The pale walls of the tunnel were covered in brightly coloured pictures. An empty box of crayons, discarded paint tubes and nubs of chalk littered the floor. The illustrations stopped at chest height, identifying the age of the artists more accurately than their artwork.

Mr Vandemar sniffed the air, one of the artists had come off second best in a fight, definitely dead and decidedly new to the condition. He picked the child up, tucking her under his arm. The movement dislodged the paintbrush buried in her eye, it hit the ground with a plink.

He would eat well tonight.


tv100 — box of crayons