War: 8.3.1930


They weren’t hidden in the trees, they were the trees.

I am not too proud to state I am a savvy woodsman. I learned my craft at the hands of my father, and those Indians who were friendly with the town of Cross. Woodlore is an art and one to which I am well-suited.

I cannot, however, transform myself into a tree.

These Frenchmen could, and they were quite displeased to see me when they shifted back to their human forms.

There was no discussion. No attempt at negotiating a peace or some sort of truce.

They attacked, and I replied in kind.

My Colts thundered in the forest, and as each bullet found its mark, clothes were rent and chunks of bloody wood flew from the men. As heavy as the slugs were, the men refused to fall, and soon, I was forced to rely on the BAR.

The .30-06 rounds fired from the Browning tore through the Frenchmen, scattering limbs and shattering heads.

Despite the devastation wrought by the weapon, the Frenchmen did not give up. They were soldiers, after all.

They pressed forward, and several of their own shots cut through me. Twice they closed in on me, and only by firing the BAR on full-auto was I able to beat them back.

In the end, there was only a handful of the men left, and my anger got the better of me.

I suppose I could have taken some prisoner. In all honesty, I should have. Had I had the foresight to question the men, I might have brought this to a close.

But those are all events that did not occur.

What did was destruction.

Not a man of them survived. Some had been killed outright, but a few more were wounded and alive. Recalcitrant and cursing at me in French.

I kept a civil tongue in my head. And why not? My wounds had healed, and I knew what I was about to do.

They didn’t.

I bound them together, and when I did, the survivors transformed into a small copse of trees.

That was fine.

I set fire to the trees and waited. Soon enough, they transformed back into men, each screaming as flames devoured him.

The air smelled faintly of sandalwood, and when night came, I cooked my dinner with the fire from their corpses.

#horror #monsters #supernatural #death

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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