Day 10.9: Bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat


    The door groans as I push it open, hinges whining in protest, like they don’t want me to leave. The office is behind me now, swallowed by shadow, by dust, by the weight of everything I just saw. My boot touches gravel, and the cold rushes in, biting at my skin, slipping down my collar, settling deep in my bones. The junkyard is still. Quiet. Too quiet. Like the world is holding its breath.


    And then I stop.


    Because I see it.


    The crawler.


    The one I killed. The one that shouldn’t be moving anymore. The one I know for a fact I put down.


    But it isn’t moving.


    Something else is.


    Another one.


    Low to the ground, tangled in the wreckage like a broken puppet. Its body is twisted wrong, bones jutting under torn, slack flesh. Its legs are nothing but ruined limbs—shattered, useless, bent in ways that should have left it dead. But it doesn’t need them. It pulls itself forward, slow, deliberate, fingers digging into the dirt, clawing, scraping. Each movement is stiff, unnatural, like it’s forgotten how a body is supposed to work. The sound of it—nails dragging, bones grinding—rakes over my nerves, sharp and endless. It moves inch by inch, never stopping, never hesitating, like nothing matters but forward.


    Not toward me.


    Toward the thing I killed.


    My breath shudders out of me, and I feel it—that sharp, hollow pull in my gut. That sick weight settling in my ribs, pressing down. Something about this feels... wrong. Not just the sight, not just the sound—deeper than that. Like the air itself is turning against me, thickening, pressing against my skin like something unseen is watching, waiting, whispering.


    I don’t move. My breath is caught somewhere in my throat, tight, burning. My fingers tighten around the crowbar, but I don’t raise it. Not yet.


    I just watch.


    The crawler stops beside the corpse, its milky eyes empty, hollow, but its mouth…


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    It opens.


    Slowly. Wide.


    And then it bites.


    Teeth sink into rotting flesh. A wet, tearing sound fills the air, thick and wrong, like something being pulled apart that was never meant to break. The crawler rips a chunk free, strings of dead muscle stretching, snapping with a sick, wet pop. The smell rolls over me, thick and rotten, clinging to the back of my throat, turning my stomach.


    It chews, slow, mechanical, like it’s forgotten how to do anything else. Like a wind-up toy stuck on one motion, repeating, grinding, jaw working stiffly over the putrid meat. Each bite is a dull crunch, a wet, sucking noise, thick with saliva that shouldn’t be there, with a need that isn’t real.


    Something inside me twists. Not fear. Not horror. Something deeper, colder. A feeling I can’t name, but it wraps around my spine and pulls tight, sinking claws into my ribs.


    I swallow, but it doesn’t help. The lump in my throat stays, heavy and unmoving. My fingers tighten around the crowbar, but my knuckles are numb, bloodless. I feel like I should move. Should do something. But I don’t. I just stand there. Watching. Listening.


    And the thing just keeps eating.


    I don’t know why this is what gets to me. I’ve seen worse. I’ve done worse. But this—this is different.


    It’s not hunger. It’s not instinct. It’s just... movement. An action without reason. A body that doesn’t know how to stop. A thing that doesn’t need to eat but does anyway.


    My pulse pounds in my skull. I should leave. I should move. But my legs are locked in place, my body frozen in something between fear and fascination.


    The thing swallows. Then it bites again.


    The sound is worse the second time.


    Like wet fabric being torn apart. Like something that shouldn’t be heard.


    My stomach twists. My fingers twitch around the crowbar. My head is buzzing—loud, restless, like a swarm of insects under my skin. I feel like I’m slipping, like the ground is tilting under me. Like something is shifting inside my head, cracking apart, letting something else leak through.


    I take a step back. The gravel crunches beneath my boot.


    The crawler stops.


    Its mouth stays open, a strip of flesh caught between its teeth. Its head twitches, turning—just slightly, just enough. A slow, unnatural movement, like something winding up from deep inside its bones, something that shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t still work.


    Its eyes find me.


    Empty. Hollow. Staring past me, through me, like I’m just another piece of the junkyard, just another thing that doesn’t belong. Like I was never here at all.


    And then—


    It keeps eating.


    Slow. Mechanical. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. Like it’s following some old, broken script, a machine stuck in an endless loop. Like nothing matters but the motion, the act, the endless grinding of rotting teeth over rotting flesh.


    My throat is dry. My hands are shaking. I feel sick. Not from the sight, not from the sound, but from something else. Something deeper. Like the air itself is pushing against me, telling me I don’t belong here. That I need to leave. Now.


    I force myself to breathe. To move. One step back. Then another. Slow. Careful. Watching its hands, its mouth, its empty, unseeing eyes.


    I don’t turn my back. Not yet.


    I just keep moving.


    And the thing just keeps eating.