From chapter 11.
"My Name is SHERA"
thats what the red writing said... written all over the walls and the floors. Everywhere. on papers, desks, books, computers... bodies...
"Hm..." Micheal said as he started walking around the large room. Shera, crouched in a ball, holding a dying man by the throat in a corner glared at micheal, breathing heavily. "There you are. You've made quite a mess..." He smirked, tapping the ciggerette in his hand to knock off the ash.
"Yeah... .... so?" Shera growled as the man she was holding started to twitch and gag, his head slowly sucking itself down into his throat. there was a crunch as his skull couldn't take the force, and he went limp. "... why... did you come... back...?"
"Why? Simple. I need you..." he paused and looked at the writing in blood. "Shera." he looked back at her. "Someone is dying... and she needs your help."
"My help..? My Help?!" Shera stood upright and threw the body across the area. she still wore the long coat that had been ripped from a doctor, having tied it with that mans own veins. it held up well, most likely from her abbilitys...
"Yes. Shera, you possess so much power in you... In your mind, and your blood... she needs some of your blood." Micheal stood where he was, his voice showed no sympathy or emotion. his eyes focused on shera's eyes.
"She needs my blood? Why? why does she need my blood? the blood of a freak..." she looked down. "why me?"
"Because you're her daughter Shera... she needs you to help her..." Micheal nodded, and several men walked in from the elevator, carrying various supplys. "We can take some of the blood here if you'd like..."
Shera looked them over, several times. She studied each man and noted several features... one of them carried something heavy. one of them had a bad leg. one was cross eyed. one was mildly retarded, and another was depressed. if anything happened, it wouldn't be too hard to take them out...
For the man with the heavy objects, his arms must be tired. Break them off. the bad leg? force him onto it... he'll go down soon. the crosseyed one could receive a blow to the face and he'd fall. the 'special' one... he'd most likely run... he wouldn't be able to describe what happened well enough anyway... the depressed one would just offer himself to die... and micheal... use those two damn ciggerettes against him... he always smokes one, and just has another in his hand, lit, for no damn reason...
She cracked her neck and answered "Sure."
 LabTech118 · Thu Jun 02, 2005 @ 08:46pm · 0 Comments |
