April 27, 1948


I killed them all.

The sun rose and burned the night’s cold from the land. As the mist curled and wrapped around the world, the dogs and I moved forward. None of them howled. None of them bayed.

There were close to a hundred of us, and they flushed the headhunters out for me.

We moved through fields that reminded me of Pennsylvania and Virginia, South Carolina and Georgia. Splitrail fences and sunken roads, stonewalls and battered bridges.

The headhunters tried to run, but it was an exercise in futility.

I had rounds for the Colts, and the morning’s calm was split with the thunder of the .44s. Men and women tried to stand their ground, and the dogs dragged them to the earth. Throats were torn out, and the headhunters were disemboweled. Others stood, then ran, and they were hamstrung for their efforts.

More than a few didn’t bother standing. Didn’t bother with any sort of hesitation.

They ran, and I pulled the triggers.

I cut them down, and my ears rang, and my shoulders ached.

I walked among the dying and finished them. There was no mercy in this act.

My dogs were hungry, and they needed to eat.

A score or so of headhunters took shelter in an old house, and the dogs lay down in the grass, waiting for me.

Rifle shots came from the windows, but the shots were ill-placed. Fear caused mistakes, and mistakes gave me an advantage I didn’t need on the worst of days.

The headhunters ran out of ammunition before I was halfway to the door, and when they did, they charged at me. Rifles were held high like clubs, others had knives.

Those with the blades died first, the heavy slugs of the Colts knocking them off their feet and sending them sprawling to the ground. Those with the rifles were clumsy, their blows easy to dodge, and when the Colts ran dry, they went into their holsters, and the knife came out.

By the time I was done in the yard, blood-soaked my clothes, and I tracked it into the house.

I broke down doors and stabbed men and women to death.

Others I beat to death, and the last I strangled in the kitchen, breaking his back as I pressed him against the sink.

Behind me, the dogs ate, and they ate well.

#nature #horrorstories #dogs

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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