The moon hung low and cold, painting the ruined beach in stark silver and black. The air still trembled from the last explosion, and the smell of burnt sand and blood clung to everything. Alaric stood in the middle of the crater, one arm gone, blood pouring from the stump in thick, dark rivers. Yet he threw his head back and laughed, a deep, broken, evil sound that rolled across the water like thunder.
"BWAHAHAHAHA!!!"
The crowd, scattered farther back now, went dead quiet again. A hundred faces stared in pure confusion.
A guy in a torn tank top muttered, "Oye… that alien's still laughing?"
His friend, eyes wide, swallowed hard. "Does he have something up his sleeve? This guy just lost an arm…"
An older woman clutched her husband's arm. "I don't know… let's pray."
A teenage girl near the front whispered, "He's supposed to be beaten… right?"
