We dug for days.
Out on the western border of Cross, the world erupted and shook and sank. Houses were cast from their foundations, and other homes appeared where none had existed before. Whether this was due to a massive shift in the earth itself, or the crashing of another reality into our own is unknown. Regardless, we buried far too many people over the course of a week.
I did not bury. I dug.
I led groups of volunteers to where houses had once been, and to where the new arrivals were. At times we dug down twenty feet, always following the rank odor of death. Somedays, we discovered nothing more than a mule or a horse. Others, we pulled out body after body.
Some were even human. More than a few bore only a passing resemblance to humanity. Many of these bodies had been grievously injured, and not by the earthquake.
I found the marks of weapons, both blades, and bullets, and there were instruments of war with which I had no familiarity. These weapons I took to my own home and hid away until they could be properly destroyed. The same occurred with the bodies. They were brought to my farm and put to the torch.
I don’t know what illnesses they might have born, or how tempting they might be to the learned gentlemen at Cross’s branch of the Miskatonic. Several of them I had to chase away from the recovery efforts. It seems to me that they knew far more than they were willing to share.
Then again, I’ve killed more than a few members of that faculty over the years, so I doubt they have a high opinion of me.
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