Chicago Chronicles Part 7

The gang members body lay where it fallen from the gunshot. Only sixteen years old, Terrence never thought he would be shot in the head at midnight, miles away from his parents house in the suburbs. He didn’t even smoke. It was supposed to be an initiation.
But he was dead now, his story was over. The blood from his head decorated most of the alley, and dripped into the sewer below. From there, most of it washed into the sewage stream and was absorbed into the outflow which snaked around the city before being extracted. Some of it, however, had formed a small stream which fell in between the cracks of the stones, and into an alcove which had been built long ago.
The floor was a maze of refuse. Stones which the construction crews couldn’t use and remains of old Capos who couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Buried within this mound, the blood of Terrence Ward found what had been calling to it. Joints which had been petrified loosened. Ancient eyelids opened, burning with the hunger. Elimelech was awake.

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