Until Nightmares

Alive

Silent. Their footsteps make no noise. They tiptoe mindfully around fallen debris, previously cascaded down from the surrounding city. Scuffed old boots, calloused hands, ragged clothes, and matted hair - if the walls had eyes, they'd be staring.
"Be careful now," says one. There's three of the. This one is tall, thin. They're hungry.
"What?" another whispers. She is shorter, thin too. Her hair is black, a knotted mess.
"Up there," says the first.
The third is silent. He says nothing. He has more meat on his bones, and he smells of fresh blood.

They're limping - the first one. She notices. He does too. No one says anything.
Up there, where the first had directed everyone's attention, there's movement. It's slow. Hulking, sulking, shriveling down and lurching forward. Fall, get up, fall, get up, fall. Shake. Stutter.
They all stop. All at once. The three, and the movement paused in time like frozen in ice. A movie on hold.
"Can it see us?" she asks. Her fingers flex. There's a knife on her belt, covered and hidden, but she knows its there. A weapon. Protection.
They hush her - the first one. He, beside them, across from her, is silent. A stone tumbles across the others behind them.
Writhing. The movement they saw - all of them together - turns to them. It's fast, but it's cumbersome.
Nowhere to go. Backwards - it's loud. Upwards - it's dangerous. Forwards - it's death.
"Where-?" He is hushed by them - the first one. But they also shrug.
"Back," she says. "Nowhere else to go, right?"
So they turn their backs. Their mindfulness falls away; speed is the only hope now for safety. Though hulking, though slapping against the shattering asphalt with a force unnecessary for its size, the movement is quick, swallowing up the space from it to them - all of them.
Their pace was a walk at first, a gentle stroll until their eyes caught danger. A jog then begins, but as it comes closer, they expend their energy with a sprint.
"Run!" A cry for desperation came from him. He is the slowest. He will fall behind.
But she and they do not notice as he does. The two are scrambling for safety. Kicking rocks and gasping, spittle coughing up from their throats as they swallow down air. Sweat beads on their faces. She and they do not look back. They - the two of them - assume that he has kept up.
The rocks they shot up from beneath their feet, launching themselves - they and she - to escape danger: they tripped him up. Caught the front of his shoes, they sent him tumbling. The sounds of his palms slapping the ground sounded all too much like the danger, and the others pushed themselves faster. Running? No, leaping from step to step, hoping, praying in time to the beating.
He groped at the ground, a weapon escaping him. She had a knife, yes, but he did not. She is too far now. He cries - shouts for her - for them - are drowned.
Or maybe they heard him. Leaving behind the scent of blood and fresh meat, maybe the two of them knew turning back would creative three deaths.
The sounds are slick, wet, meaty. Drowning on red water, he dies there on the concrete.
"Goodbye," they - the first one - wants to say. They know. But they cannot speak now.
The movement distracted, eating now, she and they slip away, alive.