It will soon be time to move on again.

Sunlight flitters through a break in the curtains enveloping the right side of my face in a welcoming warmth. I was at peace here, possibly for the first time in over a year, but after the events of last night I know deep within my protesting heart that I must move on to somewhere else, somewhere safer.

I grudgingly rise from my slumber, reach under the bed for my shotgun, and, naked, stand stock still for around five minutes listening for the slightest sound within the cottage. Satisfied that nothing untoward stirs within my previously secure surroundings, I carefully rest my weapon against the bed and dress quickly. Moving to the bedroom window I slowly peel back the curtains and survey the silent unmoving carnage displayed on the lawn outside. Body parts strewn sporadically, various limbs bent at unnatural angles, snarling mouths laid open, dead eyes staring, seven foreheads each showing signs of  shotgun blast.a mini-eruption from each betraying the end. An end I readily visited upon each of these craven abominations the previous night. I feel no remorse. It was either me or them.

Fifteen minutes later, after having checked the perimeter I return to the lawn and begin the grisly task of collecting the parts. I will never get used to the stench of rotting flesh. My task completed I pour gasoline over the wretched mound, light a match and stand back to watch the makeshift lasting funeral pyre. The sound of crackling flesh and popping eyeball never ceases to amaze even after so long since my last encounter with these creatures.

I tear my eyes away from the fire and walk slowly to the edge of the cliff side. I look out over the bay. The waves crash in against the dangerous rocks below sending spumes of wash up into the air. The rhythmic sound is soothing to my fevered mind. Fevered as I had believed myself to be safe, that time had somehow hopefully ended the existence of these beings, that I was free to spend the rest of my time in peace here. How wrong was I in foolishly believing this?  Breathing deeply, I take in the acrid aroma of kelp, seawater and sand. Fragmented visions of a past life come to the fore - memories of childhood, footprints in the sand, the comforting feel of my fathers hand enveloping mine as we walk along a far from here stretch of beach, the piercing cackle of other children laughing, the caw of a solitary seagull. All of these things gone nowinnocent times never to return. I close my eyes and absently wipe a stinging tear from my cheek.

I know that I must make my move soon. That I must start to pack up the things that I need for the journey ahead. That I must move only during the day and barricade myself in as darkness falls once more - last nights activities prove this. But not just yetsoon. I enter the cottage, retrieve a beer - the last one - from the cold store, and return to the cliffs edge. Feeling the sun against my skin, the sound of the waves rolling in then dragging out, the sharp, cold taste of amber goodness as it weaves its path over my tongue and down my throat, I feel at ease once more. It makes me forget, just for a short time, that I am the last one left. How can I give this place up?

Surely one more day will not make a difference