Blades slice skin as he pushes his way through undergrowth which whispers against his legs; high brambles snag his top and he pauses to listen for his hunter.
A pain grips his hoarse throat as he gasps for oxygen after running miles in the moonlight. He searched for and found the cover of forest but it feels far from safe.
Scanning the space he left behind he can no longer feel the shadow chasing him or smell the toxic burning of scorched flesh. .
The bark on an old oak is damp and feels gnarled against his young palm. His fingertips find a groove, fingernails fill with matter. Mack does not see the ruby eyes blink above his dishevelled head, nor notice the fog cloaking the forest.
Snapping twigs beneath his trainers sound like symbols to his heightened hearing and he stops in a clearing.
Cold air moves his hair from his forehead, the stench has returned. He is close and Mack would rather die than see again the face which is melting…
Sorry; don’t know where that came from – I just looked out at the moon 🌒 😂