Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,22

said, scooping globs of blood from his face and flicking them onto the floor. The blood left a sickly sheen on his hand which he wiped onto the seat of his trousers with a grimace.

“Very,” One agreed. He lowered the gun that had blown a hole straight through Angela’s chest.

“Messy as well,” Two added, removing his sunglasses and using his sleeve to clear the sickly smears from the rims.

“I had no other choice.”

“You could have pushed her off first.”

One shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said unconvincingly. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Send me the dry cleaning bill.”

“Will do.”

They stepped back and peered at the corpse. It was still recognisable as human, but only just. The transformation had been quick but it hadn’t finished, parts of Angela remained. Her stomach, partially clad with fragments of a pink blouse that her growing torso had all but destroyed, wasn’t hers but nor was it that of a beast. Her ears, hair and forehead had retained the style of the attractive single parent.

Angela twitched, still holding onto the last remnants of life. Her killers didn’t flinch.

“How long does it take for these things to fully transform do you think?” One asked as he surveyed the mismatch of human and beast.

Two shrugged unsurely. “We were warned they could turn quickly but beyond that...” he trailed off.

“You think we could bring down a fully formed one?”

“With those?” Two said, nodding to the gun in One’s hand. “Sure. Silver bullets seem to be working so far.”

“And if we run out?”

“Wooden stake?”

“Isn’t that vampires?”

Two shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sure we’d figure something out.”

“We could try normal bullets, see how they react,” One proposed.

“To what end?”

“I guess I just want to know.”

“And if they don’t work and keep coming? How are we going to stop them before they rip us apart?”

One thought about this for a moment and then shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Two removed a device from his chest pocket. He wiped away a drop of blood that had worked its way onto the screen.

Angela writhed, groaning in agony. Her body tried to transform and let go at the same time.

“Come on,” Two said. “We better finish up.”

7

Michael gave a solemn shake of his head as he looked down at the corpse. First Martin Atkinson and now Angela Washington. Two bodies; no souls.

The woman before him looked no older than forty-five. She had a kind face and gentle features that reminded Michael of his own mother. A mother who had cried relentlessly over the death of her son, not knowing that he continued to exist, in one form or another, just a few miles away.

He bent down and checked the frail corpse. She didn’t look like she could hurt a fly, yet she looked like she had been fighting before her demise. She had been executed. Shot once through the chest and then once through the forehead.

He checked his timer.

“Bang on time,” he told himself. “Where the fuck are you?”

He had already checked the house and the garden. Ghosts rarely left their body so soon after death, but he checked anyway -- she was nowhere to be seen.

****

In the Dying Seamstress, a dark and cosy shack-like pub on the edge of town -- hidden underneath a former newsagents and accessed through a backstreet and an ominous staircase -- Michael attracted immediate attention.

Rusty chimes above the door jangled an eclectic tune when Michael entered. Everyone inside peered up from their drinks and conversations. They all looked at Michael, gave him a quick once-over and then resumed their activities.

The bar was staffed solely by an aggressive little man who had to stand on a stool to see over the top. He glared at Michael as he approached, his unibrow arched towards the top of his swollen nose.

Michael greeted the bartender, a man who constantly looked like he was moments away from growling or humping your leg.

“Mickey,” he replied with a simple nod.

“What’s all this about?” Michael asked, indicating his scrutinised arrival.

Scrub grunted to clear a glob of thick phlegm from his throat before swallowing the offending expectorant.

“Everyone’s a bit on edge.”

Michael waited for an explanation, but didn’t want to push for one when it didn’t come. “Fair enough” he said. “Give me a pint would you?”

Scrub hopped off the stool and scuppered over to pull a pint glass from a dusty rack where a milieu of insects and dust mites gathered.

“You ever thought of getting the floor raised?”

Scrub turned and glared at Michael, his tiny face peering up at him like a demonic imp.

“What you tryin’