His mouth hangs open as he treks along the woods under the pale foreboding glimmer of the moonlit sky. Saliva, or maybe blood, drips from his mouth and onto his shirt. He doesn’t know which, and it’s far past time to be concerned with that.
The trees thin out, the land flattens becoming less uneven. The moonlight shines bright like a flashlight being held high above, illuminating his final journey. His eyes twitch, their lids only providing a narrow slant of vision.
He slams into a boulder, and lays against it. He swoons, and rocks back and forth. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, a devious flame of smothering certainty. He hears a rushing of noise crashing about. It sounds like water, like a river flowing.
He fights against his own body, and pulls his head back. He tilts up as much as he can, until his small gap of vision is pointing ahead of him. He sees the river. This is the best place he could be. If he can fall in the water it’ll take him far away from here. Far away from his family.
He rolls off the boulder and falls to the ground. He digs his hands into the grass and pulls himself toward the river. He reaches the edge, then throws himself into the water. With his last breathes he was finally able to do something right, something worthwhile.
“Markus?” he hears his wife say.
It’s muddled and shaky, but he’s sure it’s her. He knows her voice better than he knows anything else. How is he hearing her? He’s in a river, floating far away from them. He’s doing the only thing he can do to help them.
“Markus?” she calls to him again.
Her voice is further away now and distorted. He’s confused. His mind tumbles and spins, his own brain doesn’t make sense anymore. It’s playing tricks on him. It has to be. He feels a pressure on his shoulder. He smells rubbing alcohol, like the kind they use to keep their hands clean.
“Markus?” she says once more.
It sounds like a whisper now. He’s swooning and pulsing in and out of consciousness. His slight scope of vision reduces for the final time, fully closing the darkness around him. He feels as though he’s falling in an endless abyss. Down, down, down, then nothing.
Her hand rests upon her husband’s shoulder. Even through his shirt she can feel he’s burning up. The cuts must be infected, brining on a fever, she thinks. Maybe that’s why he’s out here in the cold knelt down by the fire pit.
“Markus, are you feeling alright?” she asks.
He doesn’t respond with words, but he gurgles and moans. He slowly rises from his knees to his feet, in the most cumbersome and unruly manner. She places her other hand on his side, he feels even hotter now than he did just a few moments ago.
“Mom?” she hears her son say.
She looks back to the tent to see Patrick hanging halfway out the door, inquisitively watching his parents.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“It’s alright, go back to bed, your father just isn't feeling well.”
She watches as her son’s face flushes white, transforming from a look of confusion to one of terror. She feels Markus’ arm wrap around her chest, his hot breath thrust upon her neck, then his teeth latching onto her flesh.
“MOM!” Patrick screams, the most morbid sound carrying her name forth.
She peers up over her shoulder to see her husband’s bloodshot eyes lifelessly starring back at her. His head comes down again, and tears another chunk out of her.
“STOP! STOP!” Patrick shouts, his voice screeching and quaking with despair.
Kylie turns to her husband and tries to shove him away from her, but as he falls back he grabs her arm, and she tumbles to ground with him.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! PLEASE STOP! PLEASE! DAD! DAD! PLEASE!” Patrick frantically shouts, not understanding what his father is doing or why.
She tries to scramble to her feet, but he’s stronger than she is and he pulls her back down into him. Her head smacks against the rocks of the fire pit. Her mind rattles and everything turns to a blur. She feels a cold rush spilling down her face as she fades into bleak nothingness. His fingers rip away at her exposed stomach, pulling skin and flesh from her.
Patrick falls back inside the tent, his chest a torrid mess of convulsions. His body shakes rigorously. He screams up at the rip in the tent, at the moon, at the stars in the sky, and at the wind that washes past it, the wind which creates a slight hum that is no longer soothing. He grabs the handgun that his father has been teaching him how to use.
Kylie’s struggles dwindle down rapidly until her body goes limp, laid across her husband, blood spilling from her, a crimson stream of confused anguish. Markus swings his arms and legs wildly, scooting from side to side, getting out from under the heavy mass of flesh that no longer has a beating heart calling to him.
Patrick's hands tremble violently as he raises the gun up and aims it at his father.
"D-Dad, s-stop, please, please." the distraught boy begs.
His father groans as blood spouts from his mouth. He ploddingly staggers in the direction of his son. His arms raise up and stretch out. His fingers curl in then extend back out, over and over, as his onward trudge continues to the newly discovered pumping murmur beckoning him.
"STOP!" Patrick screams, shrilly and painfully.
His father does not stop. He stomps forward, slowly bounding down upon him. He clicks the safety on the gun, unlocking it.
"DAD! WHY?!" he asks, his desperation reaching it's peak.
His father's hand comes down on his head hard, grabbing his hair and pulling him up to his feet. The gun fires without Patrick even realizing he's pulled the trigger. His father stumbles back, a hole blasted through his chest. He stops for a moment and
