Day 31

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The scarecrows were once men.

I approached with all the caution that stock-still men deserved.

I don’t know when they died, but it hadn’t been recent. Their skin was stretched taut, and their eyes sunken in. They wavered ever so slightly in the hard breeze coming in off the nearby inlet.

A good look at the land around them showed something wasn’t right.

The wind blew a little more, and the edge of a door was revealed.

As I crouched down to get a better look, a score of doors was thrown open. Snow exploded into the air, and the scarecrows tumbled down as Skratti scrambled up onto the field.

These were not nearly as coordinated as their brethren. They wore their own, rough-made clothes, crude weapons formed from cast-off iron and steel.

They did not know my name.

They didn’t see me as a threat.

They learned.

I moved slow and steady, drawing the Colts and firing from the hip as I got into a solid fighting stance. The heavy .44s tore through the Skratti, some slugs taking out two or more as the creatures bunched together.

The thunder of the Colts rolled across the field, and the slugs drove the Skratti back. Some slipped into their bolt holes, slamming doors down behind them. Others tried to get away and were cut down, the .44s blowing out their chests as the rounds exited.

As I reloaded, a handful of Skratti charged at me, and they regretted the decision instantly.

When the last died, gasping in the bloody, churned snow, I reloaded the Colts again. Stepping over the bodies, I went on my way.

There was still a wyrm to kill, and I meant to kill him.

#Denmark #supernatural #monsters #paranormal

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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