Finkleburg's Army
Introduction
A scream can seem so commonplace at night. Almost expected; part of the scenery. After all, screams like this one had been ripping through both day and nighttime for the last week or so, and anyone within earshot sort of shrugged it off as another lost cause. Any thing within earshot—now that was a different story. Those anythings heard the scream and turned, slowly—they were incapable of speed, of course—and walked, if you could call it walking, toward the girl, though she was hardly a girl any more. A tattered plaid skirt and a white collared shirt dirtied with streaks of grime and blood clung to her shuddering frame as she covered her mouth with her fingers, disbelieving she had done it, had screamed, had been so obvious. She stood with her feet planted on the sidewalk as spasms worked their way down her spine, unable to move as the shadows became the things she had been running from. Casting one last fleeting glance at what had made her scream, her legs filled with momentum and she fled—felt her hands slam into a fence, beating it until blood sprang between the webs of her fingers and slashed across her palms. As the moans grew louder behind her, she gripped the links in frenzy, shoving her feet into the square gaps and wrenching herself upward in a few desperate pulls. A scabby hand grabbed at her ankle, she shook it off and didn't bother to climb down, hearing something snap beneath her as her mouth filled with blood. She heaved herself up and ran blindly away from the fence, clutching her wrist, slammed into something made of brick. She found a way around the wall and crouched behind it. She did not scream this time—she did not have to.