Carrion (The Bren Watts Diaries #1)

Chapter 6

Blood pooled down onto the pavement of the pedestrian crossing and my hair and clothes.

I was blanketed with it.

The crazy man went for another bite.

Behind me, Mr. Ramirez and Luke stepped out of the bus. The other passengers watched us in shock, screaming and yelling in panic, yet they remained glued to their phones, recording the grisly scene. Mr. Ramirez and Luke joined in at pulling the crazy man off the bus driver.

"Keep prying his hands off!" Mr. Ramirez yelled. When Mr. Ramirez got a good look on his throat, he froze. "His throat's missing!"

But it was already too late. The bus driver's eyes glazed over, and his arms went limp.

Logan surprisingly joined us, throwing a cracking punch at the side of the crazy man's temple. I heard the sharp blow, and it knocked the crazy man loose. It didn't put him off his feet.

I still had my grip on the crazy man's collar, and he wiggled out of it. He turned around, grasping his hands right onto my sleeves, and wrestled me down. I tried to hold him off, but my knees weakened, and I crumpled to the ground with him on top of me.

I screamed. "Get off of me!"

The crazy man didn't listen while Luke and Logan tried to pull him off of me.

A putrid smell emanated out of the man's breath. The bus driver's blood dripped down onto my jacket from the crazy man's mouth as he snarled and snapped his jaws toward my throat. I held the crazy man back with my weakening arms, pushing him with all the weight I could muster. I didn't know what was wrong with him. I could not steer away from looking at the two pupils of his eyes, seething with such malice and hatred that my arms almost gave out.

Finally, Luke kicked the crazy man hard on the side, and he rolled off of me, screeching and twitching. Given the force, Luke might have broken a few of the man's ribs. I crawled away until my back hit the curb.

From a distance, a piercing sound of a whistle blew. Before I could regain my composure, a police officer ran over to us with his gun raised.

"Sir! Stay down!" said the police officer. He aimed the gun at the twitching man.

The crazy man didn't respond. He merely had a thrashing fit, hissing with icy cries like nothing I had ever heard before. He managed to put his right knee up, and with his arms, pushed himself off the ground. His eyes darted for a split second to me—the prey that got away—but I was already too far from his reach.

The cop was closer. The man hissed, seething.

"Last warning! Put your hands up!"

The crazy man didn't listen and launched himself toward him.

The cop fired. One, two, three shots--All aimed at the chest. The crazy man fell back on the ground.

The crazy man started to get up again.

He should be dead.

There were at least six bullets in him!

I was shocked. My mind swirled with doubt and confusion as stark terror and panic seized my bones, gripping my muscles tensely, and my heart pummeled against my chest. The crazy man's eyes remained on the cop, and he slowly rose and walked toward the cop like a cat toying with its food. It wasn't only me who froze that night. Everyone watched, aghast and terrified.

I've lost any semblance of my senses. I couldn't move a muscle, shaking and trembling out of my control. Nails dug into my palms, and the terror that had seized me completely went to new heights. I knew what I was looking at was not human. It was a killer. Something abominable. I was at its mercy.

He stepped closer, eyes poisoned with hatred and fury.

For a split second, it was like my brain rebooted, and my eyes landed on the gun in the cop's hands.

"Shoot him on the head!" I found myself screaming.

I want to think it pulled him out of his trance as well as everyone was, transfixed on a man that was impossible to kill.

The cop aimed higher.

He fired.

The crazy man snapped his head back. Brains splattered out of the hole that blasted at the back of his skull, and he fell on his back, sprawled in an awkward angle. His eyes laid open, staring at the sky. 

The bullet hole at the middle of his forehead soaked in blood.

Luke came to my side and extended his hand out toward me. I took it, and he hoisted me back up.

"Are you okay?" Luke asked.

I hesitated to answer at first. I looked at my bloody clothes. I thought the man bit me, but I didn't feel any sharp pain. My muscles had a dull sore from holding the crazy man back.

"I think I'm fine," I said.

"You think?"

"I'm not hurt."

I tried to wipe the blood off my jacket with my own hands, but it was no use. It was half-soaked, which bled through my white shirt underneath. I frowned and took my coat off, and the chilly air bit against my skin through my thin clothing.

I sighed in relief. I came close to ending up just like the bus driver. Part of me felt a little guilty for thinking it since a man just died tonight.

The cop lightly kicked the crazy man's foot, but the attacker no longer moved.

The cop checked on Mr. Ramirez, who was crouched next to the bus driver. The police officer checked on his pulse and sighed. He reported the incident on his radio.

As I figured, the bus driver was dead.