Fuck. Holy fuck. Is that blood? Fuck. Kyle, is that fucking blood?”
The voice, young, male, came from Matheus’ right, sounding like echoes down a long tunnel. Matheus opened his eyes, blinking away the fresh snow. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. Two hours? Three? Enough to build up a dusting of snow despite the wind.
“Relax,” said a second voice, deeper, still young. “Garrett probably set it up to freak us out. Come on, the crypts are on out back.”
“It looks pretty fucking real.” Footsteps followed the voice. “What is that? Is that … a dog? Fuck, Kyle. This is fucked up.” His voice wavered. “I think this dude’s dead. Fuck, look at his throat.”
“Jesus, you’re gullible,” said voice two. More footsteps, heavier, louder. “It’s just corn syrup and red food coloring, and some of that rubbery special effects shit glued on. See, it just peels—”