Bloodboots: A Breadcrumbs For The Nasties Short Read Online Free Page A

direction.

    Suddenly its gnarled leg didn’t matter, and spilling guts meant nothing. Red eyes narrowed. Lips quivered. It was still hungry, still angry. It could smell me. It wanted me.

    The creature’s head dropped inches from the dirt, hindquarters raised. Its twisted leg slapped the ground, not so useless after all. The moment it charged a flurry of automatic weapons unloaded into its torso and up its neck. Another group of soldiers were approaching from behind, firing in rapid succession. This team was smarter, taking their time, making every shot count. The assault overwhelmed the beast, blew the snout from its face, turned teeth to dust. The moment its head erupted the monster collapsed. 

    I was alive. 

    For whatever reason, I was still alive. 

    It took an hour to put out the fires, six to clear the corpses. If a soldier’s brain was intact, we were told to destroy it. By direct order of Mr. Walker, Sir, soldiers weren’t allowed to come back. That sort of nonsense was for people like us. Apparently they deserved better. 

    I spent the next day burning bodies. Between the sun and the heat from the fire I’m surprised I survived. My body was gone, dragging, limbs more useless by the hour. I was ordered to cook the corpses until nothing remained, bones and ash catching the breeze. By the time I was done I was covered in the black sticking to my sweat, glued to every wrinkle and crack. The smell was atrocious. Pinching my nose didn’t make a difference. Holding my breath did nothing. When I wet my lips I could taste it. 

    The next day the mood had changed for the worse. The attack brought things into focus, put our captors on edge. We were less welcome than ever. The morning was spent in our bunks, stomachs growling. The man in the bed across from me never stopped crying, legs pulled to his chest, face buried in knees. He’d only been with us a week. I didn’t even know his name, didn’t care to. I wanted him to shut up. Patrick was worse than ever. My brother hadn’t eaten in days. He was so weak he stopped screaming. Pain had become normal. Normal hurt less. His breathing was labored. A few times I thought he’d stopped, nudged him awake to keep him going, wiped the tears from his eyes. My brother was dying. 

    Our saviors-turned-captors spent the morning arguing, screaming back and forth while throwing things. I think a fight broke out. Later in the day there was another. Someone may have been shot. A small part of me actually believed they might just kill each other and leave us the base and the food. When I closed my eyes I imagined a dinner: four courses, turkey and gravy and wine so expensive it made the table next to us take note. Patrick was there too, sitting at one side and a beautiful woman at the other. I was okay with him being there. When she asked me who he was, I didn’t lie. 

    “He’s my brother.”

    “Oh, he’s cute.” 

    She was the one lying. 

    It’s what I was paying her for.

    I hadn’t thought about Patrick for years. When I put him away I convinced myself there was nothing I could do for him and he was better off. Suddenly he was all that mattered. My Bertie brother who couldn’t speak or walk or say his own name was the only normal thing I had left. I needed Patrick to survive, even if he wanted to die. I imagined myself getting control of the base, getting Patrick his medication, leading the group to bigger and better things. I thought of all the ways I’d improve the place, how I’d keep us fed and organized and on track. The place needed a real leader, someone with an IQ above eighty. In my daydream I was wearing Fred Felchus’s stupid watch. 

    A less delirious part of me realized how stupid it all sounded. 

    The soldiers were tired of us. It was obvious. They were sick of sharing their food, done with having to supply us with the most basic human needs. Some of them had no interest in being slave masters to begin with. At the same time, they had no