Love at McDonald's: A HALLOWEEN TALE

6

SEVEN BULLETS

Silence reigned in the darkness of the hall where the Butcher lay in his own blood, nailed to the ground by the knife of a brave boy. His body lay as still as the night, when suddenly the darkness in the gaping, hollow holes he had for eyes awakened, more obscure and hungry for blood than ever. The blackness screamed from behind the mask like an angered demon. The cracking of his hands killed the peaceful silence, the blackened nails of his monstrous hands dug themselves into the plastered floor like claws of an animal, cracking it apart with unnatural force. All colour had left his skin like his human soul had abandoned his body, leaving nothing behind but a sickly, undead shade of green. As if puppet of an inextinguishable malevolent source, the butcher arose, unrooting himself from the floor the was nailed to, like an immortal creature out of a storybook. He was undefeatable.

With the long kitchen knife still in his body, he began to walk like a zombie, never giving peace until his thirst for death had been quenched. He, or whatever was left of him had set its mind on killing the boy that dared to challenge him. And he would get him, one way or another.

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Michael watched Chris disappear out into the night, the sound of the screeching tires growing fainter in the distance.

He now stood there in the dark parking, all alone, without a weapon. He looked around him, trying to find something, anything he could use to defend himself with.

Not finding anything in close distance, he decided to go back inside and pick up whatever piece of the chair Soloman had broken. So he ran back inside, the cold air hitting his face as his cape fluttered in the wind. As he ran back inside, he saw the broken metal leg on the ground only feet away from  the counter. He sprinted to it and grabbed it in time, before his eyes landed on the silhouette of a tall figure in the far left, by the door he had dragged Chris out of. A shiver ran down his spine. Something had told him that the butcher had been as good as dead when he rammed the knife through him, but he was mistaken.

There he stood, as tall and broad as ever, not saying a word. Waiting, as if he was going to run to him and let himself be killed.

The murderer observed the boy, the demonic darkness behind the dirty bag growing angrier and angrier at him standing in he  moonlight, as if waiting to finally kill him.

“If you want me,” Michael called, “You'll have to come get me!” with that he ran back out into the night. Slowly, the Butcher stepped forward, his heavy feet denting the ground as he followed the boy, destroying all the tables and chairs in his path.                  Michael looked back over his shoulder, smiling triumphantly as he saw the killer appear in the entrance of the diner, following him and luring him farther and further away from Grace.

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Chris sped through the night, ignoring the soaring pain jolting through his broken arm and bleeding leg wound, desperately looking for any lit house or shop on both sides of the street. But more than anything, he prayed to see a car coming from the opposite direction.

Every second counted. The more distance he set between and his friend, the more desperate he became. “Please man! Help!” he banged his hand on the car horn, sending a loud honk out into the darkness. As if his call had been heard from the nights, two bright lights of a car from the other the opposite lane shone through the wind shield of his old impala.