Dexter woke up in an empty room. He stood up and fell down again, he forgot the gaping hole in his leg. He limped around the edges of the room, his fingers trailing along the crumbling brick. It was dark here, but a blinding light shine through the door. He stumbled to it and turned the knob frantically. "Charlie," he muttered underneath his breath. "Charlie!" He started shouting and he banged his fists against the door.
Suddenly, a couple of shadows creeped past the light in the door crack. He wasn't alone. He tripped backwards and fell into the corner of the room. A key click entered the door and it turned 90 degrees clockwise. The knob slowly turned, and there standing in front of him, was Crawford.
"Robert! How was your sleep? Are you feeling any better today?" Crawford said to him, jotting things down on a notepad.
"You know I'm not Robert," Dexter twined.
"Not feeling great then, Robert?"
"Get away from me. You should be dead!" Dexter shouted. Crawford chuckled, shook his head, and scribbled on his paper.
"Where's Charlie?" Dexter asked.
"Who?" Crawford smirked.
"Your daughter!" Dexter snapped. Crawford cackled again.
"I only have a son, Robert."
"You threw your son at Infected!"
"Well that's an awful thing to do," Crawford replied. "Must have just had a bad dream, eh?"
Dexter ran up to Crawford and pushed him, making him drop his notepad, and shut the door behind him.
He picked up the notepad. It read said Charlie in bold writing, and then a load of squiggly lines. He turned over the page.
It said Dexter in bold writing, squiggly lines and then at the bottom of the page,-
"Death Sentence."
YOU ARE READING
Our World Is Slowly Dying
ParanormalIn a world of infected, what hope is expected? A group of survivors grow used to the sight of place faced, infected skinned alive dead people. In a world no answers, they must make their own.
