John had finally got a grip of himself and stopped crying. Which was lucky for John: a couple more minutes of his blubbing and Frank would have killed him.
"I can't see anything," said Nick but resisted the urge to add, Maybe it's safe, maybe we can get out of here.
Frank said something, probably something sniping and sarcastic, but Nick didn't register the comment, because something had moved, in the waste ground between the overgrown garden and the woods beyond.
Nick tried to speak, to warn the others, but his mouth was dry as pumice and his throat had narrowed down to a thin capillary incapable of delivering anything more than a ridiculous piping sound.
It was one of the bigger ones, not one of the scavengers. A hunter. Its massive arms ploughed through garbage and rubble. Its tongues thrashed from the slash of its mouth like a nest of angry snakes.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
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