75 Days
They move slower, and aren't as coordinated.
Slowly, the dog sticks its head around the end of the aisle and spots me. It's a boxer, and his muzzle is red with fresh blood. As I'm watching, he slowly licks his chops and bares his teeth in a loud snarl. The muscles of his legs bunch up, and I tighten my grip on the bat.
I don't like the idea of killing a dog that's just trying to survive, same as me, but only one of us is going to leave this store alive, and it has to be me. I don't want to do this, but I will.
Bab Populer