A fire flickers on the horizon, a column of smoke like hot tar streaming upwards to a greyed out sky with no sun. Upon the stale air, snow falls like ashes, dusting the icy roads in the same coat of the sky, its sides a trim of a thick swamp green. Somewhere within that green, shadows flashes across its slits all around, rustling leaves and snapping twigs clicking like a hunter’s call luring out his prey. And standing still in the empty middle, his hands draped a crimson shade, a soul stood, coated in grey and crimson, blood thick as mud dripping down from his chin to the untouched snow beneath his shadow. 

Then, a figure flashed out from the green lines and dashed to the opposite end behind him so fast it was a blur. Then another dashed past a trail of dark brown footprints, and another behind it does the same through a pool of blood, almost tripped by the lumps of limbs dotting around the pool. At a glance, their bloodied footprints on the snow drove like bloody nails against the icy roads as crimson ice flew from the puddle downwards like knives. The rustling had now moved onto the other side of the line, closer to the figure’s steely visage. Then it stopped, as blood curling winds howled like the roar of frenzied spectators, expecting action from the performers. And swiftly just as the wind had picked up, from below the snow tacked cloak now gleamed a carbon black blade, its sheen a shade of dirty brown, not of rust, but of fresh gore frozen over. And on cue, the wind fell silent from expectations, holding its breath in the only way people at the edge of their seat can. Then the leaves rustled and the twigs clicked as a shadow dashed out from the green to a nearby wreck in front of the hooded man, its dirtied nails hanging from the car’s half open car window frame, its eyes like hollow shadows behind the frosted glass. Meanwhile, as the first shadow dashed out of the woods, another shadow slowly made itself known behind the tree lines opposite to the first one, in its hands a dirty broken knife, bent tips and ragged blade and the likes. And if one listened closely, he could hear another slowly moving immediately to his right, its shadow blended into the coats of green, its silhouette mere hairlines amidst the leaves. Then it became still again, like when rippling waves upon a water surface finally calmed down to a stop, yet still a carbon black gleamed against coated grey, steely gripped in its place, unflinching.

And the wind picked up, and the snow fell, and from beneath the cloak sprouted seventeen inches of flames, its thundering roar cut like a knife through the bone-chilled roars of the winds. Yet before the sound of a lifeless body could even hit the ground amongst the leaves, the shadow behind him sprinted forward, raising the broken knife like a fang ready to dig deep into the man. At the same time, the frosted image also made itself known, as its arms flung up and down, hurling pebbles all the size of a curled up fist at the dancing cloaked figure. Upon the man’s mantle, though, the rocks simply bounded like ping pong balls softly into the ground, many of them went wide, some even barely missed the charging maniac, threatening to impede upon its progress. 

Seeing how badly it had performed, the frosted figure now hurled itself upright, its face and skin torn and bruised like dirty rags, its eyelids dripping black pus as maggots fell through the holes on the side of its boney chins. Starkly to the man, It was wearing the same cloaking and clothes and armor, but only a shadow of it remained on the poor thing. Yet, despite the deadened visage, Its eyes gleamed a hungry glare, as it started hurling itself forward. But just before it could reach the man, his cloak spun like a steely blade, the fine snow hurled into a mist as crimson spurted into the air. And upon a snow now sprawled a twitching carcass looking much the same way as the poor thing without a head and without half its right torso. Sensing an opportunity, the thing raised one hand and hurled with all its might a stone it held in one of its hands. Before charging the man, It had picked out the biggest in hopes that It could harm the figure, and now, seeing how the man had lost his footing spinning to cleave his pack-mate into bony chunks, it was as good a chance as it could get. And true to its whims, the rock flew a deadly curve as it carved into the man’s face, fresh blood splattering out a way only a juicy meal could. And upon seeing that its plans had worked and that the man had now fell to the ground, his face mangled in delicious warm blood leaking out between the man’s fingers, it licked its lips and leaped at him, holding the rock that would have meant to break open his skulls like cracking an egg open, yolk and whites alike. And as it felt the cracks made when it hit the man’s hands covering his face, it became emboldened, lusty for the man’s blood, drooling pus and maggots from its side chins. But just before it could wind up for a second thump, its vision went wide as it saw its body limping to the ground, headless, pus bubbling out like disease. And as it laid upon the ground drooling, the shadow of the man got bigger, and bigger, then it felt a sharp pain that came just as quickly as it faded as both it and the pain was no more. 

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Now sprawling on the ground, its body twitched, and pus poured out like black tar just as quick as it froze over. Then the one in the distance did the same, and so did the man slumping his shoulders on top of the icy roads as ragged breathing coats the roaring winds. On the blackened snow, fresh crimson dripped like a leaking tap onto black ice, besides that laid a gucked up axe, already icy cold, trembling. Letting go of the axe, the slumped up shoulders groaned a heavy moan filled with pain, as his one good hand still trembling from the shock searched around his waist. And with a whimpering cry, it cocked a chamber, as the man bemoaned between his sobs:

“Sorry, Lis, So… So… Sorry. I’m so...”

And the barrel thundered, smoke and flame bursted from its hollow tubing to a cloud of smoke and cinder engulfing the mist of red. Just as well as it had dispatched a stranger, It too blew chunks of his face into the air as wet thuds hit the ground along with a sound of one grazing metal against another. And there, still, the smoking gun laid, its barrel gleaming a silver against the carbon black of the axe, the man’s finger still in the trigger, half-pulled. And as he laid a motionless slump amidst a frozen pool of his own innards and blood, many shiny pieces of metal still stuck in between the cracks of his armor gleamed brown as if stained with blood. 

And there he laid, as the winds sang his epics and cheered in satisfaction. There he laid, motionless, like the ice around him. There he laid, upon the layering snow that gradually covered up his carcass, burying him as the winds howled. And there he laid till the column of smoke at the distance had long gone as the grey skies once more presumed its place.

And for what seemed like forever, the frozen blade stuck itself there, until  footsteps neared its place, the heavily crunching snow contrasting the clinks of metal and armor. Now the sky is black and gloomy, much like whatever surrounded the place and the treelines. Yet, in darkness, the gleam of metallic grey occasionally made itself known from under the man’s grey cloaks as he spoke:

“Damn, he even made it this far. Poor fuck.” 

And after rummaging through him, the figure silently whistled in delight as he unearthed from hardened snow to find a cold gun and a gleaming axe, a name “Old Trusty” etched into the carbon black hilt too accurate and even to be mere handyworks. Then, after almost stripping the frozen body naked, shoes, shirts and all, stuffing it all to his backpack, the figure took out a shovel and cleanly beheaded whatever’s left of his neck. Then, amidst the bone chilling wind, down under the ditch in utter darkness, the figure dug a grave, then broke the man’s body from the road’s icy grips as he lay him neatly into the frozen earth hollows. And after folding his arms neatly on his chest, he then neatly arranged his head, and whatever bits that could be picked up, to roughly where it should be as he mumbled a prayer with his shovel held on his side and one hand curled up into a fist near his helmet. And as the night wind howled the poor man’s epic, he was finally laid to rest for eternal peace as dirt filled his grave, easing his spirits. Then, almost as if alive, the frozen eye laid one last glance at the man before him, who never knew who he was, and gleaned a last look of gratefulness shortly before being filled with dirt and gravel, falling in eternal rest. 

Then, the man carried on, holding back the urge to whistle having found what he did, partly glad, partly sad. He found a friend, yet had to part so soon. And as he crunched the snow beneath him, his armor slightly clinking to his every step like loose change, the man imagined what it would be like if he had been alive and well, and wondered if he too would have had to kill him for what he had. He even entertained if the two of them would have made faster friends. But at last, those luxurious thoughts are for when the sun is up and the day is long and bright, for when the sun’s down, journeys have to be made in hurried steps, else the creatures of the night come knocking. And as he said his final prayers, he noted strange moving lumps in the near distance, two of them in fact, as their hollowed eyes met the void slits on his helmet. Unfurling the frozen blade, the name “Old Trusty” once more gleamed in dirty crimson, now in new hands, and once more the winds howled, for life, for death, for the journey, and for whomever the bell tolled.