July 13, 1938


Some froze, some ran, and some charged.

All died the same.

Food is scarce in this damned place, and so I follow up any hint of a meal.

I was tracking the faintest scent of freshly baked bread and listening to the howls of Turk over the intercom system hidden in the ceiling of a long, broad hall. There were no windows, only a pale, sickly light emanating from thin bulbs hanging down. At the far end of the corridor was a set of double doors, each painted a green reminiscent of fresh vomit.

From beyond those doors came the scent of bread, as well as a low murmur of voices. The conversations were unintelligible beneath the lonesome howling of Turk.

With a growling stomach and no small amount of anger, I reached the doors and threw them wide.

The conversations stopped, and I found myself looking in at somewhere close to thirty young men sitting in a cafeteria. They looked at me in surprise, none of them speaking.

Finally, one young man whispered, “He has his guns.”

The last word sent the men into a flurry of motion, yet even as some struggled to their feet, I had my Colts drawn.

The revolvers thundered in the cafeteria, and those who had stood up first were the first to die.

The slugs from the .44s tore through them, some of the bullets smashing into the young men behind them. Some of the diners remained in their seats, paralyzed with fear. Others tried to escape to the door off to the left, and a few charged at me.

They, like those who had moved first, died sooner than the rest.

As the remainder struggled to flee, I reloaded first one Colt and then the other, killing those closest to the exit. The bodies piled up, blocking the exit, trapping the rest of the men with me.

The survivors huddled against the back wall, eyes wide and darting from side to side.

There were less than a dozen left.

“Where’s my dog?” I asked.

No one answered, and so I killed one of them, splattering his brains over the young man closest to him.

“Where’s my dog?”

I repeated the question eight more times, and in the end, no one had answered me.

But that’s alright.

I’ll stack bodies until I find him.

#horror #fear #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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