Pack, Part 4: Attack

Fourth Sequence.

It was a simple black void. Empty, dead, and cold.

There were no images. Only feelings. Fear. Anger. Sadness of a friend lost. Despair. Death. The Future.

To the Prophet the Future is revealed.

And then the image that fits the words. A column. A body forming from dust, from mist. A high mountain crag, swathed and clothed in invisibility. And on top a figure. A being.

Justin sat in the living room, watching the news on the TV, drinking a tall glass of cold water. The scent of oily smoke hung around him, within his mouth. His normally uneventful Friday was turning out to be rather interesting.

The fire was an accident—a student smoking in the library. Then an accident with one of the buses had spread the fire. The school was nearly burnt to the ground, but, thankfully, no one was injured. The older woman on the news broadcast moved on to more pressing news and Justin sat back in the chair, ignoring the fact that the thin cushion of the couch was uncomfortable.

He suddenly was aware of the fact that he hadn’t spoken all day. Not to his mother, who had been sleeping before he left for school. Not to the bus driver. Not to the students. Not to Wayne, who had helped him up after his blackout. Silence.

Justin stood, finishing his glass of water. He left it in the living room. One more object added to the clutter wouldn’t make a difference.

He walked slowly up the stairs back to his room. His backpack, left in his locker, was as good as ash, unless, by some miracle, it had survived. Not that it mattered. School was indefinitely suspended.

It was third time today he had opened his room’s door. Something in him clicked and he opened and closed his door nine times before entering. The OCD ritual had once made him angry. Now it just filled him with despair.

Sitting down at his desk, he turned on his laptop, resisting the urge to open and close the lid like he had with the door. With nothing to do over what had the potential be an exceptionally long weekend, he went to his conspiracy site and checked his latest thread. Still only one response. He opened it.

I’ve looked into this case myself. It goes even deeper than what you’ve seen. No less than ten cases regarding his relations’ land have appeared before this judge—and all were ruled in their favor. It’s great to see that someone loves truth. Keep posting!

Justin raised his eyebrows. Not only had the responded actually typed a legible answer, it was properly capitalized and punctuated, a rarity for the type of people that populated forums like his.

He typed a response.

Thanks for the read. Sometimes I think no one cares about what’s really important anymore.

He posted it and reloaded the page. There was another post from the reader waiting on the screen. Justin pursed his lips. Not only was the responder online, but they were a fast typist.

I’ll read anything real. Anything important.

He clicked on the poster’s profile. Truth101. Female, 18 years old…and lived somewhere in Maine. Justin felt his spirits lift. Maybe she was close. Then again, it was easy to be someone else on the internet. Not for her, but for him. Any friends he had had before his conditions had begun were distant. Perhaps it was better not to try to get to know her.

He sat in front of the computer screen, reading and re-reading the message. Then his vision began to gray and he tried to keep his eyes open. Blackout, he thought, before his head hit the desk.

The phone rang. Justin’s head snapped up. He reached for the extension on the edge of his desk, trying to clear his vision as he mumbled a bleary “Hello?”

“Yes, this is United Bank. Who is speaking?”

Justin frowned. He often fielded calls for his mom while she slept but he had never had one from the bank. They always sent polite letters full of legalese.

“Justin. Justin Kobe.”

“Ah.” It was a woman’s voice, low and melodious. “Is your mother around? I need to speak with her.”

“Yeah she’s…” No, she was gone. She was at a conference across the border. Down in New York or something. He had forgotten. Justin sighed. “No, sorry, she’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

The call abruptly was cut off as the woman hung up. Justin set down the phone, confused. He heard a noise, like a scratch of a bird, at the window. He moved to it, pulling aside the curtains.

Then something burst through the window, shattering the glass and knocking straight into him. Glass slivers cascaded around him as he fell to the floor on his back, the wind knocked from him by the weight on the creature ripping into his chest with stubby claws.

He reached up, his vision blurred from his head hitting the ground, trying to push it off.

Something sharp ripped into his hand, sending blood trailing down his sweatshirt sleeve. And he saw, before the world faded, a mouth of bloodied ivory fangs heading for his face.

Fourth Sequence.

 

It was a simple black void. Empty, dead, and cold.

 

There were no images. Only feelings. Fear. Anger. Sadness of a friend lost. Despair. Death. The Future.

 

To the Prophet the Future is revealed.

 

And then the image that fits the words. A column. A body forming from dust, from mist. A high mountain crag, swathed and clothed in invisibility. And on top a figure. A being.

 

Justin sat in the living room, watching the news on the TV, drinking a tall glass of cold water. The scent of oily smoke hung around him, within his mouth. His normally uneventful Friday was turning out to be rather interesting.

The fire was an accident—a student smoking in the library. Then an accident with one of the buses had spread the fire. The school was nearly burnt to the ground, but, thankfully, no one was injured. The older woman on the news broadcast moved on to more pressing news and Justin sat back in the chair, ignoring the fact that the thin cushion of the couch was uncomfortable.

He suddenly was aware of the fact that he hadn’t spoken all day. Not to his mother, who had been sleeping before he left for school. Not to the bus driver. Not to the students. Not to Wayne, who had helped him up after his blackout. Silence.

Justin stood, finishing his glass of water. He left it in the living room. One more object added to the clutter wouldn’t make a difference.

He walked slowly up the stairs back to his room. His backpack, left in his locker, was as good as ash, unless, by some miracle, it had survived. Not that it mattered. School was indefinitely suspended.

It was third time today he had opened his room’s door. Something in him clicked and he opened and closed his door nine times before entering. The OCD ritual had once made him angry. Now it just filled him with despair.

Sitting down at his desk, he turned on his laptop, resisting the urge to open and close the lid like he had with the door. With nothing to do over what had the potential be an exceptionally long weekend, he went to his conspiracy site and checked his latest thread. Still one response. He opened it.

I’ve looked into this case myself. It goes even deeper than what you’ve seen. No less than ten cases regarding his relations’ land have appeared before this judge—and all were ruled in their favor. It’s great to see that someone loves truth. Keep posting!

 

Justin raised his eyebrows. Not only had the responded actually typed a legible answer, it was properly capitalized and punctuated, a rarity for the type of people that populated forums like his.

He typed a response.

Thanks for the read. Sometimes I think no one cares about what’s really important anymore.

He posted it and reloaded the page. There was another post from the reader waiting on the screen. Justin pursed his lips. Not only was the responder online, but they were a fast typist.

I’ll read anything real. Anything important.

 

He clicked on the poster’s profile. Truth101. Female, 18 years old…and lived somewhere in Maine. Justin felt his spirits lift. Maybe she was close. Then again, it was easy to someone else on the internet. Not for her, but for him. Any friends he had had before his conditions had begun were distant. Perhaps it was better not to try to get to know her.

He sat in front of the computer screen, reading and re-reading the message. Then his vision began to gray and he tried to keep his eyes open. Blackout, he thought, before his head hit the desk.

The phone rang. Justin’s head snapped up. He reached for the extension on the edge of his desk, trying to clear his vision as he mumbled a bleary “Hello?”

“Yes, this is United Bank. Who is speaking?”

Justin frowned. He often fielded calls for his mom while she slept but he had never had one from the bank. They always sent polite letters full of legalese.

“Justin. Justin Kobe.”

“Ah.” It was a woman’s voice, low and melodious. “Is your mother around? I need to speak with her.”

“Yeah she’s…” No, she was gone. She was at a conference across the border. Down in New York or something. He had forgotten. Justin sighed. “No, sorry, she’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

The call abruptly was cut off as the woman hung up. Justin set down the phone, confused. He heard a noise, like a scratch of a bird, at the window. He moved to it, pulling aside the curtains.

Then something burst through the window, shattering the glass and knocking straight into him. Glass slivers cascaded around him as he fell to the floor on his back, the wind knocked from him by the weight on the creature ripping into his chest with stubby claws.

He reached up, his vision blurred from his head hitting the ground, trying to push it off.

Something sharp ripped into his hand, sending blood trailing down his sweatshirt sleeve. And he saw, before the world faded, a mouth of bloodied ivory fangs heading for his face.

Question: What is the creature’s plan for Justin?

Fourth Sequence.

It was a simple black void. Empty, dead, and cold.

There were no images. Only feelings. Fear. Anger. Sadness of a friend lost. Despair. Death. The Future.

To the Prophet the Future is revealed.

And then the image that fits the words. A column. A body forming from dust, from mist. A high mountain crag, swathed and clothed in invisibility. And on top a figure. A being.

Justin sat in the living room, watching the news on the TV, drinking a tall glass of cold water. The scent of oily smoke hung around him, within his mouth. His normally uneventful Friday was turning out to be rather interesting.

The fire was an accident—a student smoking in the library. Then an accident with one of the buses had spread the fire. The school was nearly burnt to the ground, but, thankfully, no one was injured. The older woman on the news broadcast moved on to more pressing news and Justin sat back in the chair, ignoring the fact that the thin cushion of the couch was uncomfortable.

He suddenly was aware of the fact that he hadn’t spoken all day. Not to his mother, who had been sleeping before he left for school. Not to the bus driver. Not to the students. Not to Wayne, who had helped him up after his blackout. Silence.

Justin stood, finishing his glass of water. He left it in the living room. One more object added to the clutter wouldn’t make a difference.

He walked slowly up the stairs back to his room. His backpack, left in his locker, was as good as ash, unless, by some miracle, it had survived. Not that it mattered. School was indefinitely suspended.

It was third time today he had opened his room’s door. Something in him clicked and he opened and closed his door nine times before entering. The OCD ritual had once made him angry. Now it just filled him with despair.

Sitting down at his desk, he turned on his laptop, resisting the urge to open and close the lid like he had with the door. With nothing to do over what had the potential be an exceptionally long weekend, he went to his conspiracy site and checked his latest thread. Still only one response. He opened it.

I’ve looked into this case myself. It goes even deeper than what you’ve seen. No less than ten cases regarding his relations’ land have appeared before this judge—and all were ruled in their favor. It’s great to see that someone loves truth. Keep posting!

Justin raised his eyebrows. Not only had the responded actually typed a legible answer, it was properly capitalized and punctuated, a rarity for the type of people that populated forums like his.

He typed a response.

Thanks for the read. Sometimes I think no one cares about what’s really important anymore.

He posted it and reloaded the page. There was another post from the reader waiting on the screen. Justin pursed his lips. Not only was the responder online, but they were a fast typist.

I’ll read anything real. Anything important.

He clicked on the poster’s profile. Truth101. Female, 18 years old…and lived somewhere in Maine. Justin felt his spirits lift. Maybe she was close. Then again, it was easy to be someone else on the internet. Not for her, but for him. Any friends he had had before his conditions had begun were distant. Perhaps it was better not to try to get to know her.

He sat in front of the computer screen, reading and re-reading the message. Then his vision began to gray and he tried to keep his eyes open. Blackout, he thought, before his head hit the desk.

The phone rang. Justin’s head snapped up. He reached for the extension on the edge of his desk, trying to clear his vision as he mumbled a bleary “Hello?”

“Yes, this is United Bank. Who is speaking?”

Justin frowned. He often fielded calls for his mom while she slept but he had never had one from the bank. They always sent polite letters full of legalese.

“Justin. Justin Kobe.”

“Ah.” It was a woman’s voice, low and melodious. “Is your mother around? I need to speak with her.”

“Yeah she’s…” No, she was gone. She was at a conference across the border. Down in New York or something. He had forgotten. Justin sighed. “No, sorry, she’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

The call abruptly was cut off as the woman hung up. Justin set down the phone, confused. He heard a noise, like a scratch of a bird, at the window. He moved to it, pulling aside the curtains.

Then something burst through the window, shattering the glass and knocking straight into him. Glass slivers cascaded around him as he fell to the floor on his back, the wind knocked from him by the weight on the creature ripping into his chest with stubby claws.

He reached up, his vision blurred from his head hitting the ground, trying to push it off.

Something sharp ripped into his hand, sending blood trailing down his sweatshirt sleeve. And he saw, before the world faded, a mouth of bloodied ivory fangs heading for his face.

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About bandersontps

I write. I read. I think. I am an aspiring writer, poet, and reader. First I am a writer of fantasy and fiction. Second I am a thinker and a poet. I was born in 1995, and from a young age have wanted to be a writer. I'm making progress. Check out my writing blog at worldpen.wordpress.com
This entry was posted in Pack: The Serial Story and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Pack, Part 4: Attack

  1. wolfstone99 says:

    I really like your story so far! Keep it up!

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