What Crawls Below

1 § This Body is a Hearse

All eyes were on the dark figure that had just stumbled into the diner, bell hanging above the door announcing his entrance cheerfully. If he hadn't taken it upon himself to choose a seat in the furthest, most deserted corner, the other patrons of the otherwise quaint establishment would have surely taken new seats as far from him as the small dining area allowed.

Shaking hands, hood pulled low over his face, exposing only small scraps of pallid skin--hardly was the newcomer a sight for sore eyes. The lone waitress on the floor had been unfortunate enough to have taken his orders several times over the last few weeks, and while most of her apprehension hadn't ever been proven to be valid, she didn't make her way over to his table eagerly.

Winter was in full force, but the only thing he wore was a thin, tattered jacket that looked to have seen better days--maybe ten years before. The falling snow outside that had stuck to the coat was melting now, dripping down into a small puddle on the table. The chill had brought enough color to his skin that he almost appeared more human than ghost this time around; the waitress asked for his order timidly, though he always ordered the same thing. She scurried away quickly.

As soon as she was gone, Cyrus finally looked up from under his hood.

A flatscreen was mounted on the opposite wall. He had never watched television before his old-fashioned mentor was ripped to shreds by savage beasts; there was only one channel this one was ever turned to, and it rarely held Cyrus's attention. Today, however, the current news segment caught his eye.

It wasn't the first coverage he'd seen, but it shocked Cyrus nevertheless to see it still had the media's attention. A reporter, sporting a too-wide red-lipstick smile, and a familiar face were on the screen.

He couldn't remember the name of the reporter's companion, but Cyrus had seen her often enough--back before everything had gone so wrong. In fact, the last time he'd seen her, he had killed another person standing just several feet away from her.

The memory of the fear he'd projected outward, strong enough to stop the now-dead woman's heart, wrapped around him. He clenched his fists so tight his jagged nails cut little red slices into his palms; this did nothing to still the racing of Cyrus's heart. He attempted to focus better on the news segment, far too aware of the darkness lurking inside him, tensed and ready to make an outward appearance.

"How are you adjusting to your new life, Ilene?" the reporter was asking. Below the image of her was the emboldened caption: SURVIVORS OF DOOMSDAY CULT SPEAK OUT.

The accurateness of that could be debated. As long as the news had been covering the story, beginning a mere day after Cyrus had tipped off police, none of the former Second Advent members had said anything damning about him or anyone else.

He had been right: fear was an excellent motivator. Even free of the compound and the watchful gaze of its founder, these people wouldn't dare snitch.

Shivering, scratching at her arms, Ilene said, "It's been very...strange. I keep forgetting it's just me now, that no one is going to hurt me if I do something they don't approve of." She bit her lip, staring away from the camera. "Sometimes I wonder if he's still out there," she added, and Cyrus was not sure in that moment just which monster the woman was referring to.

The rest of their conversation faded into a dull hum as Cyrus stared at the table, scratching at the lines in the weathered wood. He felt the waitress's presence when she returned with a plate of bacon and eggs, but did not look up. Seeing her was much harder than simply knowing she was there; his focus always seemed to zero in on people's necks, as if he could see the blood pumping through the veins there.

Cyrus didn't risk coming out like this often, but he couldn't survive without these occasional trips.

He wasn't used to quality in his food, especially for the last month or so. As of late, most of the time he scavenged through dumpsters and whatever else he had to in order to gather any scraps. But when Cyrus couldn't manage that any longer, when the pains in his stomach became too much to bear, he wandered up from whatever places he found shelter in to come to the diner.