“I will kill you!” he warned. “You’ve messed with the wrong guy.”
Satan was scratching at the front door.
“That’s right, boy,” Ricky shouted to his dog, “come on in here. Satan will eat your ass up!” he told whoever was listening. “Yeah, you hide, assholes, you’re dead anyway.”
Ricky tried to look back toward the living room. He couldn’t tilt his head back far enough to see.
“Come on, boy!”
Why didn’t the stupid mutt come through the dog flap? He had to have gotten out that way. He knew how to get back in.
And where the hell were Tyrone’s zombie soldiers? Ricky knew who had done this. Tyrone wanted to show him who was in control. Twisted bastard. Just wait. When Ricky got his hands on that—
The tv suddenly blared to life, the volume loud.
“Hey!” Ricky shouted.
The front door opened.
He stilled.
The screen door slammed, the wood-against-wood sound echoing above the television.
Then all the pieces fell into place for Ricky.
Satan bounded into the room, growling, snarling.
“Still!” Ricky shouted.
The dog didn’t listen. He was in a frenzy.
“Still!” Ricky squeaked as the dog circled him.
He should’ve fed that damned dog before he went to bed.
“Satan! Still!”
The dog sniffed the blood. Lapped at it.
Ricky’s body started to quiver.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Still!”
The wide tongue lapped faster.
Ricky struggled. Tried to jerk his hands free. Pain speared through his palms.
“Still!”
Teeth sank into Ricky’s skin. He screamed. The harder he fought, the more vicious the attack.
He turned his face away. Satan’s huge mouth clamped down on Ricky’s throat. He screamed; the sound was weak. He tried to get away. His skin ripped—blood spurted in the dog’s face, across Ricky’s chest.
Ricky went limp. He could feel the blood gushing from his body, Satan’s teeth tearing out plugs of flesh.
The blackness closed in on him until all he could see was that stain on the kitchen ceiling.
His lips formed the wordstill.
