Eric Fomley

I walked towards him, looking at his vertebrae the whole way as I walked close to him.

He was facing the wall at the end of the hallway, slowly raising one of his hands and pressing it up against the drywall.

Listen, buddy, I don't want to have to use this.

Please turn around slowly.

He didn't respond.

One of the bony, translucent hands drug its way down the wall.

It took me a moment to realize what was happening.

That he unzipped the wall is the best way I can describe it.

Like the wall was some sort of flesh that tore as he slid his hand down it.

The gap opened, and instead of more of the factory on the other side, it was something else.

He turned, looked at me with the eyeless skull that was his face, and nodded his head one time before he ran into the hole he ripped into the wall.

I'm not proud to say this, but I fired my service weapon three times at him.

If the bullets made any sort of impact, it didn't show.

Stop, I screamed.

I ran to the opening in the wall and froze.

I can't describe this part the right way.

It wasn't anywhere on the planet Earth.

It wasn't anywhere I can describe, except maybe the very foundations of hell itself.

The inside of the room was like the inside of a stomach.

The walls were made of flesh, organic flesh like plants with razor teeth jutted out of the ground, which itself looked like some sort of pinkish tongue designed to eat.