What We'll Do for Blood

He walked over until the hazy smudge of white limbs—arms, in fact—were visible. His eyes adjusted, strained, and adjusted again.

Someone was crouched on the ground. They clung to something thick and dark brown—a forearm, he realized—that was attached to a second someone. This second person lay slumped against the building, their head turned from sight, and they let out a second groan, softer and clearer than the first.

Scott went cold and shivered. “Dad?” he asked.

The crouching figure turned and Maria’s shining eyes locked with his. Her mouth was covered in something dark that matched something on his father’s arm. For a second, Scott froze, watching her like she was a wild animal twice his size.

Maria stood up, her arms at her sides and her fingers splayed. A bolt of fear shot through his stomach until his bladder threatened to burst. He dropped the food. It landed with a weighty, crinkling thump that startled them both to life.

“Scotty,” she whispered in the same slippery voice that had prickled the hairs on his neck.

Dry mouthed, Scott dashed for his bike.

--

In the sleepy town of Northam, Massachusetts, not everyone is who they seem to be.