Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Now!
As if controlled by clockwork, the beast turned. In that moment, Micky dove for the body, pulling it out of the creature's scent-trail. They'd never find it now, and it could be buried properly.
Although, no one really had time for a proper burial anymore. At most, Micky would be able to collect some old tires and maybe some sheet metal and hide the corpse. This wouldn't exactly prevent it from being torn apart by the local wildlife, but at least it would prevent a much worse fate.
"Hang on, buddy," he said to the dead weight on his shoulders. Hiding behind an old, burnt-out car, he waited until the eyes turned back toward him, and counted up again from one to sixteen.
It seemed unfair that Micky would be the last. He didn't have the wit or charm of the others, but some said that he was endowed with remarkable luck and street sense, which had certainly come in handy in recent weeks. If the shadows ever caught up with him, they'd corpse him, which was just a slang term for "completely shutting someone down just short of death." He knew the body he carried was still alive. Still aware.
"It's not gonna be a good end for you, buddy," Micky muttered, making a run for it again as his count reached sixteen.
Murder your friends. Destroy your brothers. Spare them from a fate worse than death.
They didn't want death at all, though. The shadows were toying with them. Reaching insectine filaments into their consciousness, making euthanasia a repulsive concept, even in light of what waited in store for each and every single person on the planet. "You know what started it all," Micky said. "The whole curing the planet of the murder epidemic. And we let 'em in. We let 'em all in."
They failed to realize, as they toyed around with drums and guitars, tambourines and keyboards, that they were all just being primed. Made helpless to fight, one mind by one mind. By the time concerned citizens discovered the tiny filaments, they'd spread virally to nearly one hundred percent of the population. Even animals found themselves affected; lions in the savanna died from hunger because they refused to kill prey. The cattle population of the world skyrocketed, because humans couldn't bear the thought of killing them.
It wasn't just repulsion. It was a deep, horrible fear of the unknown. To silence someone's heart would be to give yourself over to nothingness.
Save the world. Save the world. Save the world. What was left to save?
Counting to sixteen, Micky bolted again, but the weight on his back, combined with his exhaustion, was crushing him. "I'll have to find somewhere to hide you soon. I'm really sorry."
Keeping anyone alive once they'd been corpsed was suicide. But after the other two were taken, Micky couldn't let the last connection to his life just fall by the wayside without some sort of fight.
"I know we had our differences, but I just want to let you know, I always kinda thought you and I were best friends. Maybe. I dunno. Well, whatever. I just don't want to see you hurt anymore."
He meant it, too.
Between the large drone turning to watch him and the small battalion closing in on his position, Micky didn't have much time left. Sitting, he propped the body against a wall and leaned next to it, sighing. "You remember all those gigs? We used to worry about rent, huh? Doesn't really matter in the end, 'cuz even if you pay your rent, some giant space ants are still gonna come down and wreck your house. Then you're out your rent money AND your house. How's that fair?"
For a moment, he expected a chuckle. Some familiar laughter. A blink, a nod. But his friend was silent.
And the shadows were creeping closer.
"It's not enough to kill ya, either," Micky muttered. His hand closed around an old garden trowel. Convenient, if he could use it. "Whole ships, propelled by the power of thought. You're just. There. Forever."
They didn't know much about the creatures, but it was enough to know that if they caught you, you'd spend the rest of your natural life suffering a pretty horrible fate. The crazier you went from your solitary captivity, the better, as far as they were concerned.
Micky's fist closed around the handle of the tiny shovel, and his eyes darted toward its pointed end. The thought of doing the deed made him sick, but he couldn't bear to let another of his friends be subjected to becoming a human battery. It hurt to lift the trowel off the ground. It terrified him to press it to the boy's throat. Blackness began to close in around his vision, and his hands shook so badly that he couldn't keep the makeshift weapon still. Visions of non-existence swam in his mind, threatening to erase every trace of him from every memory that ever was. Micky would become not even a memory in the huge realm that was the universe. He would vanish, and no one would remember he existed to mourn him.
One hand pulled the other away.
The footsteps of the soldiers drew closer.
The pointed end of the shovel found itself back at his friend's throat.
It wouldn't be so bad, being nothing.
With one quick jerk, Micky sliced through the boy's throat. It was quick, merciful, and guaranteed. The shadows didn't need the dead.
Moreover, Micky still existed. He wouldn't be forgotten. Those horrible fears—
He looked at the body as its face lost color. If only he would have had the courage to do the same for Peter and Michael.
Smiling weakly at Davy, Micky raised the trowel to his own neck, hand still trembling. If murder and suicide were unforgivable, he certainly would never see Davy again, in whatever afterlife awaited them. Even so, as he repeated his earlier killing blow, Micky felt that it was all worth it if he could at least save one of them.
His senses faded.
Black.
Silent.