I’m not what the hell he was other than damned hard to kill.
I had lost my way in Virginia, tracking down what I was certain was a pack of hellhounds. As I came to an open pasture, a fetid stink filled the air, and in a moment, I found myself looking at a Secesh.
He was walking toward me, his weapon in hand, and the sun gleaming off his bayonet. Despite the distance between us, I could see a broad smile on his face.
I called for him to surrender, and when he didn’t respond, I raised my rifle to my shoulder and repeated my command. When he remained silent, I shot him in the chest.
The round from the Spencer should have put him down.
Instead of falling, the Secesh ran at me.
I emptied the Spencer in him, and all to no avail. He merely increased his speed. I don’t know if he could have fired his weapon, or if he merely sought to drive the damned thing through me, but I didn’t wait to find out. I dropped my rifle, drew both Colts, and hammered him with lead.
The bullets tore into him and severed his left hand around the wrist. They shredded his coat and slammed into his belly, and before I could attempt to reload, he was there.
I cast aside my Colts, the Bowie knife in my hand, as I met him face to face. He shrieked at me in a language I had never heard, and blood exploded from his mouth as he did so.
The fight was brutal, and in the end, I had to tear his guts out and pull his heart from his chest. It was only when I held his heart in my hands and cut the damned thing in half that he finally stopped moving.
I took both halves off to one side and set them each on fire, the stench of the burning organ one of the foulest I have ever suffered.
When I was certain that nothing save cinders remained, I reloaded my weapons, holstered the Colts, and slung the Spencer.
It was, I confess, one hell of a fight.
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