(The Fourth Installment of the Trilogy...)
"Give me your paper," Mike demanded,
reaching over the pool table. The game room was lit by two dim lamps, hanging
from the ceiling. A few red leather armchairs lined the log-cabin-esque walls,
along with deer antlers and landscape paintings.
"What? Why?" Ron asked from across the
table.
"I don't know. What were you doing?"
Laura, the writing instructor, interjected, "Why
don't we all just calm down."
The self-proclaimed writer looked at her, thinking of
an easy excuse, and replied, "I was writing."
"Were you drawing pictures of my
wheelbarrow?"
"What? No." Ron dipped out of the warm
light.
"Are you the guy that's been saying I'm not
allowed to have a wheelbarrow in the lodge?" Ron backed away, confused,
toward the half-open snack pantry. Ron stepped into a puddle of blood, still
oozing out of the cupboard, and commented with disgust, "Why are my shoes
bleeding?" He then looked at the other two. "I just bought these. I'm
never getting these ever again."
Ignoring the comment, Mike continued. "It never
goes outside! It's an inside wheelbarrow!" He paused for a second. "I
would understand if it was an outdoor wheelbarrow. That's dangerous. That's
disgusting."
Ron nodded passively, fixated on the pantry. He tapped
the door with his shoe, opening it by just a crack. Two glowing eyes stared
back at him. The creature growled, baring its red, blood-stained teeth. Paul's
mutilated body slumped and flopped onto the floor, nudged by the animal,
leaking like a rotten tomato.
Laura shrieked, "Fuck, a zombie!"
A wolf, distorted in a black haze, jumped out of the
cupboard, biting hold of Ron's leg. Blood squirted out of the wound like a
fountain on Valentine's Day. "Whack the fucking wolf!" Ron yelled,
motioning at Laura and Mike. The janitor grabbed his mop, and waved it in Ron's
vicinity, poking him in the eyes a few times. "Grab onto the mop,"
Mike shouted. The writer angrily replied, "I can't fucking see, you
jackass!"
The wolf bit down harder, and even more blood sprayed
the floor. "Hit it with the pool stick," Ron suggested, grabbing hold
of the mop. Mike dragged Ron and the attached wolf, leaving a trail of blood
behind them. "Damn it, whack it with the fucking pool stick!" Ron
yelled in agony.
"No, these things were expensive," the
janitor tried poking at the wolf. "I paid good money on these and I don't
need you fucking up my floors, either."
Ron, propping himself up with one pool stick, used the
second pool stick as a bat and struck the crazed wolf monster in the head. He
then proceeded to whack the wolf's head with the two lamps, which flew off and
hit the walls, casting the room in an odd light. In the corner, Laura guzzled
down some whiskey. The creature was dead, piled on top of Paul on top of the
pool table with a few pool sticks stabbed in its belly.
With a thud, the lodge's power went out, just as the
bowl-shaped lamps returned to their resting positions. There was nothing but
the moonlight, casting shimmers of the lake's surface onto the walls, to light
their path to the lobby.
-
Written by Jerry Zervas on 2/6/26.
DO NOT USE UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION BY ME (i.e. email
me)
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