Free Stage 3: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller by Ken Stark Page B

rather stumbling along haltingly as if he wasn't quite certain of what he'd heard. His long hair fell in swirls about his wild, dead eyes, and his face was a mask of dried blood. Evidently, this creature had charged blindly into a wall or tumbled over a curb, for his nose had been twisted into question mark and most of his front teeth had been shattered. But with his lips curled up into a perpetual snarl, those broken splinters of teeth only served to give the creature the aspect of a hungry shark.
    Mason stepped slowly and gingerly backward and angled himself between two cars parked against the curb. The sharkman approached to the precise spot where Mason had been, bumped into the far side of the very car against which Mason huddled, and came to an abrupt halt. Then he just stood there, head atilt and staring blindly forward. Mason held himself absolutely still and silent four feet away, and sure enough, some other sound from further down the block soon caught the creature's attention. There was a flurry of hair as the sharkman's head whipped to the side, then he launched himself away from Mason, and ran headlong toward this new prey.
    Mason breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back into the road. He took a quick survey of the swarm and realized that the idea of breaking into a trunk to find a tire iron was impossible. At least for now. There was no way he could do it silently, and the monsters would be on him in seconds. Still, the idea of a surreptitious withdrawal into the sewer system was a good one, but he would have to wait for a more favorable opportunity.
    For now, he resigned himself to his current predicament. Somehow, he had to get from one end of the street to the other without making a sound, and the sharkman had just shown him that it was all but impossible to be completely silent. He considered removing his shoes and padding through the gauntlet in stocking feet, but decided against it. Firstly, he was already wearing sneakers, so the difference wouldn't be much. And besides, if he suddenly had to run, he knew he could do it faster with shoes on, and the thought of encountering broken shards of glass in stockinged feet didn't exactly fill him with delight. He thought of setting off another car alarm to distract the creatures so he could slip past, but he had no wish to revisit that particular hell.
    Then he had an idea. It was preposterous, but it might just give him a tiny edge. With agonizing slowness, he slipped his keyring out of his pocket, and with one eye always on the creatures around him, spent a full minute slowly working the keys off of the ring. Now he had eight keys and a ring in a tight fist, and only the vaguest suggestion of a plan in his mind as he padded slowly and softly into the fray.
    Mason's eyes were everywhere at once. He watched the creatures he could see and looked for others who might appear from doorways or from around hidden corners, but mostly he scoured the ground in front of him. Before he committed to taking a step, he'd comb the roadway for any bit of detritus that might give him away, then if the pavement was clear of debris, he'd bring his foot forward and touch his toe to the ground. If there was no discernible crunch of grit or, God forbid, a tiny undetected stone, he'd gently lower his heel. If there was still no sound and no movement from the crazies, he'd bring up his other foot and repeat the process. Over and over he performed this grueling ritual, each time watching closely for any indication that he'd been heard despite his best efforts.
    At last he'd made it to the middle of this particular gauntlet, and the crazies were all around him. The closest was an old female twenty feet away. He saw her stir as he came closer, and he froze long enough for the creature to lapse back into a stupor, but he could see that even apparently insensate, she was still fully alert and had her ears pricked to the slightest sound.  Ever so gently then, he eased his back foot up and