getting into the spooky season so in-between tackling the infamous book , thought I would revive a few short stories and add a bit them them this year…
here is the prologue to one
Dies Irae: The Day of Wrath
Part One: Prologue
By JA Sterling
The day had barely broken before the first life was taken. As the red streaked sun glowed in the east, the pale soil soaked up the crimson blood. The weapon was a simple shotgun chosen for the closeness of the target. The gun and owner was a volatile mixture of damnation and loss of control. He wanted to see the eyes of his victims, to see the terror in the faces, to hear them scream before he pulled the trigger. The shotgun was a perfect weapon for that close contact. The added bonus was if the victim started to run the sprays of pellets ejected from the barrel at over 1000 feet per second would do the damage he was seeking.
The brown grass crackled under his feet as he took his place under a eucalyptus tree not more than 20 feet from the entrance to the door in an eastward direction. There he waited for that door to just open, for her to exit the house in search of the morning paper as she had done every morning for the last 30 years.
His mind full of anger and hate was set on the task of the day, 6 targets. There was no doubt in what had to be done, no hesitation once the first bullet would fly. Once his finger pulled back the trigger, he had to kill them all, he would have no choice.
In the next few hours he would paralyze the small community and stress the limits of the law enforcement personnel. He could not fathom the news that would spread like wildfire in the next few hours through the social media. The terror he would cause in this rural community, the aftermath of his actions would have repercussions for years to come. His name would be scorned and his grave spit upon. Yet none of that would matter to him in the end; their deaths were all he was consumed with.
He knelt down on the ground concealed by the over brush. To his right the paperboy made his rounds throwing the morning paper from the back of an old white Ford pickup. Neither the driver nor the boy saw him kneeling there in the dirt with the shotgun, nor how close they were to death themselves. The minutes now were quickly clicking off to that door opening.
Placing the butt of the stock on his left thigh he slid one by one the red twelve gauge shells into the loading flap listening to each one click in place with one hand. His eyes never left that door; the loading was all done by touch. A maneuver he had practiced repeatedly in the dark until he mastered loading the shotgun without any delay or error. He then brought the gun up to his eye level where he operated the slide backwards then forwards to strip a shell from the magazine and load it into the firing position.
He was now ready to kill.