They stepped out of the Hollow with Union Jacks held high and hate in their eyes.
I don’t know who they were, or what version of Cross they might have come from, but it was plain to see by the froth around their mouths and their rolling eyes that they were mad, from the youngest child to the oldest man.
Mad and fit to kill.
Whether their anger was addressed toward me or merely any they might stumble upon, I neither know nor care.
I was there when they came out of the woods, and I stood on North Road as they made their way to the stonewall.
They shouted insults in the King’s English, and when they were close enough, they began to pick up stones and to throw them toward me. When they drew nearer, they armed themselves with heavier rocks and thick tree limbs.
They were in a hell of a state when they clambered over the stonewall and came for me, and whatever hopes I had of talking them down died in my chest as I saw the madness writ large upon their faces.
They were out for blood, and mine would do naught but whet their appetites.
I would like to say it was with reluctance that I drew the Colts that I took no pleasure in the killings, but that would be a lie.
There are some days when killing is what I need to do. It is the balm for an illness that has no cure.
That illness is time and sorrow, loneliness and rage.
I did not drag the killing out.
Each and everyone died quick, their brains blow out the backs of their skulls. To either their credit or the madness which gripped them, not a one of them ran.
As I stood in the cool morning air, steam rising off the cooling bodies, I reloaded my Colts and waited to see what would come out of the Hollow next.
#horror #fear #art