Island Of The Cryptids

35

Chris Tucker awoke with a start, pain filling his body. Light was outside, but it was still very dark out. It was a blue haze, and the light washed over him, calming him down. The morphine's effect had vanished, and he was left to cope with his pain. He was rotting on the floor of his plane. His friend was dead. He was practically dead himself. He couldn't move, and he couldn't run away.

He wondered if that's what he had felt that night. When his parents were killed. Had he felt this same, pitiful weakness as he watched his parents die? Had he not been able to help or run because he was grounded by his own fears? The thought made him shiver.

He lay back, aching everywhere. He felt his blood ooze out of him. He felt it channel into the pads wrapped around him. He wondered if Carlin would come back. He wondered what Carlin would do. The same ghastly aura from his dream filled him again. He was scared. So scared.

He heard gravel shift outside. Footsteps. Of somebody. Of something. Fear pulsed in his heart, surging through his body in hot bursts.

They came closer, and he thought he heard the clank of something sharp hitting metal. A claw?

He reached over to a cabinet behind the captain's seat. He opened it, then pulled out the gun carrying case. With one hand, he opened it, pulled out the gun and magazine, and set it on the floor.

His arm was very sore, but not broken. He shifted the magazine into place, then picked up the gun and slammed the handle down, loading it. The footsteps grew closer. They were definitely claws. It was a cryptid.

This is what he deserved. He deserved this. Pain filled his body. A ghastly laughter filled his head. He aimed the gun at the door. What would walk through? The monster on the island, or the monster in his head?

The room fell quiet.

The door clicked open.

Moonlight peered through the small crack, filling the room, shining down upon its darkest contents.

The voice whispered in his head again.

"You're going to die."

Chris Tucker opened fire.