Every story starts somewhere. This one starts with me, watching three people hold up a truck carting off medical waste. It's the fourth time someone's done this. This time I'm following them. This isn't a story. The real story is the police detective, asleep now, who'll see my photos on her desk. In that story, she tosses some photos on the table, makes some brilliant deductions, and closes the case. Following a stolen truck at midnight in a beat-up sedan with my headlights out? Not a story.
The real story doesn't mention this derelict warehouse until the third act, when the cops raid this place and stop whatever's going on. All because unmentioned me follows on foot for the photos.
Inside, the three are shoveling bloody bandages and sharps from the truck into some kind of grinding compactor on the floor. I snap silent photos until the pile fucking stands up and bellows this grating roar. That's when I scream out, and the thing sees me.
Something that big shouldn't move that fast. Before it grabs me with its used-needle fingers, all I can think is that this was a story after all, and that not all stories end happily.