I sat up in bed, sweat pouring down my forehead. I had been having that dream for the last
couple of weeks. Ever since… ever Randy
and Luke had vanished. The first time I
had heard Randy’s voice I had brushed it off, thought that it was my own guilt
and grief playing mental tricks on me.
Then I had watched the news.
Chicago had experienced a suddenly increase in bizarre and
brutal homicides. Initially the details
had been scarce, but from what had been released I saw the connection
immediately.
People, alone in their homes, in their rooms, in their cars,
were suddenly being violently ripped to shreds.
The few witnesses who stepped forward described it as something
otherworldly.
“His arm just ripped off,” one woman had said. “One second he was just sitting in his car,
smoking a cigarette, and then the next his arm was on the ground. No one else was there!”
That clip had played on the nightly news, and on ever major
news site for days. Then the next death
happened, the newest victim pushing the last out of the news cycle, and all
mention of Invisible Psychos vanished from the airwaves.
In two weeks there had already been six suspicious
deaths. Those are the ones that seemed
obviously connected. Who knew how many
more had gone undetected, brushed aside as an accident or a suicide.
If this was just the beginning, I didn’t want to know what
lay ahead.
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