Round 2: Prelude
Lurching out from the black
Undead fears just came back!
Rising from death…
They draw no breath;
Too many to beat!
O Shambling feet
Of reasons greatest danger
Comes passion as a stranger
After we, Seymour and I, cleaned up the mess we made on the floor and in our pants, we gave the Chicken Pizza a burial under a potted plant we found. We can’t do much for James Black, though. There is no spot large enough for an even impromptu burial. His strange skin meant the soup quickly dripped off his head, and it reattached with a strange click onto the neck. Eventually, we just dragged him to a chair in a corner (err… wall, a circle has no corners. Still I did remember a corner) and turned the corpse to face the wall.
We turned to look at each other. The door still opened into a wall, and the sun was setting. “Awkward, huh?” he asked as he sharpened his knives. Rasp, rasp. Three, four, five steak knives. Two butcher knives. Uncountable numbers of razor-sharp dinner knives. “We’re stuck as close together as Fiddlesworth and I, in this little Tower.”
“Privacy would be nice.” I muttered. There is still time until the next competition, time I need to rest my aching back. I haven’t been getting any younger, and years of factory work have taken its toll on my body. I looked, slant eyed, at the youthful, if ragged, bum, “A bunk to lay on and something for privacy.”
Right when I said that, a partition appeared between us, and a bunk slid out the wall, on my side. The click of the wall resealing echoed, telling me that Seymour received a cot as well. “Brought to you by Heavenly Dreams and Christian Identity” spoke my pillow. As the light from the sunset dimmed, Bertie turned itself into sleep mode at the foot of the bed as I watched the ceiling slowly turn pitch black.
I slept, not knowing the danger of doing so.