Dark Thorn - Grim Oak Press

S HAWN S PEAKMAN
bearing a scraggly beard.
“Leave, Al,” Richard growled. “You too, Walker. Now.”
“Letz git outta here, man,” Walker squeaked, his haggard pale
face smudged with dirt, his drug addiction plainly marked upon
him. “Dis place givin’ me jeebies.”
“Shuddup, Wakkah,” Al said. “You a gurl or sumthin’?”
“You do not know what you do!” Richard said firmly, moving
to escort them back to the surface, a cold sweat springing up on
his skin.
“Whatcha doin down here then?” Al questioned, ignoring
Richard and looking around. “Nuthin down here but big ole rats.
Warmah though, spose.”
Richard had almost reached them when the sharp scraping of
claws against stone chased him through the air, followed by a low,
reverberating growl. He spun, unsure of what he would find, his
eyes probing the darkness ahead for the sound’s maker. It wasn’t
evident; all appeared as it had for years. But the odor of new fog
coupled with dewy grass, purple lilacs, and vibrant growing vines
and trees filled the air, overwhelming the underground’s century
of misuse, the precursor to what he knew was coming for them.
The growl came again—nearer—painful to Richard’s ears
with its implications.
“Whatz dat?” Al warbled with fear, taking a step back.
“Get the hell out, Al!” Richard yelled, his focus fixed on the
tunnel before him.
As his order echoed throughout the underground, he caught
movement where the passage veered, a sooty smudge that grew
impossibly large as it came into their tunnel.
“Little man thingsss,” a deep voice snarled. Its features were
still hidden by the gloom. “Where do you leave to?”
“Nowhere,” Richard replied, planting himself between the
creature and the two homeless men. “And neither are you.”
A mewling hiss punctuated the air like released steam, a mocking
laugh of self-assurance. Richard did not like it. The outline of
the creature became more distinct as it entered the purplish light:
broad shoulders and thickly muscled haunches, rounded head with
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