Feeder

Chapter Two: Good Things Take Time

As usual, the first topic of conversation when I saw my friends that morning was frying Feeders. Caleb had fried two that morning, while Jack had finished off three. Kristina had them all beat, though, with six.

When they turned to me, I shrugged and admitted, "Just one." I left out my doubts, but mentioned how he'd circled and stalked me. They knew something was wrong right away.

"He stalked you?" Caleb asked, "Feeders don't stalk."

"Well, this one did."

Kristina also had her doubts, "Are you sure it was a Feeder?"

"Yeah," I answered, then hesitated.

Caleb repeated the question, "Are you sure?"

"Yes. It's just that-"

I wondered if I could trust them.

"What?"

"He wasn't bloody." They all fell silent, so I quickly added, "I mean, he looked like one, and smelled like one, except for that one little detail. And he wouldn't leave me alone."

After a moment, Jack asked, "And you fried him?"

I nodded my head. I could tell they were all worried. It wasn't legal to fry if he wasn't a Feeder.

I attempted to explain, "He was a little Feeder," I explained, holding out my hand at his height, "and he was obviously bloodthirsty. You could see it in his eyes." I wondered if that was true. Could I see it? I didn't remember.

Now Caleb asked again, "You fried him?"

This was getting annoying.

"Yes." I needed to explain myself, "Maybe he was a late Feeder," I speculated. Until they were five or six, Feeders were usually fed like little chicks, with their mother regurgitating directly into their mouths. That would explain the missing blood.

"Maybe I was his First Blood," I suggested.

Caleb and Kristina glanced doubtfully at each other.

I went to class, trying to calm myself with the knowledge that nobody saw what I did. I couldn't get in trouble. And the fried corpse was probably fertilizer by now.

My desk was near the window, though, and it was only minutes before the attention of everyone in the room was on the small grass hill overlooking the school.

There, in the misty haze just a hundred feet away, were Feeders. They stood along the ridge in one long line, their shredded clothes flapping wildly in the wind. Young and old, from children to the elderly, they stared at the school, but didn't more.

Like the boy, though, these Feeders weren't bloody. And though feeders didn't run in packs, these feeders were doing just that.

And they were waiting

for

me.