Very Short Stories

The rain came down in buckets as I sloshed through the planet-sized potholes in front of the cemetery. It was fitting. If there was someone up there, above those darkened skies, I’d imagine they’d be pissed at the evils their creations were committing down here. Then again, if there was some great being watching over the world then there wouldn’t be a need for monsters like me. The gate was locked, but the bad guys didn’t always leave the front door wide open after they went through. I peeled off one of my gloves and gripped the rusted iron. The cold sent a shiver down my spine, but it didn’t detract from the touch of magic that took place beyond it nights before, nor did it help to fight off the feeling that clutched at my heart, the itch that told me I was at the right place, the right time. History has a way of repeating itself, and sometimes it took someone like me to step in and lay down the hammer. I took a few steps back into the puddles then jumped, scaled the fence without much of a struggle.

I switched off the safety on my revolver and went on, gliding my fingers over gravestones along the way, feeling for that tingle that told me I was getting warmer. It was hard to see through the storm. Rain ran down my wide-brimmed hat like water from a clogged gutter, reminding me of why the thing was such a good purchase. The coldness of a stone, and warmth of another, told me to go left. Water sloshed around in my boots as I made my way through the memorial of the dead. I hoped the ordeal wouldn’t be drawn out. A hunt shouldn’t always end with my nose running as badly as the rain off my hat, I told myself while the minutes ticked by in my head. “You’re too damn impatient,” my teacher always told me, but I couldn’t help it. Time was strange, and it tortured me just as badly as my skin condition did when it wasn’t helping me to track down the wicked. When the red puffy skin on my bare hand pulsed I knew the bastard would be around the corner of the giant pillar of a gravestone I touched, before I heard the shoveling.

He didn’t hear me coming. The rain was too loud, and his work was too involved. There was a beautiful rhythm to the sound of shovel breaking ground, and the splosh of dirt being piled behind him. I stood there for a while, listening, before my hand twitched. I felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the back of my head.

“I heard the families were pooling their money together to put up a bounty, but I didn’t think you’d be coming for me,” the necromancer said.

“Ah, I should have known better than to think you’d be digging yourself,” I smiled, holding my hands up. “Who’s that over there? That Billy you dug out two days ago? Or maybe Galdo, from the day before that?”

“You won’t be living to find-” I didn’t let him finish. Too impatient. I spun around to face the necro, splashing muddy water at him while grabbing a hold of his wrist as the muzzle flashed. The gravedigger fell into the hole he was making, while I pressed the barrel of my own revolver to the necromancer’s face.

“That’s the problem with human monsters. So much talk, far too little action.”