Mile a Minute

The old buildings were covered, absolutely covered, in trailing vines with wide, flat leaves.

“God, how old is this place?” Cathy asked.

“Probably abandoned in the fifties, judging by the gas pumps,” I said.

Cathy raised skeptical eyebrows.

“They call it the ‘mile-a-minute vine’ for a reason,” I told her as we stepped under the leaf-covered awning. The plant filled the space, covering even the cafe tables. “It doesn’t take long-“ I cut myself off when the solid mass shifted and we saw the woman, mouth gaping in a silent scream, her body still warm.

Something brushed against my ankle.