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The first hit shattered something.
Zeke wasn’t sure if it was bone or resolve.
The bat connected with Campelter’s ribs, sending a shockwave through Zeke’s arms. The crack was sickening, a sharp, wet sound that mingled with the boy’s scream.
Campelter collapsed onto the dock, curling in on himself. His breath came in ragged gasps. “Zeke—w-wait—”
Another swing.
This time, it caught his knee. Something popped.
Campelter wailed, clutching his leg, writhing on the wooden planks.
Zeke stood over him, bat gripped tight, chest heaving.
This should feel wrong.
He should be shaking, throwing up, panicking.
But he wasn’t.
He was calm. Steady.
And hungry.
The familiar ache twisted in his gut, gnawing at his insides, demanding more. He swallowed hard, his tongue darting over his lips.
Campelter coughed, blood dribbling from his mouth. His good hand reached out, weak and trembling. “P-please…”
Zeke tilted his head.
He should stop.
He could still walk away.
But then he thought of Stan and Ford—how Campelter had tormented them, laughed at them, humiliated them.
And suddenly, the decision wasn’t hard anymore.
Zeke dropped the bat and straddled Campelter’s chest, pinning him down. The other boy squirmed weakly beneath him, his strength draining fast.
Zeke’s breath came slow and deliberate. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against Campelter’s ear. “You smell delicious.”
Then he sank his teeth in.
The taste exploded in his mouth—copper, salt, warmth. The skin split beneath his teeth, muscle tearing as he bit down harder. Campelter’s body jerked violently, his muffled screams ripping through the night.
Zeke didn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop.
He ripped away the first mouthful, blood coating his tongue, thicker than anything he’d ever eaten before.
It was intoxicating.
Campelter’s screams weakened into gasping whimpers. Zeke barely heard him. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out everything except the wet, sticky sounds of chewing.
His fingers dug into Campelter’s flesh, prying open the wound, sinking his teeth into raw muscle, devouring.
Bite after bite.
It was better than food.
Better than anything.
The hunger that had tormented him his whole life, the emptiness in his gut—it was gone.
And for the first time, Zeke felt whole.
The night stretched on, the waves lapping softly against the shore. The wooden dock was painted red, but Zeke didn’t notice.
He sat cross-legged beside what was left.
Which wasn’t much.
Flesh, muscle, organs—all gone.
Picked clean.
His hands were drenched in blood, sticky and drying, his face smeared crimson. His stomach was full, warm, satisfied.
All that remained of Campelter were bones.
Zeke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, exhaling slowly.
He stared down at the remains, waiting for guilt to settle in.
Nothing came.
No regret. No horror.
Only the quiet, absolute certainty that this had been worth it.
Campelter had been a bully.
He made Stan and Ford cry.
He hurt people.
No one would notice when he was gone.
Zeke got to his feet, stretching. He glanced down at the bones, tilting his head. He could leave them, let the ocean take them.
But no.
He didn’t like leaving things unfinished.
One by one, he gathered them up, taking his time. The dock was surrounded by tall, wild grass, the kind that no one ever bothered to clear. Zeke buried the bones there, deep in the sand, hidden beneath tangled roots.
It felt right.
Like cleaning up after a good meal.
Weeks go by the summer sun hung high over Glass Shard Beach, casting golden light over the waves. The air smelled of salt and motor oil, the usual scent of work and freedom.
Zeke walked alongside Stan and Ford, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. The three of them were heading toward the shore, where the half-built Stan-O-War sat waiting for its daily dose of fixing, hammering, and general goofing off.
“Okay, hear me out,” Stan said, kicking a loose rock down the sidewalk. “We steal one of Ma’s pies, but we take it before it cools down so she won’t notice it’s missing until, like… way later.”
Ford pushed his glasses up. “That’s the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah, because it’s foolproof!”
Ford sighed, shaking his head, and Zeke chuckled softly.
Just a normal day.
But then—
Stan suddenly stopped in his tracks.
Ford followed suit, and Zeke nearly bumped into them.
“What the—?” Zeke started, but then he saw what they were looking at.
A poster.
Taped to a telephone pole, the edges curling from the breeze.
MISSING: CAMPBELL ‘CAMPELTER’ HAYNES.
LAST SEEN AT GLASS SHARD BEACH.
A washed-out photo of his face stared back at them, smiling wide like he hadn’t screamed and begged for his life just weeks ago.
Zeke’s stomach twisted—not in fear, but in satisfaction.
It was almost funny.
Nothing left but bones, buried deep beneath the sand. No one would ever find him.
“Whoa,” Stan muttered, stepping closer. “So, wait—Campelter’s just… gone?”
Ford frowned. “Looks like it. His parents must’ve put these up.”
“Yeah, well, good riddance.” Stan crossed his arms. “That guy was a jerk. Maybe he ran away or something.”
Ford, ever the cautious one, didn’t look so convinced. “I don’t know… He was a bully, but this is weird. People don’t just vanish.”
Zeke felt Ford’s gaze shift toward him, and for a split second, his stomach tightened.
Ford had a way of noticing things.
But Zeke just shrugged, keeping his face neutral. “Guess we won’t have to deal with him anymore.”
Stan snorted. “Yeah, no complaints here.”
Ford hesitated, then slowly nodded. “I suppose.”
And just like that, the moment passed.
Zeke let out a slow, careful breath, glancing at the poster one last time.
No one will ever know.
The three of them continued walking toward the Stan-O-War, the conversation already shifting to something else.
Stan was laughing.
Ford was rambling about an idea for an engine upgrade.
And Zeke?
Zeke was still hungry.
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