War in the Hollow: Dec. 4, ‘36


I had no intention of taking any prisoners.

Shortly after killing the warden and the suicide of his companion, I spent a good deal of time going over maps I discovered in the house. They showed me the layout of this particular version of Cross. Not only where the buildings were, but the various places it connected with the Hollow. From what I could gather, these inhabitants made a practice of raiding into other worlds. Some were other iterations of Cross. Most were not.

My Cross was clearly marked.

“Duncan Le Sang. Morte 1922 Anno Domini.”

Someone, it would seem, had given them the wrong information.

While I had been sorely wounded in 1922, I did not die.

But still, they had waited a good fourteen years before deciding to raid.

Or, it had taken them fourteen years to lock down my town.

Whatever the reason didn’t matter.

They’d come into my town and killed a friend and the man’s son. My cousin, more importantly, had told me to kill them all, and so I would.

I awoke long before dawn, slung my Spenser, and made my way down the road. I had memorized the maps, and there was a great deal of ground to cover.

I turned down the first road on the right and made my way to what the maps had assured me was a train station.

And they were right.

It was a small affair. Nothing more than a rough siding. It was well-lit, and there was a group of men standing around it. They were uniformed and receiving coffee and biscuits from some young women.

When we saw one another, there was no doubt they knew who I was.

The air filled with shouts as the men tried to draw their weapons.

But they were slow, and I was not.

Both Colts cleared their holsters, and the thunder of the guns shook the stillness of the predawn air. Few of the men and none of the women were killed with the first shots, but they all went down.

I reloaded as I walked closer, the brass hot against my fingers as I plucked them from the cylinders and dropped them to the ground.

The wounded begged and pleaded, but I shot them where they lay.

I was there to kill.

Nothing more and nothing less.

#horror #fear #art

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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