The Last Supper
by Paul D Brazill
The night had crept up imperceptibly and smothered the granite coloured day with darkness. The winter moon hung fat and gibbous as Bronek blasted Arek’s brains across the snow smothered ground and produced a more than passable Rorschach test; the splashes of blood looking black in the stark moonlight.
Bronek took Arek by the ankles and hauled his massive corpse towards the dilapidated cottage, leaving a snaking trail of blood behind him. He paused, his breath appearing and disappearing in front of him like a spectre.
A murder of crows scattered and sliced through the moon’s whiteness and swooped down into the blackness of the forest. Snow began to fall like confetti. Almost imperceptibly, a smile appeared at the corner of Bronek’s mouth.
The heavy wooden door creaked as Bronek pushed it open. Arek’s head bounced off every concrete step as Bronek dragged the body downstairs into the dark and dingy basement and onto a sheet of dirty green tarpaulin. He switched on a lone light bulb, which buzzed and flickered, revealing a room cluttered with wooden barrels and crates. A dirty, spiderweb cracked mirror hung above a rusted metal sink.
Bronek knelt down and unstrapped a large hunting knife from his left leg.
Later, his stomach growled with hunger and fear as he fried Arek’s bacon smelling flesh and he tried to ignore the gnawing realisation that he was now the last man alive.
(Paul D. Brazill, who was born in England and lives in Poland, can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com.)