Their logic is as shameless as the tangle of chaos and as askew as art; the tall, graceful and grey culprits, with crimson splashed on their bone-white chins, jokers’ grins with their endless fangs, and agonizingly disfigured faces, are guiltless. They have already shattered an unbreakable vow to remain skulking in the ivy cemeteries of Highgate, in order to temporarily relieve the insatiable urges within them. They know they are doomed to perish for the mistakes they’ve made here, tonight… and so they seek to make those mistakes, which they will burn for undoubtedly, as memorable as possible.
Somewhere, their leader already knows what’s occurring… his watch is vast.
But Chauntel’s hand is latched onto Fletchers like cement, despite those buried treasure eyes flinging their gold and glamour all over her abode to take in all the horror. This is hers now. She doesn’t want it to sink into oblivion; she doesn’t want to live her life scared of the next day, and the day after that. She doesn’t want anyone else to die. Yet, she follows him down the stairs, believing that would be the best place to aim her gun. To shout for help while doing what she could to kill them; those parasites, those insects, those monsters.
Many women flee and have survived, but a few remain too hysteric with the vapours, and the causalities, although few, are going to rise.
The Hungry One hops in front of the exit door at the foot of stairs, buoyant as spider, but 20 paces hence of Fletcher and Chauntel as they reach it.
“Going somewhere?” he oozes, in that splattering inquiry from beyond the grave.