"Bait." The word hung in the stale air like a death sentence. Rhett's throat felt raw just thinking it. "Not concerning at all."
As his captor had promised, they waited for the sun to drag its weak, anemic light across the grim skeletal remains of Brookside. Not that Rhett had anything better to do—still bound tight enough to cut circulation, ribs grinding like broken glass with every breath. He could only lie there and let the planet spin beneath him, watching that sickly yellow star crawl into view through the jagged window frames.
The sun brought more than light.
With the first pale rays came the sounds—disturbing, wet shrieks that bounced off empty buildings like dying prayers. Animal cries, but wrong somehow. Vengeful and tortured, like that drowning wolf's screech but multiplied, echoing from a dozen different throats scattered throughout the dead streets.
