Monday, 9 September 2013


Melanie is dead. She was torn apart.

I was woken from a dreamless sleep by a gargantuan crash of thunder. As the sound rolled over me, the first drops of rain began to hit the ground. Fat, cold drops. The rain dispersed the mist, cooled the air. Soaked, I ran to my bag to look for something waterproof. That was when it happened.

Something, some dark shape, charged at our camp. I couldn't see well. It was before dawn, and the downpour had extinguished the fire. The shape hit Melanie, and blood sprayed across the muddy ground. I ran. I ran along the furrow. Away from the shape, and away from Melanie. I couldn't hear anything over the rain.

I ran until my legs burned and I couldn't draw breath. I stopped and looked behind me. I couldn't see through the rain, and I knew the thing might come for me, once it was finished with Melanie. I shouldered the bag, which I'd carried in my hand during my desperate run, and began to jog. When I couldn't jog, I walked. The rain soaked me through. Hours later, it stopped, as if a tap had been switched off. I kept walking. Eventually, I dried.

I'm alone now. The loop seems to be broken; I haven't come back to the camp, or anywhere I recognise. The supplies in the bag will keep me alive for a while; not long enough to walk back to the Jeeps. I'm going to follow the furrow.

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