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  • Don't Read This...(pt 4)

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        Sunday, December 24, 2006

    Don't Read This...(pt 4)

    Pastor Sam looked down at the pitcher in his hand. Look Ma, more hair. Blood.

    He looked up to Heaven, and saw nothing there. How much can one man take...

    His gaze swirled back into the yard, and beyond, and whatever instinct that had kept him...them, alive up to now, targeted his vision on a man, just over there, standing in the shadows of a line of Cypress trees that his grandfather had planted along the drive long before he was born, into this terrible day.

    He saw the man light a cigarette, the flash of the match, and then a hot finger dug into his chest and pulled him, staggering forward, then the color washed out of his world, and all became black and white, and...

    His wife's eyes were still open, though clouded. Nobody's home...

    Her hand was relaxed, now, the ring, signifying their love, and commitment, glinted in the afternoon sun, and he pushed his hand across, through the marinara that had spilt, and tried to take her hand in his, and...
    ...his head jumped up off of the gravel as the high-powered round, point blank and from just a few feet away shattered his brain and turned off all the lights in a spray of white powdered gravel and blood pudding...

    A trail of smoke that was not cigarette smoke curled up from the fat cylinder screwed on to the front of the man's big automatic, a man who did not, in fact, smoke cigarettes. And he was taking it all in. A girl whom he did not know at all, her legs spattered up to mid calf with a dead woman's (her mother's?) ocher, her eyes rolling like a calf, as well, he...

    ...took quick aim and phutted a round between her eyes and she arced back and crunched into the gravel, and vibrated for a bit, but she wouldn't 'come back'. And they tended to, when touched by the fluids of 'the contaminated', as he had come to think of them. He put the muzzle of the weapon to his own temple, and heard the fine hairs there sizzle and curl. After he was dead, no burn would form, he was confident of that, and...

    ...a choked cry from the mini-van made his hand target the open cargo door, and...

    He strode forward, Death Incarnate, and did a proper search, and...

    Two children. Covered in stains. Some from earlier. Some fresh. The eyes of the boy begging him. For. Something. The girl's he couldn't see, because her face was buried in the boys neck, and chewing like she just hadn't been raised with any manners at all.

    He took two steps back, and his gun spoke for him, twice. Gas sloshed in the tank for a bit, and then stilled, and the man absently dropped out the magazine into his hand, slid in a full one, dropped the slide forward with the press of a lever, and...

    Merry Christmas!!

    And to all, a good night...