World Eater

63

WORLD EATER. The words triggered a memory of the article Alzar had read so long ago, about the World Eaters and their cosmic terror.

Sweat seeped down his palms. Fancy was lying. She had to be lying.

Alzar jerked his hand from Fancy’s grip, hunching his shoulders as she suddenly became a threat, an aggressor.

“You're crazy,” he spat, a stray hair falling across his face, “None of that has ever been real!”

Fancy raised her brow, silently observing him with intertwined fingers.

The forest seemed to bend and twist around Alzar, suffocating him in its unfamiliar terrain. He was trapped, lost, alone. He took a step back, pulling frantically at his collar.

“Where are you going to run, Alzar?” Fancy asked softly, “Every police officer in the state is looking for you. You're a wanted criminal.”

She was right. Was there even any point in running?

The raw skin on his wrists seemed to call to him. Fancy had kidnapped him. She had dragged him out in the middle of nowhere, and now she wanted him to go further.

His hands grew cold as he shoved his hand into his coat pocket, black nylon burning against his fingers. He shoved the muzzle of his gun to his temple, eyes wide and crazed.

“I don’t know what sick thing you wanna do to me, but-but-I won't let you get your hands on me!” Alzar screamed, sweat dripping down his face.

Fancy kept her arms at her sides. “Alzar, I suggest you don't do that,” she said, her voice even.

“Shut up!” he spat, his finger trembling against the trigger, “Shut up, shut up! There's no point in all of this! I'd rather just die!”

“Alzar-”

“You don't know anything! You're just some crazy occultist!”

His bottom lip quivered, waves of fear washing down his body. He clenched his eyes shut, shutting out Fancy’s cold eyes.

He pulled the trigger.