The Massacre at Yellow Hill by C.S. Humble

Author:C.S. Humble [Humble, C.S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781959565765

Carson swam through a bloody river of time, where on the banks squat the myriad of nightmare creatures he and Ptolemy had hunted in their years together. Monstrous claws glimmered with a pale blue moonlight. Their wet fangs dripped with gore, each of them growling or screaming so loudly it threatened to burst the boy’s eardrums.

The river washed him around a horseshoe-shaped embankment where a starless void domed the sky. He played possum in the slow drift and hoped none of the monsters realized he was alive. If they did, he knew they would come sloshing into the red river, giving chase through the waters that carried him to the unknown. In his heart he knew if they found him, they would slowly peel open his flesh. And over the sound of his screaming they would eat him. There would be nothing to stop them.

Past the bend of the shoe, a green obelisk rose into view, tall as a windmill and thick as a wagon. The plinth glowed with a strange light, a pulsing luminosity growing brighter and brighter as he drifted toward it.

He knew what was going to happen next. This was a familiar nightmare born of harsh memory. It played out exactly as before. Suddenly, he was on the riverbank, tied down in front of the throbbing light. Ezra, his father, stood over him, his maniac glare open so wide the older man’s eyes bulged from their sockets. The black tome was clutched in one hand, a heavy stone in the other. A stone meant for Carson’s skull.

The stone, raised high in Ezra’s hand, began to fall. A gunshot rang out. Something splashed across Carson’s face.

He woke up screaming, howling out of his nightmare at the blurry face of a bearded man he’d never met.

“Jesus Christ,” the man shrieked as he fell flat on his rear.

Panicked, Carson swung his vision around the saloon. Behind the bearded man were the faces of half a dozen other men, a few of them clutching shotguns close to their chest. Fear had frozen each of them.

Lucas Ramos was propped up against a wall nearby, his eyes open, looking down at the metal barrel of the rifle protruding from his belly. Carson went to rise, but the world spun and his head felt hot and swollen. He touched the epicenter of the pain and winced. His fingertips came back gritty and wet with crusted blood. The world spun again, and his knees started to give.

“Easy there, son.” The bearded man took Carson by the shoulders and kept him upright. “Easy. Everything is going to be okay.”

Carson looked at the man sideways. “Let go.”

The man lurched back in surprise, then released him.

“Carson?” said Lucas, the man’s voice was weak.

Carson rose, slower this time and stumbled to the wounded man.

Lucas lifted his eyes to the boy. And there, in those eyes, like in the nightmare, Carson saw a familiar look. Lucas didn’t speak on the finality of his situation; it was an understood truth between them.

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