I love the woods. They're so full of leaves and animals and trees and plants, the scent of a human, sweating and bleeding and running for her life, stands out like a lighthouse in the fog. It's pretty foggy now, in fact, or I'd just be chasing her by sight. But she smells so sweet, so scared, I don't need my eyes.
You're not even a challenge, Red. But you will be delicious.
Even if I couldn't smell her, her scent tearing through these woods like wildfire, I could hear her. Red's not a forest person. Not a woodsman. Woodswoman. Whichever. Her footsteps are so loud in the underbrush, on fallen branches, on discarded leaves that I can't even hear her ragged breathing.
Ah, Red. You're so fun to hunt! I'm not exactly moving quietly myself here--hell, I want her to hear me coming. I want her to know where I am, just out of view, behind her, tearing through the woods hot on her heels. Young heels. Delicious heels.
Oh Red! I can taste you already. My mouth waters at the mere thought of devouring your flesh! My hands shake, tremble--ready to tear off your clothes before tearing you apart. To taste your sweat and tears and blood and flesh... oh, Red, it will be glorious. I really can already taste you.
If you taste at all like your grandmother, at least. Probably something similar, though less stringy. More tender.
Red, Red, Red. I'm close enough to see you now, or the fog is thinning out--oh, damnation. And again the sight of your blond locks is lost, the red of your hood, the white of your skin, the crimson of your blood. No matter, I can still hear you.
Animals scatter away from us as we rip through the fog, playing cat and mouse--hunter and hunted--wolf and girl. You can't escape me, Red, I'm not even really trying. I'm wearing you down. I'm softening you up. I want you worn out and exhausted, bones weakened, tired and panting and not strong enough to really fight, Red, but strong enough to struggle. Strong enough to squirm. Strong enough to wiggle.
But not strong enough to escape. Not again.
Oh, Red. I'm so close now. I hear you--I hear you fall, I hear that extra-loud crack. I'm sure you ran into a branch--your smell is so much stronger now! I'm getting closer, much closer. You're broken, exhausted. But don't you dare give in. Don't you dare. I didn't chase you across these damn woods for an easy kill. Oh no. Oh, no no no.
Your smell is all over the air now. All over! You're near. Very near. But where? You're not moving, now. Don't you dare think of giving up! Don't even let the thought cross your pretty little brain. I plan on eating that bit last, by the way. Not that you'll care.
You're not running. Where the hell are you, Red? You're close, but... that's all I can tell. No footfalls. No breathing. Did you kill yourself when you fell? Did that branch ruin my meal? That would be... most unfortunate.
Shoes. You abandoned your shoes! No wonder I can't hear you running--damn you, trying to outsmart me! You can't, Red. No way, no how. You're just a girl--I'm a wolf. A big wolf. A hungry wolf. A bad wolf. You should have kept running.
I jerk forward--pushed! Sharp pain pain pain in my chest. What? Blood smell--not Red's. Not yours. Mine! How how how?! This cannot be! My hands go to my heart, to the blood--but it's not skin and fur and flesh I find. It's wood. It's a branch. A broken broken branch. A good six inches protrude... from... my chest? No--you little bibibitch! You did outsmart me, you minx!
I hear you exhale, practically in my ear. You you you took off your shoes--and... and threw them? And got behind me, silent as the fog. Clever girl. Clever, Red. Clev... Held your... breath...
Little whore, you missed my heart! My my my my... heart... so... can't... I breathe in tearing gasps--lungs broken. You've killed me! You little trollop! You little witch! Red! I can't I can't breathe. Clever. I can't. You're. So hungry. Worked my self up. Nothing. For nothing.
Clever.
Girl.
Thursday, April 5
Wednesday, April 4
73. (I've been trying to build on this image... but nothing will come.)
The ship's intercoms are silent. We float through space, idling, almost frozen. Shocked. I imagine the expression is visible even outside, as crazy as that sounds. The communications tech lets his hand fall away from the control panel which, only minutes before, had opened the relays to receive the planetary identification signal of Earth, our home. This signal is sent out from all Colonial planets to aid crews in the clumsy act of gaining ones bearings post-hyperspatial travel. His hand had, after hitting the proper keystrokes, remained frozen over the panel.
Utter silence. Traditionally, the signal is broadcast over the ships intercoms to reassure the crew--blind on the interior of the ship--that they are, in fact, not lost in space, as hyperspatial travel often leads one to believe.
"Open the relays," the captain had barked at him, "and be quick about it." An edge of panic had slipped into his voice.
"They're open, sir," the tech had replied. "Double-checked. There... there's no signals coming through. Silence, sir."
Fear rippled across the bridge crew, cold sweats broke out, hands started to shake. Silence generally meant one thing: there was nothing out there to broadcast an ident. signal, therefore we were no where near a planet. Before the adoption of the planetary ident. signal this was how ships became lost in space.
"Open the viewshields," the captain whispered. "Open them, damn it!" Stronger this time. The tech responsible jumped to his duties, fingers flying across the control panel. The gunmetal grey shields that close over the thick glass viewport at the front of the bridge during hyperspatial travel folded down and vanished.
The captain fell back into his chair, a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide. A man screamed. It was far worse than we had imagined.
We were not lost in the endlessness of space. In fact, we were right where we had expected to come out. Earth itself was even there, floating in the middle of the viewport. It was the state of the planet that brought us such shock. The spherical body was shattered in two and twisted, its molten core leaking out and cooling near-instantly, like a constant volcanic eruption. Chunks of shattered earth the size of continents floated amidst the wreckage, still green and blue as they had been when we had last seen the planet.
For a moment I held out hope that life remained on those broken, jagged chunks of planet, that people still clung to life on what remained of our world. I soon corrected myself. The captain came to the same conclusion moments later: "There are no clouds. Not a single goddamn cloud."
He was right. There were no clouds--because there was no atmosphere. Earth had been reduced to little more than a massive, broken asteroid, circling 'round its sun at a limp, dragging pieces of it self in its wake. The planet was as dead as everything that still remained on it. Judging from the wrecks of our defensive fleet, from the burns that scored the metal hulls... it was not a catastrophe that had come about naturally.
Utter silence. Traditionally, the signal is broadcast over the ships intercoms to reassure the crew--blind on the interior of the ship--that they are, in fact, not lost in space, as hyperspatial travel often leads one to believe.
"Open the relays," the captain had barked at him, "and be quick about it." An edge of panic had slipped into his voice.
"They're open, sir," the tech had replied. "Double-checked. There... there's no signals coming through. Silence, sir."
Fear rippled across the bridge crew, cold sweats broke out, hands started to shake. Silence generally meant one thing: there was nothing out there to broadcast an ident. signal, therefore we were no where near a planet. Before the adoption of the planetary ident. signal this was how ships became lost in space.
"Open the viewshields," the captain whispered. "Open them, damn it!" Stronger this time. The tech responsible jumped to his duties, fingers flying across the control panel. The gunmetal grey shields that close over the thick glass viewport at the front of the bridge during hyperspatial travel folded down and vanished.
The captain fell back into his chair, a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide. A man screamed. It was far worse than we had imagined.
We were not lost in the endlessness of space. In fact, we were right where we had expected to come out. Earth itself was even there, floating in the middle of the viewport. It was the state of the planet that brought us such shock. The spherical body was shattered in two and twisted, its molten core leaking out and cooling near-instantly, like a constant volcanic eruption. Chunks of shattered earth the size of continents floated amidst the wreckage, still green and blue as they had been when we had last seen the planet.
For a moment I held out hope that life remained on those broken, jagged chunks of planet, that people still clung to life on what remained of our world. I soon corrected myself. The captain came to the same conclusion moments later: "There are no clouds. Not a single goddamn cloud."
He was right. There were no clouds--because there was no atmosphere. Earth had been reduced to little more than a massive, broken asteroid, circling 'round its sun at a limp, dragging pieces of it self in its wake. The planet was as dead as everything that still remained on it. Judging from the wrecks of our defensive fleet, from the burns that scored the metal hulls... it was not a catastrophe that had come about naturally.
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