The blood drips onto the concrete.
Courtney would never play the zither again.
She had never been much good at it anyway, it had always been more her brother’s suit. He’d been the favourite before his musical talents came out. The handsome, better behaved twin. Once, during their seventh birthday, Courtney had confided in her father that she thought Matthew always got more presents. It was especially blatant at this party. Sure, he had more friends, he always did, but Courtney had counted the ones wrapped in the green paper her mother always favoured and was certain it was four to three. Her father, being the sweet man that he was suggested that her “gifts were just that much more valuable”. As always, her father was wrong.
Drip.
The blood spilled down her arm to her wrist and hand below. She couldn’t feel it, but she saw it escaping past her improvised compress as she ran. It would be easier if she could grab onto her arm but the nerves weren’t listening. Courtney desperately hoped it was shock, though superstition dictated that she couldn’t hope both to escape, and to heal, that’s too much to ask from the universe. She checks behind her as she makes a turn. The warehouse behind her appears empty, silent, but she knows better and- She loses her footing.
Drip.
Coworker left the fucking forklift in the middle of the aisle. She slips trying to get up again. Damned blood. Damn her phone for not working. Damn Declan for dying like an idiot. Damn it all.
Drip.
Courtney looks up from her arm and for half an instant she can see it. Massive, serpentine. Coiled half in and out of reality. Barely distinct from the shadows but she knows the monster is waiting for her to keep running. She is being played with. Tormented. For what. Despite herself she runs hoping for something, anything. The monster drops from above, seemingly unconcerned with injury or the small matter of knocking the shelving over as it descends. The noise is deafening and Courtney almost forgets to keep running from the shock. She sees a door, she knows she won’t make it but she runs in vain, ancient survival machinery overtaking rationality, a being of pure terror. Unknown to her deafened ears, the bureau has already entered the warehouse from the opposite side and the Basilisk has already abandoned her tiny soul in favour of the more delicious quarry awaiting at the other end. ‘A very profitable hunt’ it wonders as it breaches reality.
Courtney finally escapes the building only to find tens of men in heavy armour pointing their weapons at her, and seemingly shouting, though she can’t hear. She attempts to raise her arm to surrender, but the nerves won’t permit her and she cries out in agony. A man in a sharp suit and glasses approaches, and after a moment of what must be shouting, he shows her his badge and signals her to come with. He leads her to a secluded spot by the forest. At first she wonders why he isn’t taking her to an ambulance, then she doesn’t wonder anything at all.
As he holds the smoking 9mm Agent Mandez thinks to himself that he hates his job. Not that he has any option but to do it anyway. The blood was going to be a bitch to get out of the suit, but then what good deed goes unpunished? It was hopeless for the poor girl before she even saw the basilisk. No survivors, no exceptions. Something about economic impact. Mandez had never cared about the why of the rules, only the what. As he signalled the disposal team to collect her corpse, the last of her blood slowly gushed out into the grass. One thing was for certain.
Courtney would never play the zither again.
