door. He put his eye to the peephole and saw a shadowy figure walking slowly down the hall.
He braced himself, raising the large knife above his head and putting his hand on the doorknob. The footsteps slowed by his room, and the figure stopped in front of the door. It was waiting, listening.
Suddenly the doorknob began to move. Carl tightened his grip on it and yanked the door open as the dark figure fell through the doorway and landed on the floor in front of him.
Carl began to bring his knife down.
“WAIT.”
But it was too late. Carl brought down the knife on Smithe, missing his head as Smithe turned over, but burying it deep in his neck.
“Aaaaaaah! Shit!”
Smithe was writhing around on the floor squirting blood everywhere. He was screaming and grunting in pain.
Carl threw down the knife and knelt over his comrade. “I-I thought you were one of them.”
Smithe was rocking back and forth on the floor ranting hysterically. “I-I heard the…wind…I…figured you…made it in…through this room.”
“Jesus, Smithe. I’m so sorry!”
Carl got up and threw the comforter off the bed. He pulled off the sheets and began cutting strips. He went into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and placed it over Smithe’s wound. He then began to wrap his neck in the strips of sheet.
“Christ, I’m not a medic. I’m doing the best I can.”
Smithe was losing a lot of blood. Carl wrapped the wound as tightly as he could. The blood soaked through quickly, and the more pressure Carl applied, the quicker Smithe seemed to bleed out. In frustration, Carl threw his back against the wall behind him and slid down to the ground.
He put his hands to his face and stifled the overwhelming urge to scream. He choked it down in violent, tearless sobbing that shook his body like convulsions.
He didn’t know what to do. He wished his big brother was there to guide him. He wished Barnes was there to guide him. Hell, he would’ve even settled for Jorge, the hotel manager, at the moment.
But he was all alone.
As the night passed, the winds grew calmer and the night quieter. He held Smithe in his arms, but Smithe was cold and still.
The eye of the storm was approaching, a brief respite. There had been no further incident since he struck Smithe. When things quieted down, he figured he’d go outside and check things out.
It was 00:10 when all grew silent. He awoke with a start, unaware that he had succumbed to sleep, sitting in a pool of Smithe’s blood. The room smelled of copper.
He slowly rose to his feet, every part of his body aching terribly. His head was pounding as if he was experiencing a vicious hangover.
He picked up his knife, wincing as he bent over, and wiped Smithe’s blood off on his face. He smeared the blood on each of his cheeks like war paint.
He didn’t know what made him do it. All he could say was that, at the time, it was the only thing that made sense when one’s mind teetered on the brink of madness from extreme exhaustion and psychological trauma. He was going to war with the ID, and he wanted Smithe with him. Blood begot blood.
He left Smithe’s body on the cool tile floor and opened the door. He stepped out into the hallway and stretched his neck, rolling his weary head around on his shoulders.
He heard the echo of footsteps down the hall, but they were not the footsteps of a human, nor the shuffling gait of an ID. They were small footsteps ending in clicking against the tile. They were clawed footsteps.
A slinky form materialized at the end of the dark hallway. It stopped for the moment, appraising him in the darkness, sizing him up in the context of the long corridor.
Carl remembered that the hotel grounds bordered a wildlife preserve. This was wild life. It let out a low, menacing growl, and it slinked closer down the hallway.
Carl, drained from adrenaline exhaustion and at this point completely unconcerned with his safety, turned to face his new adversary.
The creature drew close, paused, whipping its tail around behind it in darting motions…and then it leapt at Carl. He let it take him, sending them both crashing down to the hard floor.
He quickly rolled over on top of it and slit its throat with his knife, spilling its hot blood on the cool tile. The fight was over in minutes.
Carl stood up triumphantly over his kill. The feeling was