They sprang the trap too soon.

The cries of calves caught my ear, as it was supposed to.

I’d been traveling along one of the backroads on the eastern side of my lands, Colts on my hips and a new rifle over my shoulder. Fraulein Litz in Germany had sent an 1888 Gewehr and ammunition to me.

The rifle was beautiful and sleek and a distinct reminder of her dangerous beauty.

The rifle had a good feel to it, and when it was tucked into my shoulder, it was damned near impossible to miss.

Given the fact that the little bastards had scattered on the island before I could bring the Colts to bear on them, I thought something with a little more range might do the trick.

Rather than drawing my Colts at the sound of the crying calves, I chambered a round into the ’88 instead. With the rifle at the ready, I followed the road until I came to a section of fencing and a young girl holding a pair of calves.

The girl smiled her sharp and wicked teeth and then tore into the throat of the nearest calf. Blood sprayed out around her, and from either side of the road, a pair of children raced.

But they’d set themselves up too far from me.

The monsters on the left leapt towards me in a sickening, froglike manner, and I shot the first through the temple. The impact sent him spinning into his comrade, and they tumbled to the earth. As the still living creature sought to disentangle himself, I chambered a fresh cartridge as I swung the rifle ‘round to the other two, dropped to one knee and fired off another shot.

The beast pitched forward, and his comrade hesitated, her pigtails bouncing.

She blinked, the brass casing caught the sun as I ejected it, and before she took another breath, she was stretched out on the ground beside the other, bleeding out on the road.

The second monster on the left got to his knees and died there, slumping over as the .88’s round tore through his throat.

The girl with the calves had finished with her butchery.

“I’m still hungry, Mr. Blood,” she said, and I shot her in the belly.

I went to ask her a few questions, but she tore her own tongue out at the root.

I lit my pipe and sat beside her, smoking as she died.

#supernatural #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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