image copyright Sarah Potter

Mulligan hefted the large gas cylinder on to his back and fired up the crop burner. The view from the porch looked almost the same as last night – if you ignored Troy’s blood-stained boots sticking out of the foliage at the end of the garden.

Trina screwed up her eyes and pointed, “I think that one wasn’t there yesterday.” Mulligan strode over, engulfing the suspect bush in a jet of orange flame. It screamed and writhed, curling and withering before its root-legs could carry it to safety.

“Pack up our things,” said Mulligan. “We’re getting out of here.”

19 thoughts on “Creepers

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