4-8-2


by Spyder Collins

Sierra Van Tanner stood agape at the mess that spread out before her. The blood that splattered across the room was ungodly in measure. It looked to be the blood from a hundred people, yet only a solitary body rests in the center of the room. The room she stood in appeared to be a living room, she could only gather because of the fireplace that dripped fresh blood from the mantle.

Sierra traced the oval shape of the room, running her eyes from floor to ceiling and back again. Everything, every square inch of the room was blood stained. Everywhere except for the outline of where the body lay. It appeared clean beneath the body, male, Caucasian, late thirties to early forties Sierra observed. From the body the maple hardwood was clean. Sierra gathered perhaps a foot in all directions, like a chalked outline of a body. The blood pooled around the circumference, and seemed to push against the invisible outline, as if it wished to enter but couldn’t

“4-8-2, what is your locale?” Someone at dispatch called to her.

“4-8-2, I say again. What is your locale?”

Sierra drew her hand to her shoulder. “I’m in the apartment,” she replied.





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