She stepped off the train alone and wearing a crown of thorns.
Blood had seeped into the collar of Mary Tyrell’s dress and stained her lips. Some of the blood was her own, most of it was not.
When she saw me standing on the platform, she stopped and smiled, her teeth stained black. She stretched out her arms to me, and I shook my head.
Mary tried to speak, but when she did so, her tongue flopped out of her mouth, great chunks of it missing, bits of flesh pattering onto the platform. Her words were mangled, her supplications lost. She took a step forward, and I drew both Colts, cocking the hammers on each.
Confusion and anger, lust and pride warred with one another on her face, and she stepped back toward the train.
The conductor closed the door and locked it.
The man was missing an eye, and at least half his face had been torn from his skull.
When she discovered she had been locked out, she screamed and smashed her head against the glass, which cracked and splintered but did not break.
She whirled around and charged, a hideous howl erupting from her throat as she sought my destruction.
I ducked below her clumsy attack and struck her in the stomach with my forearm, driving her back. In her bright green eyes, I sought some sort of sign that the Mary I knew was still there, but I saw only madness and hatred. Murder was in her heart.
She lunged for me again, and I pulled the triggers.
The heavy slugs of the Colts tore through her belly and slammed into the side of the train even as the windows were coated with a fine mist of her blood.
She staggered toward me, and I fired again.
The bullets tore out the rest of her belly, snapped her back and sent her tottering over to the left. She managed to remain upright for a moment longer before she collapsed, a misshapen pile of meat stuffed into a dress.
Mary Tyrell let out a single moan as I knelt beside her.
I holstered the pistols, took her head onto my lap, and comforted her as best I could.
#horror #fear #art
