Duncan Blood’s Journal: 1920


I knew who they were what it was they wanted.

The men stank of the old world, the residual stench of war and death clinging to them as they passed by me. They were older than anyone in Cross could imagine, and they were, shall we say, disappointed in my behavior.

A few had run into me during the war, demanding that I cease choosing sides and that I let the world carry on with itself. I had disagreed and continued my fighting in the trenches.

I caught sight of them when I was by the house of forgetting, and I hastened back to my home and went to a well that had long since gone dry. I dumped some hay into it and then wet it down with kerosene, knowing it was all I could do.

With matches in my pocket, I went to the front of the house, found a good spot from which to watch both the drive and my porch, and I waited.

Soon, the ravens called out the news I had been waiting to hear, and I drew both my Colts.

The men walked abreast of each other, talking in low voices and evidently displeased with the entire situation. Their attention was focused on their complaints and on my porch, and not a one of them heard me when I stepped out and shot them all in the back.

Before the thunder of my Colts had ceased, I was dragging the first of them, a fat relative from Switzerland, off to the well. As I did so, I could see the hole in his skull, slowly healing, and I swore as I dumped him into the well.

I moved as quickly as I could, pausing to shoot the others as I grabbed the next man, and repeating the process.

Soon, I had all seven in the well, and at least two of them were recovered enough to scream up at me. I ignored the complaints, dumped another gallon of kerosene on them, and then a few more handfuls of hay, all of them burning.

In seconds the screams of anger transformed into shrieks of pain.

There are only a few ways to kill my kind, and fire is one of them.

I had to feed the fire for a week.

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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