Free Undead at Sundown by R.J McCabe Page B

collected from town. He moved closer, leaning over the edge of the cart to get a better look on board. Then he heard a swooshing sound as if a giant bird had flown just inches above his head. He looked up and it was then a terrible realisation hit him. John knew that someone or something was standing behind him, the feeling immense and then, as if to confirm his fears, a laboured wheezing noise sound began to come from behind him. It was coming from a throat that sounded like it was full of glass and breathing with lungs that were punctured with a hundred bullet holes.
         The sweat on Johns brow made him look like he'd had a glass of water thrown into his face. He was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his life. He had only one choice. He whirled around and aimed the rifle in-front of him, as soon as anything came into view he would blow it away.
         Something did come into view, a large figure, easily as large as him but not quite the same shape. Whatever it was grabbed the gun and ripped it from his hands with a strength and speed he could not begin to comprehend. The gun was tossed into the dark and he stood facing the thing in front of him.
         John began to make out more of the figure. It wore no shirt and its dark hair hung long over its face. The heavily boned skull seemed to be painted and there was also paint on its chest. It resembled an Apache only the shoulders were swollen with more muscle than any man should have. It had a tree trunk like neck which supported a head, a head in which one gleaming white eye was visible among the matted black hair and then, before John knew what was happening, it jumped at him, knocking him against the cart, its mouth sunk into his neck and the pain that those once human teeth bought with them was immense. John felt the warmth of his own blood flood the top of his shirt and visions flashed in front of his eyes. He began thinking of the fight earlier that day with the sheriff, how quick and accurate that sheriff had been. He thought of Joel eating his apple, Joel with the devil, apparently, in his eyes. Well, he had met the real devil tonight and it was much more frightening than Joel fucking Blackwater.
        He then began thinking about Missy, sweet, sweet Missy. He had been bad to her, he wish he could go back, treat her right, but now it was too late.
         John could feel the life seeping out of him, he would never get the chance to make a mends, never get chance to hold her hand, to kiss her cheek or…to punch her face! He would never get chance to rip the eyes from her head! He would never be able to take a knife and cut the organs from her body, or would he? Maybe he would.
         Hate began to fill him, consume him. His insides felt white hot with rage. He thought of the sheriff, about tearing him in half, listening to his skin rip and the guts hit the floor. His thoughts were swirling now, one act of brutality bleeding into the next, all logical thought was leaving him, making way for thoughts of mutilation and murder.  
         John knew his soul was dying, but something else was here now, here to use his body and command him. Blackness came for Big John Duggan and his soul was finally crushed under the weight of this new being.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
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    Joel felt pissed. He hadn't had a drink all day and he wanted his whiskey. Where the fuck had those two idiots gotten to with the liquor? All they had to do was ride into town and collect some goddam drink but the pair of fuck-wits had disappeared and the card game had to go down with everyone being pretty much sober. Joel new no-one really bet much when the liquor wasn't in em. He hadn't made any money, he was sober, and he was in a bad mood. He felt like he needed to hurt somebody, to take some fucker out of this life, but who?
         The workers here were decent folk hand picked by his father, so that only left his men, the enforcers