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   Chapter 7 Death And Taxes

After Grace By MatheusHMacedo Characters: 5268

Updated: 2018-01-05 17:15

They began to pile the bodies in the street. The sick mound of broken limbs and gazing dead eyes grew with every new addition. From here the corpses looked like nothing more than flesh colored rag-dolls. The men spoke to each other as they carried their victims, tossing them in the pile on counts of three. To them this wasn't a sport and it wasn't a tragedy, it was just what they did.

The silver glint of the leader's machete flickered against the evening sky as he walked to the dead. They called him Halter. I turned away once again. If they weren't going to burn the bodies or bury them, I didn't want to see what was next. I hurried down the stairs. Night was coming fast.

Before leaving the town hall, I wanted to check for anything that I may find useful. I darted from room to room, offices and hallways, pawing through desks, bureaus, and cabinets. I found keys, coins, photographs-- nothing I could use. As I was turning to leave, I saw a sign: Shelter.

Following the arrows down the long dark hallway I found a large staircase leading to the basement. Dirt and grime clung to every step. When I got to the bottom I found a pair of large wooden doors, I turned the handle but they wouldn't move. They had been locked from the inside, which meant whoever locked it had never come out.

I had seen a large key-ring in the front office but ignored it. I climbed the stairs to go back and retrieve the keys, as I reached the hallway again I saw the long white beam of a flashlight cut through the black. I lay on the sticky steps, quiet as a mouse. They were mo

stood huddled around a fire grill, talking and laughing. A pang of hunger tugged at my stomach, my head throbbed and my dry throat burned. If I was feeling this way so soon, the children must be truly suffering. I remembered Annie giving Camden the button to keep him from getting thirsty. If I got caught or hurt, they'd be lost. Left to starve, to freeze. I had no choice but to get my supplies and get back to them.

"Hands, " someone said behind me. My heart stung in silent panic, my knees locked. I heard the deafening click of a handgun being cocked inches from my ear. The hard and hollow barrel of a handgun scratched the back of my head. "Now, " he said.

I raised my hands over my head, the blade of my knife sticking sharp into the air. He reached out and took it. I could feel his whiskey breath at the back of my neck, the sickly sweet smell lingered in my nostrils. I heard him tucking the knife into his belt. He put his free hand on my waist. "You're ours now, " he said, and marched me toward the men cooking limbs on the grill.

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