The figure stood silently over the the slaughtered bodies, ears still ringing from the dozens of shots fired, the memories still fresh in his mind. He trembled as a single police siren wailed in the distance, breaking the silence, probably miles away. As the gun slipped out of his fingers and landed on the cement ground next to him, he couldn’t help but feel a small pang of guilt.
His heart was pounding.
He slowly looked down to the body to his left. It lay face-down on the ground, shiny crimson blood splurting from a deep gash on his head, just above the ear. And to the right, the most gruesome body. It lay totally expressionless on the cold, hard ground; bloodshot eyeballs, bruised neck, dry blue lips, broken fingers resting on his bloody grey overalls. This wound was more severe; a crack of the skull with the axe, still lodged in his head. A single trail of blood dripped onto the floor, making a tiny ‘tap.. tap.. tap’ noise, echoing throughout the dark, adding a petrifiying, sinister atmosphere to the dark room all around them.
“I’m sorry..”
The man finally managed to say, although it came out as more of a tiny, hushed, whisper.
His mouth was dry. He swallowed.
The room around them - wait, do dead bodies really count as people? - seemed to close in as the authorities neared. The dark cobwebs in the corners, shadows dancing across the walls, the familiar scent of corpses and mildew… it all came back to him..and he sprinted into the night of the dead.
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