War in the Hollow: Dec. 13, ‘36


The high, brutal screams thundered against my skull.

I broke into a sprint, the Spencer in my hands and Thorn at my side.

My rucksack slammed against my back, and sweat broke out upon my brow. The screams grew in intensity and volume, and the sharp crack of rifles silenced them a moment later.

I didn’t stop running.

I knew those screams. Knew what made them and why. I hated the sound and those who caused it.

Without stopping, I crashed through the underbrush and onto a road. Ahead of me, I saw furrowed fields and a pair of men standing with smiles on their faces. They were uniformed and holding rifles. Their victims lay close by.

Dropping to one knee, I took aim and shot both men in their stomachs.

As the sound of the Spencer rolled across the fields, I stood up and advanced upon the men, both of whom had forgotten about their weapons.

They rolled back and forth, smearing the dust with their blood, and when they saw me, they tried to beg for mercy.

I had none to give.

Their victims lay on the ground, slaughtered innocents.

I sat down, and Thorn lay at my side as I rested the Spencer across my lap and packed a fresh pipe.

In silence, I listened as the men begged, and when one of them asked why, I gestured to the dead horses.

It was answer enough.

#horror #fear #art

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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