mirror of https://github.com/nealey/Horrors2
78 lines
2.5 KiB
TeX
78 lines
2.5 KiB
TeX
\chapter{The Pus-Stained Email from Hell}
|
|
\by{Zahgaegun}
|
|
|
|
|
|
The sweat dripped off my forehead, running down my face and forming
|
|
salty pools on the ground. Pools like the pools of blood that
|
|
always form after I kill someone. I have seen a lot of blood pools
|
|
in my lifetime for I have killed a lot of people in a lot of very
|
|
messy ways.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
It's what I do. My name is Luke Bavarious; hitman, soldier,
|
|
{\em killer}.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
I had been called to this sweaty place, Arabia, to kill some guys.
|
|
This was an honorable job, a soldier's mission. ``We need some guys
|
|
killed so we called you'', they said on the phone. And here I was,
|
|
in this God-forsaken hellhole, hunched over this screen, hoping for
|
|
a morsel of communication from Home, something to feed my rotting
|
|
brain, to let me know that there was a Reason To Fight, To
|
|
Live.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Suddenly, the machine screamed out a bing-bong. New mail. It made
|
|
me smile because it reminded me of the time that I told that hooker
|
|
``You've got Male!'' while we did the sex. Now she's dead. That wiped
|
|
the smile off my face.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
``I'm from the Internet'', the letter moaned onto the screen. ``We
|
|
have found your Hidden Stash of Writings from Long Ago.'' Dang, I
|
|
thought, I had hoped that no one would find that. The sweat drips
|
|
came faster now, the pools getting bigger like a child vomiting
|
|
blood{\ldots}-red cherry slurpees from the fear of riding the Viking
|
|
Ship at the county fair.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
``Hurry'', it continued to moan, ``there are already many people here
|
|
pretending to be you.'' I typed fast as I could, pus-filled blisters
|
|
rising from the friction of the keyboard on my gnarled fingertips.
|
|
``I am coming'', I typed, ``Prepare the way.'' I tried to log in, but
|
|
the passwords they used were too long, too complicated for my
|
|
gnarled brain. I may only be thirteen, but my soul is almost 100
|
|
years old, due to all the killing.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Before I could get there, the sergeant bellowed my name. ``It is
|
|
time to kill'', he said while handing me a beretta and a knife.
|
|
``This is all we have left. Are you a bad enough dude to kill
|
|
everyone with just this?'' ``Yes'', said I, the cold steel of the
|
|
knife blade glinting off my eyeballs. ``Did you warn them?'', I
|
|
asked. ``Yes'', the sergeant burped. ``We flew over them and dropped
|
|
fliers warning them in whatever language they speak.'' ``Good. Then
|
|
it is fair.'', I said and walked off towards the gate of the
|
|
compound, the gate of my future and their destiny.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
As he walked away, a private leaned towards the sergeant and said
|
|
``Warn them of what?''
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
``I warned them that The Writer is coming.'', he said. ``God have
|
|
mercy on their souls.''
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|