Free Ravenous Dusk by Cody Goodfellow

rest dropped to the ground and rolled away in a panic.
    Col. Nye, cursing a supersonic blue streak, leapt down from the dock and charged over to the armored car, where the driver was already shouting for help into the radio. In the midst of it all, Storch took a halting step out into the sunlight, then another, then another. Foam and smoke streamed out of his skull, and his blood on the ground danced and sizzled like grease on a griddle. Cundieffe stepped off the dock and fell hard on one foot, so awestruck was he by the sight. Until now, it suddenly dawned on him, he'd only seen people die on television. Sgt. Storch was escaping, though Cundieffe could see light streaming through the hole in his skull.
    "Knock him down!" Col. Nye screamed, and Cundieffe was trying to get up, but his ankle was sprained, and wouldn't bear his weight. He threw himself in Storch's direction to bring him down and out of the line of fire, wherever that was, but two more shots stitched the sergeant's chest and blew a lot of fluid and tissue out his back. Storch seemed to freeze and weigh the pros and cons of being dead, and, after a while, reluctantly accepted. He fell face-down on the pavement. His skin was starting to turn purple again in the sun.
    Col. Nye was pointing at the office building in the distance, just over a mile away, and shrieking hysterically into a phone and at his guards, who piled into the armored car and peeled out of the garage. In an instant, there was just Cundieffe and Col. Nye standing over the body of Sgt. Storch. Only the sizzling sound of Storch's burning blood broke the silence. The awful, abundantly lethal wounds in his head and chest seemed, incredibly, to grow, spreading like stains, causing the flesh to subside and run like melting wax. Nye was still holding Cundieffe's gun, and Cundieffe knew by looking at him that it was not a question of whether he would get it back, but how.
    "Never, in all my years, have I lost a prisoner," Nye started, "not one whatsoever—" Cundieffe sucked in air and blew him away.
    " You lost one today. What you've cost us by delivering him to his execution, we won't even begin to understand until it's too late. Your security was a farce, Colonel, and my report will reflect that. In fact, if I may make so bold, I intend to pursue an investigation of this entire transfer, which stinks of a staged execution."
    Nye's eyes opened twice as wide as his nosehole and got twice as dark. "My fault? Staged?"
    "He had something to tell me, and your people wanted him dead. When I stated my intent to postpone the execution, you acted accordingly. Don't worry, I'm sure your punishment will be minimal. After all, you were only following orders."
    Col. Nye's hand was shaking as he flipped Cundieffe's gun around in his leathery hand and stuffed it back into Cundieffe's holster. "Go home, G-boy. I've got a mess to clean up."
    Col. Nye went over to oversee the removal of Storch's body as Cundieffe called in to AD Wyler. As the Assistant Director's secretary put him on hold, he watched a team of Army medics in biohazard suits load Storch into a pressure-sealed stretcher. One of them dumped a clear solution all over the blood and tissue Storch left on the concrete.
    "This is Wyler. Speak."
    "He's dead, sir. Killed in transit."
    Wyler was silent for a long time. A medic mopped up the last of the mess, and they left in a civilian ambulance. Cundieffe was alone in the garage, and cars were moving down the street again. "Get here immediately. Were you able to learn anything useful?"
    "I don't know, sir. He spoke to me, but I think he'd lost his mind. He didn't make much sense. I think we need to change the focus of the investigation. I think we need to take a much closer look at Cyril Keogh."
    "Get here, now. Dr. Keogh is not our concern, but weathering the shitstorm that's about to slop over our decks is."
    Cundieffe winced. He still couldn't bring himself to accept his superior's sometimes vulgar hyperbole. He