Earl is just a kid living at the edge of suburbs when he finds a dead animal body and much more. His call to animal control brings out strange agents hunting a lost and deadly wolf that won’t stay dead. Hunting a creature that exudes the scent of death seems foolhardy until Earl recruits the help of his grandfather who wants the thing dead and gone.
This is a 10,000 word novelette of gory horror; not for those of weak constitutions.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed. “Smells like road kill. There was this raccoon near my bus stop when I was in middle school. It got hit by a car and it was the end of the year and it started rotting and stinking. It was gross. Maggots started growing in it. And then in bloated and the smell. Gross!” he laughed at the terrible memory.
“You’re making me sick,” Meghan said and clutched her stomach. The smell was much worse suddenly. She fell to her knees and wanted to retch like she had drunk too much beer at a party. She hated throwing up like that.
“You okay, babe?” he asked, resting a hand on her shoulder. It was her good fortune she didn’t have a strong stomach. Tony wasn’t so lucky. She retched once, kept her dinner down, and then retched again, doubling over as her stomach emptied itself onto the sandy ground. The smell of death was upon them and the monster came over the top of the retard tree to strike Tony in the chest, knocking him to the ground.
He screamed. If the monster had seen Meghan it didn’t care. It was now occupied with Tony who was punching the dog-like shape to no avail. The growls of the dog-thing mixed with Tony’s screams. He sounded almost like a girl. That was something else that didn’t endear him to Meghan.
She managed not to scream, but she was driven away by the smell and Tony’s screams. She knew it was cowardly, but she was afraid and Tony could fend for himself. He was always telling everyone how much of a man he was. Meghan was sure that was because he was only a hair taller than most girls in school and he was ashamed of his lack of height.
|File size:||116 KB|
|Age Range:||18 Years|
About the Author
S.G. Thurber was born in Vermont where he never learned to fear ice and snow. He has spent too much time studying classic, medieval, and Renaissance literature. Currently he lives in upstate New York with his family, an ever changing number of cats, and he still does not fear ice and snow.