Day 25


They died hard.

They were dressed like men, but they didn’t die like them.

I’d left the hospital, armed with my Colts and hammer.

They bushwhacked me about a mile from the hospital, the first two rounds catching me in my chest and knocking me back. Whatever they were using was powerful as hell and blew a lung – and its ribs – straight to hell.

I was still wheezing when they approached me, apparently sure they’d put me down.

They’d hurt me, that’s for certain.

But they hadn’t put me down.

The shooters realized I was still alive, and as they went to chamber rounds into their rifles, I drew both Colts.

The roar of the revolvers filled my ears, and the weight of them in my hands helped me climb to my feet.

The shooters had fallen back a few steps, one casting aside his rifle, the breech having been shattered by a .44 slug.

Grinding my teeth as my ribs regrew and knitted themselves together, the other shooter brought his rifle up and took a bullet in the throat for his trouble.

Dark gray blood exploded across his unarmed comrade, and the two of them charged at me, weapons forgotten. They were too angry.

I understood that completely.

I emptied the Colts into the shooters, and while the slugs slowed them down some, it didn’t stop them.

That was fine with me.

My lung had healed; the Colts went into their holsters; and the hammer into my hands.

The first blow knocked dislocated one fellow’s jaw, and the second collapsed the left side of his comrade’s face, the eye shooting out and striking me in the chest.

There was no time to laugh at the absurdity of the wandering orb.

They meant to kill me, and I meant to do the same to them.

Their hands struck like iron, breaking bones and deadening muscles with every blow.

But no sooner had the blows been delivered than feeling returned and bones healed.

They weren’t so lucky.

I destroyed knees and hips, shoulders and sternums.

Still, they fought on.

Finally, I knocked one to the ground and caved in the back of his skull.

That did the trick.

In a moment, his comrade was dead with him.

My clothes were soaked with my blood and theirs, and I needed fresh clothes.

#Denmark #supernatural #monsters #paranormal

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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