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I never thought I'd make it out of there alive. But somehow, I did. Maybe somebody's watching out for me. After what happened, I'm starting to think so. I'm at a library right now, using a fake name. There's no telling how long I can get away with this, but I'll stay online as long as possible. My story must be told before they can silence me for good.
My dad tied some twine around my ankle so I could find my way back. I took off my jacket so I'd fit in the air ducts. Almost immediately I regretted it: Just wearing a teeshirt, I felt unprotected, open to attack. And all I had was a french fry slicer. What was I thinking? I should have asked Dad for a gun. Whatever it hunted in that clausterophobic maze, it wasn't a potato. Not any more.
I could hear it moving somewhere ahead, but it was impossible to tell how far -- or how close -- because of the echoes. It was dark, except for my flashlight, and the vents were clotted with cobwebs and dust bunnies. It could be hiding just around the corner for all I knew. I crawled for what felt like hours, until, suddenly, the sounds stopped.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. I looked back down the vent and called for my father. No reply. I gave the twine a couple of tugs, his sign to tug back. He didn't. I was really worried so I started to reel the twine in. After ten or fifteen feet, it came to a sudden stop. Something had chewed it in half. Then I realized that the ventilation system was a complete circle around the bomb shelter. It had reached the end and.. my father!
I twisted around, barely managing to turn even though I'm skinny and pretty short. I crawled as fast as I could, retracing my steps to the opening. "Dad?" No reply. There was slime will little globs of white flesh everywhere, a trail of the stuff leading out of the bottom floor to the living area. I followed it, sick with fear. "Dad?!" He was seated in his easy chair, his back to me. His head was twitching as if he was having a siezure, his arms raised to his mouth. I ran to his side and screamed at what I saw.
He was gorging on the thing, its roots twisting like tentacles. Green ooze dribbled down his chest. At first he didn't see me, not until the potato opened its eyes, each as black and inhuman as a rats. Then he looked at me, as if for the first time, and his words will haunt me till
Damnt! They found me. The stupid librarian is pointing them right to me.
Gothor out.
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Gothor here. If you missed my last message, it's at the very end of the third page. Read it or none of this will make sense. Not that it makes much sense anyway.
I'm hidden out my friend Joe's house now. When the Men who were in Garbage spotted me, I ran for the back door which triggered the alarm, which was suddenly cut off seconds after I ran. I guess they feel the local police will only get in their way. One less thing to worry about.
I'm exhausted, metally and physically drained. But before my head hits the keyboard, I'm going to tell you what happened in the bomb shelter. (Joe doesn't know any of this, I'm scared that if I tell him, he'll end up like the man in the chair, his mouth removed to keep him from ever telling his story.)
My dad looked up from the alien creature and said,
"Eat it."
"N-no!" I cried.
"Eat the potato," he said, his voice slurring like a zombie.
"No. You eat it."
He blinked. So did the dozens of eyes on the potato. "But... I'm already eating it."
"Well," I said, thinking fast, "we can't very well BOTH eat the potato. You go ahead, big guy. I'll... uh... grab another one from the basement."
He looked down at his living meal, which seemed to nod in approvement.
I ran from that room of madness, fearing that any minute the man who used to be my father would follow. But he didn't, and I got away.
For all I know, he's still eating it. Eating the potato.
Gothor out.
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