Them

This week's prompt seems a little skewed to me, but maybe that's because I'm taking two lists of prompts and smashing them together, and that's what I get for being strange. :) The subject for this week is "Bread," and the theme is "eye contact." My immediate thought is some sort of awkward romance in a bakery, but perhaps I'll try something other than my first thought.
I look forward to seeing what you come up with, too.
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It's always a pleasure to watch a Burning. Maybe it shouldn't be - the older folks tell us that "it didn't use to be like this," and "it's a shame you youngsters have to see things like that," but they watch just as avidly as we do. Even in the cities, it's not always safe, though it's safer inside the cities than outside. That's just the way it works. Now and again, though, one of Them will get in, and then we have a Burning. 

The tricky part, they tell us, is luring Them into an enclosed space. Preferably one of the building on the Outskirts that no one lives in. Connor helped them do it, once. He said they gave him a sack of bread crumbs. Like Hansel and Gretel, he laid a trail. It had to be fresh, though. Otherwise, They wouldn't follow it.


"I heard Them behind me, licking up the crumbs. Got a bit worried toward the end. Thought I wouldn't be able to get back out before They ate me." Connor laughed nervously into his beer, but we knew better. We knew he'd probably need more than one beer to wash down that memory.

Once They're inside, the rest of the job is easy. Barricade Them inside, and throw in a burning torch. They're very flammable. It's probably all that hair that makes Them that way. 

It's my turn today. Old George shoves a sack of bread crumbs into my hands. "Move fast, keep the crumbs in a tight line, and don't stop." He pauses, his wrinkled face tight with something that might have been fear in a lesser man. "And whatever you do, don't make eye contact."

The "why?" in my brain is almost too big to swallow. I know now isn't the time for questions, but the unspoken word burns my lips. Old George has been around too long not to know the look of a question when he sees it.

"You don't want to know," he says shortly, and gives me a shove. "Start at the square. Quickly, now."

The crumbs are warm in my hands as I lay the trail. The bread has to be fresh, that's what they say. I want to know who tore apart the fresh bread. It's such a luxury, now. No one will cry over the waste. This bread saves lives.

Behind me, a rough, wet tongue scrapes against the broken concrete. A broad, scummy nose snorts in quick, wet bursts, following the bread. I move faster. Around the burned, shattered corner of the first building. Fifteen long paces. There's the door. I lay the trail, leading inside. I dump the remainder of the bag on the floor. Helping hands are ready to pull me out the window, where glass no longer protects the interior.

Heavy footsteps. The thud of thick, hard toes on the rotten floorboards. The building around me shudders. I take a quick look back.

The eyes seem to be all pupil. Nothing but shiny, dangerous, bottomless black. The eyes are focused downward, half-concealed by thick, pale lashes. Hands close around my arms and yank me backwards. My legs bash against the wall on my way out.

The door slams.

The torch is thrown in.

It shouldn't be a pleasure to watch a Burning, but there's one less of Them, now.