The Rot of Annie Dawson Part 2

Four men with four guns.

*Warning graphic language*

No one in the car spoke as they drove into town. Not a single one of them made a sound on the dirt road. Jeremiah drove, Stone sat in the middle, and Josh sat near the window. The car filled with the smoke from Josh’s cigar, but not a word was ever shared between the men.

               Stone stared ahead, not sure what they were doing tonight. His father woke him up, pouring sweat like a fever had its hooks in him four nights ago. Josh crumble to the bed coughing up black blood and reaching for his son. Stone jumped from his bed, yelling for his mother to help.

               He rolled his father over on his back, quickly checking him for any knife wounds or bullet holes, but there wasn’t a sign of a fight.

               Stone cried for his mother once more.

               “She-devil did this to me,” Josh said, balling up Stone’s shirt in his hand. “She’s a witch, a witch. If I die, you must kill her. Tell me,” he roared with the black blood pouring from his mouth and nose,” you will kill her.”

               “I’ll do it, pa, I’ll do it,” Stone said as his mother came flying into the room. She screamed at the sight of Josh dying on the floor. Stone spun around, ordering with the fury of his father, “Call Jeremiah.”

               Jeremiah rushed over to the house to find they have moved Josh to his bed. Stone pushed his three little sisters out of the house and onto the porch while Jeremiah somehow saved Josh’s life. Hours later, before the sun lazily yawned awake, Jeremiah came out of the house.

               The girls were asleep in each other arms, but Stone couldn’t close his eyes. He walked in circles at the bottom of the steps. Jeremiah cleans his hands with a rag.

               “How is he?” Stone asked.

               “He will live,” Jeremiah said. “Your mother with him now.”

               “What happened to him?” Stone asked.

               “Good question,” Jeremiah said. “I’m not sure, but I’m going to find out.”

               “He said something about a witch,” Stone said, making Jeremiah raise an eyebrow. “Witches aren’t real, right?”

               “The Night holds many horrors which are best believed to be untrue,” Jeremiah said, walking down the steps. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of it. Go help your, maw, and get the girls inside. Your dad is going to need you to be the man of the house for a day or two.”

               “Yes, sir,” Stone said, nodding.

               The next day Josh slept, leaving Stone to make sure work got done around the farm. He kept looking for Jeremiah, but he never showed up. No one had any idea where the hunter went, and most people didn’t too much ask either. Stone wanted to know, but he had more important things to worry about at the moment.

               The following day his dad was up, but not on his feet. He still hurt from whatever happened to him, and the girls hung around him all day. Little Danika didn’t quite understand what was going on, but she wouldn’t leave his side. She would cry every time he was gone from her sight.

               The day before they all piled into the car late at Night with guns on their hips, Stone came walking into the house after work. He heard his mother and father fighting over something. He headed for the kitchen, where they were having one of their yelling matches at each other. Emily would win in the long run; she always did, except for this time.

               “He is just a boy,” Emily shouted with tears in her eyes.

               “He has to learn the truth,” Josh said calmly. “He can’t be a boy forever.”

               “And you think this is a good idea,” She said, looking over at Jeremiah. He leaned against the counter, chewing on some straw.

               “No,” he said, “but we learn about the Night much younger than Stone.”

               “You are going to get him killed,” Emily cried.

               “What is going on?” Stone asked, stepping into the room. They all looked between each other without saying a word.

               “We found the b***h who hurt your dad,” Jeremiah said coolly.

               “Okay,” Stone said, “take her to the Law.”

               “This isn’t exactly something you take to the sheriff, son,” Josh said, sitting at the table. “We have to handle this ourselves.”

               “But dad, isn’t that wrong?” Stone asked.

               “We are doing a greater good,” Jeremiah said. “The Law we follow is of the Sun. It’s God’s Law.”

               The car headlights broke over four men standing outside the fence of a ranch, where they were heading to carry out God’s Law, each of them holding rifles in their arms. Jeremiah stopped the car a few yards from them, looking over at Josh.

               “Looks like she got some help,” he said.

               “Doesn’t matter,” Josh said, “We have to put her down.”

               “They aren’t going to let us simply drive on in,” Jeremiah said.

               “Dad, I think that Bill Little,” Stone said, staring at one of the men, but something seems off about the men. There was something on their necks like a drawing pushed into their skin, and their eyes seem blacker the Night around them. They stared at the car, but none of them move, and none of them raised their guns.

               “I think you might be right,” Josh said, looking back at the group.

               “Ah, s**t,” Jeremiah said. “I hate shooting people, I know.” He opened the car door stepping out from the car seat.

               Josh looked over at his son; his face was cold and dark. “You remember what I told you about shooting?”

               “Yes, sir.”

               “Say it,” Josh ordered.

               “Aim small miss big,” Stone said, “aim big hit big.”

               “What else?”

               “Always shot to kill,” Stone said.

               “They will kill you,” Josh said, “so kill them first.” He watched his dad get out of the car, and Stone followed quickly behind him. He glanced at both men seeing their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons but not making a move. Stone glanced in the back seat wondering why they hadn’t garbed the shotgun, but he guessed they would start shooting if they saw the gun come out.

               “Howdy boys,” Jeremiah said.

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.