From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.
April 27, 1930.
They swarmed out of the cemetery, and I killed them for hours.
When it was finished, my hands were numb, the weight of the Colts dragging my arms towards the ground. The stench of death and murder hung in the air, clinging to my clothes and my skin.
I did not count the bodies as I hauled them back into the cemetery. Nor did I look upon the faces of the dead. Instead, I laid them out in orderly rows, their soiled uniforms demanding nothing less.
At first, I didn’t know why they attacked me. They did not speak or cry out as I killed them. The men did nothing more than advance upon me, dying beneath the thunderous roar of the Colts.
Brass shell casings littered the ground, my body shaking and my hands trembling as I collected the brass. I laid one upon the breast of each dead man. When I finished, I holstered my weapons and looked upon the carnage I had wrought.
There was no reason for the massacre, and it was that which bothered me the most.
For a long time, I stood amongst the dead. When I finally turned to leave, each corpse exhaled and spoke in unison. From their dead mouths came my mother’s voice magnified a hundred times.
“I’ll kill you yet, Duncan Blood.”
She had expressed the same sentiment on my 17th birthday, shortly before I stabbed her to death at the dining table.
Her threats, I well remember, were never idle ones.
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