The Horrors on Blood Mountain Part 5

A hard-hitting stoic hero finds a woman on the side of the road dying and begging him to save her daughter, but is there more to the task than being a hero?

*Warning graphic language*

“You are either foolish or brave,” Mr. Arkansas said, pushing Emma over to Crow, who took her and shoved her into the back seat of a car. The other men started to fan out as Able took a step forward. They all carried hunting rifles, loaded, and ready to deal out death.

                 “Let the girl go,” Abel said, “and I’ll let you all walk away, alive.”

                “Who sent you?” Mr. Arkansas asked, lowering his eyes in the dark.

                Abel rolled his jaw, staring right at Mr. Arkansas.

                “I’ll ask you one more time,” Mr. Arkansas asked, pulling out a pistol pointing it right at Abel’s chest. “Who sent you?”

                Abel lifted his head, showing his nose down at this man dressed like he had stepped out of New York City, paling around with all the real gangsters. He thought less of this man than a dying pig and made sure Mr. Arkansas saw the look in his eyes.

                Abel was going to kill him.

                Slowly, if he got his hands on the man, but Mr. Arkansas had the gun.

                The long hunter knife grin from Abel’s side. “I’m going to put this into your belly, cutting you to your throat.”

                Mr. Arkansas started to belly laugh. “You are a f*****g idiot.” He nodded once, opening fire with his six-shooter. The bark of the pistol deafens the woods causing the shake from the thundering screams of the gun. With each bullet nailing itself into the chest of Abel Mr. Arkansas took a step forward, unloading his gun into the hero. The bullets dug their holes into his body planting the sea of red as he dropped to his knees. He coughed some blood up, never losing sight of his foe.

                Mr. Arkansas popped open the chambers of his pistol, emptying the gun of the spent shells. The bullets dropped into the icy world with steams trailing off them like capes of ghostly fingers. He started to reload the gun.

                “Able,” a calm voice spoke between life and death.

                He blinked a couple of times watching the angel Raguel boot land on the earth. The angel came in the blinding light of the Lord dressed in fire and gold holding the spare in his right hand and a horn in his left. He smiled down at Able, his old friend, and then taking a step forward, his armor became simple clothes a farmer would wear on a summer’s day.

                “My dear friend,” Raguel said, kneeling, “what have you done?”

                “I try to save her,” Abel said. “I tried. Can I go home now?”

                Raguel shook his head, never letting the sorrowful smile go. “Your time is not up, and what would Faith do without you.”

                “You would watch over her.”

                “I watch over you all,” Raguel said, “but right now, you must save this child.”

                Raguel places his hand on Abel’s chest at the same moment Mr. Arkansas placed the barrel of the gun against his forehead. “This is for the Duke Boys,” he said, smiling from ear to ear.

                “This is for Belle,” Abel said, shifted from the bullet creaking against the earth behind him. His knife shot up, cutting Mr. Arkansas's hand, making him drop the gun, but the hilt of the knife nailed him in the throw, causing him to fall forward. He didn’t see Abel grab the falling pistol, but heard the gunshots of his weapon taking out his men.

                Mr. Arkansas hit the ground about the same time most of his men did expect for Crow and another man dropping his rifle and running off into the woods.

                Crow launched himself at Abel, pulling out his Tomahawk to end the hero’s life, but Abel catches the ax with his blade. Abel and Crow went around the cars fighting with each other, almost equal, but Abel got the upper hand for a second, but a second too long for Crow. The blade blinked, opening his throat pouring out his blood. He fell over in the snow, looking at the heat and melting the snow under the red. Abel stood over him for a moment watching the red violated the white. Crow started to crawl away, and Abel turned back to Mr. Arkansas.

                He walked over the man trying to get all the air he could back into his lung. He stood up, still holding his throat, still coughing, and trying to find a gun.

                Abel grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around to face him. He snarled, shoving the knife into his belly.

                Mr. Arkansas's eyes went wide from the shock of pain. “How?”

                Abel growled, pushing him up against a car. “Do you see it, the fires of Hell? Do you see them? His eyes filling with the righteous fury of holy justice. “Tell the devil I’m coming for him.” He lifted the blade, pushing a path from Mr. Arkansas belly to the start of his throat, gutting the man, and leaving him to die.

                He swung open the drive door of the car Emma was sitting in. The fear had made her eyes go wide like a doll, and she dares make a move. Abel sat in the car, turning to face her and asked, “You still want to go meet your uncle?”

                Emma nodded, yes.

                “And you are going to run away this time?” Able asked.

                She shook her head, no.

                “I want to hear it,” he told her.

                “No, sir,” Emma said. “I will not run away.”

                “Good,” Abel said, turning the key to the car on.

                “Sir?” Emma asked.

                “What?”

                “How are you still alive?” She asked him.

                “I already told you,” Abel said.

                “An angel of the Lord saved you,” Emma said as the car started to drive away.

Abel drove Emma to the train station once they got off the mountain. He parked the car watching her get out and running to a tall man who gave her a hug. She explained everything that happens leaving out the details on how Abel was still breathing. The man started to cry over his dead sister and thanked Abel for his good deed.

                They got on the train, and Abel got back into the car. He drove back to his farm in South Caroline, where his wife, Faith, and his two boys waited for him as they always did until the Angel of the Lord called upon him once more.

 

Back on the mountain right before the first moments of dawn, Crow still crawled away from all the dead bodies. He went out into the woods hoping to die among the tree and feeding the wolves out there. His blood left a long tail, back to the road, but he didn’t care.

                He had pushed himself up against a tree, watching a pack of wolves circle him. None of the black wolves with bright red eyes dare moved on him, but they could smell the blood drench in the air. They licked their lips waiting for Crow to take his last breath. He stared up at the falling slow happy to be going back to the earth. He would see his people once more.

                Someone came walking down from the road. It had to be the man who killed him. He came to finish the job.

                Crow looked back down to the world, seeing a woman wearing nothing but a cloak of bear fur draped over her shoulders. The nudeness of her tan body had been painted with red war paint of a great she-devil from Crow’s people. She wore a necklace of bird skulls around her neck along with her black hair dotted with dead flowers. She petted the wolves as she walked through them smiling at Crow. Each step she took steam rose from the snow, and a warmth grew with her.

                She squatted in front of Crow, holding his cheek like his mother always did when she was alive. He smiled at the she-devil seeing the fires of Hell in her dark eyes.

                “They have their hero, “she said gently, and the wolves moved in around them,” we want ours.”  

           

Author's Note

If you had made it this far, then I appreciate it, and before you start to tear my work apart (which doesn’t bother me too much), let me explain something. The most common critique I see is about my spelling and grammar. It is an understandable critique, and I do not blame you for pointing it out. After all, spelling and grammar are the tools in which we use to craft our work, like a paintbrush or a chisel. The artist must know how to use these tools well, but like an artist who has a tremble in their hand's somethings will never be perfect.
My tremble in my hand is caused by my dyslexia. It is something, no matter how much I learn, study, or works on, it will never go away. It is the reason you will find a good bit of spelling and grammar mistakes in my work. I ask you to keep this fact in my when you are about to write your critique.
Also, I feel the need to point this out, this website is like a journal for me. A mess journal I used to work out problems in my stories or to simply warm up before digging into my novels. I do not hire an editor for the work here. I do not spend hours and days pouring over these stories to make them perfect, that energy is saved for the project I plan on taking to market. Everything on this website is my world-building exercise or sketches for other projects.
I do hope you enjoy my work, but this website is not a publishing house for me, and it shouldn’t be for you either. Something to keep in mind as you write your critique.