Witching Hour Theatre by Janz Jonathan

Author:Janz, Jonathan [Janz, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2016-10-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Four

Larry ran two fingers over the slash in his shirt and felt the blood, wet and slippery, slick his fingertips. The axe had cut him but he’d been lucky. Two or three inches deeper and the wound would have been fatal.

Though part of him screamed it was insane, he knew returning to the theater was something he had to do. If she wasn’t already dead, Nichole was being held prisoner in the Starlight by two monsters, and she needed his help. He thought of her warm ironic smile and her quick sense of humor and the way she always made him feel a little dashing when she smiled at him. He had to go back inside because if he didn’t, he might as well be dead anyway.

He passed by the locked door of Theater Two. Spotting the rear door to Theater One ahead, he broke into a sprint.

He reached the door. Pausing, he scanned the alley desperately for some sort of weapon. In the orange glow of the alley light he saw nothing but a few small rocks and a penny buried in verdigris.

Knowing he’d already wasted too much time Wilson decided to go in unarmed. He knew it was crazy, but he also knew the men could be murdering or torturing Nichole as he stood there doing nothing.

Resolutely, Larry pushed through the door and began wading through the corpses. Time was short. He couldn’t bother to keep to the wall now. Nichole was alone with those monsters.

His toe caught on some unyielding object, and before he could help it he was tumbling forward. Wilson landed with a sickening squelch and felt with alarm the cool dead flesh squish against his own. His alarm increased as he realized his leg had somehow slipped beneath one of the dead bodies, that he was tangled up now in the sticky pile of corpses. The withering odors of excrement and burst entrails assaulted him. Acid, burning and mean, elevatored up his throat and before he could stem the gushing tide, he was spewing popcorn and soda and bile and candy all over the corpses, and even as he did he felt sick and guilty for desecrating the headless victims.

Wilson tried to gain control, but he couldn’t close his mouth; it was frozen open, locked in that stretched position as if held in place by a jack. The excruciating heat choked out his breath, and he felt himself growing faint. Some distant, hopeless corner of his mind declared he’d be better off dying here in the tunnel, asphyxiated on the taste of bile and the cloying odor of emptied bowels, than he would facing the freaks again. He knew he was no match for them.

After a time, the vomiting ended and his mind cleared. He clawed his way forward, disengaging his leg, and clambered feverishly on all fours over the puke-covered corpses, his hands sliding over bloody clothes and flayed skin. Ignoring the stench of human waste and misery, the bloodcurdling sensation of

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