Excerpt from The Devourer of Flesh and Bone
by James on Nov.02, 2009, under National Novel Writing Month
Two days in, and I’ve put almost 8,000 words to page. Here is the prologue:
A dark shadow fell across Spring Hill Road. A dark inky blackness that not even the moon above could penetrate. It wound its way sinuously, creeping from side to side extinguishing the streetlights as it passed and casting the street further into darkness. A deathly chill crept followed in the shadows wake, a mist forming in the deserted street.
A figure stepped out of the darkness, moving swiftly along the sidewalk, the figure kept to the shadow as if it where his own. Halfway down the street he stopped in front of a house.
This house was no different then any of the other similar houses that lined the streets. It’s large bay window was dark and none of the upstairs lights betrayed any hint of illumination.
The figure walked up the walk and too the door. Reaching into the deep pockets of his overcoat, he pulled out slim leather case. Unzipping it, he pulled out several oddly shaped bits of wire and began to jiggle them in the lock. After only a few minutes of effort, the bolt slid away and the door was pushed open silently.
Pulling the door shut behind him, the figure crept into the foyer, taking care not to make a sound on the hard wood floors. Darkness flanked him on either side as he headed for the large staircase that dominated the foyer. Slowly, he moved up the staircase, pausing when he heard a creak behind him. Spinning around, he saw a man emerge from the darkness and into the foyer.
He came to the foot of the stairs, dressed in a bath robe and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was below average in height and well past his middle years. The skin around his face hung loosely, as if he had been ill recently. He ran his hand through his thin scalp and looked up the staircase, for the first time beholding the stranger in his home. The man’s eyes opened wildly and his mouth fell open, his jaw working uselessly.
The stranger began to descend the staircase, slowly withdrawing a pistol from beneath his overcoat, the long suppressor adding an additional five inches to the barrel length. The man in the bath robe only had time to whimper, “No,” before the trigger was pulled.
There was a loud click as the slide cycled and muffled thud as the expanding gasses from the fired bullet were trapped within the suppressor. A hole, nearly half and inch in diameter, appeared in the middle of the old man’s forehead. The back of his skull exploded outward, sending a shower of blood and grey matter against the walls and door.
Critical portions of his brain missing, the man slumped to his knees and then toppled face forward on the ground with a wet thud. A pool of blood began to form around the corpse as it twitched randomly, arms and legs thudding against the blood stained wood.
The figure rolled the body over with the toe of his shoe, examining his work as he replaced the pistol into it’s holster. Kneeling down next to the body, he produced a five inch, partial serrated blade from beneath his coat. There was so much work to be done and there was so very little time left.
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