The wheezing he'd taken for a broken air conditioner was coming closer.
Before his mind could process this realization, a sickly figure shambled into view from the doorway ahead. Its eyes were glassy and unseeing. Its skin was loose and wrinkled. Its breathing was harsh and belaboured.
He wanted to run, to get away, but his legs wouldn't move. Frozen to the spot, all he could do was try to choke back a cry.
Too late.
The figure stopped. Turned its entire body towards the sound's source. Started to limp towards him. Let out a wet, phlegmatic rasp.
He ran.
I've been sick for most of the past week. Nothing serious. Just an ongoing cough that, among other things, has made it hard for me to get to sleep at night. Consequently, last night while I was trying in vain to turn in, I got the idea for this story.
Make of that what you will.
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