by Rafe Short

Created on: November 22, 2011   Last Updated: November 23, 2011

"The Runner."

He ran as fast as he could.  A pain was starting to form just above his left collarbone and had already started its creep down toward his chest.  Thomas had always thought himself a healthy human being.  "The pinnacle of evolution," as his father so strangely put it.  It wasn't that the man was praising him(In a way he had been doing it his whole life.  Constantly pushing him to be the best he could possibly be.  To always give One Hundred and Ten percent. as the old man said. 

But something was wrong. 

Since thirty-five minutes ago, (when his life turned to the chaos that was the dead rising from wherever they had "Lay Down".) and the stupid sun shifted from it's normal orange hue, to a violent more maroon tone. 

It wasn't enough that almost everyone he knew had fallen down at that moment. It wasn't enough that he had seen his friends, family, peers(those who worshiped his gladiatorial capabilities upon the field) stand up afterward and stare into the Sun.  They did this for five minutes. He tried to rose them but none moved or even flinched.  Their eyes looked to him like they had taken too many prescription pills the local doctor had issued for the "Proper Mental Placement" of his favorite team.

That is when it happened.  A sight he would never forget.

The group he had come to revere just as much, began what looked like a sick inversion of mass prayers in Mecca, or other Muslim nations.  It all seemed so "pagan," as my grandma would call it.  They did this for what seemed like eternity. Lifting, and lowering, and moaning.  It was all gibberish.  And then they stopped.  Eyes skyward head outstretched in a gesticulation that caused him to spill the chicken strips and mash potatoes onto the Commons Area floor.  The janitors always cleaned stuff like that up, but no one was around to do such a thing now.

A few minutes after he watched as they all began clawing at their eyes.  Mucus, and pustule-colored juices flowed down their noses, and over their lips.  Blood and thick meaty pieces of gore, Thomas took to be bits of eyeball, flowed freely onto the floor as scratches and claw-marks lined their cheeks in strange, almost tribalistic, designs.

That is when they started to roar.

It wasn't the go team win style shout he had heard almost every Friday Night for four years.  No.  It wasn't something else.  Something beastial.

All of their

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