The horseman - part 8

Why in God’s name did they have to die?

Black rage twisted my gut as I strode along the dirt road – the tawdry frontier town ahead, shimmering in the heat. I caressed the handle of Death’s knife beneath my coat.

They were kind people who’d taken me in from the roadside, sobered me up, fed and clothed me. They were young and hopeful, planning a family. All they did was ride off for groceries. But these are wild and unpitying lands.

The killers were lounging carelessly outside the bar but the laughter faded as their gunshots hammered me without effect. I drew the knife and a strip of lightless screaming Hell engulfed them. Intoxicated, I held the beam there until even the ghosts of their victims were begging me to have mercy.

I was left with bones at my feet and the terror of the townsfolk. Death may have run from me before but I knew that he would not stand for this. Sick-green clouds were already beginning to gather over the prairie and the dust was rising. I yelled at the people to run for their lives and they’d heard enough brimstone sermons to understand.

I waited for him.