War: 8.27.1930


They saw me and gave chase.

I don’t run much.

It’s not a philosophical sentiment. No, I just don’t like to run. It’s a damned pain in the ass, but there are, undeniably, times that running is necessary.

This was one of them.

They were gathering the wounded, and while they weren’t eating them, I was still keen to avoid any interactions.

This was not to be.

Nearly all the men were focused on the retrieval of injured comrades. Those already rescued were in the back of a large truck, far more concerned with their wounds than with anything else. Foolishly, I believed I could slip through unnoticed.

One of the men in the truck saw me and cried out.

Those who were healthy enough chased after me, and I ran, not wanting to shoot them down. The men were unarmed, and they had been engaged in the noble and difficult act of saving others.

For a brief moment, I suffered under the delusion that I would escape them easily, without having to rely on my Colts.

This false hope ended when the first of them sprang over me and hit the ground running. He turned sharply around and sprinted toward me, even as several of his colleagues did the same. Others continued to press on from behind.

It was then that I drew the Colts, and it was then that I learned how fast these men truly were.

The first man I shot at almost completely dodged the bullet, the round clipping him in the bicep and spinning him around, causing him to tumble. The shot had been meant for his chest.

I fired off three more times and missed twice. The last bullet killed a man, but by then, the others had closed in. They tried to wrench the Colts out of my hands.

My blood was up, and I fought them as only I know how: with everything I had.

I emptied the Colts into the men, killing two more, and then, unable to reload, I reversed my grip on the pistols and beat the men back. One of them, wounded, tried to jump away, but a kick to his knee shattered the joint and put him down in the dirt.

I beat the others to death as the man I’d knee-capped tried to crawl away.

He didn’t get far, and I soon had to wipe his brains off my face.

#horror #death

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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