Trails
So, this was a self imposed challenge. Write as much as I can, no research, nonstop, for an hour. A friend mentioned Deadlands, I had this image in my mind, I just went for it. Mistakes are all mine, it wasn't proofreaded.
(I must stress the fact that there was no research! It is something I'm quite ashamed of, to be completely honest. :P)
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The Walker felt as if death itself covered him from head to toe. As if dispair became grime and hate became dust, gluing itselves to his sweat, creating yet another layer of dark skin over his own.
He wondered what was his appearance for a brief second, but the thirst came quickly back to his attention, pushing vanity aside.
The light murmur of water came to him from afar, bringing back the hope he thought dead hours ago and he followed it. As it got stronger, the Walker allowed himself to cry with relief, the tracks of his tears white against the dirt and grime glued to his cheeks.
The cold water of the river felt like a blessing against his skin and down his throat. He sipped on it, slowly. He didn't want to get sick.
He had no soap for his clothes, for himself, but it wouldn't stop him from cleaning himself and his clothes the best he could.
Night arrived slowly as the Walker counted his blessings. There was water, something to eat. He filled his canteen, deciding it would be better to spend some time recovering by the side of the river.
As the sun disappeared, the Walker opened his bag, checking on his meager possessions. A blanket, his last piece of jerky, his gun, six bullets, tobacco for two cigarettes, his everpresent cards. That was what he could salvage when they came after him. He had to walk around in circles, trying to cover his tracks, or at least confuse the trackers enough so he could escape.
He felt he was successful, but he did get lost. If he was lucky, this was the Tennessee river, and he was close to Chattanooga. The Walker felt lucky.
The wind brought the hustle of grass and the unmistakeable sound of feet. The Walker knew he couldn't outrun whoever walked in the night, not as tired as he was, so he grabbed his gun, covered his hand with his blanket and just waited.
A shadow approached him under the moonlight and slowly revealed itself to be a man. An indian clad in leather and feather; he was seen because he wanted to be seen, so The Walker relaxed a bit more under his blanket.
"Move tomorrow." The Indian said, his voice slow and deep. "Not a good place to stay. Not a good place for you to stay."
"I understand. I'm just too tired and hungry to move, I was thinking of staying to recover..."
"Me too. I am tired and hungry, but you can not stay. Not good. You should be moving now, even during the night, you need to go. I can protect during the night, but morning you must go."
"Sit with me." The Walker placed the food he gathered and his piece of jerky close to his leg. "I don't have much, but I have enough."
The Indian sat close to The Walker, accepting the berries and some of the meat in dignified silence. He didn't have any food with him, but placed a silver knife between them and pushed it carefully towards The Walker.
"Thank you. I have not eat in years. Kindness should be paid with kindness. Take the knife."
"Why shouldn't I stay?" The Walker blurted the question, an eerie feeling of danger filling his senses. Who could spend years without food if not the dead?
"This is the Trail of Tears. The alive are not welcome here. I may be kind, but the others are not. I warn." The Indian points to the darkness along the river. "That way lies the revenge of the dead. Half my people, thirsty for blood and pain. In the morning you cross the river. That way." The indian pointed across the river. "There is a trail, marked. You'll reach the city if you follow it."
The Walker nodded, there was nothing to be said.
***
He woke up with the first rays of the sun, not sure how he actually fell asleep the night before. He would have questioned his senses, but the silver knife beside him was a clear reminder of what happened the night before.
The Walker packed his things as quickly as he could and entered the river. He didn't think he could cross, but the fear of the dead carried him as he swam and walked the way The Indian pointed. He reached the other side of the river half dead. The Walker threw himself on the ground, breathing hard. Once he settled he sat, turning to look at the other side.
Under the sun, hundreds of indians watched him carefully. The Indian raised his hand and nodded, before turning his back and leading the hordes of undead away from the river, towards other living prey.
The Walker turned to the skies, eyes closed, as he tried to wrap his head around his luck.
(I must stress the fact that there was no research! It is something I'm quite ashamed of, to be completely honest. :P)
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The Walker felt as if death itself covered him from head to toe. As if dispair became grime and hate became dust, gluing itselves to his sweat, creating yet another layer of dark skin over his own.
He wondered what was his appearance for a brief second, but the thirst came quickly back to his attention, pushing vanity aside.
The light murmur of water came to him from afar, bringing back the hope he thought dead hours ago and he followed it. As it got stronger, the Walker allowed himself to cry with relief, the tracks of his tears white against the dirt and grime glued to his cheeks.
The cold water of the river felt like a blessing against his skin and down his throat. He sipped on it, slowly. He didn't want to get sick.
He had no soap for his clothes, for himself, but it wouldn't stop him from cleaning himself and his clothes the best he could.
Night arrived slowly as the Walker counted his blessings. There was water, something to eat. He filled his canteen, deciding it would be better to spend some time recovering by the side of the river.
As the sun disappeared, the Walker opened his bag, checking on his meager possessions. A blanket, his last piece of jerky, his gun, six bullets, tobacco for two cigarettes, his everpresent cards. That was what he could salvage when they came after him. He had to walk around in circles, trying to cover his tracks, or at least confuse the trackers enough so he could escape.
He felt he was successful, but he did get lost. If he was lucky, this was the Tennessee river, and he was close to Chattanooga. The Walker felt lucky.
The wind brought the hustle of grass and the unmistakeable sound of feet. The Walker knew he couldn't outrun whoever walked in the night, not as tired as he was, so he grabbed his gun, covered his hand with his blanket and just waited.
A shadow approached him under the moonlight and slowly revealed itself to be a man. An indian clad in leather and feather; he was seen because he wanted to be seen, so The Walker relaxed a bit more under his blanket.
"Move tomorrow." The Indian said, his voice slow and deep. "Not a good place to stay. Not a good place for you to stay."
"I understand. I'm just too tired and hungry to move, I was thinking of staying to recover..."
"Me too. I am tired and hungry, but you can not stay. Not good. You should be moving now, even during the night, you need to go. I can protect during the night, but morning you must go."
"Sit with me." The Walker placed the food he gathered and his piece of jerky close to his leg. "I don't have much, but I have enough."
The Indian sat close to The Walker, accepting the berries and some of the meat in dignified silence. He didn't have any food with him, but placed a silver knife between them and pushed it carefully towards The Walker.
"Thank you. I have not eat in years. Kindness should be paid with kindness. Take the knife."
"Why shouldn't I stay?" The Walker blurted the question, an eerie feeling of danger filling his senses. Who could spend years without food if not the dead?
"This is the Trail of Tears. The alive are not welcome here. I may be kind, but the others are not. I warn." The Indian points to the darkness along the river. "That way lies the revenge of the dead. Half my people, thirsty for blood and pain. In the morning you cross the river. That way." The indian pointed across the river. "There is a trail, marked. You'll reach the city if you follow it."
The Walker nodded, there was nothing to be said.
***
He woke up with the first rays of the sun, not sure how he actually fell asleep the night before. He would have questioned his senses, but the silver knife beside him was a clear reminder of what happened the night before.
The Walker packed his things as quickly as he could and entered the river. He didn't think he could cross, but the fear of the dead carried him as he swam and walked the way The Indian pointed. He reached the other side of the river half dead. The Walker threw himself on the ground, breathing hard. Once he settled he sat, turning to look at the other side.
Under the sun, hundreds of indians watched him carefully. The Indian raised his hand and nodded, before turning his back and leading the hordes of undead away from the river, towards other living prey.
The Walker turned to the skies, eyes closed, as he tried to wrap his head around his luck.
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