06-23-2009

Start Fiction:


     John ran from the kitchen, launching himself off the coffee table over the couch towards the window.
     It was coming. Only the predator let out that piercing howl.
     He pulled the curtains shut and spun around. He began to run through the house turning off the lights. He could feel his neck throbbing. The world tilted a bit; he staggered from room to room.
     He needed a plan; but any plan seemed futile against such a predator. He quickly tried to formulate any weakness the predator may have. It moved at full speed all the time; prolonged bursts of energy. The predator had great strength as it had ripped the door off his car two days before. It possessed intelligence; plotting, planning and anticipation of John's moves. The predator was very patient, never makes a impulsive move.
     However, for all that the predator possessed in abilities, it seemed to enjoy the hunt more than the kill. John was certain of that, otherwise he'd be dead already.
     Maybe that's the answer, John thoguht.
     Perhaps prolonging the hunt would buy John some time to either escape or defeat the predator. It all seemed imposssible, overwhelming. But he knew he just had to survive, for now.
     John paced back and forth across the living room, running his hand through his hair.
     The wooden house was not going to offer much resistence to the predator; he needed a diversion to get some where that would offer resistence.
     "The bomb shelter," he said aloud. "Of course."
     Peter stopped pacing and began to walk to the kitchen. He grabbed two steaks from the freezer, started the oven and threw the steaks directly on the racks. He then turned to the pantry grabbing several bags of popcorn, shoved them in to the microwave and set it for fifteen minutes. Finally, he grabbed his pouch of culinary knives; a weak defense, especially that close to the predator, but it would have to do.
     "Game on," John said as he walked to the back door and opened it, turned, went to the bedroom and popped the screen out of the window. He only needed a few minutes, at least that's what he kept telling himself.


End Fiction.