By Shane Alexander Greenhough
Copyright 2012 Shane Alexander Greenhough
The landscape was dead.
The occasional lonely tree rose from its grave to reach toward the night sky with desiccated fingers. Short shards of dried and dusty grass crackled like burning embers beneath our boot heels while we mulled about, waiting for him to arrive – waiting for The Butcher.
In the distance the red, neon glow of a highway-side diner throbbed, reminding us just how far we were from civilisation.
I didn’t want to be there.
My name is Brad, and I was a small fish who worked street corners for pocket change. This was not my element. The gear we’d laid out in crates in the grass was enough to keep me dealing for a couple months at the least, and I wasn’t ready for the step up in responsibility. I certainly wasn’t ready for the dramatic, the horrific shift my existence was about to take.
It’s funny, if you’d asked me just the night before, what I thought of vampires, I might have laughed. I’d have told you they were nothing more than fairly tale porn, slightly spooky stories aimed at making ladies moist. Even now, the ‘V’ word stumbles past shame on its way off my blushing tongue.
Nothing could have been farther from my thoughts while we waited in the dark for The Butcher to arrive.