Hunting Mother Day 3


They tried to bushwhack me.

I’ve never taken kindly to being bushwhacked. Nor have I suffered any long-term ill effects from it either.

The shot clipped me in the back of the head and sent me tumbling to the ground.

I’d been on the move for about half the morning, and the bastards had hidden themselves well. I don’t think they were hunting for me specifically. No, I think they were just out looking for prey, but they got a tad more than they bargained for.

I heard them calling to one another in Spanish, and as the blood dried on the back of my head, I took cover.

Laughter rolled down the hill, reverberated off the rocks, and gave me one hell of a headache. As I tried to ignore the discomfort, a voice I’d not heard in some time called out to the bushwhackers.

It was my mother, and she was asking if they knew who they’d shot.

The men confessed they did not, and so she told them.

By the time my name left her lips, I was up and moving, keeping rocks and trees between myself and the shooters.

A silence fell over everything, and only a rising wind hid the sound of my feet from the men who’d shot me.

I was halfway to the hill when I heard my mother order the men to go after me.

A quick look revealed ten men moving in a wide line down the hill. Above them, I caught sight of four more, one armed with a rifle and waiting to see if I would pop back up.

I would. Just not where they expected.

As the men moved down the hill, I went up. It didn’t take them long to realize I wasn’t dead, but by then, I was at the top, and both Colts were drawn.

The men didn’t ask for quarter.

I killed the rifleman first as his compatriots drew their pistols. But they were slow, and I was angry.

The Colts roared, and the men died.

I stood my ground at the top of the hill and gunned down the others as they tried to flank me. Death hung heavy in the hot air, and my mother screamed at me from the heavens.

Soon, my mother went silent, and only the cries of the wounded remained.

I took the rifle, and the ammunition from the dead rifleman reloaded my Colts again and made my way down the hill.

I wasn’t interested in prisoners.

#horrorstories #mother

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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