|Posted by Jerry McKinney on January 22, 2012 at 1:00 AM|
The wind whispered through the long grasses. Frank lay on his belly as car headlights passed. A spotlight lit up the ground near him. The breeze blew harder and the grass hissed a tune as it danced above his head. The car moved on. Frank looked up and saw the light-bar on the vehicle in the distance. Cursing himself for wandering out into a field where there was no cover, no place to hide, he looked skyward. The shadows of the clouds playing off the ebbing sun cast a slight yellowish hue to the grayness of the oncoming night.
He’d been lucky this time.
Only if that old bastard had just given him his money, but he felt the need to be a tough guy and fight. Frank had to stick him with the knife. The only thing his father ever gave him had been a few broken ribs and that knife. Now he used it to get a little bit of cash to wash away his problems with a twelve-pack of beer. It had worked well until this feeble old man decided to become a hero to his wallet and got six inches of steel in his gut for the trouble. Frank could still feel the hot blood spurt out onto his hand. He was still staring at the knife when a lady screamed.
The clouds raced across the sky on a trek carried by the strong winds that had been building. Frank put his back to the breeze and followed the course of Nature’s breath. The squall of air pushed him onward, howling in his ears. Then the wind stopped abruptly. He raised his eyes. A half moon silhouetted a large figure before him.
“Oh my God,” Frank muttered.
The figure chuckled and then spoke. Each word seemed to be carried upon a gust of air. “Pray to your deity if you must. It will be unanswered. There are no gods or demons, although that does not mean evil doesn’t exist.” Its breath blew across Frank’s face with the stench of the grave. “It is scattered on the earth waiting for some luckless bastard to stumble upon it to do its bidding. But there are times when the wind collects the evil from the area, and it howls as it gains form …” The words echoed in the moving air.
Frank drew out his father’s blade once again. With shaking hands he lashed out at the figure. The knife met no resistance.
A small whirlwind began at Frank’s feet. He screamed as he felt it using the grasses to tear away his clothes then his skin. The air howled with him in a horrific chorus. When his ankles gave way, he fell as the figure embraced him.
Standing with knife in hand, Frank’s lips parted in a deep exhale.
“… and becomes pure Hell on earth.” The words trailed off in the night breeze.
Categories: Flash Fiction