Draculas

Crabwalking backward, Winslow felt and saw one of those claws grasp her shoe. Its grip was a vice, and its pointed finger bones dug into the thin flesh of Janine's ankle. She kicked out with her other leg, trying to break free, her rubber soles bouncing harmlessly off the creature's hand. Then it began to pull, its jaws snapping so hard and fast it almost sounded like a tap dancer.

Against her every impulse to pull away, Janine Winslow leaned forward instead, pawing at the Velcro straps on her shoe, ripping them free, then yanking her foot out of the mother-creature's grasp and crawling into the corner of the room by the desk.

Catching her breath, filling her lungs, Nurse Winslow let loose with the loudest scream of her life.

"HEEELP!!!!"

The mother creature had Winslow's shoe in its mouth, chewing the leather and rubber to shreds. Its wide nostrils flared, and it began to scurry toward Winslow once again.

Ten feet away.

"HELP ME!"

Five feet away.

"JESUS CHRIST HELP!"

Two feet away, its wicked claws reaching out, Winslow curled up fetal in the corner, her knees tucked into her chest.

Then the creature jerked to a stop and hissed. It writhed for a moment, its whole body shaking, but it didn't come any closer.

Winslow saw why.

Its intestines. They're caught in the drawer.

They stretched out the length of the morgue, a slimy, bloody rope keeping the creature away like a dog on a leash.

"Ms. Winslow? Holy fuck!"

Ralph. At the door, peering in through the small, square window. Winslow watched the knob shake, but not turn.

Locked. I locked myself in.

"Get the key from Kurt!" Winslow cried out.

Ralph nodded, then disappeared. Winslow faced her attacker, which had stopped trying to reach for her. Instead, the mother creature, eyes bulging, was chewing on its own hand, scarfing it down like it hadn't eaten in weeks. Winslow watched the blood spurt, listened to the tiny bones crack and splinter, and then turned away from the spectacle, her attention zeroing in on the desk.

A weapon. I need a weapon.

She yanked open a drawer, pencils and desk supplies raining down on her. A stapler. Some Post-It notes. Paper clips. She picked up some child's safety scissors with blunted tips, and stared at them incredulously.

It's a morgue, goddamn it. Where's a goddamn scalpel?

A choking sound from the creature. Winslow dared a glance. It had bitten off and eaten all of its fingers, and was jamming its own stump down its throat, gagging obscenely. Then, suddenly, it twisted around and began gnawing at the taut loop of intestines tethering it to the drawer.

Winslow got onto her knees, opening up another drawer.

There. A trocar.

It was heavy. Sharp. Formidable. A hefty metal tube, hollow and pointed on the end, used for aspirating body cavities. This was a large model, wide as a garden hose and close to eight inches long. Winslow gripped the base and faced the monster, which had gnawed its way through its own entrails and lunged toward Winslow, its mouth so wide it looked like it could almost swallow Winslow's head.

She thrust the trocar upward, using both hands, punching the razor tip through the creature's ribcage and into its heart.

Blood immediately sprayed out the base like a spigot, drenching Winslow's clothes as the monster flopped onto her. But instead of latching onto Winslow's neck, those hideous, snapping jaws kissed the floor, a mangled tongue lapping at the tile.

Blood. It's licking up its own blood.

The creature hoovered it up as the red stuff pumped out of its own chest, smearing it across its face, sucking it in with a sound like slurping soup.

But it wasn't quick enough. Winslow watched, horrified, transfixed, as the creature's blood output overtook its input. The trocar was too big, pumping out blood faster than the mother could take it back in. The crimson pool grew ever wider, even as the thing's frenzy increased.

Eventually, it toppled onto its face, limbs splayed out, tongue still licking feebly at the sticky floor, until finally even that was still.

BANG.

Winslow's head spun at the sound.

Another drawer. Something alive inside.

BANG!

BANG BANG!

And another one.

BANG BANG BANG!

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!

All of the drawers were shaking, rattling, the cacophony so loud it drowned out her wail of fear. Then the hissing started, spliced with that horrible shrieking, Nurse Winslow's brain telling her to move, get out, but by the time her legs received the message the first door had burst open, and along with a blast of cold air, a clown popped out onto the floor, landing on all fours. Awful teeth, black eyes, fright wig, its fangs already chomping as it stared across the room at Winslow.

Now, finally, Janine's legs were moving, and she was sprinting toward the exit. She collided into the door and jerked on the handle out of pure instinct, but it didn't budge.

Behind her--

SQUEAK.

SQUEAK.

SQUEAK.

The clown, on its feet now, its comically oversized shoes fitted with joke squeakers, which got louder as it plodded closer.

Winslow's fingers found the lock, and as she turned the deadbolt, pulling the door open, she heard a flurry of squeaks as the monster ran at her, crushing her with its bulk, and her last thought as its fangs sank into her face...

I've always hated clowns.

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