The Parasite

Prologue

The sun was dipping low, washing everything in a dim rusty colored haze, like the light of a dying lantern just burning its last bit of oil. It cast long black shadows across the glass-covered , dirt stained tile floor of the tiny convenience store. The sunlight filtered over the grimy walls and shimmered on the shards of shattered windows that littered the ground, a silent testament to the raiders that had been here before me. Most of the shelves were overturned and bone-bare, thrown about it the rage of desperate people, except a few stray bags of chips, lotto tickets, and other assorted useless trinkets.
It was all the same, just another corner store trashed by raiders when they thought the end was coming.
I silently stepped over the frame of a now glass-less window and into the shadowy mess of a Daily's store. The slow grinding crunch of my boots on glass made me stiffen up, and get a better grip on my 12 gauge Tactical , pressing my fingers into the cold black metal and making sure my thumb was against the safety button in case I needed to make a quick switch. The comforting  pressure of the short stock against the inner pad of my shoulder made me feel at ease.
With the world how it was now, after all the death and riots and people turning on each other like animals, it was the only one I could rely on. It was a good friend.
The convenience store was not very big, maybe only four aisles in all with a small circular checkout counter. The tiles on the floor were that cheap plastic tile and sticky from endless soda spills and splashes of other mysterious liquids that I didn't want to know the origin of. The walls used to be white, but now water and sunlight coming in freely from the broken windows had stained it a coffee tan.
My eyes scanned the shelves and aisles as I slowly made my way towards the cash register area, glancing over the trash and old newspapers. More glass crunched under my boots and decomposing papers littered the floor, lottery tickets and even twenty dollar bills strewn about, all useless now. I had to step over a fallen shelf to get to the next aisle. I deftly stepped to the other side and scanned the shelves, the drink coolers, everything looking for anything that could be of good use. The place was completely gutted though; someone had even felt the need to steal the hotdog oven. What in the world would you want a hot dog oven for in a world with no electricity unless you had a backup generator?

I made it to the third aisle in and my eyes fell on several cans of anchovies, as well as a trampled but still intact bag of jerky. That would last forever, so I dusted the grime off and stuffed it all into my backpack, before zipping up again and turning the corner to investigate the next aisle. "Don't mind if I do," I whispered as I took a lighter from the checkout  desk and stuffed it into my pocket. That would be good to have in case my old one ran out.
In the dead silence of the abandoned store, it felt like a sin to break it with even a slight whisper, even though there was no one within miles to hear it. I dawdled around for a few seconds more at the checkout counter and found a nice Buck pocket knife behind the counter as well, tucking it into my cargo pocket for later.

The light was fading out now, painting the dim store interior with a hazy twilight glow. Luckily the lack of light didn't effect me in the least. I guess that was another thing I could thank "it" for. It was disgusting to think I could ever thank it in the first place , though. Shaking off such thought, I continued on. Time was pressing now, I needed to salvage whatever I could and get going.
As I rounded the desk and went down the last aisle in the back of the store, where several beer pallets and empty jugs of water littered the floor, something in the air suddenly felt.... off.
It was like a slight wind that tickles the hairs on the back of your neck when you're alone, nothing obviously wrong. But something...not quite right. I guess you could call it instincts left over from our ancestors, after thousands of years being prey for lions, wolves and other predators its logical we would develop a sort of sixth sense. Like the fear and constant awareness of a deer.
It was the feeling of not wanting to turn around and look over your shoulder or else some disgusting monster or crazy killer was going to be staring down at you; almost subtle enough to easily shrug off with just an "eh," and continue with your day. But this time I couldn't shrug it off, not with the world how it was now. This was not a "oh probably just been too many horror movies tonight," feeling. This was the real world, this was the horror movie. I couldn't just snuggle up in a wool blanket and forget about it.
My thumb switched the safety off my gun and I prepared to turn around and fill whatever was there with deer-shot from my 12 gauge.
But just the second before I could angle myself to turn, the muscles in my back coiled in anticipation, a noise made my hair stand on end.
A mixture between a voice and an asthmatic, breathy cough rang out.
I instinctively dropped instantly and pressed my back against the shelf I was hiding behind. I didn't realize the death grip I had on my shotgun till I looked and saw my knuckles turning white. "Keep it together," I willed myself, keeping my heart rate down and head clear. The store was dead quiet now, not a single sound. But there was a presence, the thickness in the air that meant something was standing in the doorway to the store just waiting. Had it seen me?
No, it couldn't have. Then what was it doing? Was it staking me out?
I held my gun tightly to my chest, finger resting in the trigger guard.
I could feel the ragged quick breaths the thing took in the air, there was a pressure.
I controlled my breathing, trying to keep calm and quiet, and make sure that when I did stand up I could get a perfect aim on the thing and fire. With a shotgun it was hard to miss. A 12 gauge Tactical like this one could easily put a hole the size of a softball through anything you pointed it at. And with the shortened barrel, there was no problem swinging it up and putting the bead on your target just using muscle memory, no brain required.
There was the slow crunching of glass as the thing took a step into the doorway.
It was in the store now.
I glanced up and saw the large round mirror in the corner of the ceiling over the checkout counter, the ones the cashiers used to see everything going on in the store. Perfect.
I scanned the warped fun-house style reflection, and my eyes found the trespasser.
He stood perfectly still, filling the doorway with his form. A human.
But the kicker: he was silently staring up at my reflection in the mirror.
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//AN: this is simply a somewhat allegorical story that began from a dream.  I'm just taking the idea and seeing how far I can get with it, so support from readers is greatly appreciated.
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