With an almost inaudible pop and a shifting of weight on the suspension followed by a continuous “THD-THD-THD-THD-THD” noise, Fredrick knew he had just burst a tyre. A corpse in the back and I get a flat fucking tyre — and in this weather. Fuck my luck.
Fredrick stepped out of his banged-up ‘98 Nissan Micra, straight into an ankle-deep pool of mud. The brown goop seeped into his low top sneakers, which combined with the lashing rain ensured total body saturation. A chill and a curse shuddered through him as he yanked his foot from the mud. Planting his now-free foot on a stable patch of earth he tried to pull his other foot from the quickmud.
He was half way out when he heard an inhuman growl that smashed its way through the wind and rain like a hammer. It was like nothing Fredrick had heard before, and he had the entire BBC Sound Effects archive on CD at home. So startled was he that he toppled over.
As he landed face down in the muck and his mouth filled with sludge, he imagined (He had no idea why) for a moment that he was the body in the back of his car. For just one second he was nothing. Cold. Still. Dead.
He found his footing, no longer caring how dirty he got. Standing up, the rain washing some of the crud from his face, he trudged to the back of the Micra where his jack and spare tyre and corpse were held. He cracked the back hatch and was greeted by the stench that had ridden with him all this way. He saw the human shape wrapped in bloody bed sheets. Queen Bitch. Dead at last. He beamed a psychic “Fuck You” to her. The hate still burned, even after all these days spent starting at her body trying to figure out a plan of action.
He pushed the feet back and lifted up the floor panel to reveal the spare, which wasn’t there. Fuck. “FUCK!”, he shouted. What now? This wasn’t the right place to get rid of a-
The noise. The inhuman noise, again like a hammer in the rain. But close now. Much too close.
Vibrating in terror, Fred turned around. What he saw, the source of the noise, defied… well, everything. Seven feet tall, in towered over Fred, who was five-eight, and his Micra. Two rows of razors sat in its mouth, which gave a smell not unlike the one in the back of his car.
As for the rest of the thing, Fred, who was an avid reader of dictionaries his whole life, could only think of two obscure “F” words to describe it.
Floccose and Fabiform. Wooly. Bean-shaped.
He barely had time to finish the thought before his world went black and wet and stinky. He felt the skin being broken in one big line around his upper torso. The pain was surreal. He felt his lower half fall away and he died, crying inside.