The Messenger

Heat from within his darkened belly and the rim of his hat shading his face he walked alongside his horse, bridle in hand. His horse carried red and brown continents patterned across a sea of white hide. He stopped and stared into the vast distance of dry, cracked land. Minute brushes dwindled in what was left of the breeze. Blurred wingspans of vultures circled overhead mirroring the gathering of swirling dust below and in the west, the sun bled a murky orange as it set across an ever darkening land. Head north they told him. Warn them and then move on to warn others for who knows when their savagery will stop.

Alone, he nodded to himself.

The horse gave way under its own weight, bullet holes riddled its legs. He turned and knelt beside the horse and brushed his thumb across its forehead. He watched its eyes and it watched his. He tried to start a prayer but faltered and coughed wet. He fell back into the dust and sat and stared south from where he had come and then down at his belly where his wound lay.

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