We Angered God
Emily was pulled out of a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep on their fourth night in Montana, and for the life of her she couldn't figure out why. Without opening her eyes, she took stock of her body – no, she was not hungry, not thirsty, not facing imminent bladder failure. She listened to the air conditioner whirring from the unit by the window, but it was not loud enough to wake her. She cracked open one eye and glanced at the alarm clock on the table beside her.
The glow of the red numbers cast an ominous tint around the room as the digits seemed to mock her.
2:19. Yeah, definitely not time to be in any state of consciousness.
Which begged the question, then, why was she awake?
It must have been something outside, she thought as she turned to her side to try to go back to sleep. Just as she was being pulled back into unconsciousness, her brain settled on a detail that she had passed over without recognition. She immediately bolted upright in bed and reached for the lamp, nearly knocking it off of the bedside table in her haste. As the light from the single bulb flooded the room, she grabbed her Glock from the bedside table and looked back to the floor.
There.
Shit.
But the bloody footprint on her floor was the least of her problems in that moment, because as she reached for her phone, already calling lucky speed dial number one as she simultaneously scanned the room looking for anything else out of place, she saw it. Later, she would wonder how she hadn't seen it immediately, but there was neither time nor room in her brain for that thought right now. As it was, all she could do was stare in horror as the scream was ripped unwillingly from her throat.
