire consequences for their crime, and there was nothing they could do to stop the living corpse. What was dead was already dead, he could not be killed twice. There was no hope for them, as the horrified scum Alyosha had the displeasure of seeing for himself. He could feel the hopeless dread clutching at him, snaring him in a snatched hold where he could not flee.
14
Alyosha was a persistent man in hanging onto his worthless life for as long as possible. Despite having his sentence passed down and his fate sealed with death, he insisted in trying to defy his penalization.
The slippery gangster resorted to a futile option, he ran as fast as his legs in the tight jeans could transport him through the layers of snow.
Victor pursued after the fleeing scum, the condemned was achieving nothing, he was momentarily postponing his conviction. The executioner would catch him, he could count on it. Time was not on Alyosha's side, he could run and he could hide, but in the end, he would find himself facing the cold eyes of his own demise.
His lungs were inflamed, struggling to breathe the crisp, icy air, they could have popped in his chest in a cluster of oozing gunge at any minute. His legs were heavier than lead weights, his muscles were aching all over, barely able to go another mile without giving in and sending their carrier crashing onto the cushioned blanket. His feet were sore, his soles were pushed to the extreme, each step hurt worse than the last. He peered over his shoulder, the shadow of his damnation was tailing him, gaining on him, following his every move. He had to force his own body against its will to press on.
Up ahead, his eyes could make out a distinct assortment of long shapes in the night. Alyosha could not have asked for a more finer means of evading his undead tormentor. He was heading for the train yard, there were plenty of ideal places to hide and escape without being spotted. Even the living dead could not catch what they could not see.
He would leave the vengeful cadaver lost in the rows of trains and carriages, looking for a ghost of his own who was nowhere to be found, long gone from his
Victor, if he was who he said he was, must have somehow survived by some scant miracle. The bullet must have got lodged in his skull, preventing him from dying as he was supposed to. Under that steel mask was no rotting corpse, it was the scarred face of a man who could bleed like all the rest.
The apprehensive thug regained his cool composure, a cunning plot formed behind his smooth eyes, he was going to take care of the boyfriend, eliminating him this time, killing him properly, he would make sure he had killed the vengeful lover.
There would be no nasty surprises of ghosts from his past coming back to haunt him after he got a good shot at him, right between his eyes.
Alyosha calmly slipped his hand under his sleeve, he had something much more practical than an ace lying up there.
At the precise second the mutilator from the grave thrust the instrument of revenge down to split his skull in half, the cool customer with a sharp edge whipped out a small concealed handgun and went to fire at him in the head.
If for some crazy reason, he was a zombie, a bullet straight in his head would do the trick and put him down either way.
Victor retaliated, he struck the gun, the fired bullet missed his head. Alyosha backed away from the oncoming undead titan, he unloaded the gun into the mutilator's body, hitting anywhere he could as he tried to evade the swiping blade.
The bullets connected to the body, the suit burst with a mist of dust from the decomposed flesh penetrated.
The coolness faltered back into a flustered panic. Alyosha dropped the empty gun, he looked on in horror, his entire body went colder than the harsh winter. It was true, Victor had returned from the grave, hell bent on taking his inhuman revenge.
The guilty were going to face the dire consequences for their crime, and there was nothing they could do to stop the living corpse. What was dead was already dead, he could not be killed twice. There was no hope for them, as the horrified scum Alyosha had the displeasure of seeing for himself. He could feel the hopeless dread clutching at him, snaring him in a snatched hold where he could not flee.
14
Alyosha was a persistent man in hanging onto his worthless life for as long as possible. Despite having his sentence passed down and his fate sealed with death, he insisted in trying to defy his penalization.
The slippery gangster resorted to a futile option, he ran as fast as his legs in the tight jeans could transport him through the layers of snow.
Victor pursued after the fleeing scum, the condemned was achieving nothing, he was momentarily postponing his conviction. The executioner would catch him, he could count on it. Time was not on Alyosha's side, he could run and he could hide, but in the end, he would find himself facing the cold eyes of his own demise.
His lungs were inflamed, struggling to breathe the crisp, icy air, they could have popped in his chest in a cluster of oozing gunge at any minute. His legs were heavier than lead weights, his muscles were aching all over, barely able to go another mile without giving in and sending their carrier crashing onto the cushioned blanket. His feet were sore, his soles were pushed to the extreme, each step hurt worse than the last. He peered over his shoulder, the shadow of his damnation was tailing him, gaining on him, following his every move. He had to force his own body against its will to press on.
Up ahead, his eyes could make out a distinct assortment of long shapes in the night. Alyosha could not have asked for a more finer means of evading his undead tormentor. He was heading for the train yard, there were plenty of ideal places to hide and escape without being spotted. Even the living dead could not catch what they could not see.
He would leave the vengeful cadaver lost in the rows of trains and carriages, looking for a ghost of his own who was nowhere to be found, long gone from his
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